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FOUR
A GHOST CAN BE A PUNK TOO
Michael
My second day on the job went about the same as the first. The garage opened at eight, which meant I rolled off the breakroom couch with a sore neck at seven fifty. I tugged Stan’s coveralls over another dollar-store undershirt, tromped downstairs with my boots still untied, slugged back some shitty coffee in the office, and clocked in under Zola’s watchful eye.
I half wondered if he would ask how the ziti was or why in the fuck I had spoken to his granddaughter instead of leaving the premises as soon as I realized who she was. But he was too busy reviewing invoices to do more than nod at my sleepy hello and the dish I set on his desk. Either he didn’t know how the ziti had ended up in my stomach, or he didn’t care. I wasn’t going to push my luck.
I spent most of the day working on the engine of a ’78 Caddy that belonged to a young hood who needed a way out of town fast. I knew the look. I’d worn it more than once myself. There were enough gangsters left in this part of the Bronx that even the tourists on Arthur Avenue still blended with a boss or two and their lackeys.
This guy arrived at eight sharp, handed Zola a wad of cash, and begged us to get him on the road tomorrow, no matter the cost. He was desperate. And as much as I hated to admit it, I saw a little of myself in him. Enough that it would feel damn good to have the engine purring like a kitten when I handed him back his keys.
If I couldn’t get out, at least I could help someone else on their way.
I had to admit, though, it felt good to earn like an honest man for once. I was good with cars, which gave me the perfect distraction from my nonexistent bank account and lack of official residence. It almost stopped me from checking the goddamn door every time the bell rang to see if Lea Zola was back with another casserole.
Almost.
Honest to fucking God, though. I’d met the girl for all of ten minutes, and I could not get her out of my head. The way her perfect mouth smirked when she thought she knew better than me. Or the way her perfect ass swayed when she turned around. Or the way her perfect tits would feel under my palms and how she might squeak when I copped a feel between her?—
Fuck. Me.
I really had to stop.
Luckily, Zola ran a tight operation that didn’t leave much time for illicit daydreaming about his granddaughter. The guys respected him, but his grease monkey days were behind him, so he kept separate from us, either in his office or else out driving clients. The shop was known and trusted by everyone in the neighborhood, from the moms looking for a quick oil change to the bosses who needed someone to fix the finish on their Lincolns. Zola walked the tightrope well—the man might have worked for everyone, but he belonged to no one.
Men like that aren’t the ones to cross.
“Mike? Is that Mike fuckin’ Scarrone I see?”
I was seven minutes into my mid-morning break, enjoying a second cigarette outside the front entrance, when I saw Paul Reyes striding down the sidewalk, yanking up his baggy jeans with one hand and shoving two pedestrians out of his way with the other. One of them was even pushing a stroller.
“You all right?” I asked the stroller woman.
She just kept walking like the wind was carrying her, though she shot Paul a nasty look as she passed us. He didn’t notice her at all.
“Scarrone, what the fuck?” he shouted as he held out a hand for me to slap. “Good to see you, man, so fuckin’ good. I heard you got out last week.”
He still sort of jumped around when he spoke. Paul was a little frog of a guy, always hopping around bigger men, waiting to catch their flies. I didn’t like the guy. I never had.
“Who told you?” I flicked my cigarette in the gutter and crossed my arms to ward against the cold. It had snowed a little last night, but everything had melted by morning. Still cold as fuck out here, though. Especially without a jacket.
Paul didn’t slow down. “Word gets around.”
He threw an arm around my shoulders, which wasn’t easy since I was probably six inches taller than the guy.
“Word does.” I shook his arm off. “Don’t let it get to your head.”
This was the last thing I needed. I hadn’t told anyone I was out. No one was waiting for me when I left Rikers. No one knew I was coming back to the neighborhood for a lot of reasons, and Paul Reyes embodied every one of them.
“How the fuck are you?” The dude really couldn’t take a hint. “Because I know you’re not fuckin’ my sister. Gina ain’t heard from you once. You know she cried every day you were locked up?”
I ground my teeth at his comments. One, I know that wasn’t true. Two, this was how he talked about his own family?
Not that I was feeling all that gracious toward Gina. My ex—if you could even call a girl you used to hit up every so often an ex—hadn’t even had the grace to break up with me properly when I was pinched. Straight-up ghosted me. Not even a letter to the prison.
“I’m not doing anything with your sister,” I replied curtly. “Not now, not ever. And you can tell her I said that.”
