Greg Gifune - Night Work

Artie nodded, his body bucking as he cried.

As Frank increased the pressure on the barrel, a dark circular stain seeped through the crotch of Artie's overalls, the urine dripping onto the floor and forming a small puddle between them. "I'm sorry!"

Frank glanced at the mess. "Do you remember Connie?"

"Connie?"

"Connie."

"I don't – no – I don't know nobody named Connie."

"Think back."

He pawed at the tears in his eyes. "Connie… Russo?" A look of recognition slowly dawned across Artie's face. "Jesus," he whispered. "Who are you?"

"Her son," Frank told him. Their eyes met, locked. "I'm her son."

Artie opened his mouth as if to say something, and Frank pulled the trigger.

Gus stared at the ceiling; the unattended whistle grating on his already frayed nerves. The water had been boiling for several minutes, how in the name of Christ could his old man sit right there in the kitchen and not hear the kettle?

"One day off a week," he mumbled, swinging his legs over onto the floor as he forced himself into a sitting position on the edge of the bed, "and I gotta put up with this crap." He grabbed a cigarette from the crumpled pack on his nightstand, stepped into the same pair of gray slacks he'd worn all week and staggered out of his room, following a narrow hallway to the kitchen.

Gus was getting too old too fast to spend twelve hours a day on his feet. Everything from his neck to the tips of his toes ached. Things had to change soon; his body couldn't take much more.

The kitchen, like the rest of the apartment, was filthy. Dishes were piled so high in the sink that the window above it was no longer visible. The floors needed to be swept and a greasy film covered nearly everything else.

Gus leaned against the doorframe and shook his head. His father, dressed in a lightweight robe and worn slippers sat huddled at the table. He looked so fragile sitting there alone. "Dad?" Gus said. "Dad!"

The old man had his nose buried in a crossword puzzle book. Gus had never once seen the bastard write so much as a single letter in one of those boxes. "What's a four letter word for outcome?"

"Fate. Are you deaf?"

"Huh?"

Gus walked to the stove and removed the kettle from the burner. "Christ, Dad, are your ears that far gone?"

His father struggled to his feet, shuffled over to the counter. "Thought I'd have a mug of hot chocolate."

"We better get your ears checked."

"I like hot chocolate."

"Did you hear what I just said?"

"You want some, Gus?"

"Deaf bastard."

His father began rummaging through one of the cupboards. "Did you get hot chocolate the last time you went to the store? I told you to get the ones with the little marshmallows. Did you get the ones with the little marshmallows, Gus?"

The phone rang, and Gus couldn't answer it fast enough.

"Gus?"

"Hey, what's up, Frank?"

"Not much. How's it going?"

Gus took a drag on his cigarette, exhaled through his nose. "Same shit, different day. The old man's driving me nuts. If he don't die soon, I swear to God I'm gonna kill him myself."

Frank laughed. "We're all set for tonight, right?"

"Absolutely."

"Pick me up at five."

"I'll be there with balls on."

Fifteen minutes west of New Bedford, in the quiet town of Angel Bay, Frank Ponte hung up the kitchen phone and hesitantly returned to the bedroom where his wife was getting dressed. Their three-room apartment was relatively new and tastefully decorated, but it was so small their friends often joked that you couldn't get from one end to the other without first turning sideways.

Sandy stood frowning at her reflection in the mirror over the bureau, a wide-toothed brush in one hand and a bottle of hairspray in the other. "I don't know about this new girl," she said through a sigh. "I think I like the way Darren does my hair better."

"Then go back to him." Frank shrugged. As far as he was concerned she had too much hair for such a petite woman regardless of how she styled it, but he'd learned long ago that when it came to certain matters his wife was not someone with whom he could reason.

"Who were you talking to?"

"Gus."

She rolled her eyes, turned back to the mirror and began brushing her auburn mane. "God, loser-boy."

"Here we go." Frank sighed. "He's not so bad."

Sandy laughed and spun around to face him again, her red satin robe opening below the waist to reveal a shapely calf, cream-colored thighs and a brief glimpse of light brown pubic hair. "Oh yeah, he's a regular charmer. That toupee he wears wouldn't fool Ray Charles, okay?"

"It's not his fault he went bald."

"A lot of people go bald, Frank. That thing Gus wears looks like a knit cap. People literally point and laugh at him on the street. They point and laugh, Frank."

"If he feels like wearing it, what do you care?"

"Because when you're with him, people laugh at you, too."

"Like I give a shit."

"He's a compulsive liar, wears the same clothes for weeks at a time and has breath that usually makes my eyes tear. He's in his forties and still can't hold a job, borrows money from us constantly – usually amounts we can't afford to lend him in the first place – and never pays a cent of it back. And if that's not enough, whenever he's around, I catch him staring at my tits and scratching himself like a pervert."

Frank smiled. "Well, I can't fault him there."

"I'm glad you think it's so funny."

"Oh, for Christ's sake, Sandy, he's harmless."

"He makes me uncomfortable."

"Name a friend of mine you do like."

Sandy dismissed him with a wave of her hand the way one might swat away a bothersome mosquito. "Find some likeable friends."

Frank sat on the edge of the bed. "If there's anybody who shouldn't be talking about friends, it's you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"How about Diane?"

"I'm listening." She crossed her arms, crushing her breasts together into a swell of cleavage Frank found impossible to ignore. He seemed attracted to her at the oddest times.

"A summer breeze could blow her legs open."

Sandy winced and continued to fuss with her hair. "Just because she's been with a few guys doesn't – "

"A few?"

" – make her a whore."

Frank knew he should let it slide but just couldn't. "Okay," he said with a smile, "let's talk about Tina Two-Tons."

"Stop calling her that."

"She's got an ass on her the size of a Buick, and struts around in tight little skirts you probably couldn't even fit into, and you're talking about people pointing and laughing? Gimme a break, freakin' hippo in high heels."

Sandy suppressed a giggle. "You convince Gus to lose the wig and I'll drag Tina to the plus-size store. How's that?"

Frank glanced at the digital clock on the bureau. "You're going to be late for work."

She threw off her robe and reached onto the bed for her bra and panties. Frank watched her slip them on, certain that the only thing sexier than watching her undress was watching her maneuver into underwear.

"We don't have time."

"Not even a quickie?"

"What do you want for dinner?" she asked, moving to the closet.

"I won't be home. I told you, I'm going to Providence."

She plucked a short black skirt from a hanger and held it up in front of her, inspecting it carefully for creases or lint. "Oh."

Frank found cigarettes in his shirt pocket and lit one. "I'll be home tomorrow, probably early afternoon."

Sandy stepped into the skirt, zipped up the back and smoothed it down along the front of her thighs. "Please don't do anything stupid, okay?"

"But I had a whole bunch of stupid shit planned."