Tough Luck

WHEN THE BIG Italian-looking guy in the pin-striped suit came into Vincent's Fish Market on Flatbush Avenue and Avenue J, Mickey Prada put down the copy of the Daily News he'd been reading and said, "The usual, right?"

"You got it, kid," the big guy said, smiling.

As Mickey filled the order--a pound of cooked shrimp and a small container of cocktail sauce--the guy took out a piece of paper and held it up for Mickey to see.

"Can you believe this shit?" the guy said. "I gotta go into fuckin' court today."

The paper had a lot of writing on it, but all Mickey saw before the guy put it away were the big letters OC written in red in the corner.

"I can't believe they waste my time with this shit," the guy went on, shaking his head. "But I'll get off. I always do."

Mickey rang up the order. After he gave the guy his change from a fifty, the guy stuck out his hand and said, "By the way, name's Angelo. Angelo Santoro."

Mickey wiped his hand clean on his dirty white apron and shook Angelo's big hand.

"Mickey. Mickey Prada."

THAT NIGHT, MICKEY was at his friend Chris's, watching the Islanders-Flyers game on the new color set in Chris's bedroom. During a commercial, Mickey told Chris about Angelo Santoro and the court papers.

"Don't fuck with that guy, whatever you do," Chris said.

"What do you mean?" Mickey asked.

"OC, dickhead. You know what OC stands for, don't you?"

Mickey shook his head.

"Organized crime, moron. Your friend Angelo's a wiseguy."

"Come on," Mickey said.

"Trust me," Chris said. "I know what I'm talking about."

The next time Angelo came into the fish store, a couple of days later, Mickey took a closer look at him. It was hard to tell how old Angelo was because his hair was jet-black, probably colored with Brylcreem, but he looked forty, or maybe a couple of years older. And he definitely had a Mafia way about him. It wasn't just the slicked-back hair and the snazzy clothes--it was the way he acted, always half-smiling and walking with a strut.

Mickey was nicer than usual to Angelo--smiling, asking him how his day was, adding some extra shrimp to his container. Angelo was friendly too, talking about the election next month, predicting that Reagan would kick Mondale's ass.

At the register, while Mickey was ringing up the order, Angelo said, "So you're a football fan, huh, kid?"

"Yeah," Mickey said. "How'd you know?"

"Heard you talking the other day with the black kid who works here. So you think the Jets're gonna do it this year?"

"Hope so," Mickey said.

"It'll be tough," Angelo said, "the way the Fish're playing--seven and oh--but that O'Brien kid looks pretty good out there, and they got that great D. I got season tix you know."

"Really?" Mickey said.

"Yeah, had 'em since sixty-eight."

"You saw the Jets the year they won the Super Bowl?"

"Was at every game, including the big one."

"You were there?"

"January 12, 1969. The Orange Bowl, Miami, Florida. Fifth row, forty-yard line."

"Holy shit," Mickey said.

"Shoulda seen Namath that day, kid, hookin' up with Maynard and Sauer." Angelo pretended to throw a football. "Too bad his fuckin' knees went or he'd still be QBin'. Hey, I don't know if you're interested, but I can't use my tickets for the Jets-Giants game in December. If you wanna use 'em, you can."

"I don't know," Mickey said. "I mean I'd love to go, but I don't think I can afford it."

"Afford? Who said anything about afford? I'm giving you the tickets." Angelo grinned.

"That's okay," Mickey said. "I mean you don't have to do that."

"Hey, don't insult me," Angelo said, suddenly serious. "I said I want to give you the tickets, and I'm giving you the tickets. It's the least I could do for my favorite fish man."

"Okay," Mickey said. "I mean if you really wanna do that."

Angelo smiled widely again. "The game's not till December--I'm sure I'll see you a lot before then. I'll bring the tickets in with me one of these days."

"Thanks," Mickey said.

"You take it easy, now," Angelo said.

THE FOLLOWING MONDAY afternoon Mickey was working at the countertop behind the fish stands, cutting flounder fillets. After he scraped off the scales, he made one short cut under the front fin, just behind the gills, then a longer cut down to the tail. He did the same thing to the other side of the fish, then he scooped out the carcass, pushed the fillets off to the side, and started on the next one.

As Mickey was cutting flounder, Mrs. Ruiz came into the store.

"How are you today, Mrs. Ruiz?"

"Very good, Mickey."

"What can I get for you?"

"You got mussels?"

Mickey rolled up the sleeve on his right arm, flexed his biceps, and said, "Yep."

When Mrs. Ruiz left the store with her usual two pounds of mussels and two pounds of clams for her paella, Charlie came in from the back, holding a big boom box up on his shoulder.

"Turn that shit off," Mickey said.

"Come on," Charlie said, "even white people like this music."

"I'm serious," Mickey said.