Something else I get to live with.
He drives south along the Hudson and the black water shines silver from the lights of the bridge.
Chapter 22
Malone puts the cases with the money back in la caja and then goes and pours himself a drink.
His hands have stopped shaking, at least, and he uses the whiskey to wash down a couple of Dexies. It’s already after 3 a.m. and John has a baseball game at 8:30 he don’t want to miss. He sits and waits for the go-pills to hit and then he leaves the apartment and gets into his car and drives out to Staten Island so he can watch the sun come up over the ocean.
So there he is, Malone walking alone along the beach with the sun a fiery red and the sea a reflected rose, and the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge an amber arc. A flock of gulls at the water’s edge stubbornly hold their position as he walks past them. He’s the interloper here; they’re waiting for the tide to bring in the seaweed and with it their breakfast, but Malone, the speed stops him from being hungry even though he hasn’t eaten since lunch yesterday, and he thinks, Good for you, gulls. Don’t let anyone move you out of your place. You got the numbers.
Sometimes when he was a kid his dad would take them down to this beach and he loved to chase the gulls. Then if the water was warm enough, his dad would take him in bodysurfing and that was the best thing in the world. He’d like to go in now even though the water is still freezing, but he doesn’t want to get the salt on his skin because there’s no place to shower and anyway he doesn’t have a towel.
But it would be good to get into the cold water, and then he realizes that he forgot to shower and he hopes he doesn’t stink. Sniffs his armpit and it don’t smell so bad.
He hasn’t shaved, either, and that might upset John, so when he gets back to the car he takes out the Dopp kit he keeps under the front seat and dry-shaves in the visor mirror. It scrapes and isn’t as smooth as he wants but at least he looks decent.
Then Malone drives to the baseball park.
Sheila is already there and John’s team is warming up, the kids looking unhappy early on a Saturday morning that would otherwise be a day to sleep in.
Malone walks over to her. “Good morning.”
“Rough night?”
He ignores the gibe. “Caitlin here?”
“She stayed over at Jordan’s last night.”
Malone is disappointed and can’t help but suspect that was part of the plan, him being disappointed. He looks over and waves to John, who gives him a sleepy wave back. But smiles. That’s John, always has a smile.
“You want to sit together?” Malone asks Sheila.
“Later, maybe,” she says. “I got the first shift, concession stand duty.”
“You got any coffee?”
“Come on, I’ll make some.”
Malone follows her to the little shack where they do the concessions. Sheila looks good in a green fleece jacket and jeans. She makes the coffee, pours him a cup and he also takes a glazed doughnut because he knows he should eat. He lays down a ten and tells her put the change in the jar.
“Big spender.”
He takes an envelope out of his jacket pocket and slips it to her. Sheila takes it and puts it in her bag.
“Sheel,” Malone says, “anything should happen, you know where to go, right?”
“Phil.”
“And if something happened to him?” Those two cops, Ramos and Liu, partners, just sitting in their car and they both got it.
“Then Monty,” Sheila says. “Something going to happen, Denny?”
“No,” Malone says. “I just wanted to check you know what to do.”
“Okay.” But she looks at him, worried.
“I said I’m just checking, Sheila.”
“And I said okay.” She starts laying out candy bars, packages of cookies and granola bars. Then apples and bananas and juice boxes. “Some of the mothers want us to have kale. How the hell we supposed to put out kale?”
“What’s kale?”
“Exactly, huh?”
I guess, Malone thinks. He really doesn’t know what kale is. “So how is Caitlin?”
“I dunno, what time is it?” Sheila says. She focuses on laying out her counter as she adds, “She might be by here later, depending on when they get up.”
“That would be nice.”
“Yeah, depending on when they get up.”
Malone feels lost for conversation but doesn’t think he should walk away yet. “Everything good with the house?”
“Do you care, Denny?”
“Yeah, that was me who just asked.” It takes nothing, freakin’ nothing for them to get into a fight.
“You could have the guy come over and check the water heater,” Sheila says. “It’s making those funny noises again. I’ve called him like three times.”
Goddamn Palumbo, he’ll jack the wives around, like the noises are just in their heads. “I’ll take care of that.”
“Thank you.”
It annoys her, though, he can tell, that she still needs the “husband” to get the attention she should get just being her. If I were a woman, Malone thinks, I’d probably be out there with a machine gun, spraying the streets and screaming.
“Sheila, you got any lids?”
She tosses him one.
After a suitable silence, Malone wanders off to the bleachers across the fence from the first-base line. A few parents are already seated, some of the women with blankets over their laps. A few of them have thermoses and doughnut boxes from Dunkin’. The fuck, Malone thinks, they can’t spend a buck at the stand, support the kids?
He knows most of the parents, nods hellos, but sits by himself.
He used to be at PTA meetings and talent shows and shit with these people. Pizza Hut after games, backyard barbecues, pool parties. He still goes to the school events but isn’t invited to the extracurriculars. I guess I tore up my suburban dad card, Malone thinks, or they did. It’s not like they’re hostile or anything, it’s just different.
They’re playing the national anthem from a tape. Malone stands up, puts his hand over his heart and looks out at John in line with his teammates.
I’m sorry, John.
Maybe someday you’ll understand.
Your fucked-up father.
The game starts. John’s team is the home team so they start in the field and Malone watches John trot out to left. He’s big for his age so they put him in the outfield. Profiling, Malone thinks. Actually, he’s got a pretty good glove, but not a lot of bat. Will swing at anything, and the opposing pitchers know it so they throw him garbage. But Malone ain’t gonna be one of those jerk-off dads who screams at his kid from the stands. The fuck difference does it make? No one here is going to the Yankees.
Russo sits down next to him. “You look like shit.”
“That good?”
“We went to Levin’s last night,” Russo said. “Two in the morning, I thought the kid was going to piss his pants. The girlfriend wasn’t too thrilled either.”
“And?”
“Money was in a suitcase in the back of the closet,” Russo says. “I told him, kid, you have to do better than that.”
“So he checked out,” Malone says.