First Thrills

Eddy May by Theo Gangi

Eddy tells me we can make money together. Eddy is the best police impersonator there is. He hangs out in police bars. He goes into police stations and talks to cops in perfect jargon. He goes down to court and gets search warrants and arrest forms and types them up. Eddy’s fed himself since the seventies by sending little kids into bathrooms to solicit pedophiles. Then he’d go in like a cop and shake them down.

I’m hanging out on Christopher Street with Eddy. He’s by the phone booth in plainclothes, a sport jacket and black shoes. Eddy told me that’s how you dress like a detective. So now I’m also wearing a sport jacket and plain black shoes.

I’m going to Brooklyn today and I’m pissed about it. I haven’t crossed that water since I moved to Washington Heights and my father cursed me as a traitor.

It’s early on a Tuesday afternoon. The lower west side teems with productivity; Starbucks supports a line out onto the sidewalk. People steadily file down into the subway. Busses yawn, stretch, and lumber up and down avenues. Eddy whistles an old song, “If I were a Bell,” the way Miles Davis played it. It’s a show tune, pretending to be jazz genius, about a man, pretending to be a bell. Eddy catches a glimpse of something through the dark window of the bar on the corner. He gets up close to it. I am still by the phone booth, being a detective. He curses, and starts pacing, fixated on the bar window. I go over to him. He curses again, rolling his eyes and smacking himself on his pocket keys.

“Problem?”

He wipes the sweat from his old, wrinkled brow.

“The fuckin’ unit. Gave up three fuckin’ homers in a row.”

The Big Unit. The Yankees’ biggest disappointment this year. Eddy and I are Yankees fans. We’re both from Brooklyn, home of the former Ebbet’s Field, where Brooklyn’s own Dodgers once played, now a large project. You ask me it’s just as good, replaces bums with more bums. Most native Brooklynites are Mets fans, as if obeying some law of transfer from one non-Yankee New York team to another. The Brooklyn bitterness toward the frequent champions is deep. Eddy chose the Yankees because some aspect of his life deserved to be aligned with a winner. My preference came at greater cost. To my father it was evidence of a great betrayal.

Many of my teenage years were spent explaining why Mickey Mantle was better than Snider, Pee Wee, Robinson, and Campanella combined. “They’re bums, Pop,” I would tell him. “It’s common knowledge.” His hurt was palpable. I told him it’s only baseball, but he didn’t believe me. “Bums? That what you think of me?”

The dark bar at daytime reminds me of my father. Three or four drunks sit at the bar stools, faces tilted to the blue wash of the TV screens above. Could be any time of day; it will always be the same time inside. Pop was like that; no matter the pitch, it was always a strike.

On the three mounted sets, Randy Johnson paces with his hands on his hips, spitting as though the homer was anybody’s fault but his. The Big Unit irritates the hell out of me and Eddy. After he blows a game, I find myself making up my own Post and Daily News headlines. Big Disaster. Flop of Fame.

“Cocksucker ain’t worth half what we gave for ’em,” says Eddy.

“Got that right.”

I’m a New York Times reader. Eddy reads The Daily News and The New York Post. But when the Big Unit loses, I buy The News, too, so I can fully absorb the crass, ruthless abuse my team deserves. Then I talk to Eddy about this year’s two-hundred-million- dollar joke.

“No word though?” I ask.

“He’ll be here.”

Eddy is right about that. He thinks so, but I know for sure. I step back and the TV disappears in darkness, the glass opaque now, with my reflection on its surface. I like to dress a bit better, clean shaven, cuff links now and then, how my wife likes me. She’s Puerto Rican, likes a little shine, some cologne. But Eddy told me how to dress like a detective, so I’m dressed like a detective.

“Ho shit!” Barks Eddy, attention back on the TV on the other side of the glass. I go up beside him and look through: a replay of a White Sox player who I never heard of knocking an unhittable pitch, up by his eyes, clean out of the ballpark. The big unit, with his giant, gangly frame and trailer- park dismay, stands on top of the wheat shade mound of dirt in utter incredulity.

