novelinnhs Chapter 9 Bluffing
Chapter 9 Bluffing
"Sit down," the muscular man said coldly.
Zik's heart pounded. Was he resorting to force when soft tactics failed?
He faced the muscular man, tilted his head slightly, and said in a deliberately slow, almost neurotic tone:
"Are you talking to me?" His eyes were deliberately unfocused, staring at the other person but not looking at them, and a strange smile even appeared on his lips.
That was the pose he had practiced in secret after repeatedly watching Robert De Niro's performance in a dark movie theater.
"Are you talking to me?" Zeke asked again.
The muscular man was stunned for a moment, clearly not expecting the boy's reaction.
Zeke took a step forward. "There are only the three of us here. Are you talking to me?"
"Who the hell do you think you're talking to?"
Zeke turned to look at Brian, who was frowning, and continued:
"I grew up in Brownsville. Don't try to fool me."
The room was deathly silent.
Brian's expression changed. He certainly knew what the Italians in Brownsville meant.
Whether it's true or false doesn't matter; what matters is the look in the boy's eyes when he said those words: there was no fear, only a ruthless determination that said, "If you dare touch me, we'll both die."
The muscular man looked at Brian. Brian stared at Zeke for a few seconds, then suddenly laughed and waved his hand: "Relax, kid, it was just a joke. Mike, you can go now."
The muscular man hesitated for a moment, but still backed out.
Brian stubbed out his cigar. "You can go now. But remember," his voice turned cold, "after you walk out that door, no other publisher in New York will take your songs. I mean what I say."
“Mr. Paulie Wario is a friend of my father,” Zeke replied coldly. “You’re welcome to try.”
He put away his sheet music, turned around and opened the door, his palms sweaty.
Paulie Wario is a senior figure in the Lucchese family and should be enough to intimidate this small publisher.
As he stepped out of the building, the afternoon sun was so bright he could barely open his eyes. He stood on the street for a while until his heartbeat gradually calmed down.
His courage was almost completely exhausted by imitating the bluster of movie characters.
It was quite effective. At least he got through it.
The subway rumbled along the tracks, the carriages filled with a mixture of urine and cheap cigarette smoke. Zeke leaned against the door, watching the graffiti-covered walls rush past the window. That stifling feeling returned, even stronger than it had been in the publisher's office.
In this record industry system, as a poor boy with no background, no connections, and no lawyer, even if he held a gold mine, it could be easily taken away.
He thought of Henry. He thought of "the dentist." Although dangerous, at least they were efficient, had clear divisions of labor, and could provide a certain level of protection and execution.
But he had just escaped that terrifying world and finally found temporary peace in the YMCA.
Are we going back now?
The subway arrived at the station, and he followed the crowd onto the streets of Brownsville. It was already dark, with low-hanging leaden clouds and a damp chill in the air. He glanced at the public phone booth on the corner; with a few coins, he could dial the number and contact Henry.
But he didn't.
Zeke wandered aimlessly along the familiar streets. As he passed Joe's grocery store, he saw Christmas decorations already displayed in the window, cheap plastic lights twinkling, and a cardboard Santa Claus standing beside it, its edges already curled.
Christmas is coming. He promised his mother he would come home for dinner tonight.
Snow began to fall. At first, it was just a few scattered flakes, but soon it became dense, swirling and dancing under the dim streetlights. Pedestrians hurried along the street, hunching their shoulders as they rushed home. Zikla tightened the collar of his jacket and turned toward Frankie's Butcher Shop in another direction.
He planned to buy some things to take home. His two younger children loved lamb chops, as his mother had mentioned before.
The butcher's doorbell rang. The smell of warmth and raw meat mingled and wafted out. Behind the counter, old Frankie was sharpening a knife. Seeing Zeke, he looked up: "Zeeke! Long time no see!"
"Mr. Frankie," Zeke nodded.
There were three other employees in the shop, all of Italian descent, with thick hair, wearing stained aprons. One of the young men looked up, saw Zeke, and his eyes lit up: "Hey! Zeke!"
This is Marco, Zik's high school classmate. The two grew up in the same neighborhood and had a good relationship.
"I heard you've been hanging out with Henry and his gang?" Marco walked around the counter and patted Zeke on the shoulder with his relatively clean wrist. "Not bad."
"Not bad," Zik replied briefly, his gaze sweeping over the empty shop. "Three pounds of lamb chops, tender ones, please."
"No problem." Marco turned to cut the meat, but suddenly stopped, turned back with a strange grin, and said, "Hey, want to come and see what's in the back? There's something good."
Zik frowned: "I don't touch that stuff, you know that."
"It's not drugs." Marco winked and lowered his voice. "It's something else, I guarantee you'll like it."
The other two guys laughed too, exchanging glances.
"I'm not interested," Zeke said.
"Don't be such a spoilsport," Marco leaned closer, lowering his voice. "It's right behind here. There's a girl who ran off with a guy, pretty skilled. She only wants food, not money. You know, she has a child..." He gestured, "We'll give her two bags of meat, and she'll serve all of us. Fair trade."
Zik stood there, stunned.
He looked towards the kitchen. The weathered wooden door was ajar, and he could faintly hear the sound of running water coming from inside. He suddenly understood the expressions on their faces.
"How about it?" Marco raised an eyebrow. "It's my turn next. I'll let you cut in line."
Zeke felt a churning in his stomach. He remembered the women who roamed the dark in the Mill Cinema, ten dollars a time. And here, it was two bags of meat.
It could be unsold scraps, or long-frozen inventory, but now it's a woman in a filthy restroom, using her mouth to serve several butchers reeking of meat.
"I only want lamb chops." His voice was dry.
Marco's smile vanished, and he scoffed, "Whatever. How boring."
He turned to cut the meat, his movements rough. The other two men stopped looking at Zik and continued their shifts. Old Frankie didn't say a word the whole time, just kept his head down, sharpening his knife, stroke after stroke.
The total came to $7.64. Zik paid and took the lamb chops wrapped in brown paper. As he left the butcher shop, the snow was falling even harder, a thin layer already covering the ground. The door closed behind him, shutting out the warmth, the smell of meat, and that indescribable atmosphere from inside.
He stood in the snow, carrying ingredients for his family's dinner.
Snowflakes fell on his face, cold and icy.
Zik looked up at the endless white drifting down from the gray sky.
He suddenly realized something with absolute clarity: in this city, in this era, everything has a price.
Songs have a price: a thousand dollars to buy out, or a 50% permanent cut; bodies have a price: ten dollars, or two bags of flesh; dignity, talent, and the future all have prices, and often they are pitifully low.
He could continue trying the "clean" approach, going to another publisher, only to be humiliated and threatened again. Or he could take his song to big-name singers, bands, or agents, only to be ignored or deceived once more.
Or perhaps he should face reality: he's from Brownsville, and he's an accomplice in a robbery that once robbed an airport. The only things he possesses, the things that help him survive in this world, are precisely the things he wants to escape.