Reed Coleman - Onion Street

“Monday. I’m supposed to get released tomorrow.”

“In a few hours, you call Tony P and tell him I ran, tell him I figured out that Jimmy was trying to kill me. He’ll ask where, so tell him you think I caught a bus to Texas at the Port Authority. Tony will believe you.”

“But — ”

“Just do it. I’ll call you in the morning with the rest of the details.”

There are months I love and months I hate. March, for instance. I have always loved March. October too. I love October because its still-warm days beg you to play basketball in the park: no sweatshirts, no gloves, no shovels necessary to scrape away the snow and ice. I love it because while its waning heat invites you to play ball, October throws leaves on the court, leaves so much more beautiful in death than in life; leaves to remind you to savor those last moments, to savor what you have and what you have left. I hate January for its endless cold and sense of hopelessness, New Year’s notwithstanding. I’d never given much thought to February, not until that February.

On that Monday in that February, late in the afternoon, the sky was already darkening, but not quite as quickly as it had darkened the week before nor as slowly as it would the week after. That day, the sky had reneged on its promise of snow, delivering only panic in its stead. I remember that the stores were overrun by shoppers buying out milk and bread and eggs. To this day, I wonder why it is that snow makes people hungry for just those three things. That day, not all promises of white delivery were reneged on. At 4:35 P.M., in the parking lot closest to the Eastern Airlines terminal at Kennedy airport, a van pulled up behind Bobby Friedman’s Olds 88. A big guy got out of the van, keyed the lock, and popped the trunk lid. He moved three two-kilo bricks of heroin into the trunk. According to Bobby, the bricks, like the ones he’d moved before, were covered in blue plastic and brown packing tape. The big man shut the trunk, got back into the van, and drove away. Ten minutes later, Bobby made a call from the Eastern Airlines terminal.

“It’s done,” he said. “I hope you know what the fuck you’re doing.”

“For the first time in my life, I think I do.”

“I hope it’s not the only time in your life.”

“If you can come up with a better option that doesn’t end up with the three of us dead, Bobby, let me know. Get moving, I’m going to make the call.”

Click .

• • •

There were few benefits from my father’s litany of failures. More often than not, my dad’s going in the tank did not happen with a resounding clap of thunder but with a meek, pitiable sigh. His failures tended to play out like long, sad songs with only tears and debt collectors at the end. Although there was the occasional perk, like the time he thought he would capture the market on the next kid’s fad and bought a thousand star-shaped Hula Hoops from a Japanese importer. They were about as popular as square eggs and kosher bacon, but Aaron, Miriam, and I had a lot of fun with them. It took him about five years to sell them off, and the loss was minimal. Then there was the time he invested some money in a scheme hatched by the sons of two guys he worked with. They were going to build household computers smaller than a TV set. Sure they were.

But one of his ridiculous investments was hopefully going to pay off for me if not for him. About two years ago, he had put money into a personal storage warehouse out in Suffolk County on Long Island in someplace called Lake Ronkonkoma. Only my dad could invest in a business in a place he couldn’t even pronounce. The idea was to compete with the big cold storage warehouses by renting small lockers and garage-sized compartments to people who could come and go as they pleased. Aaron and I went with my dad for the grand opening. We knew it would fail when we saw that almost no one lived in Suffolk County, and that those who did all had big private houses with garages, backyards, and sheds. If it had been built in the city, it might’ve had a chance. If , now there’s a dangerous word. The building had sat empty for a year now. Technically, my dad didn’t own any part of it anymore, but I still had a set of keys. And while it might not have been the perfect place for storage, it seemed like the perfect venue for our showdown with Tony Pizza and Jimmy Ding Dong.

Among the first things I learned about sports was that there were advantages, both obvious and subtle, to playing home games. Knowing which way a ball bounces when it hits a dead spot on the court, or at what time of day the wind comes up, or at what hour the sun drops beneath the bottom ledge of the backboard to shine in your opponents’ eyes, can mean the difference between winning and losing. And since playing ball was the only thing in the world I really knew anything about, I let it guide me. Another thing I knew was that we couldn’t afford to play this game on Tony Pizza’s home court. Bobby explained that he was supposed to drop the heroin off at a body shop Tony Pizza owned on Flatlands Avenue in Canarsie, as he had previously. Scared, inexperienced, and outgunned, we were already at too much of a disadvantage. Flatlands Avenue at night was deserted, and Tony and Jimmy probably knew every inch of the place and the surrounding area. There was no way we could walk in there and have any hope of walking back out. That’s why I dropped the money down the slot of the pay phone across the street from the warehouse and dialed the number Bobby had given me.

“Body shop,” someone said at the other end.

“Let me talk to Tony or Jimmy.”

“Who’s calling?”

“Tell him it’s the delivery man. He’ll understand.”

“Hold on.”

“Yeah, Bobby, what?” Tony barked into the phone. “Get over here. I don’t have time for your bullshit.”

“For one thing, Tony, this isn’t Bobby. For another, you’re gonna have to make time.”

“Moe? Moe, I thought you split to Mexico or — ”

“I guess Bobby musta got that wrong, Tony.”

“Listen, kid, don’t let that tough Jew thing I said about you the other day go to your head. I’m not some shithead cop.”

“Don’t worry, Tony, I’m plenty scared. Me and Bobby, we both are. But we’re smarter than we are scared and we’ve gotta use the only leverage we got.”

“Leverage, huh? It’s harder to use than you think.”

“I guess we’ll find out. Meantime, Tony, write this down.”

“You know, Moe, that sounded a lot like an order. I never liked orders much.”

“Okay, sorry, Tony. Let me put it to you like this: If you want your three bricks of heroin, I would politely suggest you write this down.”

There was a second or two of confused silence, then, “Put Bobby on the phone.”

“Can’t do that, Tony. He’s not here. As a matter of fact, you won’t know where he is until we talk. I’m gonna give you a number to call and a place to call it from. When you let Lids go at that phone booth, I’ll give you an address where I’m at. I just want to have a conversation. You get your drugs, and Bobby, Lids, and me, we get to keep breathing. After we talk and reach an agreement, I’ll give you the location of the bricks. Someone will be watching you and Jimmy when you show up at the phone booth. If you don’t have Lids with you, or if you don’t let him go after we talk on the phone, or if you bring anyone with you other than Jimmy, I’ll know it. And don’t bother looking for the spotter. You won’t see him.”

“You’re takin’ big chances here, kid,” he said, trying to sound calm.

I didn’t take the bait. I was barely holding it together as it was, and I didn’t want to give him the chance to shake me any more than I already was. “Write this down,” I said, and dictated to him. “Got it?”