Bronx Noir by S. J. Rozan

Author:S. J. Rozan
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Detective and mystery stories, Noir fiction, Anthologies (multiple authors), Mystery & Detective, Fiction, Anthologies, American, New York, General, American fiction, New York (State), Short Stories, Bronx (New York, N.Y.)
ISBN: 9781933354255
Publisher: Akashic Books
Published: 2007-08-01T10:00:00+00:00

LOOK WHAT LOVE IS DOING TO ME

BY MARLON JAMES

Williamsbridge

This is the year of the monkey. A Chinese john told me this after coming back from downtown to celebrate Chinese New Year. I was just shocked to see somebody Oriental cruising ass anywhere past Grand Concourse. I think he was rich too. But then they’re all rich, these johns who have wives and kids back home but then whisper to me that after feeling how tight an asshole is, could never truly love pussy. They tell me all sorts of stuff. Mostly they tell me to act like a girl, so I call them honeychile and flick my wrist like a faggot and that makes it easier, I guess.

Hey, white boy, watchu doin uptown? Lou Reed, the original signifying monkey. I’m older than I seem and younger than I look. Clever. Brains couldn’t save me last year when my dad kicked me out because I didn’t dig girls. I was like, Yo, Pops, I don’t eat pussy but I suck a mean dick. Not really. Not at all. After he got through with me, after my mom was more sick at the beating than what I was getting beat up for, she screamed and he stopped. Now I walk like Ratso and one day I’ll fuck him back up.

Right now it’s 11 in the night and I’m by Hammersley and Ely, right outside Haffen Park, watching cars go by. Cruising of a different flavor. Yeah, boyee, clever. I’m at Hammersley and Ely and I’m waiting for Gary to come shuff me off this mortal coil. Gary likes a good old mess so he’ll probably use that sawed-off of his. Or maybe his bowie knife. It’s weird waiting for somebody to kill you. Knowing that you’re going to die, knowing the end of the movie before the middle makes you do all kinds of shit. Wicked fly shit. It’s like knowing you have cancer so you can do that live-every-minute thing. So I went to McDonald’s and bought two fries. I shoplifted some Garnier Fructis from Rite Aid on Eastchester because I should at least smell good when they find me off Gun Hill Road somewhere.

A snapshot. We’re in the living room of my parents’ house on Gunther. We’re Jews, baby, the last of a dying breed in the Bronx. Gary is sprawled on the love seat, legs spread wide with boots on the chair arm. His vest is dirty as fuck and he’s wearing no shirt underneath. Baggy jeans, the brown ones I don’t like with speckles that look like dried blood. He really looks like shit, but it works. As I said, we’re in my parents’ house.

My mother is dead now. So too is my father. Both died this year. My sister Diane died several years before but just a few years after Dad stopped fucking her. Andre, he’s in jail with nothing but a conviction and no remorse. Ten months before they found him at the gate, trembling like they had dunked him in ice.

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