“Four!” says Eddy. “Four goddamn dingers in one inning? That pitch wasn’t even a strike. It wasn’t even close, damn near over his head! How’d he hit that? Fucking impossible. Four homers.”

I shake my head.

“I can see the headlines. Four! four-get it!”

“Four-gone conclusion,” says Eddy. “Just four-fit already.”

I see the kid as Eddy goes on about how the Unit keeps throwing his flat, useless slider. The kid has bleached blonde hair and light eyes, with a don’t-give-a-fuck apathy way beyond typical adolescence. His attitude puts him going on thirty, a couple of jail bids already behind him. In reality, the kid is maybe fifteen, though not even he knows for sure. Got more miles on him than a ’89 VW.

“Yeah, he was unhittable in the National League, but so fuckin’ what? My friend, you and I could have fifteen wins and an ERA under three with those pansy-ass hitters.”

My father and Eddy were cast from the same boilerplate, even though Eddy is a European mutt and Pop was one-hundred-percent Sicilian. It must be the Brooklyn in them, the streets that taught them both how to hustle and talk, doing funny things with the letter H, adding it to the end of some words and striking it from the beginning of others. Fuck outta ’ere. Even their stooped countenance is the same: short necks, slumped shoulders, heavy faces pulled to the sidewalk as if losing money at dice.

Eddy’s cast-iron eyes look just past me as he speaks, just how a real cop might. Though a real cop would notice the kid already. Even when Eddy is pissed, he can’t manage to make those dark, drooping bags of his look anything but sad.

I nudge him.

“That the kid?”

The kid makes eye contact with me. I hope he doesn’t give it up. I hope I don’t give it up. He smirks at me, teasing-a demon with the face of a cherub.

“Yeah. Hey, kid.”

“Hey.”

“What you got for me?” asks Eddy. The kid holds out a tan Ferragamo wallet. Eddy takes it, and opens it up.

Edward Schalaci.

“Mr. Edward Schalaci,” says Eddy. For a moment, I think he’s talking to me. “Would you look at that,” he says, “guy’s name is Eddie, like me. One-hundred fifty Columbia Heights. Yeah. Would you look at that, Brooklyn Heights, that’s real money. Guy’s probably married. Wife’s got no clue. Right? Let’s get a move.”

As Eddy starts to walk down to the subway, the kid turns and smirks at me. Kid’s got a crazy sense of his own power. He’s an orphan from Poughkeepsie who came to The City to live off wealthy pedophiles. Got thrown out of a few downtown lofts and been selling his ass ever since. There’s something supernatural about the way he seems to get younger every time I see him, as though he started at sixteen and now looks fourteen. Pretty soon he’ll be reduced to shaking down sickos from a stroller.

The thought makes me queasy. My wife is ready, I mean ready for a baby. I’m hesitant, and days like this I know why.

We have done this a couple of times: we go into the bathroom and pretend to be from the Youth Squad, I take The Kid outside while Eddy talks the guy into giving him money, to avoid being arrested. Eddy has been making money like that all over the west side of Lower Manhattan for years. His biggest moneymaker is this kid.

Eddy hooked up with The Kid on one of his fugazi raids, took him under his wing and taught him how to hustle, taught him how to get paid without giving it up. The Kid still did his own thing, and this wallet represented the coup de grace of their partnership. It meant that The Kid had consummated a transaction and then ripped the john off, ’cuz there are just no good deals left in The City.

When I see the wallet I think of this and only this. I try to joke in my head, but I cannot smile. I see the kid reduced to a baby and wrapped in my wife’s tan arms: a bundle of joy, shock, and heartbreak. Is there a parent alive or dead who hasn’t been heartbroken?

