Read Online Hot Poppies by Reggie Nadelson - Free Book Online Page B

back. Lina’s always pushing him to open a fancy menswear shop in SoHo. Lina’s a very pretty blonde, but she’s ambitious and has vulpine eyes and long arms that seem ready to snatch you and hold you hostage.
    An Italian guy, Mike Rizzi grew up over on Mulberry Street, but he’s obsessed with Greece. Early on, he figured that the owner of a Manhattan coffee shop with a picture of the Aegean on the wall and a lifetime supply of cups with a classical-type frieze, Greece was his destiny. So on Mike’s wall are pictures of Telly Savalas, Anthony Quinn as Zorba, even Mrs Papandreou, but this was for the customers, he claimed. “I was raised to be a classical scholar,” he would say when he was plastered on ouzo.
    â€œSpit it out, Mike. I have to go.” I’m next, I’m next—I couldn’t get it out of my head.
    â€œChink came by,” he mumbled.
    â€œWhat? Mike? Speak to me, man.”
    Mike poured some coffee. “Chinese guy, some kind of slant. Whaddya call ’em, Oriental guys down in Russia? Cheech ’n’ Chongs?”
    â€œChechens, Mike.” He knew, of course. Like half New York, Mike’s an equal opportunity racist. Mostly he just vents, though, and he would put his hand in a lion’s mouth to make you happy.
    â€œSo what did he want, this Chechen?”
    â€œChink, he was a Chink.” Mike grew angry. “They get special treatment from the cops down here. Take the fucking vegetable wholesaler moved in round the corner, you know? He’s Chinese. He dumps his stinking stuff on the sidewalk. Everybody from here up to SoHo screams. Nothing happens. Then I got to worry about which mob I could use to pick up the Chink vegetables. Jesus.”
    â€œIs there a reason you’re telling me this?” I asked, but a couple of customers arrived, Mike got busy fixing food, and the phone rang.
    â€œIt’s for you,” he said. It was Lily. I said I was coming over, she said she was working. I said I was coming anyway and I hung up and got into my coat. Secretly, I was fucking pleased Sonny told some law professor I was hot stuff; I wanted to tell Lily. A lot of stuff had happened since the day before and I needed to see her real bad.
    â€œArtie? Listen, I meant to tell you, there’s been some lights on up in Rick’s apartment a couple times. Probably just his mom cleaning up, or something. Right? Right, Artie?”
    â€œSomething like that, Mike,” I said, but I should have paid more attention. I should have paid attention to Sonny and the noise of the spike when it whistled past my head, I should have listened to what Mike was telling me, but I didn’t. I was thinking about Lily.

7
    I first met Lily Hanes outside St Vincent’s on a hot summer night when I was waiting for someone to die. It was almost two years ago. She had been a witness to the killing and we met up, her with the red hair that she constantly pushed out of her face and the long tanned legs. It took me some time to get her to go out with me, but since then there have been a lot of dinners. By our third date, I was already hooked. We were driving to Sag Harbor for the weekend and she said, “So, do you have a gun?” and I said, “Sure I have a gun, I’m a cop. You want to see it?”
    In the long line of New York lefties Lily comes from, guns are considered the devil’s work, but she took it gamely and held it between her thumb and her forefinger.
    â€œDon’t hold it like dirty Kleenex,” I said and she laughed. It was hot out and, when we got to the American Hotel for dinner, Lily realized I only kept my jacket on because I didn’t want to walk around in a place like that with a gun showing. She just leaned over and said, “I’ll take it,” and put the gun in her straw bag.
    After I left Mike Rizzi’s, I got a cab over to Gansevoort Street where Lily was working in a makeshift studio near the