Little Deaths(52)

You seen Lou? He’s not a looker, but he’s got this way about him. Confident. He’s a charmer. He looks like he’s got money. And he knows how to dress: nice suits, nice shoes.

He’s pretty quiet: you’d think a guy with his money would be loud, pushy—he’s not like that. And even though Ruth would come home at four or five in the morning, she told me he was always in his office by eight. Always.

But there’s something about him. Something . . . when you get to know him a little, you get this feeling that what’s going on inside, underneath, don’t match the nice shirts or the twenty-dollar haircuts. And when you realize . . . it’s like the feeling you get when you find a worm in a nice red apple.

One time I was at a bar out in Williamsburg with Ruth, Lou, a bunch of other people. Back in the spring. It was Lou’s birthday and she made a big effort. Saved up for a while to buy him something fancy. Maybe cuff links, I don’t remember. And she bought herself a new dress, had her hair and her nails done. The whole nine yards.

The dress was a little shorter than she usually wore. She kept asking if it was okay, if she looked okay, if it wasn’t too tight. Tugging at it, you know? I told her she looked great. She was a fucking knockout. Guys were staring at her all night. But nobody touched her, nobody even asked her to dance, because she’s Lou’s girl, right? She belongs to him.

Then it happened. I was talking to one of the girlfriends, Lou wasn’t around. Maybe he was in the bathroom. So Ruth was alone for a minute. Then I heard something and when I turned around, Lou was back. Standing over to one side with another guy. This one was skinny, drunk. Red in the face, hands in the air. A dope. And he was saying, “I didn’t know, man. I didn’t know she was your girl.” And then Lou said something to him, real low. I couldn’t hear. The guy tried to walk away and, as he turned, Lou punched him in the gut. I heard the thwack as he hit him and I watched the dope double over. I thought: Jesus Christ, that was too much. The guy apologized—what more did he want? But Lou was staring at him. Just staring—like he didn’t even remember the rest of us were there, you know? Two of his men picked the poor guy up off the floor—he was groaning, he couldn’t stand up—and one of them pulled his head up by the hair. And then Lou stepped up and beat the shit out of him.

I grew up in a rough neighborhood, I’ve seen some fights, but nothing like this. The guy couldn’t move, let alone fight back. I still think about the noises Lou’s fist made. Bone on bone. He broke the guy’s jaw. And his cheekbone. It must’ve lasted minutes but it felt longer. The guy was spitting blood, teeth, his eye swelled up. And then Lou stopped and they let him fall and he threw up and then he just lay there, not moving. Lou turned around and stuck his fist in the ice bucket and said something and all his guys laughed. Like fucking apes. The guy just lay there. In the end the waiters had to carry him out. Lou just left fifty bucks on the table.

“For the inconvenience,” he said.

He meant for the cleaning bill. He meant for not calling the cops.

Soon as I could get her alone, I asked Ruth, What the fuck was that? She didn’t want to talk about it at first but I kept pushing it and finally she kind of shrugged and said yeah, maybe he over-reacted, but he was jealous. And that was it. I told her it wasn’t right. That he wasn’t a nice guy. She wouldn’t listen.

You know what? I think she liked it. She told me once that Lou was her happy-ever-after, and I think she liked he was that jealous. She said he was the only guy who made her feel really wanted. The only guy she felt could really take care of her.


It had been over an hour and Pete had hardly said a word. Gina fell silent and looked at him.

“I don’t know why I’m talking so much, Mr. Wonicke.”

He tried to sound reassuring.

“Call me Pete, please. I’m interested. I want to know about her.”

She gave a nervous laugh, groped for her pack of cigarettes on the table.

“I guess . . . no one asked me anything before. Not really. Not about Ruth. Just did I hear anything that night? Did I have any idea who did it? No one wanted to know her, to know what she was like. Is like.”

She bent to light a cigarette. Threw her head back. Exhaled.

“You going to use any of this? You going to write it down?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know what will help.”

He sighed, stared down at his empty cup.

“I guess I don’t even know what to ask you. I want you to keep talking because I keep hoping you’ll say something and that’ll be it, the clue I’m looking for.”

He looked up.

“Only it doesn’t happen like that, does it? That’s just in the movies. So . . . to answer your question, no. I won’t use anything you say unless you say it’s okay.”

She nodded. Reached over and patted his hand. Then she got up, made more coffee, brought out a box of cookies.

She said, “They’re probably stale,” and he took one to show her he didn’t mind.

The name Johnny Salcito was bothering Pete. He couldn’t figure out why it sounded familiar.

Then he thought of something. He took out the bundle of photographs, flicked through them until he found the one he’d taken on that first day, of Ruth walking to Devlin’s car, her head turned toward the line of cops.

Pete gave Gina the photo and asked her, “You recognize anyone in that line?”