City Dark(73)

“Eighth Avenue,” Robbie said when they reached the corner. “This way.” Joe hesitated as Robbie turned south. The strip they were leaving, even in the dark, was gay and lively compared to this darker, wider thoroughfare. Then a creepy guy was talking to him about where there was a girl he could see, and Joe hoofed it to catch up to his brother.

He took to counting dirty movie theaters. They had seen them along their route since Fiftieth Street, but on Eighth Avenue they were on every block. Under each deadened marquee were at least two or three restless-looking men and boys watching the traffic pass. Hollywood, Capri, Eros, Peepworld. It should have been more entertaining, but Joe felt strangely exposed and nervous walking by these places. The marquees, when he could read them, said things that made him feel mushy inside. SEXATIONAL. THE SWEDISH WAY. THE DEVIL IN MRS. JONES. ALL MALE ACTION.

“There are buses, you know,” Joe said as they passed Forty-Sixth Street. The darkness around him seemed to thicken. “I kind of wish we had taken one.”

“We don’t have the money for that.”

“Geneviève gave you money. I saw it!” That was true. Joe had seen Geneviève reach into a cash drawer while he was coming out of the bathroom and hand Robbie some coins and a couple of crumpled bills. Robbie’s face looked forlorn upon accepting it, which seemed strange to Joe. Wasn’t that what grown-ups did for kids when they were left on their own?

“That’s for emergencies,” Robbie said. “I wouldn’t have taken it otherwise.”

“Why can’t I have some?”

“What did I just tell you? It’s for emergencies.”

“That’s not fair; you’re not the boss! That was for both of us.”

“Yes, I am the boss,” Robbie said. “Without Mom here, that’s exactly what I am. I almost told Uncle Mike he could piss off too. He didn’t want us to walk down here by ourselves. You know what? We’re fine.”

“I don’t like this street,” Joe said. Robbie continued on like he hadn’t heard him.

“And you know what else? If Uncle Mike tries to put a bunch of rules on us, I’m not following ’em. Why should I? I’ve gotten us this far. He’s not even here.”

“I wish there were more cars,” Joe said. There were vehicles from time to time, but the boys were walking toward oncoming traffic, so headlights would blind them momentarily, making figures and faces harder to see afterward.

“It’s like three more blocks, just—”

“Three blocks to where?” a voice asked. It was raspy, and the word “where” was drawn out.

Joe looked back. The man was short and skinny, in cutoff jeans and a dirty T-shirt with the car from Smokey and the Bandit on the front. He had a mustache, and his jaw moved in a circular motion like he was chewing gum. His eyes were wide circles in the dark.

“Nowhere,” Robbie said to the side. “Joe, come on.”

“Joe, is that your name? You don’t gotta listen to him. Come on, hang back.”

“Chino, get the fuck away from them boys!” someone called out from the other side of the street. The voice was deep and booming, but the person behind it was swishing across the street in a long, tight-fitting yellow dress and a pink wig. Whoever it was was easily twice Joe’s size, with makeup obvious even in the murkiness—thick, bright lipstick and winged eye shadow. And then to the boys: “What the fuck are you doing out here?! Run!”

As if the word was a starting gun, they ran. Joe and Robbie sprinted down the avenue past doorways, theaters, smoke shops, and piles of trash. Joe strained to see his steps pounding the pavement, but fear wouldn’t let him slow down. He could hear Robbie huffing and puffing next to him, and then Robbie pulled ahead. He jumped over a little pile of stinking garbage next to a fire hydrant. Then Joe tripped on an empty forty-ounce bottle. The bottle didn’t break, but it rolled under his right foot, so he spun around, his left foot scraping for purchase on the sidewalk. His arms were doing pinwheels as he staggered backward. Then something hooked into the right pocket of his shorts and dug into his hip. He boomeranged forward and then felt searing pain as something pressed into him. There was a tearing sound as his shorts came almost all the way off.

“Joe, what happened?” Robbie yelled, heaving to catch his breath. Joe still had no idea what had happened, but now he saw it, the scaffolding he had run under. A thick bolt was sticking out from one of the scaffolding poles. It had caught on his pocket and prevented him from falling backward, but it had also torn his pants open, as well as left a scratch.

“I got caught on something,” he said. He reached to pull his shorts up, but they were torn all the way open. The next second he was just holding them in his hand.

“Oh no.”

“Oh my God,” Robbie said, still breathing hard. “We’re almost there. What the fuck?”

“F-word.”

“Oh for . . . who cares? What happened?”

“I told you, I got caught on something.” He looked down at his body, covered only by white Fruit of the Loom briefs below his T-shirt. The ruined shorts were still in his hand. “Where are we?”

“Almost at Forty-Third,” Robbie said. “Come on, I guess.”

“I can’t be out like this!”

“What else can you do? Pull your T-shirt down.” Robbie turned away and started walking. Joe looked around him. There was no one following them. There was no one at all on the street. Still, he felt like he positively glowed with his shorts gone. His T-shirt was a little oversize, a thick-striped maroon and brown. He pulled it down as far as he could and stomped forward.