Bad Boy Boogie Read online

  “Fat boy’s digging in his pockets,” Bello laughed.

  “I was scratching!” Tony said.

  “Jerking off,” Bello said. “You were jerking off!” His voice rose in pitch to a cackle. He plodded closer, waving the panties. “C’mon, fifty cents. I know you wanna smell it. What about you, Brenda?”

  “Shut up,” Brendan said.

  “You wanna smell ’em? Or are they yours?”

  “Shut up, Joey,” Billy said. “I’ll get my dad.”

  “You’ll get your dad,” Joey sang. “Fag. I bet the redneck wants some.” He sneered, jabbing the drawers at Jay’s face.

  Jay snaked sideways and dropped his bike. “Get them dirty bloomers away from me, you sick bastard.”

  “They’re your mom’s, you hillbilly faggot.”

  “Don’t you talk about my mama!” Jay thrust his face forward with his nostrils flared.

  “What are you gonna do about it, mama’s boy? Your mom’s so poor she showed me her titties for a dollar.” Bello looked back to his crew huddled behind him. “Anyone got a dollar?”

  “Shut your mouth, you panty-sniffing freak!” Jay launched at Bello and swung wide. The bigger boy ducked back and laughed. Nicky Paladino, tall and lean, grabbed Jay from behind and heaved him up. Jay lashed out with kicks, his face red.

  “I’m gonna get my dad,” Billy snapped, and rode away. Tony’s eyes darted between the six older boys and the gate.

  “Hold him,” Bello said. “Gonna stuff it down your throat. Maybe some pussy will knock the fag outta you.”

  Bobby Algieri and his brothers grabbed for Jay’s limbs while Joey Bello aimed the wad of stained fabric at Jay’s seething mouth.

  Nick screamed and held his arm. “He bit me!”

  “Only girls bite,” Bello laughed. “See? He’s a faggot.”

  Nicky wrinkled his nose at the choppy crescent of toothmarks. “Gonna beat you for that.”

  Brendan dropped his bike, eyebrows knitted in righteous anger. He shoved Joey into the leaves. “Stop it, Joey,” he said. “Or I’ll tell.”

  Jay squirmed and kicked his way out, and turned on them with balled fists. The Algieri brothers blocked the exit while Joey climbed out of the leaves.

  “Or you’ll tell what, faggot? That we caught you staring at our meat while we took a piss in the park?”

  “You were—”

  “He wanted us to ram it up his rear,” Bello said. He and Nicky flanked their prey. “You still want it, don’t you faggot?”

  Brendan’s eyes darted for an exit.

  “You’re not going anywhere, Brenda.”

  Tony kneaded the handles of his Huffy. “J-Joey, I think you got shit stain on your lip.”

  “The fuck you say, fat boy?”

  “Those panties got skidmarks. You got shit on your uh, mouth. I th-think you all do,” Tony said.

  Bello glared at the panties in his hand and made a face. Greg Kuhn squirmed like a slice of bacon on a hot skillet and rubbed his mouth on his sleeve.

  “Let’s book!” Tony said. The three of them biked for the tight curve between two leaf mountains and bowled the Algieri brothers out of the way. Nicky jammed his stick into Brendan’s spokes.

  Brendan yelped as his bike somersaulted into a leaf pile. Joey Bello laughed and pushed Brendan’s face in the leaves.

  Jay skidded to a stop and ran back.

  Bobby Algieri wiped his mouth on his palm, smelled it for signs of shit. “He’s lying.”

  Bello and Nicky dragged Brendan over the mulch pile by his kicking feet, laughing as the leaves went under his shirt. The Algieri brothers pinballed Jay between them, shoving him back and forth while Greg Kuhn laughed.

  Tony knocked the cap from Greg’s head and ran off with the beanie underneath.

  “Hey!”

  Tony ran to the rock-strewn edge. “I’ll throw it!”

  “If you drop that you’re so dead, Tony!”

  “Let us go!”

  “I don’t care what you do to his Jew hat,” Bobby Algieri said. His brothers pushed Jay into the leaves and Bobby, the oldest and biggest, sat on his back. “You bite, we’ll stuff turds in your mouth.”

  Greg clenched his fists at Tony. “Give me my kippah!”

  “Take it, Greg. Why are you being such a jerk?” Tony set the beanie on a discarded washing machine. “You were so cool in computer class.”

