Play the Game, page 12
The protesters perk up, start paying attention. I’m still by the church doors with the old guys. Watching. Because there’s something familiar about the pink-haired girl.
“She’s a friend of mine,” Robbie says to the pink-haired girl.
Chela’s got serious saucer-eyes. “Holy shit,” she says. “This is why we got apology weed? It wasn’t guilt about the car thing! It’s because you knew that creep!”
“Whatever.” The pink-haired girl gives a massive yank on Robbie’s arm. “Rob, let’s get outta here. I’m done!”
“Jeez!” Robbie says, trying to shake her off.
“Just answer me!” Chela says. But the pink-haired girl’s not having it.
“Yo! Sweetums!” she yells at Robbie. “I need the fuck outta here. Now!”
My caffeine-laced adrenaline pumps up another notch and I move toward them. Sweetums? I know where I heard that before. Whoever the pink-haired girl is, I’m betting my ass she knows Singer’s girlfriend. I jog the short way to the sidewalk.
“Who’s your friend?” I ask Robbie.
“Not you, too!” he says. “Look . . . let’s not—”
“Jesus, who the hell are these people?” the girl asks. Chela catches my eye, gets that I know something—or hopes I do. She shuts up. All three of us are waiting now for Robbie to say something. He wags his head, defeated.
“This is Junie,” he says. “She’s . . .” His tongue rolls over his bottom lip, slides back in. “She’s why I’m here. She’s Phil Singer’s kid.”
The Devil’s Daughter
I must’ve known it was coming. I’d heard Singer’s probably-girlfriend say “sweetums.” But still. Singer’s kid? Right in front of me?
“We, uh, went to school together,” Robbie says. “Way back, like middle school.”
“Yeah, well, great to meet you,” the girl says, dripping sarcasm. She’s so white she looks almost see-through. “Can we get out of here, Rob? I don’t care where we go, just get me the fuck outta here.”
Robbie tries to pull us to the side, but the girl’s right behind him. “Look,” Robbie says. “I know this is weird. . . .”
Singer’s kid, I think. The kid of the guy who killed Ed. She’s young. Cute. Couldn’t look less like Singer. But my body doesn’t know that. Something sharp and acidy boils in my gut. And at the same time, I’m thinking—she must know stuff. Has to. If somebody close to Singer killed him, his kid’s a hell of an intel source.
“Like she said,” I say. “Yeah. Let’s get out of here.”
“All of us?” Robbie looks like I’ve lost my mind.
“All of us, Rob,” Chela says. “You got that great car of yours. Let’s go get some chow.”
“Whatever,” the girl says, like she’s been in the conversation all along. “Let’s just go. I vote for pizza.”
She takes the front seat, a slice of pink neck showing under her pink hair. I stare at it. The car feels the size of a coffin. Robbie gets in, twists around in his seat, asks if I’m sure. I nod. And he drives off.
“What a shit show,” the girl says to Robbie, ignoring Chela and me. “I don’t know how long you were in there, but those assholes actually—”
“Junie!” Robbie cuts her off. “Look, I needa concentrate on driving, okay. We’re gonna—I guess we’re gonna go for pizza, all right?”
“Whatever,” the girl says. But a minute later she’s pointing out the windshield. “Pizza Beach, right? How come you’re going this way?”
“Just gimme a minute!” Robbie snaps. He takes a few more turns, and I know he’s buying time till he can think what to do. I wonder if the girl can feel me staring at her. If Robbie’s right and I lost my mind. All I know is, I’m feeling big hot anger, and there’s zero reason to try and shut it down.
Robbie slows the car. “All right, there it is,” he says, pulling into a parking space. A “Pizza Beach” sign’s at the end of the block. There’s something final in the sound of our shutting the doors, thwup, thwup, thwup. Then we’re walking up the sidewalk. My eyes stuck to the girl, hers on Robbie, who’s marching straight ahead, not looking at any of us. Inside, it’s tiny, two rows of booths with a skinny aisle between. Not too crowded, and not all white people, I notice. The smell of baking crust hangs in the air as the girl slides into an empty booth, her pink hair clashing with the red plastic seat cushions. I sit across from her, feel the hardness of my face. Grip the table. There’s nothing between me and Singer’s kid but a strip of wood with a red checked tablecloth. I ignore the part of me that’s shouting to get the hell out of here.
