No Dominion(10)

I go in the closet. It’s not blood I need this time. It’s a gun. I unlock the gun safe and take out the.32 snub. I check that it’s loaded and tuck it into the back of my pants. I don’t have any reason to think I’ll need it, but it’s late, and I’m irritable, and I might want to pistol-whip Philip with it. Him or this Count clown.

I lock up and go to Blackie’s.



I push the button next to the anonymous door on 13th. I stand there, knowing someone inside is peeping at me to see if I look OK. The door opens. It’s Dominick.

 Hey, Dom.

 Hey, bud.

He glances up and down the street, checking to see that no cops are nearby, then holds the door wide for me.

 C’mon in.

Blackie’s is a pit. It was probably once the super’s apartment for this building, now it’s as scummy an after-hours joint as you’re likely to find. It’s 4 a.m. and the place has just opened. Lucky me, I’m one of the first in. There’s only the one tiny room, but Blackie managed to crowd it with the bar, a few tables, a couple couches, a pool table and an old-school jukebox that plays real 45s. It takes me two seconds to look over the four or five losers in the place and see that none of them are Philip. I go to the bar and order a beer and a bourbon on the rocks. The beer is a can of Bud that comes out of an Igloo cooler at the end of the bar. The bourbon comes out of a bottle that says Maker’s Mark, but it ain’t. I give the bartender a twenty and she gives me back six and asks me if I need anything else. The anything else being a dime bag of coke that costs twenty-five bucks and wouldn’t get me high even if I didn’t have the Vyrus. I pass. With nothing else to do, I do the usual: sit out of the way, drink and smoke.

An hour passes. The place fills up, but it never gets loud. There are only two rules in Blackie’s: no loud voices and no cursing. The loud voices I get, there are occupied apartments right above us. The cursing is Blackie’s thing. Guess it makes him feel better about running a shitty after-hours coke den. A couple people try to sit at my table and coke-rap my ear off. I stare them down and they leave. Blackie himself shows up at some point: a potbellied black guy in his late fifties sporting ostrich skin boots, a black cowboy hat, and ropes of gold chain draped around his neck. He takes his stool at the end of the bar.

Blackie came to fame back in the day when he opened the first topless club in the East Village. He ran whores and did a brisk business in hijacked booze out the back. He also owned a piece of five or six other bars scattered around the neighborhood. That was then. He lost the club years ago and it was made into a rock venue. His whores left him. The other joints he sold off piecemeal. Now this place is all that’s left of his empire. And it probably makes more money than everything else put together ever did. He knows me from when I used to bounce at Roadhouse. He’d come in and pass me a heavy roll of C-notes and a tiny.25 automatic with pearl handles. I’d hang onto that shit for him ’til he left, the cash in case someone tried to rob him, the gun because he didn’t want to shoot no one if they tried to rob him. I’d pass it back to him at the end of the night and he’d peel off one of the hundreds and hand it to me.

I eye him as he chats with the bartender, looking him over to see if he still carries that bankroll. There’s a baseball-sized lump inside his black Levi’s jacket. Take that off him and my money problems are all solved. He catches me looking, shows me a couple gold teeth, touches his index finger to the brim of his hat and tells the bartender to buy me a round. I nod my head and forget about robbing him.

I drink the free drinks and inhale more Luckys. The place chokes with smoke, a James Brown tune whispers from the juke, everybody does key-bumps of shitty coke or just cuts lines right on the peeling Formica tops of the tables. A light by the door flashes from time to time and Dominick takes a look out the peephole and either lets in the person on the stoop, or doesn’t. I take a look at my watch. Fucking Philip. Boy is cruising for a bruising.

I get up, collect my cigarettes, lighter and jacket. I give Blackie another nod and head for the door. Dominick comes over to let me out. Just as he’s about to check the peephole and make sure a cop car isn’t sitting outside, the light flashes. He peeks and shakes his head.

 Hang on a sec, let me get rid of this guy.

He opens the door and Philip tries to dart in.

 Hey, Dominick, hey.

Dominick puts a hand in the middle of his chest.

 Uh-uh.

 Uh-uh? What uh-uh?

 Uh-uh you ain’t comin’ in.

 Why? Why the fuck not?

 Cuz ya can’t follow the rules. You talk too loud and you curse and you ain’t coming in.