The wallet now is the source of the evil, clear evidence that Eddy knows exactly what this kid is doing and is an accessory. Eddy takes this confession in his hand like a ticket at a deli. I cannot decide if Eddy is magnificently in tune to his hustle or just facile as cardboard.

We join the heavy flow of traffic, heading toward the inevitable. There is no point in talking business in front of these strangers, so the three of us keep quiet. Eddy gives me commiserating glances as we squeeze on the crowded train, reminding me of Pop again. Old and red faced, Pop would raise his eyebrow and shrug like that with me, often reduced to the basics of interaction, like we spoke different languages.

The crowd thins before we leave Manhattan. We get off at the Clark Street station, stepping into the open Brooklyn air beneath the old sign for Hotel St. George. Nothing tastes different about the air, but I’m aware of it. I’m breaking an old promise I made my father by coming here. I didn’t want to see him in Brooklyn, with his Benson-hurst lowlifes and me trying to be a cop. I wonder what borders of mine my wife’s unborn bundle will cross. The Kid looks around, stark baby-blue eyes restless and pissed.

“Who’s this guy, anyway?” he asks, gesturing to me.

“That’s Ron.”

“Hi,” I say.

“Detective Ron?” says The Kid, being smart.

“As far as you’re concerned,” says Eddy, “yeah, he’s a fuckin’ detective.” Eddy clears his throat with a thick, nasty hack. Then, as if his throbbing throat reminds him, he lights a cigarette.

“You want one?” he asks me, already putting his pack of Marlboro menthols away. It is a running joke between us. I don’t smoke. He offers anyway, hoping someone will join him in being self-destructive.

“Yeah,” I say.

“You serious?”

“Yeah. Calm my nerves a bit. I got to act like you anyway, right?”

Smiling, his old movie star dimple like a crater in his cheek, Eddy takes his pack back out, and looks inside. He shakes it. Then reaches in, and gives me one, a bit bent. Then he throws out the pack, and motions toward me with his lighter.

“Wait,” I say. “Your lucky?”

When he opens a new pack, Eddy always flips the first cigarette upside down, and saves it for last, his “lucky.”

“It’s no problem,” says Eddy. “It’s lucky. So maybe you won’t get addicted.”

He lights it. The minty smoke burns down my throat, and bites my lungs. I cough.

“Damn,” I say. “What you smoke these for? Things have teeth.”

The smoke clears way for more to come. The feeling is old and familiar. Pop smoked cigars, so I smoked cigarettes.

“You got a preference?”

“Used to smoke regular cigarettes,” I say. “Parliaments.”

“Heh. Pansy ass.”

We keep walking, following The Kid’s little sinister swagger.

“When you were a cop, you ever want to be a detective?” he asks me.

“Sure,” I say, thinking. “But I most likely woulda gone upstate, you know? Been a trooper. Easy work, man. Good money.”

“Heh. No angle in a fugazi state trooper, though, I’ll tell you that. Looks like you got to settle for a detective.”

“A detective’s good,” I say. “Just never thought I’d score good on the test.”

“You scored fine on my test, heh.”

I repeat this to myself: I am a laid-off cop. I still have my shield. That is why Eddy wants to work with me. He needs identification. I am bitter about being laid-off. I repeat this to myself.

We reach Pineapple Street. The neighborhood is a residential haven, with grand old architecture in muted red and earth tones. No home is higher than four stories on the tree-lined blocks, with ceremonial staircases, ornate banisters, and columned entrances. The doors and windows are huge, dark chandeliers dangling within, and brick fills in the rest of the expanding block.

“Let’s go check out the promenade,” suggests Eddy.

The Kid rolls his eyes. I agree, I want to get this over with, but Eddy is already on his way. Over his shoulder, I see Manhattan. From a distance, the towering shapes and rectangles look like an immaculate geometric drawing, a conception impossible to build. Then the murky gray water comes into view, the moat separating the boroughs from The City, as it’s simply referred to by those who don’t call it home.

