says the stocky man sticking out his left hand. “I’m doing some work rehabbing a couple of my man Thomas’s apartments across the street.”
He points to a red Dodge van parked outside the town house on the south side. Jake remembers the buzz-sawing and the hammering he’s heard the last couple of mornings and everything starts to fall into place. He even recalls some vague discussion hehad with Thomas, the pale, squinty-eyed landlord, about the legal complexities of converting his building into a small co-op.
“Forgive me for intruding,” says Philip Cardi, running a hand through his close-cropped hair. “But when I heard about what happened to your boy and his friend last night, I had to come over.” He shields his eyes from the sun. “What are the police gonna do?”
“I don’t know.” Jake sets the broom against the black iron rail for a moment. “We were up until three in the morning, waiting for a cop to show up and take a report. And then they say they’ll only take the complaint over the phone because they don’t have enough people on the shift to send one around. So now I’m going to have to go to the station myself and make sure they’re going to follow up and investigate.”
“Ah, they don’t care.” Philip mops his brow with a red bandanna.
“Yeah. Well. You didn’t see anything last night, did you?” Jake notices a particularly jagged shard near his feet. “I don’t suppose you live around here.”
“Nah, I didn’t see anything. And neither did the people I was talking to. I’m from out on the Island. I got a place, Massapequa. Beautiful out there, you know. I got a pool in the back and I can barbecue every night in the summer. It kills me to see what they’ve done to the city. You know? I used to love it here. But now with all the dirt and the crime ... It’s starting to be like I get a headache every time I get on the LIE to drive in.”
“I know what you mean.” Jake shakes his head. “I’m beginning to think I should’ve done the suburban thing too. For my kid, you know.”
“Hey, children, they’re the most valuable things we’ve got.” Philip throws out his right arm and winces slightly. At first it looks like an aggressive gesture, but then Jake realizes it’s just an involuntary reflex.
“I got two of them,” Philip says. “A boy that’s five and a girl who’s eight. And I swear if anyone ever laid a hand on either of them the way that bum tried to lay a hand on your son, I’d be right after him with a baseball bat and a crowbar. Botta beep,botta bing. His brains are on the sidewalk and that’s the end of your social problem.”
“Botta beep, botta bing.” Jake laughs. “Hey, where you from anyway?”
“Sixty-fourth Street in Bensonhurst.”
“No shit. I grew up on Avenue X. Marlboro Houses.”
“Hey...”
They shake hands again, with a different feeling this time. It’s not the exact same neighborhood, but who cares?
“Sixty-fourth Street, huh?”
“Yeah, and Twentieth Avenue,” says Philip. “Right above the surgical supply store. You remember it?”
“Sure. With the prosthetic arms and legs in the window.”
“Where’d you go to school?” asks Philip Cardi.
“John Dewey.”
“Lafayette, Class of seventy. You hang around Eighteenth Avenue?”
“I was down at Sweet Tooth’s about once a week,” says Jake, hearing himself slip into his old neighborhood attitude without feeling self-conscious about it for once.
“My place was the Milano sports club on Seventy-third Street. Associazione Italiana. You ever go there?”
Jake remembers the hard-eyed old men in their straw hats sitting in the lawn chairs out front, listening to soccer games from Italy on the radio. Through the front window, you could see the plaster saints and the local knock-around guys standing by the pool tables, brandishing their cues like Revolutionary War soldiers’ muskets. Not a place for a nice Jewish boy.
“Eighty-sixth Street was more my
He points to a red Dodge van parked outside the town house on the south side. Jake remembers the buzz-sawing and the hammering he’s heard the last couple of mornings and everything starts to fall into place. He even recalls some vague discussion hehad with Thomas, the pale, squinty-eyed landlord, about the legal complexities of converting his building into a small co-op.
“Forgive me for intruding,” says Philip Cardi, running a hand through his close-cropped hair. “But when I heard about what happened to your boy and his friend last night, I had to come over.” He shields his eyes from the sun. “What are the police gonna do?”
“I don’t know.” Jake sets the broom against the black iron rail for a moment. “We were up until three in the morning, waiting for a cop to show up and take a report. And then they say they’ll only take the complaint over the phone because they don’t have enough people on the shift to send one around. So now I’m going to have to go to the station myself and make sure they’re going to follow up and investigate.”
“Ah, they don’t care.” Philip mops his brow with a red bandanna.
“Yeah. Well. You didn’t see anything last night, did you?” Jake notices a particularly jagged shard near his feet. “I don’t suppose you live around here.”
“Nah, I didn’t see anything. And neither did the people I was talking to. I’m from out on the Island. I got a place, Massapequa. Beautiful out there, you know. I got a pool in the back and I can barbecue every night in the summer. It kills me to see what they’ve done to the city. You know? I used to love it here. But now with all the dirt and the crime ... It’s starting to be like I get a headache every time I get on the LIE to drive in.”
“I know what you mean.” Jake shakes his head. “I’m beginning to think I should’ve done the suburban thing too. For my kid, you know.”
“Hey, children, they’re the most valuable things we’ve got.” Philip throws out his right arm and winces slightly. At first it looks like an aggressive gesture, but then Jake realizes it’s just an involuntary reflex.
“I got two of them,” Philip says. “A boy that’s five and a girl who’s eight. And I swear if anyone ever laid a hand on either of them the way that bum tried to lay a hand on your son, I’d be right after him with a baseball bat and a crowbar. Botta beep,botta bing. His brains are on the sidewalk and that’s the end of your social problem.”
“Botta beep, botta bing.” Jake laughs. “Hey, where you from anyway?”
“Sixty-fourth Street in Bensonhurst.”
“No shit. I grew up on Avenue X. Marlboro Houses.”
“Hey...”
They shake hands again, with a different feeling this time. It’s not the exact same neighborhood, but who cares?
“Sixty-fourth Street, huh?”
“Yeah, and Twentieth Avenue,” says Philip. “Right above the surgical supply store. You remember it?”
“Sure. With the prosthetic arms and legs in the window.”
“Where’d you go to school?” asks Philip Cardi.
“John Dewey.”
“Lafayette, Class of seventy. You hang around Eighteenth Avenue?”
“I was down at Sweet Tooth’s about once a week,” says Jake, hearing himself slip into his old neighborhood attitude without feeling self-conscious about it for once.
“My place was the Milano sports club on Seventy-third Street. Associazione Italiana. You ever go there?”
Jake remembers the hard-eyed old men in their straw hats sitting in the lawn chairs out front, listening to soccer games from Italy on the radio. Through the front window, you could see the plaster saints and the local knock-around guys standing by the pool tables, brandishing their cues like Revolutionary War soldiers’ muskets. Not a place for a nice Jewish boy.
“Eighty-sixth Street was more my
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