Tough Luck by Jason Starr Read Free Book Online

Twenty-third called Live Bait,” Chris said. “Guy at work told me about it. He said soap opera stars hang out there. Maybe we’ll meet Genie Francis.”
    “Can’t we go someplace else?” Mickey said. “How about one of those Irish pubs up on Second Avenue?”
    “Irish pub?” Chris said. “What do you want to do, fuck an old man?”
    “You know what I mean,” Mickey said. “Someplace more laid-back.”
    “Just sit back and relax,” Chris said. “Uncle Chris’ll take care of the entertainment this evening.”
    They continued around the traffic circle near the Parade Grounds, heading toward the entrance to the Prospect Expressway. Chris turned up the volume on the radio, blasting “Back in Black.”
    When the song ended, Chris turned the volume back down and said, “You watch wrestling last week?”
    “Nah,” Mickey said, staring out the window.
    “You don’t know what you missed, man,” Chris said. “They had George ‘The Animal’ Steele on. He comes out with all this spit dribbling out of his mouth, then he starts chewing up the ring. I’m serious. He was eating the ropes and the posts, and they show all this cotton and rubber and shit, coming out of his mouth. You shoulda been there. I was laughin’ my fuckin’ ass off.”
    Mickey was thinking about the girl from the fish store, remembering her green eyes and that great smile.
    “Hey, douche bag,” Chris said. “Douche bag.”
    “Yeah?” Mickey said, snapping out of it.
    “What’s wrong with you? Why’re you zoning out? You start smokin’ weed or something?”
    “I was just thinking,” Mickey said.
    “What’re you thinking about, horses?”
    Chris laughed.
    “I wasn’t thinking about anything,” Mickey said. He was suddenly angry and he didn’t know why.
    “Hey, I was gonna ask you,” Chris said, “what’s going on with you and that Mafia man?”
    “Mafia man?” Mickey said, pretending to forget. “Oh, him. That’s all taken care of.”
    “He gave you the money?”
    “Yeah, he gave me the money.”
    “See?” Chris said. “You were shittin’ bricks for nothing.”
    They took the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel into the city. Although East Flatbush, Mickey’s neighborhood, was only about eight miles from Manhattan, it might as well have been on a different continent. Hardly anybody in his neighborhood went into the city, unless they worked there or had some other reason to visit.
    Driving up Broadway through Soho, Chris said, “You believe people live in these old fucking buildings? They don’t even got walls, and you can see all the pipes in the ceiling.”
    A few minutes later, driving through the Village, Chris started making fun of the kids with spiky green hair and mohawks.
    “Look at that one. He looks like a fuckin’ Indian. Can you believe people pay to look like that?”
    They drove up to Twenty-third Street and found a parking space around the corner from the bar. They were only a few blocks away from Baruch College, where Mickey had been supposed to start school this year.
    “You sure you wanna go in here?” Mickey said to Chris, while they were waiting on line to be proofed.
    “What’s wrong with it?” Chris said.
    “It looks too uptight,” Mickey said.
    “What are you talkin’ about? Wait till you see the hot fuckin’ chicks in this place. And they don’t pussy around, either. These city chicks come to play, you know what I mean? I wish I had some coke on me.”
    “Why?” Mickey asked.
    “You know what they say,” Chris said, “blow for blow. You give these chicks some coke, they’ll take you back into the bathroom and suck the rust off your tailpipe.”
    The bouncer waved Chris in, but asked to see Mickey’s driver’s license. Chris had gotten Mickey a fake one last year, which made him nineteen. The bouncer looked at Mickey and at the license a couple of times before letting Mickey inside.
    “Come on,” Chris said to Mickey, smiling. “Let’s get laid!”
    The front bar area was