Free Tough Luck by Jason Starr Page B

want?” Mickey snapped.
    “ Somebody’s in a pissy mood,” Chris said. “Wanna come by later and watch some hockey?”
    “Not tonight,” Mickey said.
    “Why, got a date?”
    Chris smiled, as if Mickey having a date was impossible.
    Two new customers came into the store. Charlie took one order and Mickey took the other, two pounds of sea bass fillets for Mrs. Demback. As Mickey was cutting the fish, he said to Chris, “I’m kinda busy here.”
    “So you gonna come by later or what?”
    “I can’t,” Mickey said.
    “I hope you’re not still pissed about the other night,” Chris said, “I was just bustin’ chops, having some fun. I was also ripped out of my mind. I don’t even remember how I got home.”
    “It has nothing to do with that.”
    “You sure? ’Cause I hardly remember anything from that night, except you running out of that car like your dick was on fire.” Chris started laughing. “Come on, you gotta admit that was a fuckin’ riot. When you came out of that car, with that look on your face, and that she-man came after you. I can’t believe you almost fucked that freak show.”
    Mrs. Dembeck looked over.
    “Oops,” Chris said, covering his mouth. “Sorry.”
    “Anything else?” Mickey asked the old woman.
    “No, that’ll be all,” she said, still giving Chris a nasty look.
    “I’ll call you,” Mickey said to Chris.
    “Whatever,” Chris said, “Hey, remember we got bowling Thursday night.”
    “Right,” Mickey said, although he’d completely forgotten about it.
    “We gotta win or we’re out of the playoffs. So get some rest tonight, will ya? No cruisin’ the West Side for chicks with dicks.”
    Laughing loudly, Chris exited. Mickey apologized to Mrs. Dembeck as he rang up her order at the register. After Charlie was through with his customer, he said to Mickey, “Your friend better watch his mouth.”
    “Who, Chris?”
    “I’m telling you, man,” Charlie said. “Guy like that says the wrong thing to the wrong dude, he winds up gettin’ popped.”
    “Chris is Chris,” Mickey said. “That’s just the way he is.”
    Mickey continued to serve customers. At two o’clock there was still no sign of Angelo.
    “I’m taking lunch,” Mickey said to Charlie.
    It was busy—five customers lined up to order.
    Charlie said, “Come on, can’t you wait?”
    Mickey left the store.
    MICKEY CALLED ARTIE from a phone booth on Flatbush and K.
    “You stupid fuckin’ piece of shit,” Artie said.
    “Relax,” Mickey said.
    “Relax?” Artie said. “I get on the phone with Nick this morning, he goes, ‘So Mickey Prada’s friend Angelo lost again last night,’ and I go, ‘Again?’ I swear I almost had a fuckin’ stroke. That’s the thanks I get—gettin’ you a fuckin’ extension. Nick, you should’ve heard what he said about you. He wanted to send somebody after you to collect, but I told him, ‘Lemme take care of it.’ Maybe I did the wrong thing—maybe I should’ve let somebody come over to knock you around—teach you a lesson for going behind my back.”
    “I have the money,” Mickey said.
    “You better have the money, you dumb fuck,” Artie said. “You better have it today too.”
    “You told me Wednesday.”
    “ Today. ”
    “How about Thursday night? I’ll come by the bookie joint.”
    “Do you have the money or don’t you?”
    “I have it, I have it.”
    “What, don’t tell me your mobster friend came through?”
    “Yeah, he did,” Mickey lied.
    “You know, I don’t really give a shit,” Artie said. “I just better see you Thursday.”
    “Artie, I’m sorry.”
    “Fuck you too,” Artie said.
    WHEN SAL PRADA started acting confused during dinner, talking about Mickey’s mother as if she were still alive, Mickey couldn’t take it anymore.
    “She’s dead!” he screamed. “She’s fucking dead, and you’re dead too! You’re a living fucking vegetable!”
    Mickey went into his room and locked the door. The room seemed smaller