The water reminds me of Pier 4 Bush, the day my father took me to learn his routine. Looking out at the mercury water and stacks of identically shaped, multicolored crates, Pop introduced me to what seemed like half the ILA Union. Augie, the plan clerk who told what crates wouldn’t be missed; Patty, the dock boss who told the checkers where to carry them; Eddie, the checker who took the crates off to a truck; and Ernie, the rounds man who was on the job twenty-three years without making one arrest. Then Pop and Ernie collected on some gambling debts. Nobody got violent around me, least of all Pop, whose hands had already begun to shake and couldn’t intimidate a child-he approached the dockworkers, as they would say, with two feet in one shoe. That day he told me I had a choice about whether I wanted to follow in his footsteps. As far as he was concerned, I chose wrong.

Now look at me. He’d be real proud.

The Kid leans over the banister, dangling a ball of spit at his lips and letting it fall below. I want to discipline him, smack him around. Not that my father ever laid a hand on me, though I know he wanted to. Couldn’t ever bring himself to do it, no matter what instance of open defiance.

Looking on the water, Eddy takes out a small bottle of Scotch and takes a sip, offering it to me, his blue hands shaking. I glance around.

“What’re ya looking fer? We’re the law,” he says.

“You think we seem like cops if we smell like liquor?”

“Like a crooked cop, yeah. Fuck, they smellin’ yer breath fer anyway?”

I sip it.

“My pop,” I tell Eddy, the swallow stiff in my throat, ahh, “was a Scotch man. He worked on a dock. Longshoreman. Worked by the water every day.”

“Yeah? How’d he do?”

“Did okay. Had to hustle, though.”

I drink again from the gold liquor and it drops to my stomach like a warm dagger.

“Longshoreman makes good money now,” says Eddy.

“Yeah. Now.”

The Statue of Liberty stands at the end of the island like Manhattan’s toy. Tuesday is a bright, lazy day for some people; bachelors walking their dogs, mothers or nannies pushing strollers, and ghetto teens making out in big coats. It’s difficult to look at The City and see Eddy’s city. I can imagine some crimes more than others. I see professionals and I naturally imagine their drug habits, and the violence that brings them what they need. For every person, there is a logical shadow. For every BlackBerry-carrying, Bluetooth wireless talking professional, there is a messenger-bag middleman, bringing him goodies from some well connected, nickel-plate Ruger-carrying mover-shaker. What scares me about Eddy is how he sees the shadow side of sexuality. For every flower-buying, wife- fucking father, there’s a child-buying, prepubescent-molesting deviant. It bothers me. I try not to be naive about things, but it bothers me. Drugs and violence are tolerable, but touching children is just another animal.

“We’re gonna get a good thing goin’, Ron,” Eddy tells me. “Get this thing here down to a science.”

“Yeah.”

A science. This guy must have a wardrobe’s worth of skeletons in his closet.

I have to wonder how Eddy sees and uncovers this aspect of The City with such ease. He knows where to go. He can find and spot his mark. Eddy is no protector of children. Unlike The Kid, Eddy does not know his own power. What some men do to children is an unchangeable truth in Eddy’s life. He is a perpetual witness. His triumph is that he then hurts the aggressor by taking his money. Eddy is proud of this solution. Eddy then pays the children. He is their friend.

Or maybe he doesn’t care. Maybe it’s just a hustle like any other hustle, like any of Pop’s hustles. There’s money, and a game to get it.

I turn from the water and see the building we will go to from behind. It is one of two old buildings that shoot up into the sky like cylinders-one red, and the other beige. I’m not sure which color we will enter.

We walk back up to the residential avenue, The Kid with his blonde hair in tow. Eddy checks the license again, and looks up at the contrasting cylinders. There are two doorways, the red one a staircase above street level, the beige a staircase below. Red, I guess. Red makes sense. Eddy drops his cigarette, crushes it with his plain black shoe, and then begins down the steps toward the burrowed cavelike beige door. He rings the buzzer, takes out his badge, and folds it in his breast pocket so it shows clearly. He gestures for me to do the same.

