Lawrence Sanders - Timothy's game

Jake Steiner, a crude and growly man, slams down his fork. What is this shit? he demands.

Its fettucini primavera, pa, Sally says. Martha made the pasta herself, and all the spring vegetables are fresh. Try it; youll like it.

I wont try it, and I wont like it. Whatever happened to a nice brisket and a boiled potato?

You know what the doctor told you about that, his daughter says, then jerks a thumb at his tumbler of whiskey and water. And about that.

Screw the doctor, Jake says wrathfully. There are more old drunks than old doctors.

He gets up from the table, stalks over to the marble-topped sideboard, takes a cigar from a humidor. He bites off the cigar tip and spits it into a crystal ashtray.

Ill pick up something to eat later, he says. I gotta go out.

Yeah, Sally says. To Ozone Park. Its payoff night. Those fucking bandits.

Watch your mouth, he says sharply. Act like a lady; talk nice.

She finishes her fettucini, watching as he scrapes a kitchen match across the marble slab and lights his cigar.

I gotta import these matches from Florida, he tells her. You cant buy scratch-anywhere matches around here. Would you believe it? He puffs importantly, twirling the cigar in his heavy lips. What are you doing tonight?

Im going up and sit with ma awhile. Give Martha a chance to have some dinner and clean up.

And then?

I thought Id drive into New York and take in a movie. Theres a new Woody Allen.

Bullshit, her father says. Youre going to see that fairy brother of yours. Well, dont give him my love.

Believe me, Sally says, he can live without it.

They glare at each other, then Jake pushes back the sliding glass door and stamps out onto the tiled terrace to smoke his cigar, taking his whiskey glass with him.

Sally goes up to her mothers bedroom on the second floor. Martha is feeding the invalid. Rebecca Steiners hands and lower legs are so crippled with rheumatoid arthritis that she cannot walk, cannot hold a spoon.

How was dinner, ma? Sally asks.

Delicious, Becky says, smiling brightly. And Ill bet your father wouldnt take even a little taste.

Youd win your bet. Martha, why dont you go down and have your dinner. Ill sit with ma for a while.

The old black woman nods. Theres a nice piece of strawberry cheesecake, Miz Steiner, she says to the woman in the wheelchair. Just the way you like it.

Sally leans over her mother. How about the cheesecake? she asks.

Well, maybe just a bite. I hate to disappoint Martha; she works so hard.

Ho-ho, Sally says. If I know you, youll finish the whole slice. Come on now, open wide.

She feeds the cheesecake to Rebecca, then holds the mug of coffee close so her mother can sip through a straw.

Youre going out tonight? Becky asks. Its Saturday. You got maybe a date?

Nah, ma. Im driving over to New York to see Eddie.

Thats nice. Youll give him my love?

Of course. Dont I always?

Listen, Sally, in New York youll be careful?

Im always careful. I can take care of myself, ma; you know that.

They watch the evening news on television, and then sit gossiping about an aunt who is on her third husband and has recently taken up with a beach boy in Hawaii.

Rebecca Steiner is shocked, but Sally says, Let her have her fun; she can afford it.

Martha comes back up, carrying her knitting, and she and Mrs. Steiner settle down for a night of television. Then, at eleven oclock, Rebecca will be put to bed, and Martha will retire to her own bedroom to read the Bible.

Dad still downstairs? Sally asks her.

Oh, yeah, Martha says. Stomping up and down and cursing.

Sure. What else.

She goes downstairs to find her father pulling on his leather trench coat. He has a fresh, unlighted cigar clamped between his teeth.

How is she? he asks.

Why dont you go up occasionally and take a look? Sally says angrily.

I cant take it, her father says, groaning. I see her like that, and I remember

Yeah, well, shes the same; no change.

He nods and tugs down a floppy tweed cap. Its chilling off out there, Sal. Wear a coat.

I will, pa.

You want a lift?

No, Ill take my car.

You got your pistol?

In the glove compartment.

You get in trouble, dont be afraid to use it.

Ill use it. Pa, watch your back with those ginzos.

Listen, when I cant handle momsers like that, Ill be ready for Mount Zion.

Suddenly, unexpectedly, he comes close to touch her cheek with his fingertips.

Its a great life if you dont weaken, he says, looking into her eyes.

Im surviving, Sally Steiner says.

Yeah, he says. See you tomorrow, kiddo. Dont take any wooden nickels.

She watches from the window until he drives away in his black Cadillac Eldorado. Then she struggles into a long sweater coat that cost a weeks salary at one of those Italian boutiques on Madison Avenue. She backs her silver Mazda RX-7 out of the three-car garage. She checks the glove compartment to make certain the loaded pistol is there, then heads for Manhattan.

Jake Steiner drives from Smithtown into Ozone Park. He parks in front of a narrow brick building, windows painted black. There is a small sign over the doorway: THE MIAMI FISHING AND SOCIAL CLUB.

Jake gets out of his Cadillac, knowing the hubcaps are safe. There is no thievery on this street. And no muggings, no littering, no graffiti. Maybe the cops drive through once a week, but the locals take care of everything.

There are a few geezers in the front room, playing cards and drinking red wine. They dont look up when the door opens. But the mastodon behind the bar eyeballs Steiner and pours a waterglass of whiskey, splash of water, no ice. Jake pulls out a fat roll of bills, peels off a twenty, hands it over.

For your favorite charity, he says.

Yeah, the bartender says, and moves his head toward the back room.

Steiner carries his whiskey through a doorway curtained with strings of glass beads, most of them chipped or broken. There is one round wooden table back there, surrounded with six chairs that look ready to collapse at the first shout. The tabletop has a big brownish stain in the center. It could be a wine spill or it could be a blood spill; Jake doesnt know and doesnt wonder.

Two men are sitting there: Vic Angelo and his underboss and driver, Mario Corsini. Theyve got a bottle of Chivas Regal between them, and their four-ounce shotglasses are full. Only Vic gets to his feet when Steiner enters. He spreads his arms wide.

Jew bastard, he says, grinning.

Wop sonofabitch, Jake says.

They embrace, turning their heads carefully aside so they wont mash their cigars. They look alike: short, porky through chest and shoulders, with big bellies, fleshy faces, manicures, and pinkie rings.

Hiya, Mario, Jake says.

Corsini nods.

Hows the family? Angelo asks, pulling out a chair for Jake.

Couldnt be better. Yours?

Likewise, thank God. So here we are again. A month gone by. Can you believe it?

Yeah, Steiner says, taking a gulp of his drink, I can believe it.

He tugs a white envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket and slides it across the table to Angelo.

My tax return, he says.

Vic smiles and pushes the envelope to Corsini. I dont even have to count it, he says. I trust you. How long we been good friends, Jake?

Too long, Steiner says, and Mario Corsini stirs restlessly.

Yeah, well, we got a little business to discuss here, Angelo says, sipping his scotch delicately. Like they say, good news and bad news. Ill give you the bad first. Were upping your dues two biggies a month.