Robbie starts spouting random mouth-diarrhea. “Like I said, Junie here, we grew up in the neighborhood together. And she’s, uh, you know, Phil Singer’s kid. But we—”
“Stepkid!” the girl cuts in, loud, sharp. “Not his kid, his stepkid. Not even that, since he never married Ma.” She’s got a serious Brooklyn accent. I know her type, tough-girl cute.
“You ordering?” a guy behind the counter yells. Robbie looks relieved.
“Italian sausage and red pepper,” he shouts back.
“Trust me, all right?” he says to us.
“Singer’s stepkid?” Chela asks the girl, too loud. “So your mom’s with that creep?”
The noise level in the place drops. The guys at the next table, all Black guys, zone in on Singer’s kid. Robbie makes a show of standing up, telling the pizza guy he forgot to ask for double cheese and why not make it two small pies instead of one large. I catch Chela’s eye, have a whole conversation without talking. Even though we rode here together, we didn’t want to say too much in the back of Robbie’s car. Now we’re here, though, we have to deal. Find a way to get useful information out of Singer’s stepkid.
“And you lived with him?” I ask, thinking about the second-story apartment with the driveway.
“So? Who cares if I lived with him?” She lets out an irritated sigh. “Why don’t we just get it over with?” she says, looking from me to Chela. “I’ll even get you started. Phillip Singer was a racist asshole, and any kid of his—or any stepkid—must be an asshole, too. So I should get my racist white ass out of your face, right? Trust me, I’ve heard it all before.”
She’s trying to stare me down, and I like it. I want her to be a jerk, like Singer.
“Shy type?” she taunts, like we’re little kids. “Cat got your tongue?”
“They knew him!” Robbie says, in a tight whisper.
“Knew who?” the girl asks.
My stomach rolls with hate.
Then, she gets it. “Oh,” she says. “Ed Hennessey. Of course. Like I said, I’ve heard it all. People who went to school with him, his teachers. He was a saint, right? Saint Ed Hennessey.”
She’s a piece of work, I think. The fake smile on my face feels creepy. I hope it looks that way to her.
“Like the memorial wasn’t bad enough,” she mutters. “Half of them there to turn it into a shit show, the other half acting like it wasn’t one. His buddies trying to give me flowas, for God’s sakes. And now, fucking this.”
I want her to keep talking, but the pizza guy comes over, a pie on each palm. Smelling so good that for a second, it’s all I think about. But instead of putting the food down, the guy just stands there, till we look up at him. Wiry, white. Long hair tied with a bandanna. “Everything okay here, Junie?” he asks.
“Leave it, Mike,” the girl says. “Okay? I can’t take any more today.” She pulls out her glittery pink iPhone, fiddles with it like she can’t be bothered with the rest of us. The pizza guy glances around the table, giving us some kind of warning. I hold his gaze, let him know I don’t give a shit what he thinks. Finally, he puts the pies down. Robbie starts playing host again, serving up slices.
And I remember that I’m here to get intel from Singer’s kid. Pick up on the first scrap that comes to mind. “Why’s it bad?” I ask.
“Huh?”
“You said Singer’s buddies wanted to give you flowers like it was a bad thing.”
She narrows her eyes, suspicious. “Some of ’em are assholes,” she says. Plays with the garlic shaker. “The whole thing was stupid, Phil’s brothers, Ma’s family. Those kids from the hospital.”
“Hospital?” Chela and I both ask. Pink-haired Junie looks at us like we’re way too deep in her business.
“What’s with you?” she asks. “This some freaky shit ’cause you knew Ed Hennessey?”
Hearing his name come out of her mouth doesn’t help me calm down. I look at Chela, see if she has a clue how to get what we want from this girl. She tries.
“No, no! It, uh . . . it looked like an okay service to me,” she says. Bad call. Junie narrows her eyes even more.
“Jesus, I forgot. You were the two who were trying to get in. What was that about?”
Damn.
“Nothing!” Chela says. “We were curious. We weren’t gonna make a scene or anything. We just . . . wanted to see.”
“Because who doesn’t love being a circus act?” Junie says. Chela shuts up, ’cause she knows she blew it.