“Yes?” says the filtered voice.

“Is this Mr. Edward Schalaci?”

“Who’s this?” says the voice, sounding like a woman.

“This is Detective May with the NYPD. Does a Mr. Schalaci live there?”

“Yes.”

“ To your knowledge, did he lose his wallet, ma’am?”

A pause. He should have said, might we have a word, ma’am?

“I think so,” says the woman.

Eddy smiles at me.

“Mark can’t deny it’s his now. Love when the wife’s home.”

The buzzer rings and the three of us walk up the creaky stairs, the air hot and damp. I sweat. I hear Eddy wheezing ahead of me. His feet drop heavily on the steps.

“Cocksuckin’ walk-up,” mutters Eddy.

He reaches the top and lets out a huge exhale. He turns to The Kid.

“Wait here,” he says, and then turns to me. “Follow me. Let me do the talkin’.”

The door opens and a pretty older blonde opens the door, her face inquisitive but pleasant.

Rebecca Schalaci.

“Hello, detectives, I’m Rebecca Schalaci.”

Rebecca Schalaci is Margaret Gallo.

“Good morning, Ms. Schalaci. Sorry to disturb you. Is Mr. Schalaci at home?”

“Uh, yes,” she says, and glances at me. “I’ll get him.”

She walks off. Eddy holds the door open.

“Ms. Schalaci,” he says, “you mind if we come in?”

“No,” she says, hesitant. “Not at all. Can I get you anything?”

“ We’re fine, thank you Ms. Schalaci.”

She disappears into the back. The home is top notch, with natural light, neutral walls, ornate molding, a display case with ancient plates, next to a plasma-screen TV. Eddy smiles.

“Wow. What you think we can get outta this guy? Quick, Ron.”

I think.

“Thirty.”

“We can beat thirty.”

He is right.

“We can do better than thirty for sure. Good-looking broad, huh?”

He turns to look at me, his eyes finding mine for a moment, then looking off again.

“Shame. Good-looking broad like that, got no idea what she’s into.” Eddy nods to himself, repeating “shame.”

The mark shows. The man is half gray, half bald, half concerned, and half dressed. He inserts a cuff link into the sleeve of his open shirt as he walks in.

Edward Schalaci is Woodrow Collins.

“Can I help you, officers?”

“Mr. Schalaci,” begins Eddy, “we found a wallet with your ID inside.” Eddy holds up the wallet. “Mr. Schalaci, does this wallet belong to you?”

Schalaci examines the wallet suspiciously.

“Uh, yeah, thank you. That’s my wallet.”

Eddy turns to me and nods.

“Better go get The Kid,” he says.

I nod officially, like a detective.

“Sir, can we go to a more private part of the apartment?” asks Eddy.

I go back out into the hallway. I see The Kid.

“Time,” I tell him. He seems younger still, skim-coated skin-a child’s sharp teeth. He looks back at me like, fuck you.

I lead The Kid inside and find Eddy and Schalaci in what looks like a study. Schalaci sees The Kid and his jaw drops.

“Mr. Schalaci, do you recognize this child?”

Schalaci is speechless.

“Mr. Schalaci, answer the goddamn question. Do you recognize this child?”

Schalaci nods, slowly.

“I thought you did, Mr. Schalaci.”

The Kid looks bored.

“Is this the man?” I ask The Kid.

The Kid nods, and points as if he is in court.

“This boy, Mr. Schalaci, has identified you, and his parents are making a formal complaint against you, that you had sex with him, and that you abused him.”

“Are you…” mutters Schalaci, losing his voice.

“I am very serious, Mr. Schalaci.” Eddy reaches into his pocket and takes out the phony arrest warrant he has written up, and shows it to Schalaci. Schalaci takes it. He seems impressed.

