emotions, revenge? Hot damn, thought Edith Mazursky Holtz-man.
Her heels clicked, clicked, clicked on the sidewalk. What indeed … ?
6
Billyboy
“ The bus station please, ” Billy Boy said when the Shrimp asked him where he wanted to be let off. He always went to them first whenever he hit a new town. There wasn ’ t any place you could get the feel of things like you could in a bus station.
“ You got it. ” Then no more talk till the Caddie pulled to a halt by Port Authority.
It had been that kind of trip. Fast driving, loud music, not a lot of chitchat. In the beginning it had been talky enough. The Shrimp —he had these pale blue eyes that looked through you sometimes —he ’ d gone to school in the Midwest someplace, Indiana or Ohio, and then he ’ d become an Angelino before deciding to make it in New York.
“ What the fuck ’ s an Angelino? ” Billy Boy asked.
“ Someone from Los Angeles. ”
“ That makes me a Milwaukee-eeno then, ” Billy Boy said, and he roared his laughter, because it was so funny.
Only the Shrimp didn ’ t think so. He didn ’ t even smile. Just gunned the Caddie along the turnpike.
Billy Boy, frightened suddenly, told himself to Jesus watch it! So that was when their long silences began.
They got a flat on the Pennsy and the Shrimp was all hot and bothered but Billy Boy was so happy. If there was one thing he knew it was cars. No. He knew a lot about a helluva lot, but one of the things he knew most about was cars. He changed the Caddie ’ s tire so fast the Shrimp couldn ’ t goddam believe it Then he asked if Billy Boy wanted the wheel a little and you don ’ t say no to a Caddie, not ever, so he pushed it hard until they began getting into heavy traffic and up ahead in the late morning sun he saw it there.
New York!
It was one thing to be King in Milwaukee or Memphis or any of the other spots along his way. But shit.
New York!
“ You better drive from here, ” he said, and they switched in the car, the Shrimp taking the wheel, Billy Boy lifting him across into position, then sliding the rest of the way to the passenger ’ s spot again.
The tunnel was murder so it was close to one when the Caddie stopped at 41st and Eighth. “ Hope your sister ’ s surprised, ” the Shrimp said.
Billy Boy just stared. “ Huh? ”
“ You told me you were surprising your sister. ”
“ Oh, naturally. ” Pause. “ But didn ’ t I also tell you I wanted the bus station? ”
“ This is Port Authority. ”
Billy Boy stared at the huge building. “ Isn ’ t there a smaller one? ”
“ Nothing ’ s smaller in New York. ”
Billy Boy nodded, got out, muttered “ thanks. ” The air was suddenly so cold. He buttoned up his raincoat to the neck. It was still so cold.
“ For the tire change, ” the Shrimp said, and he handed over ten. “ Take it! ”
Billy Boy grabbed the bread. He didn ’ t know which was his bigger fear all of a sudden, the Shrimp or the City. “ You ’ re a good guy, you ’ ll live a long time. ”
The Shrimp looked at him funny. “ Yeah? ”
“ Believe me, ” Billy Boy said. “ I can tell things like that. ” And then he walked into Port Authority.
It was all fucked up, construction everywhere, arrows and pillars and thousands of people and—
—and why were they looking at him? All of them looking. At him. Dead at him.
They weren ’ t.
Not all. Shit, a lot weren ’ t.
But a lot were.
A lot
Too many.
It was his clothes. Here it was winter in the Apple and he had his prison shoes still and the jeans he ’ d taken and over the jeans the raincoat In the winter in the Apple he was in a raincoat, no wonder they were looking. He quick went into a store where a nigger girl said, “ May I help you find a book, sir? ” and he said, “ Why would I want a fucking book, for Chrissakes, ” and as she started glancing around—for help?—so did he, and there was every reason for him to want a book, it
Her heels clicked, clicked, clicked on the sidewalk. What indeed … ?
6
Billyboy
“ The bus station please, ” Billy Boy said when the Shrimp asked him where he wanted to be let off. He always went to them first whenever he hit a new town. There wasn ’ t any place you could get the feel of things like you could in a bus station.
“ You got it. ” Then no more talk till the Caddie pulled to a halt by Port Authority.
It had been that kind of trip. Fast driving, loud music, not a lot of chitchat. In the beginning it had been talky enough. The Shrimp —he had these pale blue eyes that looked through you sometimes —he ’ d gone to school in the Midwest someplace, Indiana or Ohio, and then he ’ d become an Angelino before deciding to make it in New York.
“ What the fuck ’ s an Angelino? ” Billy Boy asked.
“ Someone from Los Angeles. ”
“ That makes me a Milwaukee-eeno then, ” Billy Boy said, and he roared his laughter, because it was so funny.
Only the Shrimp didn ’ t think so. He didn ’ t even smile. Just gunned the Caddie along the turnpike.
Billy Boy, frightened suddenly, told himself to Jesus watch it! So that was when their long silences began.
They got a flat on the Pennsy and the Shrimp was all hot and bothered but Billy Boy was so happy. If there was one thing he knew it was cars. No. He knew a lot about a helluva lot, but one of the things he knew most about was cars. He changed the Caddie ’ s tire so fast the Shrimp couldn ’ t goddam believe it Then he asked if Billy Boy wanted the wheel a little and you don ’ t say no to a Caddie, not ever, so he pushed it hard until they began getting into heavy traffic and up ahead in the late morning sun he saw it there.
New York!
It was one thing to be King in Milwaukee or Memphis or any of the other spots along his way. But shit.
New York!
“ You better drive from here, ” he said, and they switched in the car, the Shrimp taking the wheel, Billy Boy lifting him across into position, then sliding the rest of the way to the passenger ’ s spot again.
The tunnel was murder so it was close to one when the Caddie stopped at 41st and Eighth. “ Hope your sister ’ s surprised, ” the Shrimp said.
Billy Boy just stared. “ Huh? ”
“ You told me you were surprising your sister. ”
“ Oh, naturally. ” Pause. “ But didn ’ t I also tell you I wanted the bus station? ”
“ This is Port Authority. ”
Billy Boy stared at the huge building. “ Isn ’ t there a smaller one? ”
“ Nothing ’ s smaller in New York. ”
Billy Boy nodded, got out, muttered “ thanks. ” The air was suddenly so cold. He buttoned up his raincoat to the neck. It was still so cold.
“ For the tire change, ” the Shrimp said, and he handed over ten. “ Take it! ”
Billy Boy grabbed the bread. He didn ’ t know which was his bigger fear all of a sudden, the Shrimp or the City. “ You ’ re a good guy, you ’ ll live a long time. ”
The Shrimp looked at him funny. “ Yeah? ”
“ Believe me, ” Billy Boy said. “ I can tell things like that. ” And then he walked into Port Authority.
It was all fucked up, construction everywhere, arrows and pillars and thousands of people and—
—and why were they looking at him? All of them looking. At him. Dead at him.
They weren ’ t.
Not all. Shit, a lot weren ’ t.
But a lot were.
A lot
Too many.
It was his clothes. Here it was winter in the Apple and he had his prison shoes still and the jeans he ’ d taken and over the jeans the raincoat In the winter in the Apple he was in a raincoat, no wonder they were looking. He quick went into a store where a nigger girl said, “ May I help you find a book, sir? ” and he said, “ Why would I want a fucking book, for Chrissakes, ” and as she started glancing around—for help?—so did he, and there was every reason for him to want a book, it
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