Tough Luck by Jason Starr Page A

nasty in here,” Betty said, making a face.
    Mickey didn’t smell anything unusual except for Betty’s strong perfume.
    “It’s probably just the car,” Mickey said. “My friend’s kind of a slob.”
    “It ain’t the car,” Betty said, “it’s you. You smell like fish.”
    “Oh, that’s just because I work in a fish store,” Mickey said, thinking there couldn’t be anything more humiliating than a cheap hooker telling him he smelled.
    “Your body clean?” Betty asked.
    “Yeah,” Mickey said. “Of course.”
    “We’ll see. Take down your pants so I can suck on your dick.”
    Mickey pulled down his pants to his ankles. His heart was racing and he was starting to sweat.
    “Your friend say it’s your first time,” Betty said.
    “It’s not my first time,” Mickey said confidently.
    “Whatever, don’t matter to me none.”
    Betty’s cold dry hand reached under Mickey’s underwear. It felt weird but good, having someone else touching his dick. Mickey didn’t know what he was supposed to do next, if he was supposed to touch her back. He started running his fingers through her greasy hair, but this didn’t seem right, so he put his hand on her leg instead.
    “Feels like you ready for me,” Betty said.
    She pulled up her skirt then grabbed Mickey’s hand and moved it up her thigh. It was dark in the car—the only light came from the lampposts outside. Mickey closed his eyes, the idea slowly coming to him that something was wrong.
    Mickey jerked his hand away and jumped off the seat, banging his head against the roof of the car on the way out.
    “What’s the matter?” Betty said.
    Suddenly, her voice sounded deeper, more manly.
    Mickey pulled on his underwear and pants and got out of the car as fast as he could. Chris was standing on the sidewalk, laughing hysterically.
    “Party on, boys,” Betty said to Chris as he walked away, swinging his butt.
    Chris, still laughing, was keeled far over, his head almost against his knees.
    Mickey, his face bright pink, said, “Gimme the fuckin’ car keys, you asshole.”

5
    WHEN VINCENT’S FISH market opened for business at ten A.M. on Saturday, Mickey was hoping Harry would leave for the day, but Charlie hadn’t shown up yet, so Harry had to stick around. At around ten-thirty, Harry called Charlie at home but there was no answer.
    “He better have a good excuse or I’m gonna fire him,” Harry said.
    Around lunchtime, Mickey was hoping Angelo would show up to finally square his debt. The last time Mickey had seen Angelo was last Tuesday, and he was starting to wonder if he would ever see him again.
    Harry called Charlie a few more times, but by one-thirty there was still no answer. Mickey hadn’t taken a break all day, and he was exhausted. Afraid he’d slip with the knife and cut himself again, he went to the deli up the block and bought a pastrami-on-rye and a cup of coffee.
    When Mickey returned to the fish store, Charlie was standing near the cash register. The lower part of Charlie’s left arm was in a cast, and he had bruises on his face.
    “Jesus, what happened?” Mickey asked.
    “He’s in the middle of telling me the story,” Harry said. Then he said to Charlie, “So did you see what they looked like?”
    “A few of ’em,” Charlie said, “but it don’t make a difference. The cops said they’ll look for them, but I know that’s just bullshit. The cops don’t give a shit what happens to two black dudes. But if we was white and the other guys was black, they’d have ’em arrested overnight—guaranteed.”
    “Hey, I know I told you this before,” Harry said, “but you never listen to me. You gotta be careful about where you go at night. You gotta stay out of the white neighborhoods.” Harry took off his apron. “Anyway, I’m glad to see you’re alive, and now I can leave to go to my dentist appointment I had three hours ago. By the way, you’re only getting a half day’s pay today.”
    “ What? ” Charlie said.