shouted at the taxi driver, "Remember, twelve noon New Year's Eve nineteen seventy-nine behind the soccer stadium in Istanbul. Be there!" and ran across the sidewalk to the end of the line, which was us. She briskly rubbed her hands and made a loud
brrr
sound. "This train go straight out to Montauk, or do I have to change at Babylon?"
La Donna looked away like don't fuckin' bother me. I smiled, jammed for a comeback line. La Donna's rudeness pissed me off to no end. I could never stand people who couldn't even transcend their own shit, just for the sake of politeness if nothing else.
"You a singer or a comedian?" She pointed a nose as big as a shark fin at me.
Neither." I shrugged. "I'm a lion tamer. I used to gig with Terrytoon Circus."
"A lion tamer," she whispered behind her hand to an invisible third party on her left. She raised her eyebrows and gave a short uh-oh whistle. "Well, how you doin', Lion- Tamer, what's your name?"
I felt embarrassed telling her my name, as if it didn't count.
"Kenny Becker." I extended my hand.
"Mona Nucleosis."
Even though La Donna was making a big point of being disinterested she choked a snort over that one.
"You a comedienne, Mona?"
In response she whipped out a Plasticene tear sheet from her shoulder bag. It was the front page of the second section of a six-month-old
New York Times
. "The Big Apple's Ladies of Laughter—Top 15 Comediennes." She was number thirteen.
"Hey, La Donna, look at this!"
She turned, glared at me and glanced at the page without focusing her eyes. A big solid blond dude came up behind Mona. He was built like a fullback and wore a black vinyl, lightweight, wet-look jacket over a floral ; body shirt open to the sternum. He had enough chest hair for a national park and six strands of gold chains were crisscrossing under his collarbone. He stood there with a permanently arched eyebrow rolling his shoulders and absently high-stepping in place like a boxer waiting for ring intros. He was dressed for the wrong time of year, but snow or no, the look on his face was, hey, fuck weather. His dark brown chest fur clashed with his metallic blond hairdo. The guy was heavy into Streaks 'n' Tips.
He caught my eye as I was checking him out and thrust his arm toward me. By reflex I raised my shoul , der to block a punch but he only extended a paw.
"Jackie di Paris." He said it like he was answering the question "Who the fuck are you?"
"Kenny Becker." The handshake was of course a bone-popper. Mona was gawking at him, her tongue hanging out like a club tie.
"Jackie, this is Mona."
"Hey, Mona!" He winked. "You a real moaner or what?" He laughed, squeezing her shoulders. She made a strangle face and popeyes for my benefit.
"Awright, Mona the moaner!" He laughed. "Yeah." Letting her go and breathing into his fist.
La Donna turned slightly, gave him the once-over and turned back. My stomach slipped a few inches. I didn't want to notice her. "Hey, I saw that." He pointed at her, grinning in triumph. He rocked side to side, rubbing his hands and blowing into his fists as if he was waiting for the 6:00 a.m. shape-up down at the longshoremen's hiring hall.
"Jackie di Paris, huh?" I figured him for a bouncer trying to be a singer. "That your real name?"
"John di Marco, di Paris is my stage name." He squinted at me. "You're from the Bronx, right?"
"Yeah."
"You Jewish?" like a polite accusation. -
"Yeah." What about it, douchebag.
"Oh." He shrugged like it wasn't serious. "Where you from?"
"Burke Avenue."
"I'm from Belmont Avenue. Yon know Belmont Avenue?"
"Sure, I know Belmont You don't live there no more, do you?"
"Now? Nah, I'm over here now. Up on Eighty-sixth 1 Street, Germantown." He nodded uptown.
"You sing?"
He shrugged and pouted, "I'm tryin', you know? I got nice pipes. I got stage presence. I used to be a bodyguard for Peter Lemongello… it's all fucking bullshit. What kinda work you do?" He squinted.
"Me?" Brain surgeon. "I'm in sales."
He laughed.