  “Shut up,” Greg said, and snatched back his kippah.

  Joey Bello and Nicky walked from behind a leaf pile, laughing and slapping. Nicky dragged Brendan’s jeans through the dirt. Joey held out a pair of white BVDs.

  “You better wear those panties, Brenda,” Joey howled. “Or you’re walking home naked, queer bait. You’ll get reamed by every fag for miles.”

  Nicky snorted and watched the path with a twitchy little grin. He had plain handsome features, but his expression made his face seem waxy and flat as a mannequin’s.

  “Come on out,” Joey said. “We ain’t leaving until we see you.”

  “Go to hell!” Brendan yelled from cover, his voice shaking.

  Bello wadded Brendan’s briefs and threw them over the ledge. “Whoo! There go your underwear, fag! Better dance for us, or your jeans go next.”

  “What the hell’s wrong with you?” Jay said.

  Bello bent and flicked Jay’s nose. “You like that Crane cunt, don’t you? Greg, tell the redneck how you kissed that slut.”

  Greg squirmed his lip. “That was fourth grade,” he said. “Spin the bottle.”

  “I bet you could feel those big tits up any time you wanted.”

  Tony’s face went red, and he charged Bello with a roar.

  “Whoa, mad elephant,” Bello laughed, skipping back. “You’re too slow, you fat piece of shit. You like that cocktease?”

  “Fuck you, Joey!”

  “Tony Baloney!” Bello said. “You’d crush her.”

  “You’re fat, too!”

  “Not as fat as you, you fat fuck.”

  “Fatty fatty two by four,” Algieri chimed in.

  “Four by eight,” Joey said.

  “Hormona,” Greg said. “That’s what the other girls call the stuck-up bitch.”

  Bello laughed. “Hormona. I bet she’d moan with Tony’s fat ass bouncing on her.” He jabbed Tony’s stomach with his finger. “She’d love your fat cock.”

  Jay struggled, and Bobby ground his face into the leaves. Jay snarled and spat.

  Tony swung wild and missed.

  Bello cracked him across the mouth. “Don’t ever try to hit me, fat boy.”

  Tony touched his nose and stared at the blood in his hand, jaw quivering. Bello rammed both palms against Tony’s chest and knocked him to the dirt.

  “Get him, Greg. Hold him, Nicky. Sit on his back, stupid.”

  Bello crouched by Tony’s face. “It was a compliment when I said you fucked that slut. No girl will ever love a fat tub of shit like you.”

  Tony trembled. “Fuck you, Joey. We’re gonna tell everybody you sniff filthy underwear.”

  “Oh yeah?” Bello smiled. He unzipped his pants took out his penis. He took a cowboy stance in front of Tony’s face. “Hey, Brenda. Come get a free show.”

  Greg squinted and laughed nervously.

  Bello grinned. “You faggots aren’t gonna say shit.”

  Tony wrenched his face away as the hot stream hit. He buried his face in the dirt and howled.

  “You sick son of a bitch!” Jay hollered.

  “Gah, you’re spraying me!” Greg scrambled away. “I’m going home.”

  Nicky shook with silent laughter and held out Brendan’s jeans for Joey to piss on.

  Red police lights flared off the leaves. A siren blipped.

  “Come on out and wear your jeans now,” Bello laughed, in that forced high pitch. He threw the jeans toward Brendan’s hiding spot, and slowly zipped his pants.

  The Algieri boys leapt off Jay. Nick Paladino stood, unable to conceal his grin.

  �
��Brendan!” Officer Leo Zelazko marched around a leaf pile, his sharp jaw set. Billy jogged behind. “Brendan, where are you?”

  “I’m not coming out until everyone’s gone,” Brendan called.

  Tony sobbed, wiping his face on his sleeve. Jay spat leaves and picked up a branch like a club.

  “Desmarteaux!” Officer Leo snapped. “Put that down.”

  “But they—”

  “Now! Or I’ll drag your mother out of work to come get you.”

  Jay threw the stick into a leaf pile.

  “The rest of you, scoot. I catch you trespassing again, I’ll make your parents come get you at the station.”

  “Sure thing, Officer Zee,” Bello snorted, and walked past him. Nicky followed.

  Billy gaped as his father ignored their tormentors like ghosts. “Dad!”

