Chances

  “Hey! Hey! Hey!” He was laughing and coming all at the same time. “You ain’t shittin’ me—you was a virgin. Holy shee-it! You an’ me gonna make our fortune. We gonna git rich from your tight little box. Shee-it!” Finished, he released her.

  She lay perfectly still, too frightened to move or do anything. Between her legs she felt a burning hot stickiness. So this was what it was all about. This was what men wanted. This was sex.

  Leroy roamed happily around the room, doing up his trousers and muttering to himself as he checked out their possessions. “Any money ’round here?” he questioned.

  She thought quickly of the few dollars she had managed to save. It was hidden in a rolled-up stocking and secreted beneath her mattress.

  “No money,” she mumbled, wishing that grandma Ella would come home and discover the unspeakable thing Leroy had done to her.

  “Shee-it!” he exclaimed. “No money, no hootch. Shee-it! Guess there ain’t nuthin’ to do ’round here ’cept frig a jig.” And then unexpectedly he was on her again, straddling her with his skinny legs, jabbing at her with his thing.

  Waves of blackness came over her; she felt herself falling, escaping from the pain….

  “Aw, c’mon, girl—enjoy it,” she heard him whining. “Ain’t no fun for me if you don’ enjoy it.”

  When she came to she heard voices, words that didn’t make any sense. She felt crushed, used, and, worst of all, totally helpless.

  It was grandma Ella talking. Thank God she was back!

  She tried to sit up, but all strength seemed to have deserted her.

  “You done us all one big favor.” She heard grandma Ella cackle. “Now you’ve put her tight little fanny in action, we can make us some real money. Y’know, boy, I was gonna wait till she was fourteen, but now—well, Leroy honey, I guess we done got ourselves the best little hooker in the business!”

  Gino

  1921-1923

  Brother Philippe hovered on the danger list for three weeks. Gino didn’t know this. He thought he had killed him, and frankly he didn’t much care. The scissors incident had made him a hero.

  The newspapers got hold of the story while Gino was in the Bronx County Jail waiting to go before the court, JUVENILE SCANDAL, the headlines screamed, CHILDREN PROTECT CHILDREN. Brother Philippe’s victims couldn’t wait to start talking, now that he was safely out of the way.

  Costa was pictured in the newspapers, wide-eyed and appealing. His story caught the heart of the nation, and he was promptly adopted by Franklin Zennocotti, a rich lawyer in San Francisco who planned to launch him on a new life as soon as he had given evidence.

  Gino was fortunate. Public opinion was on his side. And when it came time for the judge to decide what to do with him, he was given six months’ probation and released.

  He came face to face with Costa outside the courtroom, and the small boy—who had never exchanged two words with him before—clutched him by the hand and said in a low emotional voice, “Thank you, Gino, thank you for my life. One day I hope I can repay you.”

  Gino was embarrassed. He extracted his hand and laughed in a self-conscious way. “It was nothin’ kid, forget it.”

  He watched Costa walk away with his new father and was suddenly jealous. Why wasn’t he being offered a brand new life? He had been in the newspapers too. How come nobody rushed forward to adopt him?

  Oh, yeh. He already had a father, didn’t he. A son-of-a-bitch who was at this very moment in jail. He glanced at the piece of paper with Paolo’s latest address written on it. Although he was in the can, he had married again, and Gino was supposed to go and live with the new wife, a woman he had seen for two minutes in the courtroom. A faded blonde with a pair of big ones.

  As soon as he thought of her breasts he got a hard-on. He had been locked up for nine months exactly, and he felt horny as hell. Jerking off had never really appealed to him, especially in a dormitory with ten other guys doing the same thing. He wanted to get laid. He wanted to get laid immediately.

  He picked up the cheap suitcase with everything he owned inside, decided to drop it off at his new home and take off in search of some prime pussy.

  As he walked his cock rubbed uncomfortably against his trousers, but he couldn’t help grinning. He was out. He was on the street again. It was a marvelous feeling.

