Saint of the Narrows Street

by William Boyle

The kind of girl who blows on a stranger’s dice.

There’s that old saw about opposites attracting, but there’s a difference between opposites and people who are just flat-out wrong for each other.

Risa knocks the dirt from Fab’s hands and cleans his mouth, but he quickly gets back to digging, dirt marking his chin like an upside-down Ash Wednesday. She wonders if he can feel his father interred below. It’s a game to him. Time to unbury Daddy. No, sweetie, sorry. He’s gotta stay buried.

“He’s still on the tit?” Roberto asks. Risa feels her face flush. This bastard has some nerve talking like that. She snaps back: “You, always with the inappropriate questions.” He puts his hands up. “Just curious. They’re like drunks when you let them go too long. Knew this kid down in Florida. Him and his mom lived at the same motel as me. Kid was seven and still on the tit. Craziest thing to see. He was over four feet tall, and his mom was about five-three, and he’d walk up and press on one of her nipples like it was a soda fountain, and she’d lift her shirt and let him have at it, standing up. They didn’t have much dough, so nutrition-wise, I guess it was a good deal, though she smoked like a goddamn chimney.”

“You need help?” Giulia asks. “Help dying?” Lola smiles. “I forsake all help.” She raises her glass and urges Giulia to do the same.

“I seen you in the Hostess outlet over there on Stillwell maybe?” “Could be.” “I’m a Ho Hos man myself. Also like those Suzy Q’s. What’s your poison? I bet you’re a Sno Balls boy.” Chooch takes that as an insult. That’s what he looks like? A goddamn Sno Balls boy? “I like Ding Dongs,” he says.