“Do you understand the severity of these charges?”

“I… I’m sorry…”

“Take The Kid back out,” Eddy tells me.

I walk The Kid back out of the room, and let Eddy do his thing. We go out in the hallway, and as I turn to go back inside, The Kid gives me the finger. I don’t control myself this time. My open hand flies and cuffs the back of his head; a wisp of blonde hair springs up. His face gets red and he bites his lip with his sharp teeth, sizing me. He smirks, like he got what he wanted. I don’t care. It felt good.

In the study, Eddy is into his routine.

“… bail on the warrant there is set at forty thousand. Now, I’m a reasonable man, Mr. Schalaci. I want this taken care of, but I don’t see the need to disrupt your life, or haul you in or anything like that. I can go back, I’ll change a few numbers on the warrant and it’ll just get lost in the paperwork. If you want, I’ll even send you the warrant and you can rip it up, frame it, or wash you widows with it, point is you won’t hear from us.”

Eddy begins to sound like a salesman. Schalaci thinks hard about this, leaning back against his desk.

“They’ll never call you again.”

Schalaci nods slowly and a sense of relief washes over him.

“They won’t call me?”

“No, sir. It’ll be taken care of. I can promise you that.”

Schalaci has not looked at me once this whole time. He gets up off his desk and walks past me, putting the cuff link into his other sleeve.

“Honey, I’m stepping outside with these gentlemen for a moment.”

Eddy whispers to me.

“Guy’s loaded. Shame about her.”

Schalaci puts on his blazer and we follow him out the door. We leave The Kid in the stairwell playing with his gum, shooting knives at me from his eyes. We go back down the stairs and outside. We follow Schalaci past a silver Corvette, a couple of blocks over, around the corner and into a Citibank. Eddy hops in a corner store quickly and buys a pack of cigarettes. He pounds it into his palm, drops the cellophane on the sidewalk, and flips his lucky. He pops one in his mouth and offers me another. I take it.

“Why you smoking all of a sudden?”

“Don’t know. Big job, you know. Got me nervous.”

I don’t know, I really don’t. Eddy is smoking, so I want to smoke, too.

“Figure in a month or two, call the guy up, tell him it’s taken care of. He’ll be happy, you know, thank God nothing happened to him. Rest of his life he’ll think some policeman took money, fixed the case and that’s that.”

I look at Eddy’s unassuming face and think of Pop, the transformation after the police and Waterfront Commission raided his docks; outraged beyond baseball, beyond a Puerto Rican wife. A few bosses and many of his friends did some serious time behind that raid. Pop came to The City to look in my face with his hound eyes. “You know how that made me look?” he demanded of me. “I didn’t know,” I told him. I didn’t, I swore I didn’t.

I think of The Kid and wonder, if Pop had smacked me just once, let me know who was in charge, let me know how he felt. Enough of the hound dog eyes, the lovable loser. Softest crook I ever knew. If he’d laid it down, shown some huevos, maybe it wouldn’t be as hard as it was. Maybe I wouldn’t have even tried to be a cop.

Eddy inhales a menthol with vacant confidence, a man who isn’t wrong even when he’s wrong.

“Eddy,” I tell him, “something’s not right about this guy. You know?”

“Hey, Ronny, I been at this a long time, I know when something’s off. This guy’s perfect. He assumes he can throw money at anything, make it go away, so he can act any way he wants. Didn’t even hesitate, like, forty? That’s it?”

“I don’t know. The guy never looked at me, never once. Wasn’t right.”

“Trust me. This is right as it gets.”

Schalaci comes back out of the Citibank.

“Lets go back up to my apartment,” he says.

Eddy nods like it’s a good idea and charges forward, heavy eyes squinting in the morning light.

Eddy is spent when we get back up to the apartment, wheezing and coughing. Ms. Schalaci gets him a paper towel from the kitchen and Eddy wipes himself down.

“Detective?” asks Schalaci, pushy. “This way.”