  The man heaved, grunted, groaned, and came. Then he was up and getting dressed, carefully avoiding looking at the woman on the bed.

  The woman was named Vera, and she was the blonde with the nice breasts who had married Gino’s father.

  She closed her legs, pulled her skirt down, and silently watched as the man finished dressing, laid some money on the table, and left. She was tired. Thank God you didn’t need energy to screw. Just open your legs and let business commence.

  It had been a tough week. Visiting Paolo in Sing Sing. Then dragging down to the courtroom to say that Paolo’s kid could come and live with her. Bullshit he could. She had only gone because Paolo had insisted. “He doesn’t hafta come and live with us,” Paolo had explained, “but you gotta say he can so they won’t stick him in another home. When he comes around give him twenty dollars and tell him to get lost.”

  Vera made a face. Twenty dollars indeed! She would give the kid five.

  She got up, picked the money off the table, then listlessly answered a knock on the door.

  It was one of her regulars, so there was no need for conversation. She flopped back on the bed, lifted her skirt, and opened her legs. As the man unbuttoned his pants she barely concealed a yawn.

  Gino bounced jauntily down the street. He was so glad to be out that he didn’t even notice the oppressive heat. And it was hot. Way up in the eighties with not a breath of wind. He wondered about his friends. Would they still be around? And Susie, and all the other girls who used to put out for him? Which one would get lucky tonight?

  He glanced at the piece of paper with the address on it once again. Almost there. An open fire hydrant gushed water, and a gang of naked children danced around it. An old man picking his nose sat on the steps of the house, which was divided into separate apartments. Number six was on the second floor. He knocked, once, twice. When there was no response he tried the door and it opened.

  His new stepmother was screwing on the bed. She didn’t seem too put out by the interruption. “I’m busy now,” she stated flatly.

  Gino could see that. He dumped his suitcase inside the door. “I’ll come back later,” he managed. Quickly he shut the door behind him. What the hell was going on?

  Then he realized. She was a whore, of course. What other kind of woman would marry his father?

  He caught the subway to Coney Island. It was crowded and sweaty, the beach even more so. He picked his way among the bodies looking for a familiar face. The old gang had always congregated here when it was too hot to stick around the city. Not finding anyone he knew, he stripped down to his shorts, charged into the sea, and swam out to a wooden raft crowded with bodies. Two sisters looked him over and giggled.

  “Ya come here often?” he asked. The corny lines always worked well.

  Within an hour they were a threesome, swimming and ducking, racing each other to the shore. It took all his control to stop his hard-on from showing. But he managed. Just.

  By the time it started to get dark and the families and screaming kids began to depart, Gino knew he could hold out no longer.

  The sisters were making noises about getting home.

  “One more swim,” he insisted. “Race ya to the raft.”

  The younger girl demurred, but the elder seemed to think it was a good idea. She was about eighteen, with frizzy carrot-colored hair and protruding teeth.

  They swam toward the raft, jostling and splashing. Gino let her get in front of him; then, just as she was about to haul herself aboard, he grabbed her from behind.

  She let out a gasp. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  He knew what he was doing, all right: hands on her breas
ts, working quickly and efficiently, bringing her swiftly to a point where she wouldn’t want him to stop.

  He trod water, pumping his legs like pistons, while she hung slackly onto the side of the raft and started to purr a little.

  He had her. He moved his body in close and kissed her salty mouth, never once letting up the action on the breasts.

  “We really shouldn’t…” she objected weakly, as he started to peel off her bathing suit.

  “Oh, yes, we should.” He dived under the water and maneuvered one of her legs out of the clinging woolen suit.

  It was exciting in the water. Anything would be exciting after nine long months.

  He pushed his head underwater to kiss her breasts and spread her legs with his hands, zooming in on the magic button.

  “Gino!” she gasped.

  He came up for air, wriggled out of his shorts, and thrust himself between her legs. The pressure of the water might have made it difficult to enter her, but he was so goddamn hard that nothing could stop him.

