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A Devilish Grin

Mitchel Montagna

    It was December, 1981, and Ricco had had a pretty good year. One evening, he met a couple of old high school friends to drink a few beers and catch up. By 11 p.m., Ricco was sprawled against a bar counter, merrily ordering another pitcher and swaying to the joint’s big, vibrating sounds. Pool balls cracked together, people roared, and objects banged on tables. Music hammered—the Police’s “Ooh-ooh-ahh,” or something like that. The air was so smoke-filled, it hurt to breathe; not that anybody was complaining.
    Ricco had recently accepted a job offer to sell Commodore computers, which were flying off the shelves. It meant moving from his upstate New York home to St Louis, but that was more than okay. The position was lucrative, paying salary plus commission, and Ricco had no trouble betting on himself. At 23, he was hungry to prove that he had the stones to get ahead and make real money.
    Cradling a pitcher of beer, Ricco walked none too steadily to the table where his pals waited. One was named Mark, who sat with shoulders drooping and one hand trying to find his mouth with a lit cigarette. Bespectacled Fred, sitting across from Mark, appeared upright and sober, though he’d already finished a dozen beers himself.
    Ricco dropped onto an empty seat. “Lotta gorgeous chicks in here,” he said, challengingly.
    Mark and Fred glanced at each other and shrugged. They nodded, as if to say - yeah, that’s true. But that was all. Mark, a thin guy, fidgeted and looked down. Fred smiled affably. He looked Ricco in the eye and didn’t waver. They stared at each other til Ricco chose to look away. His eyes settled on two tall, limber-looking girls near the pool table.
    Ricco looked skeptically back at his pals. Will these guys ever grow up? he wondered. It was like something was missing in their blood.
    When it came to the ladies, Ricco considered himself an authority. When he was younger, girls demonstrated revulsion toward Ricco or worse, ignored him. He was scrawny, and he had these goddamn big, swollen lips. The other kids called him “Duck,” quacking whenever Ricco came around.
    Ricco met Mark and Fred in eighth grade. Unlike their classmates, they treated Ricco decently and became his friends. For a couple of years, Ricco was like their mascot. Until he began to turn the tables.

    Ricco poured a beer then took a long, satisfying swallow. He lit a cigarette and grinned. His grin was bright, magnetic. Some would call it evil, because it looked so damn good. It penetrated. You could use it for devilish ends.
    During high school, Ricco transformed. His body grew tall—to more than six feet—and broad-shouldered. His face filled out; his cheekbones got sharp. And suddenly, those freakish lips looked fine. They had become shapely, seductive.
    Girls who had once treated Ricco like he had leprosy came calling. He ended up screwing more of them than he could count. He was now even engaged to one—blond Christine, who in ninth grade had been cruel to Ricco but now was smitten, thrilled about their upcoming move to St. Louis.
    What Christine didn’t know was that Ricco continued to get some on the side. He couldn’t resist the challenge and fun. Ricco doubted Mark and Fred had ever fucked anyone, ever.
    Mark managed to find his mouth with another cigarette, and Ricco lit it for him. “You smoke too much,” Ricco said.
    Mark looked at him foggily. “Back at you.”
    “I only smoke when I drink. You know that.”
    “I know no such damn thing,” Mark said. “How soon you leave?”
    Ricco laughed. “Why? Counting the days?”
    “Wanna make sure the brass band’s ready.”
    “Couple weeks. Mid-January. When do you get back to work?”
    “Tuesday or Wednesday.”
    Mark had some shit job at a school for handicapped kids. He supposedly was a teacher, but Ricco figured Mark spent a lot of time cleaning shit off boys’ assholes. Ricco couldn’t understand why Mark, a pretty smart guy, was wasting his time. He probably didn’t make ten grand a year. And Fred, whom Ricco acknowledged was the brightest of the three, was trapped in grad school hell; or as it’s also known, poverty.
    Looking at these sad sacks, Ricco felt a bracing satisfaction. Back in the day, who’d of thought he would be the one to leave the others behind?
    Fred drained a mug-full of beer with one swallow. He set the glass down and intoned: “Man, being reasonable, must get drunk. The best of life is but intoxication.”
    Ricco grinned. “Oh yeah? Who said that?”
    “I did.”
    “Keith Moon,” Mark said.
    After another glass, Ricco felt like his head was detaching. He alternated between a sensation of flying and the vertigo of a boxer who takes a right to the chin.
    “You shitheads need to get your act together,” Ricco said. “Money to be made.” His voice slurred, which amused him. “Women-a fuck,” he added, for good measure.
    “Let’s get out of here,” Mark said.

    It was freezing outside, the air damp enough to feel like snow though the sky was full of stars. Ricco, Mark, and Fred were oblivious. Their winter coats were fastened loosely. None wore gloves or a hat.
    They were on a small-town, central street. Streetlights above were shrouded in a foggy glow. The men staggered on a sidewalk past mounds of plowed snow, parked cars, pizza and Chinese food joints, a bank, a drug store. All were dark.
    Nobody else was out walking. A station wagon rambled by, bathing the men in its headlights. While the glare didn’t jolt them out of their drunkenness, it did inspire Ricco to action.
    “He’s a r-r-r-raging bull!” Ricco cried. He lowered a shoulder and banged into Fred, who stumbled backward till he lost his footing and landed on a pile of snow. Fred blinked, straightened his glasses and rose.
    Fred was the least physically adept among them. But he got into the spirit. “A raging bull!” Fred yelled and charged Ricco. He hit Ricco none too hard, though Ricco went with it. He lurched into Mark, who was knocked against a brick storefront, near a large window that said: Al’s Sandwiches.
    “Fuckhead,” said Mark. He lowered his head and rammed Ricco’s chest. Their legs tangled and both fell rolling on the sidewalk.
    Mark had an abrasion alongside an eye. Blood trickled. Ricco jumped up and laughed at him. Ricco was the biggest of three and knew he could knock the others senseless.
    Ricco emitted a war whoop and plowed strenuously into Fred. Fred’s glasses sailed against the cracked window of a battered Plymouth parked at the curb. Fred followed, reeling; his head thudded onto the car’s roof, then he dropped to his knees onto the sidewalk. His face was pale and twisted. Ricco stood over him, smiling. Steam billowed like fire from his mouth and nose.
    Fred attempted to stand. His coat was streaked with soot; both knees of his jeans were torn. Half-way to his feet, Fred wobbled then dropped back down. He sat on his butt, looking confused.
    A wisp of doubt intruded on Ricco’s good humor. He stepped forward, offered Fred a hand. “Sorry, buddy. Grab on. Be good as new in no time.”
    Ricco was focused on assisting Fred; he was leaning forward, off-balance. Then Ricco felt a tremendous push from behind, driving through the middle of his back. It forced him ahead, past where Fred sat. Ricco’s head cracked against the fractured window of the Plymouth. The glass shattered into bright, crumbling shards. Ricco slowly slid down, his body leaning against the car. He came to rest on his left side.
    Ricco lay in the street swallowing blood. A web of pains clawed into his face. Ricco hallucinated a series of flashing white lights.
    Ricco softly asked for help. He felt someone kick him in the ribs.
    Ricco heard someone emit a cry of hatred, a prolonged shriek that echoed in his head. It gradually dimmed like fading music, then it disappeared.

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