“I get that,” Robbie says, surprising me. “When somebody dies, like their friend, you wanna know everything you can know, right?”
We go quiet. Even though it’s not why we went to Singer’s service, what he said’s still true. I guess we all know it. Chela lost her dad in a lousy accident. I lost Ed. And this Junie girl lost Singer.
“Whatever,” Junie says. With less heat, though. “You couldn’ta made it any worse. Ma’s family, assholes from her job. Guys from Phil’s job, and his”—she shoots a look at Robbie—“his other job . . .”
My eyes move between the two of them. If their look means what I think it means, there’s shady shit about Singer’s other job—maybe the “job” that got him the rap sheet. I’m so ready to hear it, to get to my next clue. But Singer’s kid quits talking, turns toward the aisle. Two guys, the Black kids from the next table, are coming up to us. One steps right to the edge of our table, the other one behind him. The guy in front’s got glasses, a skimpy beard. Got his hands in the pockets of his black hoodie. There’s something off about his face.
“What’s up?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer for a couple of beats too long. Then he raises the pocket of his sweatshirt. Points it at us. Like there’s a gun in there. My body functions slow way down. Heartbeat, breathing. The guy’s looking straight at Singer’s kid.
“Gimme your phone,” he says. I laser-focus on the hand with the gun. The red-brown color of the wristbone sticking out of the sweatshirt pocket, the Adidas symbol on the cuff. I do the math: four against two. Four at the table, two standing. Another thought pops in the back of my mind. Four Black people, two Singerites . . .
The pocket moves. “Give me your phone!” Louder this time. The sweatshirt pocket’s right in Singer’s kid’s face. I could grab it, but that’d be stupid. No sudden moves, right? A quick look tells me the guys behind the counter haven’t caught on.
“Give it to him,” I say to Singer’s kid. Which she should know. Somebody pulls a gun, you do what they say! The guy with the gun turns to me. Our eyes lock, and I wonder if he’s coming for me now. His hand moves. Instinctively, my hand shoots out, pushes his back and down. It’s too easy. I’m on my feet, figuring my next move. But the guy’s—laughing. He steps back. Pulls out his sweatshirt pockets to show they’re empty.
“Oh, hilarious,” Singer’s kid says. “Splitting my gut, it’s so funny.” She turns to Robbie. “Did I tell you? Did I tell you, I can’t fucking go anywhere without bullshit like this?”
I’m watching the jerk with the fake gun, not believing anybody’d be that dumb. He quits laughing, pushes his glasses up his nose. I get what’s going on with his face, now. He’s got old-man eyes, like he’s seen too much and it all sucked. There’s so much going on in his eyes that Singer’s kid quits babbling. She watches him like the rest of us, waiting.
“You’re right,” he says to her. “Not funny. You know how many kids do time for stupid shit like that? Robbery with what appears to be a weapon. Hundreds, probably thousands. Not your pops, though. He shot a kid dead and didn’t do a single day. That sound fair to you?”
“How’s that supposed to be my fault!” Singer’s kid says. “Do I look like a cop to you? Or a district fucking attorney?”
“I’m just telling the truth,” the kid says. He makes like he’s going back to his seat, but Singer’s kid stands up.
“It wasn’t up to me that he didn’t go to jail!” she says. “But I’m not sorry! You wanna know what would’ve happened if Phil had done time? I’d be in a shelter right now, because Ma can’t pay the mortgage from doing nails and Phil wasn’t a life insurance kind of guy.”
Doing nails. Sounds like Singer’s girlfriend was going to work when I saw her that morning, not getting her nails done. I wonder if there’s a clue in that.
“Aw, that’s rough,” the backup guy says, all sarcastic.
“Oh, yeah?” A fierce look comes on the girl’s pale face. “Okay, I’ll tell you something else. The only reason we’re not going to a shelter now is ’cause there’s plenty of people who think what Phil did was a good thing. They’re sending my ma money. And she’s taking it. Enough to pay the whole back mortgage.” Angry-looking tears stand in her eyes. She shoves at Robbie to make him get up. “So, there you go,” she says. “That should keep you talking all fucking month.”
She pushes past Robbie and busts out the door. But I don’t want to lose her yet—not when things were just getting good. I kick Chela under the table, nod to the door, asking her to follow, which’ll go over a helluva lot easier than me doing it. Chela rolls her eyes but goes.