  They clung together, her legs winding around him as they sunk under the sea. He knew he had to come immediately or drown. The choice was his. He chose to come, and they shot to the surface gasping and spluttering for breath.

  “You nearly drowned me!” she accused.

  “What a way to go!” he laughed.

  “I’ve never done that before,” she complained, struggling awkwardly into her bathing suit.

  “Sure you have,” he replied, realizing that in the heat of the moment he had lost his shorts. He dived under the water but couldn’t find them.

  Now it was getting cold, and Frizzy Hair was whining about going back.

  “Hey, can’t find my shorts,” he said.

  Frizzy Hair started to giggle.

  “We’ll swim in till I can stand, then you go get me my pants,” he suggested.

  “And what am I supposed to tell my sister?”

  “Tell her a shark ate ’em. Tell her anything, I don’t care.”

  They swam back, and when they neared the shore he waited while Frizzy Hair headed for the beach. He watched her join her sister, throw a towel around herself, and then the two of them ran off without so much as a backward glance. He could hardly believe his eyes. They were leaving him. Bare-assed and freezing. Jesus!

  Quickly he surveyed the beach, took a deep breath, and made a wild sprint for his clothes.

  “Who is it?” Vera slurred.

  He knocked on the door again, just to be sure. “It’s me, Gino Santangelo. Is it O.K. to come in now?”

  Vera sat up. She had been enjoying a short boozy nap and had forgotten all about Paolo’s son. “Yeah, come in…I suppose.”

  He entered, and they stared at each other.

  He saw a tired blonde of around thirty, with streaked makeup and big tits.

  She saw a young tough boy with black curly hair, dark olive skin, and deep-set black eyes that were much older than the rest of him. He certainly didn’t look like his father.

  “You’re wet,” she stated flatly.

  “Bin swimming.”

  “In your clothes?”

  “Naw, in the rude, but I didn’t have a towel.”

  They surveyed each other warily.

  “You can’t stay here,” she said at last. “We only said you could so’s you wouldn’t be shut up again.”

  “But I thought—”

  “I don’t care what you thought. This is my place, not your old man’s.”

  “Yeh,” agreed Gino bitterly, “and you gotta take care of business.”

  “So what?” snapped Vera. “I make a good livin’ at it. I ain’t ashamed.”

  He reached for his suitcase and turned to go.

  “Where’ll you sleep?” she asked unexpectedly.

  “I don’t know,” he mumbled.

  “Well….” She hesitated. “I only got one more john tonight. Get outa here while he has his fun; then you can sleep on the couch for tonight. Just tonight, mind you.”

  Gino nodded. He was wet, tired, and in no mood to wander the streets. Just one night at Vera’s was very welcome.

  He stayed six months. He got his old job back as an auto mechanic, which took care of the days, and at night he hung out with the old gang, indulging in a bit of petty crime that did nobody any harm. He also looked after Vera, getting rid of difficult johns and taking her out on Sundays, the one day she refused to work.

  Occasionally she visited Paolo in Sing Sing. Gino went with her once.

  Paolo greeted him with a sharp “You got any booze?”

  The first time he had seen his father in a year and that was his opening line. “No,” he mumbled, nervous in his father’s presence, ever mindful of the beatings he had endured at the hands of the thin miserable man in prison uniform.

  “Aw, c’mon, Pauly,” Vera said, “y’know we can’t bring booze in here. They search us, honest to God—y’know if I could I would.”

  “Bitch!” Paolo muttered, and turned his back on both of them.

  “He’s in a bad mood today,” Vera whispered to Gino. “Take no notice, he’ll be better next time you come.”

  But he never went back for a second visit. Fuck it. He was too big to get beaten now. If Paolo ever laid another hand on him… Yeh. One visit to Sing Sing was enough.

  Every week he reported to his probation officer, who gave him a sharp five-minute talking to. Funny thing, each week there was a letter from California waiting for him. Costa Zennocotti seemed to have decided to give him a blow-by-blow account of his life. And although Gino never bothered to answer, the letters kept on coming.

