At 11:30, Victor Marino pushed open the door of the luncheonette on the corner of East 4th and Avenue A. The aroma of greasy hamburgers, fried onions, and tuna salad almost turned his stomach, except he didn’t pause long enough. He grabbed a copy of the morning newspaper from the stack sitting on the wooden shelf opposite the soda fountain. Tossing some change in the direction of the owner—a Pakistani whose eyes barely strayed from the meat sizzling on the grill behind the counter—he was out in less time than it had taken him to navigate the traffic-choked street.
During the two weeks since his release from prison, Marino had one all-consuming thought: revenge. From his earliest childhood, growing up one of eight kids in a rat- and roach-infested tenement in Hell’s Kitchen, he’d never let any wrong go unpunished. Not in juvie, where he’d landed the first time at age thirteen, and never in the joint, where he’d just done seven years for armed robbery.
He paused on the sidewalk, burying his face in the front page of the newspaper. He knew he shouldn’t hang around on the street, even though the baseball cap and sunglasses concealed his hair and eyes. That morning, when the news flash about Craig Landis being shot came over the TV, he’d been distracted and almost missed it. He figured the newspaper would have a better account.
His eyes darted over the lead story. At first it seemed all pictures and big headlines. Then inside, on page four, he found more. He read the article carefully, right there on the curb, before heading back to the transient hotel he called home, now that he no longer resided in Attica Prison.
Once inside the small rental room, with its peeling green paint and soot-smudged windows, he reread the story, his lips forming every word. At the bottom of the page, his name leaped out at him. He swore loudly, catching the attention of the woman who, wrapped in a faded purple robe, sat on the edge of the unmade bed. Although she was thirty-six, the same as him, she looked ten years older.
“And good morning to you, too.” The lit cigarette she dropped into the dregs of her coffee cup went out with a hiss. She ran a hand through an unruly tangle of over-permed blonde hair and languidly crossed the room to the table where Marino sat hunched over the newspaper. Leaning her thin body against his broad back, she read aloud over his shoulder.
He raised an arm to flick her away as if she were an annoying insect. “Cut that out.”
“Why?” She had a high, shrill voice that reminded him of a parrot he’d once owned.
“Because it bugs me.” He turned his head and watched her straighten and back up.
Her full lips pouted. “So, what’s the big deal?”
“Ain’t no big deal.”
“No? You got yer face glued to the teevee all morning, flippin’ channels to find this dumb story about the photographer that got hisself murdered. Now you gotta read about it in the paper.” She pulled a cigarette from a nearly empty pack on the nightstand, lit it, and took a deep drag.
“I wanna go to the beach,” she whined, exhaling a cloud of smoke toward the dingy ceiling. “You said we was gonna go to the beach today.”
“Shut up, will ya, Marilyn? You wanna go to the beach, we’ll go later.” He went over the part of the story in which his name appeared and scowled, rubbing a hand over his dark, stubbly beard. Later, maybe, there’d be cops crawling all over the place. Except he’d moved. That was luck.
“You know the guy?” Marilyn asked.
“Yeah. He sent me to prison seven years ago.” He pushed the paper into her hands, got up, and helped himself to a beer from the small refrigerator. He popped the top and drank half the can.
Marilyn went back and threw herself onto the bed, opening the top of her robe to the breeze coming from the electric fan on the nightstand. She read aloud in a monotone. After several minutes, she tossed the paper aside. “You kill ’im?”
Marino scratched his head, high on top, where his dark hair had thinned. “Whaddya wanna know for?”
She shrugged. “So I don’t have to keep wonderin’ if you’re goin’ to jail later on or to the beach.” She sat up, anger pinching her features. “Why do ya think I wanna know?”
Marino finished the beer and started on another. “Maybe you’re thinkin’ about splittin’.” He shrugged, as if it didn’t matter one way or the other. He sauntered over to the bed and squatted at the edge, handing her the sweaty aluminum can. “Is that why you wanna know if I killed the guy, so you can hot-foot it outta this palace we been sharin’ the past coupla nights?”
“Maybe.” She gave him what he assumed she considered a sexy look and took a long pull of the beer.
“What? You don’t feel safe around me no more?”
“Depends on yer answer.”
“You know, Marilyn, if you’re gonna hang around me, you gotta learn to mind yer own business.” He sank down on the bed beside her and grinned. “I’ll tell you one thing about Landis. He ain’t gonna take no more pichures now, is he?” He took the beer from her, finished it, then crushed the can in his hand until its sides met.
“No, Mr. Craig-Hot-Shot-Landis ain’t never gonna take another fancy pichure again.”