 What the fuck are you talking about I don’t follow the fucking rules!?!

Dominick starts to close the door.

I tap him on the shoulder.

 It’s OK, he’s with me.

Philip sees me for the first time.

 Hey, oh, hey, Joe. You still here? Thought you might have left by now. Getting close to sunup, you know.

He winks at me.

 Sunup. You know.

Dominick looks at me.

 You sure you wanna vouch for him?

 Yeah, let him in.

He holds the door and Philip comes in.

 Yeah, Joe’s my pal, he’ll fuckin’ vouch for me.

 Watch your mouth, Phil.

 Sure, yeah.

Dominick still has the door open.

 So you goin’ out?

Philip shows me sad eyes.

 You leavin’ now, Joe? Too bad. Wanted to buy you a drink or somethin’. Take care and all.

I nod at Dominick.

 No thanks, Dom, I’ll stick around a little.

He sighs and closes the door. Guy opens and closes the door from 4 a.m. to 10 a.m. and tells people to keep it down and not to curse. Think he’d like his job a little more.

I catch Phil at the bar.

 So, Phil.

 Oh, Joe, hey. Decided to stay? Sure that’s a good idea? Like I say, getting light soon. Know how you hate to be going home when the sun’s up and all.

 Yeah, thanks for the concern. I’ll stick around a little longer.

The bartender comes over. I order another round for myself. Phil stands there and waits, but I don’t order one for him and he finally gives in and asks for a cup of water. Two bucks, the cheapest thing you can get here. The bartender takes a plastic cup over to the Igloo and pulls the little drain plug at the bottom of the ice chest, filling the cup with melted icewater. Philip looks at it.

 That sanitary?

The bartender plucks the dollar bill and four quarters from Phil’s palm and tosses them in the cashbox.

 Like you care.

Phil picks a flake of something black out of the water.

 Jeez, what the fuck’s his problem?

Blackie looks at him and clears his throat.

I lead Phil to the table I was occupying.

 Watch your mouth.

 Yeah, yeah, I know. Language, language.

We sit.

He stares into his cup, making sure there are no other contaminants floating around.

 Two bucks for some water, you’d think they’d at least give you a bottle or something.

 Phil.

He looks up.

 Yeah?

 Where’s my guy?

He finds another particle in the water and chases it around with his finger.

 Your guy?

 The one you were supposed to hook me up with.

He shows me a speck stuck to the tip of his index finger.

 What’s that look like to you?

I grab his finger.

 Phil, where’s The Count?

He pulls his finger free and points it over my shoulder.

 He’s right there, man. The Count’s right there.

I look at the guys playing pool.

 The one taking his shot.

I look at the one taking his shot: twenty to twenty-five, skinny, mop of blond hair, little fringe of blond goatee, and a faded brown Count Chocula T-shirt.

Philip wipes the speck from his finger onto the thigh of his jeans.

 I mean, jeez, how’d you miss the guy? Told you he’s called The Count.



Philip makes the introductions.

 Hey, hey, Count. This is my man Joe. Joe, this is The Count.

The Count flips his fingers at me, not offering to shake.

 Hey, Joe. ’S up?

 Wanted to have a word.

He looks over his shoulder at the guy racking the balls on the pool table.

 I got another game.

 I can wait.

He smiles, points at my watch.

 But not too long, right?

 No, not too long.

He twirls his pool cue.

 Yeah, got the same condition. Let me knock this guy off and we’ll go someplace.

I watch him play. He’s sharp on the table. Smooth. Keeps up a patter with a couple girls sitting on one of the couches. Between shots he takes a clove cigarette from one of their mouths without asking. He drags on it and passes it back, steps to the table and casually sinks the eight. The loser comes over to shake and The Count passes him his cue.

 Take the table, man. I got to go.

He looks over at me, flashes a finger, asking for another second, and chats up the girls as he puts on his fake fur-lined cord jacket, plaid scarf and furry Russian hat. Before he comes over to me he’s flipped open his phone and entered both girls’ numbers into it.

 Thanks for waiting, man.

I get up. Phil gets up.

 So cool, where to, guys?

I put a hand on Philip’s shoulder and press him back into his chair.

 Stay, Phil.

He starts to rise again.

 But.

I point a finger.

 Stay.