Donnie Parascandolo

‘I was with Suzy when it happened,’ Donnie Parascandolo says, stepping away from the kitchen counter, his beer getting warm in his hand. ‘I’m telling you. I don’t know what it is about this broad. She loves the fights. She loves grilled cheeses. She loves Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. She’s around when weird things happen.’

‘No shit she loves Rudolph,’ Sottile says from the couch, thumping his chest. ‘I love Rudolph.’

‘You love Rudolph?’ Pags says, moving over to the fridge for another Bud.

‘Look at him,’ Donnie says. ‘Of course he loves Rudolph. He probably jerks off to Rudolph. You jerk off to Rudolph, Sottile?’

‘I tried once,’ Sottile says without hesitation. ‘Didn’t do nothing for me.’

They all laugh.

They’re in Donnie’s living room. It’s a big house for a guy by himself. He had a family once, a wife and a kid. Donna was his wife. Donnie and Donna. Perfect. They had a wall plaque with their names on it, a match made in guinea heaven. And Gabe was their kid. Donna came up with the name Gabe. Always sounded to Donnie like the name of a first baseman who batted .232, hit about six homers, drove in forty-something runs, but kept his job because he was good with a glove. Gabe was a troubled kid. Moody. His second year of high school, a little over a year before, he offed himself. Nothing too bad happened that Donnie knew of to prompt it. It was in Gabe’s blood, the depression or whatever. Hanged himself in the cellar from a water pipe. Donna found him. They lasted about two months after the funeral and then got a divorce.

Donna still lives in the neighborhood, over on Eighty-Fourth Street. She said she didn’t want anything from him, money-wise. She just wanted to try to start over. She took her records – she loved her records – and a few boxes of Gabe’s stuff and moved into a small apartment she rented from some lady who used to play pinochle with her mother. He let it go. What else could he do? Other than the stuff Donna claimed – some of Gabe’s books, baseball cards, toys from when he was a little kid, and even some of his clothes – Gabe’s room is just as he left it. Donnie keeps the door shut and never goes in there.

He’s been on-again off-again with Suzy for about six months now. Nothing serious. No way he’ll ever let her move in. At forty-four and with a dead kid in his rearview, he doesn’t mind the feeling of being free. He likes being a cop okay. He likes drinking with Sottile and Pags. He likes eating Chinese food and pizza and buttered rolls every meal. Truth is, he likes not having to worry about a kid anymore. Having a kid meant stress. School, doctors, a million expenses. Never mind the fact that you’ve got the pain of another existence on your hands. He learned that the hard way with Gabe.

Sottile and Pags don’t have kids, thank Christ. They never fell down that hole. Well, Sottile did briefly. Back before Donnie knew him. His baby was born dead. The wife died not long after. Donnie doesn’t know what her name was. Sottile didn’t feel like he had anything in common with Donnie, being that his kid never lived. Pags was allergic to getting too close to women. That makes it easier for Donnie to be around these guys. They were married with kids, he’d have to choke on his emotions over Gabe. He doesn’t talk about that stuff, but it’s there in his memory. Gabe as a baby in his arms, sleeping on his chest, playing around on the living room floor, dressed like an elf for Christmas. Can’t just wipe it all away.

Now he’s got his routine with Sottile and Pags. There’s the job, number one. There’s going to Blue Sticks Bar or the Wrong Number after they get off or coming over here to drink and watch the Yanks. And then there’s the side work they do for Big Time Tommy Ficalora. Donnie’s been into this from the start, but it’s amped up since Gabe’s death. Tommy is the head of one of the neighborhood crews. He likes having cops and ex-cops on his payroll. They mostly do strong-arm stuff for him, collections and whatnot. Sometimes they transport shit. Sometimes they get rid of things that need to get gotten rid of. Sometimes they do real dirty work. Donnie’s good at that, breaking an arm, choking a guy out, going further when it’s mandated. He has no trouble reconciling being crooked and being police. Pretty much every cop he knows is crooked in some way. They all take bribes or steal outright. Most take payoffs for protection. Some are into insurance fraud, burning bars down for the mob, that kind of shit. The ones who have wives cheat on them or beat them, though Donnie was never one of those. At least one he knows is into raping hookers, and nobody will pinch the crazy fuck over it. Many work for the opposition in their spare time, and many work for the opposition while they’re on the clock. They’re bad a million ways. They betray any ethics they once had. It’s the culture.