We follow him into the study. I see Ms. Schalaci out of corner of my eye, following us. Margaret Gallo.

Schalaci turns. I mean, Woodrow Collins turns. Woody. Asshole.

I leave the door open behind us. Eddy coughs and coughs. He doesn’t notice the door. Eddy is the best police impersonator. But he doesn’t notice a lot.

Schalaci holds out an envelope. Eddy coughs.

“Forty?” he asks.

Schalaci nods. My pulse is a jackhammer.

Eddy covers his mouth with the paper towel. He reaches with his other hand, nodding. He coughs into the towel. He takes the envelope.

My name is Eddie Schalaci. I am Eddie Schalaci again.

Detective first-grade Woody Collins, a.k.a. the phony Schalaci, takes out his badge and shows it to Eddy, whose eyes swell with disbelief.

“Eddy May, you’re under arrest for impersonating a police officer, extortion, accessory to child prostitution, and child abuse.”

Detective third-grade Margaret Gallo, a.k.a. Ms. Rebecca Schalaci, covers us from behind, her badge in one hand, her service pistol in the other.

I’m detective second-grade Eddie Schalaci, a.k.a. Ronny Hertz. I don’t pull out my badge. Mine is already showing in the breast of my detective’s blazer.

For Pop’s eulogy, I talked about his humor, how when I began going bald he told me, “Ed, I got a way you can save your hair.” He showed me an empty cigar box. “Save it in here.” I talked about how he loved giving people nicknames, he called his brother Whiney because his friend Whiney left Bensonhurst and Pop missed him. He called a guy Johnny Once, because he only came around once in a while. I talked about his devotion to my mother, who died when I was born, and how that was the first of the many ways I disappointed him. Some laughed, but others just stared with hard, narrow brows. I didn’t mention the raid, less than a year before his death and the start of the indulgence that killed him. I didn’t mention his devotion to Scotch, and the other powders and pills that he unsuccessfully hid from me. All I could think of was the night in that Midtown bar when he told me about the raid, and I told him I didn’t know.

Shackled, head hanging in defeat, Eddy stares at the floor between his plain black shoes as Detective Woody Collins tries to get him to confess to more crimes. That was how Pop looked. He was beyond the rage he had a right to. He was broken, too old or helpless to even be mad about it. Eddy, his frown heavy like wet clay, is unreachable.

“We’re gonna appeal to the pedophile community, Eddy. Make a deal. They’ll come out the woodwork once they find out about you.”

Collins looks at me. It was his idea to call the mark Eddie Schalaci, my name. He didn’t want to be the only one who had to feel like a filthy child molester.

“We know you got a scrapbook, Eddy, of all your little bullshit scams.”

Collins is an asshole.

I fish in my pocket for Eddy’s pack of cigarettes, from when we took his belongings earlier. I toss the menthols on the table in front of Eddy. His callous fingers pick out a cigarette, and put it in his dry mouth. I light it for him with his lighter. His hands shackled, he raises the pack to me. I take one, and light it myself, then pace over to the mirror.

Eddy breaks his silence.

“I feel like The Unit, you know? When that cocksucker hit that goddamn pitch. Over his head, Ron. Pitch was over his goddamn head.”

I nod, without the heart to tell him my real name, and turn to the mirror. There are the three of us. Eddy looks betrayed, as he always does. I look a bit like me again, Eddy Schalaci. Eddie Schalaci. Undercover works like that. Looking in a mirror. You never know when someone’s behind it, looking back at you.

THEO GANGI is the author of Bang Bang (Kensington Publishing), a hard-boiled New York City-based crime thriller. His stories have appeared in The Greensboro Review and the Columbia University Spectator. His articles and reviews have appeared in the San Francisco Chronicle, Inked magazine, and Mystery Scene magazine. His second novel, Twist the Trees (Kensington), will be released in early 2010. Visit him at www.theogangi.com.