William Lashner - Past Due

“Joey told me he had a girlfriend.”

“That’s a lie. Not my Joey. He was never one for the girls, had no handle on them. Not like his father, who knew how to have his way. For my little Joey there was only me.” She twisted the ring on her finger. “I was his girl.”

“Do you know why he was going out the night he died?”

“He was going out, that’s all he said. Over to Jimmy T’s, that craphole, like his father before him. I used to send him there to bring his father home. He hated when I did that. His father would smack him each time. Never went on his own when his father was still living. But after, it became his place. Your mind can go crazy trying to figure it out. Jimmy T’s and that Lloyd Ganz, who was stealing from us every day of his life.” She spit between her fingers. “Whatever money Joey Senior earned, he took half of it, the thief. One hand is all you need to steal. Joey knew I’d never call there, so he gave me another number to call if I needed him.”

“What number?”

“He had a number where he could be reached if I needed him. I was to leave a message and then he would get back to me. Made me memorize in case something happened with my heart like the last time.”

She recited it to me. I took out a piece of paper and had her recite it again.

She sighed, took a sip from her wine. “Tell me, Victor, what kind of trouble was my Joey in this time?”

“It was about something he did long ago, that’s all I know.”

“Is that why he was killed?”

“I don’t know, Mrs. Parma. I don’t know why he was killed. He might simply have been in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Joey was always in the wrong place at the wrong time, but that’s no reason to be dead, is it?”

“No, ma’am.”

She picked up the framed picture of the three altar boys. “Take this.”

“No, Mrs. Parma. I can’t.”

“Take this. You remember him.” She jammed the framed photograph into my hands. “Take. Look. They killed the boy too, not just the man. Everything he ever was, it fell to the ground with the blood. The man, to be truthful, wasn’t worth much, even I’ll admit that, but the boy. Like marzipan. He would run from his father, snuggle on my lap, bury his head in my neck. The warmth of his tears, his sweet tears. You do me favor, Victor?”

“Anything.”

“Find out what happened to my boy.”

“I don’t know if I can, Mrs. Parma. The police-”

“I don’t want to hear about police. What have police ever done for my Joey. You done, you the only one. You find out what happened to my boy. You.”

“I’ll try.”

“Good. And when you find who did it, you let me know, okay?”

“I will.”

“You let me know and I take care of it. Like I took care of Joey Senior. Just get me the name, Victor. My knives are sharp. Whoever it is I’ll cut off his balls, slice them thick, fry them with garlic, feed them to the rats.”

“Mrs. Parma.”

“I shock you, maybe, Victor? He was my boy. You know what is vendetta?”

“Yes, I do. But-”

“What is wrong, Victor? You think I’m not entitled?”

“Of course you are entitled. And no, Mrs. Parma, you don’t shock me. It is just that I think we can do better than feeding the rats.”

“What are you saying, Victor?”

I reached into my jacket pocket, pulled out an envelope. “Have you ever seen, Mrs. Parma, a contingency fee agreement?”

I DIDN’T KNOWwhat it was about hospitals that pressed their weight upon me with a physical force the minute I entered one, whether it was the information lady with her perky smile, the doctors walking casually among desolation and death, the smell, the stuffy framed portraits of long-vanished healers, the sick, the really, really sick, the smell. Did I mention the smell? You know what I mean, eau de mortality, a fragrant mixture of rubbing alcohol, ammonia, green beans, false cheeriness, false hope, urine and sweat and lime green Jell-O. Whatever it was, I had the usual mordant sensation as I walked into the lobby of Temple University Hospital smack in the middle of North Philadelphia. Or maybe it was the fact that my father was on the fourth floor. Any building that housed my father, whether the decaying little bungalow in which I was raised or the sprawling multilevel inner-city hospital in which he now lay, had the same effect on me, something akin to dropping down down in the deep sea and feeling my chest compress from the weight.

He had collapsed on the steps of his home away from home, the grand and glorious Hollywood Tavern, in his sad suburban enclave of Hollywood, Pennsylvania. There was blood coming out of his mouth and his breath was wet, and in the ambulance they had enthusiastically pumped him full of drugs. By some miracle he had survived the trauma of the ambulance and, when he had been stabilized at Holy Redeemer Hospital, he had been transferred to Temple. The religious symbolism was deliciously inapt, but Temple was the only hospital in the area that performed the delicate yet brutal surgery his condition required. Now they were treating the pneumonia that had invaded his lungs and were waiting for him to gain enough strength so they could open up his chest and kill him proper.

“Hi, Dad,” I said with as much pep as I could muster.

“You’re back,” he said, matching my pep with his normal tone of bitter resignation. “You was just here. What, is your cable out?”

“Don’t be silly. I came to see you. But I do seem to remember the Sixers might be playing Orlando tonight. Do you want me to put it on?”

“What for? I seen enough gunners in the damn army to last me, I don’t need to see that Iverson bum.”

“He’s good. I like watching him play.”

He waved his hand in disgust. He could barely move, my father, lying on his bed, his face gray and drawn and unshaven, only sixty years old but looking like he’d already been buried twice as long. A clip bit into a finger of his waving hand, reading the oxygen level in his blood, now a paltry ninety-three percent. He barely had enough energy to breathe, sure, but he was never without enough energy to give the world a dismissive shove. “I seen Chamberlain play. Greer. Cunningham coming off the bench. After what I seen, he’s nothing.”

“So how are you doing?”

“I’m dying, how do you think I’m doing?”

“You’re not dying.”

“Yes I am, and it’s not such a bad thing neither. At least I earned it. I didn’t earn much in my life, but I earned this.”

I took off my coat, sat down beside his bed. “Nice to see you in a good mood for a change. What’s going on?”

“What the hell do you think is going on? I lie here and they stick things in me. Bloodsuckers, is what they are.”

“And you, of course, are being your normal, personable self.”

“You try smiling as they play voodoo with your body. If the sickness doesn’t kill me, they’ll do it themselves.”

I smiled indulgently. “Why so cheerful this evening?”

“They got this thing up my dick.”

“To help you pee.”

“Sixty years I didn’t need no help.”

“Want me to adjust it for you?”

“Stay the hell away from me, you bastard,” said my father. “So there’s that. And, I don’t know, I been thinking about things.”

“Oh, Dad, don’t do that,” I said. “That’s the wrong thing to do. Especially here. No good can come from it. We’ve both made it this far precisely by not thinking of things.”

“And look where we are.” He tried to shift in the bed, struggled to take a breath. His face enlivened brightly with pain. “Hell,” he said.

“Why don’t I turn on the game?”