Anyhow, comes down to it, Donnie doesn’t mind having this big house to himself these days. After Donna split, he thought he might sell it and get a small apartment like she did, but he likes wandering around, opening and closing doors, sleeping in different rooms, looking out windows for different angles on the sidewalk and the P.S. 101 schoolyard across the street. He just doesn’t go in the cellar or Gabe’s room.

‘You were saying?’ Sottile says.

‘I was saying what?’ Donnie says.

‘You were telling us about something that happened that Suzy was there for.’

‘Shit, that’s right.’ Donnie pounds the rest of his beer and rips a loud belch.

Pags claps, his can thunking against his palm. He’s back on the couch next to Sottile. The TV’s on behind them, the sound low, the game coming back from commercial. It’s the bottom of the tenth. The Yanks are trying to finish up a close one against the Angels.

‘Let’s watch this and then I’ll tell you,’ Donnie says. He goes over to the fridge for another beer. He opens the door. It’s a sad scene in the fridge. Six Buds left. A thing of olives from Pastosa. Some Parmesan cheese. A quarter of a roast beef sandwich. Yesterday’s container of lo mein leaking, leaving brown smudges on the shelf. He pops the beer and slams the door shut. He joins Sottile and Pags on the couch.

The Yanks are taking Howe out and putting Farr in.

‘Now?’ Sottile says.

‘Okay,’ Donnie says. ‘We’re just sitting at Lombardo’s. I’ve got the veal. Suzy’s got the fish. We’re having a little wine.’

‘That’s when he comes in?’

‘Fucking Dunbar. Just struts into the joint. He’s got a nice-looking broad on his arm.’

‘So, what’s he say?’ Pags says.

‘He says, “Parascandolo, you clean up nice.” Then he turns to Suzy, and he says, “How much is he paying you? It’s not enough.” He laughs his ass off.’

‘You ignore him?’

‘I say, “Good evening, Captain.” Something real polite like that.’

‘Tuck your dick between your legs.’

‘Fuck am I supposed to do?’

The game’s back on. Donnie pounds the arm of the couch. Yanks need one. Come on.

‘So, that’s it?’ Sottile says.

‘That’s just the start,’ Donnie says.

‘What’s the rest?’

‘Wait, wait. He’s got it. Two down here.’

‘Jesus Christ, you’re really dragging this out.’

Farr gets the outs. Donnie stands up, puts the beer on his TV table next to the videotapes he has out from Wolfman’s. Pacific Heights and Cobra and Young Guns II again. He rents the same movies a lot.

‘Okay,’ Pags says.

‘The rest is I go into the can after dessert, Dunbar’s in there pissing. He tells me he knows how I feel about him, how youse two feel about him, how all the white cops in the department feel about him. That’s what he says. “All the white cops.” We’re all white cops.’

‘So, you grew some balls and told him to go shave Sharpton’s bush, or what?’

‘I said, “I’m a fair guy. I give everyone a fair shake.” He says to me, “You think you’re hot shit. You think you’re Stallone.”’

‘You do resemble Sly. But a more washed-up version. Sly would have to let himself go for years to play you in a movie.’

‘Fuck you,’ Donnie says, but he’s laughing about it. Sottile and Pags kid him about his looks a lot. He’s a little washed-up, sure, but he’s a handsome bastard. Sottile and Pags are Dennis Franz type motherfuckers, donut-bellies, the kind of guys who have pit stains and bristly mustaches decorated with crumbs and wear boxers that smell like they’ve been washed in a corned beef bath.

‘Back to Captain Dunbar, come on,’ Sottile says.

‘So Dunbar jabs his finger against my chest. His eyes are all bloodshot. He looks like Yaphet Kotto. I can tell he’s a few drinks in.’

‘Sly and Yaphet Kotto,’ Sottile says. ‘Showdown in the can. Tension’s high.’

‘Who’s Yaphet Kotto?’ Pags asks.

‘You don’t know Yaphet Kotto? He’s from Alien and Mid-night Run.’

Pags nodding now.

Donnie continues: ‘He says to me, “I know you’ve had it tough the last year, but you better get your shit together or you’ll be washing windshields on a street corner somewhere.” Then he does this – if I may say so – offensive Italian voice: “Capisce?”’

‘No shit,’ Pags says.

‘Hand to God,’ Donnie says.

‘This guy’s got stones. What’d you say?’

‘I grab his forearm as he’s about to jab my chest again. I...