  “Go on, get out of here.” Officer Leo waved each boy away with a hand, as if smacking them upside the head. He turned to Jay and Tony. “That means you boys, too.”

  Tony and Jay collected their bikes, leaving Billy to stare at his father.

  Jay looked back and saw Brendan creep out, hands cupped over his crotch as he shuffled to his piss-soaked jeans.

  Jay and Tony rode to the water fountain by the park’s baseball diamond, where Tony washed off as best he could. The ride home was empty of Tony’s usual spur of the moment questions and exclamations. He kept quiet until they passed through the abandoned electroplating plant at the bottom of Jay’s street, the air tickling their nose with chemicals.

  “You swear not to tell?”

  Jay stopped his bike in the metal-stained dirt. He fished his bone-handled Case knife from his pocket, that Papa Andre had given him. He unfolded the blade with his thumbnail.

  Tony circled around him. “Wanna play mumblety-peg? Sorry about your toe last time.”

  “Shut up a minute.”

  For once, Tony did.

  Jay slicked the blade’s silvery hand-honed edge along his palm.

  “Jesus, what you do that for?”

  Jay beckoned with the knife point. Tony edged closer, staring at the red welling in Jay’s life line.

  “My folks saved me once,” Jay said. “From someone a lot worse than Bello. So he did what he did. And when we’re older and stronger, we’ll make him pay. I promise you that.”

  Tony nodded.

  Jay passed him the knife handle first.

  A trash barge on the Passaic sounded its horn as it approached the bridge. Its lowing echoed through their chests as they ground their palms together and bit back winces.

  Chapter 12

  As the harsh July sun cut through the trees, Jay stared at the memorial. A simple plaque on a stone inhabiting a triangle between city hall and the police station, it portrayed a smiling young man swinging a baseball bat, the all-American boy.

  Joseph Bello, Junior 1971-1986

  Only the Good Die Young

  Jay’s breakfast turned to acid. He scored the metal with Andre’s blade, and walked around the corner to the car.

  RAPIST.

  Jay lost himself in the work. There was plenty of it. As the sun crept toward noon, he adjusted the idle on a Camaro while Tony argued with a customer, circling a silver BMW.

  “Knew I should’ve gone to the dealer.” The owner knuckled the groomed scruff that covered his weak chin.

  “You brought your own parts,” Tony said. “And it took three hours longer than what I charged. Far as I’m concerned I already gave you a discount.”

  “You know Beemerfest is next week, at the Hermitage,” Beemer Guy said, and tilted his head. “I know people.”

  “I’m sure they know you, too.” Tony chewed his lip and tugged the invoice from the man’s hand. “Make it two hundred even.”

  While Tony reprinted the invoice, a Nutley police cruiser parked in front, blocking half the driveway. A cold fist twisted Jay’s insides. Cops can smell outlaw, Okie said. Just like we can smell law. A man with a shaved head and a Roman nose stepped out of the cruiser in full uniform.

  Jay didn’t recognize him. The anger on Tony’s face melted into despair.

  “Tony Baloney,” the policeman said.

  Tony ran the customer’s credit card, and avoided the policeman’s eyes. “What can I do for you, Officer Algieri?”

  “Oh, just a friendly visit. I thought your customers ought to know that you employ a convicted felon.”

  “What?” Beemer Guy looked around him, as if masked thugs were about to spring out and grab his wallet.

  Algieri pointed to where Jay worked on the Supra. “That scumbag. He killed a kid.”

  “What the hell?”

  Jay wiped his hands on a rag and walked over slow. “That was a long time ago. I did my time.”

  “Did you work on my car?”

  “No,” Tony said. “I did. But he’s certified.”

  “Certifiable,” Algieri snickered. “He could be copying your house keys, you wouldn’t even know.”

  “I wouldn’t let you wash my car, much less work on it,” the Beemer Guy said, and peeled out of the lot.

  Algieri gave a gargoyle smile. “I got nothing to do but sit here all day.” He walked back to the cruiser and sat inside.

  Back in the office, Tony tore the wrapper off a protein bar and gnawed off a chunk. “Believe that shit?” he said through a mouthful of chocolate tar. “Why you think I left Nutley? Fuckin’ Bobby Algieri kept pulling me over. ‘Just a roadside check, Tony Baloney.’”

  While Bello cut with cruel words, Bobby Algieri hung back with a sneer, audience to the humiliation.