  Strange kid…. Whatever made him think that Gino would be interested in his life? And what a life? School. A nice home. A stepsister who sounded like a real pain. The kid was living in an unreal world.

  When his probation time was up he scrawled Costa a semi-literate note giving him a post office box number. If the kid enjoyed writing… well, who was he to spoil his fun?

  The night before Paolo was due to be released he took Vera to a movie. She seemed nervous and edgy, clinging to his arm as they trudged home through the snow.

  “Listen, kid,” she said, “when Paolo comes home it ain’t gonna work out. Know what I mean?”

  He nodded.

  “We could try,” she continued, “but—hell, you know your old man.”

  Yes. He knew. Paolo was a mean son-of-a-bitch. He beat up on women. Treated them like dirt. Vera was no angel but Gino liked her, she had been good to him, and they both knew that when Paolo started in on her there was no way he could just stand around and watch.

  “I’ll move out in the morning,” he said.

  “I’ll miss you,” Vera replied, tears stinging her watery eyes. She reached out, touched him on the arm. “If I can ever help y’out…”

  He nodded. Vera had given him more love and affection than he’d had in a lifetime from his father.

  The next morning he was packed and out before she even woke. He took his one suitcase to work with him and asked around about finding somewhere to live.

  A new mechanic, Zeko, said there was a room going over at his place. Zeko was about nineteen, swarthy-faced and greasy-looking. Nobody liked him much, but a room was a room, so after work Gino accompanied him to a seedy house on 109th Street.

  “Buildin’s a shithouse,” Zeko offered. “No heat, no hot water, no bath, crappers in the hall.”

  “So what else is new?”

  “I ain’t stayin’ long,” Zeko continued. “Gotta hot job comin’ up gonna take me away from all this.” He winked. “I’m the wheelman on a big one. I do O.K. I’m in. Get it?”

  “You ever been inside?” Gino asked.

  “Me?” Zeko cackled. “I’m too smart to get caught.” He wiped his nose on the sleeve of his jacket. “Listen, we’ll dump your case and go and get us a couple of beers and a couple of whores.”

  “I gotta date,” Gino replied.

  “She have a friend?” Zeko leered.

>   “Never asked her.”

  “So ask.”

  “Yeh… sure. Maybe next time.”

  The room was even worse than he expected. But he took it anyway. He wasn’t exactly used to palaces. He didn’t have a date, he just had not felt like spending the evening with Zeko. Zeko the Creepo they called him at work.

  It took him all of five minutes to settle into his new home. The room consisted of a bed, a worn rug, and a peeling dresser in the corner. That was it. But at least it was his.

  Fat Larry’s, a drugstore over on 110th Street, was the hangout. There Gino met with his friends and generally horsed around.

  “What happened with Zeko the Creepo?” Pinky Banana asked as soon as he arrived.

  He shrugged. “I gotta room in his place. Don’t mean we hafta be joined at the kneecap.”

  “You gonna see your old man?” Catto inquired.

  “Naw. I’ll give him a few days.”

  “Give him a few days and he’ll be back inside.” Pinky Banana laughed at his own humor, letting out a few loud farts for good measure.

  “Jeeze!” Gino screwed up his nose. “Ain’t it bad enough I got Catto on one side? Now you too!”

  Pinky Banana guffawed and eyed a cute little blond girl busying herself with an ice-cream soda. He contemplated a quick flash, but Gino, as if reading his mind, said quickly, “Not her. I got a hard-on for that one.”

  Pinky Banana and Catto rolled eyes at each other. Another conquest for Gino. What was his secret?

  The girl finished her soda and got up from the high barstool. She was pretty and knew it. She walked past Gino and his cronies, head held high.

  “Girl like you could get into trouble bein’ out alone,” Gino singsonged.

  She pretended not to hear.

  “Hey,” he said sharply, “don’t ignore me like I’m shit on the street.”

  A blush stung the girl’s cheeks, and she quickened her steps. Pinky Banana laughed.

  Gino slapped his hands together. “I ain’t in the mood to go chasing after some stuck-up piece.”