“Damn.” It’s the kid who’s been playing backup to the fake-gun fool. We all nod, watch the door close behind Junie and Chela. Damn pretty much covers it. Robbie and I stay where we are when the other guys go back to their table. My phone buzzes. It’s Diamond.
Diamond: It’s getting weirder. Can you come?
Diamond Roller Coaster
I hang on to the subway pole, eyes closed. Only for Diamond would I be on this train tonight, instead of playing Ed’s game. But I won’t sleep before I play, no matter what. And after today, I could use a hit of Diamond.
The scene plays like a TikTok in my head. The pocket going up in Junie’s face. The slo-mo feeling. Me thinking four Black people and two white Singerites. Not like I wanted him to shoot her. Maybe I even knew he wouldn’t.
More important, though, is what happened before we got interrupted. Singer’s kid’d been telling us who was at the service. Ma’s family, assholes from her job. Guys from Phil’s job, and his—his other job. When she said it, she’d shot a look at Robbie, like there was something about the other work she wasn’t gonna say in front of us. It’s not much, but it could have something to do with whatever got Singer a rap sheet. I text Chela.
ME: If you’re still talking to her, see if you can get intel about Singer’s “other job.”
At my stop, I take my time walking to the restaurant, my caffeine high draining away. It’s clear out, the moon pale white in the dark starless sky. I stop under the green neon sign, check the cars in the lot, making sure none of them are police. There’re two blue ones that make my heart stop before I realize they’re just regular cars. Now I’m here, my body’s on alert, focused on Diamond’s message. It’s getting weirder. Can you come?
The dining room’s quiet, no staff in sight. In the kitchen, my stomach roars at the smell of roasting fish, reminding me I never got any pizza. Ms. Fox is chopping at the sideboard.
“Ah,” she says, like the sight of me explains something. “Diamond called for you, eh? No surprise, with the two of them shouting to wake the dead.” She reaches for the pan on the cooling rack, sticks a sweet potato fry in my mouth. I look around, see Fisk’s blue scooter leaned against the back wall.
“Diamond and Fisk?” I ask, after chewing. Try to keep my voice chill. “They’re fighting?”
Ms. Fox shoots me a smirk, like she knows all my business. “She’s out back,” she says. “Nursing her wounds. And he’s down in the cellar.” I grab a handful of fries and hurry out through the kitchen door, feeling like this shit of a day might actually end okay, if Diamond and Fisk are in a fight and she’s calling me. Diamond’s huddled in her jean jacket, sitting on the bench by the back door. It’s next to the dumpster, but I only smell Diamond. Fresh and flowery, like a field I want to lay down in. Enough light comes through the kitchen window to take the edge off the darkness.
“Thanks for coming,” Diamond says, smiling through tears. “I didn’t know who else to call.”
I’m too tired to front. “Because you had a fight with Fisk?” I ask.
“Ms. Fox told you?” she asks. “Yeah, we had a fight. We fight all the time, these days, it’s not even just that I told him about our kiss.” Damn if I don’t feel the words our kiss in all the right places.
“But that wasn’t all,” she says, sliding over on the bench so I can sit next to her. “Something happened right after the fight. Fisk stomped out and I was in the kitchen alone, feeling awful. And the burner rang in the lost and found drawer.”
“The burner phone?” Whatever I expected to hear, it wasn’t that.
“I didn’t want to answer it,” Diamond says. “But I had to know. You know, like when there’s a crazy person on the subway and you know if you look at them they might come at you, but you look anyhow because you have to know what they’re up to? My hands were shaking when I picked the thing up.”
“So, what happened?” I ask, needing her to get to the point.
“Whoever it was stayed on a long time. They kind of breathed heavy. And they said . . . something about disappearing, like, ‘Might want to make this phone disappear,’ something like that.”
“What kind of voice?” I ask.
“I don’t know. Maybe they were drunk or something.”
That makes me feel better. Could’ve been a random wrong number. Some drunk fool not making sense. Diamond closes her eyes like she’s fighting bad memories, and I drink her in while she can’t see me. We stay that way long enough that I know she knows I’m watching. Then she opens her eyes, gives me another sad smile. But there’s more in it this time. Something just for me. She slips her hand in mine.