  Tony picked up a hand gripper with a spring thick enough for a bear trap. With a snarl, he clamped it closed, held it there. Veins on his arm bulged. “I could crush his head, but he’s a cop.”

  Jay pushed the door shut. “He only watched. Nicky Paladino was the one who got away.”

  Tony huffed and switched hands with the gripper. “He still works at the ShopRite.” He crumbled the wrapper and spiked it into the trashcan. “Can’t even shop there. Ma does it for me. Think I want the cunts who laughed at me in high school ringing me up at the register?” The vein in his forehead pulsed. “Bobby fucking Algieri. When he pulled me over, I wanted to back over him and drag him for blocks.”

  “Easy, Tone. You’re fixing to turn green and smash stuff.”

  Tony laughed, let out a long breath. “It was what, almost thirty years ago, but I feel it every time I drive through town. Cross the bridge, where they threw Brendan’s hat in the creek. Or pass Church Hill, or even the high school. I can see Bello staring from the steps. I still hear his voice in my head, sometimes. I use it when I work out, you know? To get that last rep.”

  Jay opened his mouth and Tony held up a hand.

  “Why didn’t I stand up for myself? It’s like I deserve it, for not having the balls to hit Bello in his fucking ugly face.”

  Tony made a fist and stared at it, like he might take a swing at himself.

  “We were only kids, Tone.”

  “Yeah, what the hell did we know?” Tony kneaded his temples. “What could we do, the Safety Dance?”

  Jay shifted to his other foot. “I’m gonna finish up under the hood. You gonna be all right?”

  “I’m fine,” Tony said. “Sometimes I wish I was more like you.” He tore open another protein bar, peanut butter this time.

  “No you don’t,” Jay said.

  Outside, he ignored Algieri’s attempts at cold glares. He’d been a coward, a hanger-on, an observer. Jay knew the type. Fall guys, too shit-scared to rat. Safe in a crew, as long as they stayed useful.

  A green Cherokee Sport pulled in the lot with the windows open, Pearl Jam loud on the stereo. Billy Zelazko stepped out of it, in running clothes. Officer Algieri frowned at him.

  “This isn’t your jurisdiction,” Billy said. “Why don’t you go home.”

  “It ain’t yours, either.”

  “My father know you’re here?”

  Algieri grinn
ed. “Who you think sent me?”

  “Still a Giants fan, Bobby?”

  “Course.”

  “Box tickets, preseason. Go home.”

  “But the chief—”

  “You did what Pop wanted. I’ll talk to him.”

  “It ain’t right, him being here,” Algieri said. “We were just boys being boys. But he’s psycho.”

  “Go home, Bobby. Check your mailbox.”

  Algieri gave Jay his cop glare again. “I know you don’t got a license. I see you in town, that’s a four-hundred-dollar ticket, and I’m calling a wrecker. Every single time.” He drove out, flipped on the emergency lights at the intersection, and roared back toward Nutley.

  Tony walked out of the shop, taking wary steps. “Thanks, Billy.”

  Billy sighed. “Thought this was done. And this is my last favor. You know this scumbag pissed in my car?”

  “I’m right here,” Jay said. “Ain’t going nowhere.”

  “Jay,” Tony said. “I dunno, maybe you should. You know, lay low a while.”

  “Thought this was low,” Jay said. “I’m trying to make a living here.”

  “Yeah, well so am I.” Tony looked at the ground.

  “I’ll be in Saturday, Tony. For the brake job.” Billy said, and climbed into his Cherokee. “Hopedale, Jay. Take the ticket. This is only gonna get worse.”

  He watched Billy drive away, and Tony drag his feet back to the office. Worse was where he’d been most of his life. If they wanted to kill him, they should try kindness.

  Jay held the pay-as-you-go flip phone open with the post office number punched in, but did not stab send. He’d seen cellular phones in prison, but never used one. Couldn’t get over putting his ear next to something that had been wrapped in a condom and hidden inside somebody’s ass.

  Mama Angeline’s last letter had come five years ago. He thought of what to say. Hey, this forty-year-old con wants to drop in at your next crawfish boil and crash on the couch.

  The memories of his folks were a faded Polaroid deteriorating in the attic of his mind, chewed by the rats of doubt fed by Ramona’s harsh words. He’d been closer to Ramona than any human being, even Mama Angeline.