Fresh Kills Read Online Free PDF Page A

Bitles because we have no way of knowing. And it’s still best band in world, Stones are OK, but no one makes melody like McCartney.”
    â€œYou know about the Beatles?” I said to Billy.
    Billy made a comic face. “Sure I do, course, you think I don’t know anything about anything before 50 Cent? Pulease!”
    Dubi gave him a thumbs-up, reached across to his desk and presented Billy with the album that McCartney had recorded in Moscow. It had a red star on the cover.
    â€œVinyl! How cool is that! Thank you so so much,” said Billy. “That’s really crazy. Thanks a lot. I already like the Beatles, I’m sure this will be really good. Artie, look!
    â€œYour Uncle Artie thinks all Russkis who live out here in Brighton Beach are thugs or crass ladies with fur coats, you know?” said Dubi. “Tell me what you like reading best, Billy.”
    They went into a huddle, a book lovers’ crouch as they inspected books starting on the bottom shelf. Dubi retrieved books, handed them to Billy; together they pored over pages, discussed plots, characters, writing styles. A slim hardback caught Billy’s attention.
    â€œWhat’s that?” I said.
    Billy got up to show me, a memoir about fly-fishing in Montana. Nimble as a kid, Dubi jumped up and looked over his shoulder.
    â€œI’ll buy it for you,” I said.
    Dubi interrupted. “It is a present. So bring your nephew over for dinner soon, Artie.”
    We all shook hands. Billy was halfway out of the shop, but Dubi pulled me back and said, “Great kid, Artyom. I like very much.”
    Billy turned back from the doorway. “Who’s that man? Look, over there, in the street?”
    A few yards away, an old man whose skin was broiled purpleby the sun and who had an immense mustache was glad-handing a couple of tourists.
    â€œRabbi Abraham Abraham,” Dubi said. “Always says he was already in Brighton Beach when there were still chickens on the streets. Must be over eighty. Likes to say he’s King of Brighton Beach. I once saw him walking into the ocean with the Coney Island Ice Breakers, the club that likes to swim dead of winter. You want to meet him, Billy?”
    I said, “I think we’ll pass.”
    â€œWell guys, nice to see you. Nice to meet you, Billy. I heard so much about you. I heard you were coming home.”
    â€œHow did you hear?” I said. “Who told you, Dubi?”
    But Dubi had disappeared into the back room of his shop where the phone was ringing.
    The sun was going down fast now.
    â€œShould I call you Uncle Artie?” Billy said.
    â€œWhat do you think?”
    â€œI never did. I just always called you Artie.”
    â€œSo that’s good,” I said.
    â€œI asked Dubi about the ice cream place,” Billy said.
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œHe told me he doesn’t like American ice cream. I have to find it, you know,” said Billy. “It has to be there. It’s the best stuff I ever ate, ice cream wise, I thought about getting some all the time I was in Florida. I used to go there with my dad when I was a kid.”
    Not finding the ice cream upset Billy.
    â€œI can’t remember,” he said. “I don’t know if it’s gone or I forgot where it was.”
    While Billy was worrying about ice cream, I realized a car was keeping pace with us. A shabby maroon Lincoln Town car. A couple of yards separated us from the car. I couldn’t see who was driving, but I knew someone in the car was watching me.Or Billy. Was it Billy they were watching? Was someone checking on him? Someone aware he was out on vacation, away from Florida, someone who had an interest?
    â€œWatch it, asshole,” an angry voice said. I had bumped into a woman with big blonde hair, stonewashed jeans and a skintight halter-neck top under her purple denim jacket that was studded with shiny gold beads. “Watch it,” she said again.
    I kept my