deserted. A dead Boston fern rests in the window, bookended by two dead cacti. Joe Fresco sits behind the reception desk. Joe is the antithesis of a tanning salon customer: fat and fortyish, pale as mozzarella and hairier than a silverback gorilla.
“Hey, Answer.”
“Afternoon, Joe. Phil here?”
“Last door on the left.”
I head down the hallway as Joe slouches to the door and, to the utter dismay of the sun-worshipping bag-ladies and winos shuffling around outside, turns the sign from “COME IN, WE’RE OPEN” to “SORRY, CLOSED”.
Information and knowledge are two currencies that never go out of style. Those with knowledge excel. But one must know what to look for, how to get it, and its value in a free market economy. Most importantly, one must know the correct questions to ask. And the most effective ways of asking them.
I am in the information business. Information extraction, to put a fine point to it.
The tanning room walls, ceiling, and floor are draped in transparent plastic. The tanning bed is white with the dimensions of a coffin. A decal on the lid reads TURBOTAN 2000 , and the tagline says: “From Bleached to Bronzed in 10 Minutes Flat!” A man is shackled to a chair in the middle of the room. Behind him stands Phillip Menna. Phil’s a bottom-tier Outfit guy, your basic pavement-pounder. He tracks deadbeats and stoolies and anyone else who winds up on the Outfit blacklist—an unhealthy list to be on.
“Afternoon, Phil.”
“How they hanging, Answer?”
“Low and lazy.”
I set my toolbag next to the captive: early twenties, wearing black-pegged jeans and a torn Judas Priest t-shirt. He’s working on some patchy facial hair, it’s blooming in dark thatches at his chin and cheek hollows. I’ve seen him in the line-up at CBGB’s, wolf-whistling at chicks outside pool halls and all-nite diners…I haven’t seen him exactly , you understand, but he looks like a thousand other guys in this city—a type .
“Mister Punk Rock here, he and some friends boosted a van last week,” Phil tells me. “A cube van full of bathroom fixtures. Now under that load, in a false bottom, are the fifty kees of uncut blow that was to be trucked into South Jersey.” Phil cuffs the kid upside the head. “Now Mister Punk Rock knows where the truck is stashed—isn’t that right, shit-for-brains?—but Mister Punk Rock ain’t spilling.”
I throw a switch on the tanning bed. A faint hum as a slit of purplish light slants between the top and bottom halves. Mister Punk Rock’s eyes are a cloudy green. His face is a mask of defiance but around the edges, like a thin lip of light silhouetting a doorframe, I see fear.
“Got a name, kid?”
“Joey.”
“Joey who?”
“Joey Ramone.”
“Fucking wiseass,” says Phil.
“Alright Joey,” I say. “Why don’t you tell us where the truck is? Then you can go back to shooting stick and chasing underage tail.”
“Fuck you, old man.”
I’d hoped he might be different. I keep hoping one of them will possess a sense of self-preservation. But no, he’s like the rest. Probably been scrapping since childhood, punched and kicked, sliced a few times. Maybe his father used him as a punching bag and he’s thinking I know pain, tasted it, not afraid to taste it again .
He doesn’t know pain. None of them do; not really. But I teach them.
I take a straight razor from my toolbag and cut the kid’s shirt off. A rockstar body: underfed and sparrow-chested, arms so thin and skin nearly translucent. He wouldn’t look out of place at a Nazi internment camp. Some animal, a wolf or fox, is tattooed over his heart. I hook my fingers inside his waistband to get some separation between denim and flesh, carefully slicing through his jeans and boxers.
“You gonna blow me, old man? This give you a thrill, you fucking flamer?”
I say, “Joey look pasty to you, Phil?”
“Fucker looks like he spent the night spooning with Dracula.”
“So he could do with
“Hey, Answer.”
“Afternoon, Joe. Phil here?”
“Last door on the left.”
I head down the hallway as Joe slouches to the door and, to the utter dismay of the sun-worshipping bag-ladies and winos shuffling around outside, turns the sign from “COME IN, WE’RE OPEN” to “SORRY, CLOSED”.
Information and knowledge are two currencies that never go out of style. Those with knowledge excel. But one must know what to look for, how to get it, and its value in a free market economy. Most importantly, one must know the correct questions to ask. And the most effective ways of asking them.
I am in the information business. Information extraction, to put a fine point to it.
The tanning room walls, ceiling, and floor are draped in transparent plastic. The tanning bed is white with the dimensions of a coffin. A decal on the lid reads TURBOTAN 2000 , and the tagline says: “From Bleached to Bronzed in 10 Minutes Flat!” A man is shackled to a chair in the middle of the room. Behind him stands Phillip Menna. Phil’s a bottom-tier Outfit guy, your basic pavement-pounder. He tracks deadbeats and stoolies and anyone else who winds up on the Outfit blacklist—an unhealthy list to be on.
“Afternoon, Phil.”
“How they hanging, Answer?”
“Low and lazy.”
I set my toolbag next to the captive: early twenties, wearing black-pegged jeans and a torn Judas Priest t-shirt. He’s working on some patchy facial hair, it’s blooming in dark thatches at his chin and cheek hollows. I’ve seen him in the line-up at CBGB’s, wolf-whistling at chicks outside pool halls and all-nite diners…I haven’t seen him exactly , you understand, but he looks like a thousand other guys in this city—a type .
“Mister Punk Rock here, he and some friends boosted a van last week,” Phil tells me. “A cube van full of bathroom fixtures. Now under that load, in a false bottom, are the fifty kees of uncut blow that was to be trucked into South Jersey.” Phil cuffs the kid upside the head. “Now Mister Punk Rock knows where the truck is stashed—isn’t that right, shit-for-brains?—but Mister Punk Rock ain’t spilling.”
I throw a switch on the tanning bed. A faint hum as a slit of purplish light slants between the top and bottom halves. Mister Punk Rock’s eyes are a cloudy green. His face is a mask of defiance but around the edges, like a thin lip of light silhouetting a doorframe, I see fear.
“Got a name, kid?”
“Joey.”
“Joey who?”
“Joey Ramone.”
“Fucking wiseass,” says Phil.
“Alright Joey,” I say. “Why don’t you tell us where the truck is? Then you can go back to shooting stick and chasing underage tail.”
“Fuck you, old man.”
I’d hoped he might be different. I keep hoping one of them will possess a sense of self-preservation. But no, he’s like the rest. Probably been scrapping since childhood, punched and kicked, sliced a few times. Maybe his father used him as a punching bag and he’s thinking I know pain, tasted it, not afraid to taste it again .
He doesn’t know pain. None of them do; not really. But I teach them.
I take a straight razor from my toolbag and cut the kid’s shirt off. A rockstar body: underfed and sparrow-chested, arms so thin and skin nearly translucent. He wouldn’t look out of place at a Nazi internment camp. Some animal, a wolf or fox, is tattooed over his heart. I hook my fingers inside his waistband to get some separation between denim and flesh, carefully slicing through his jeans and boxers.
“You gonna blow me, old man? This give you a thrill, you fucking flamer?”
I say, “Joey look pasty to you, Phil?”
“Fucker looks like he spent the night spooning with Dracula.”
“So he could do with
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