The Bag Lady, the Boat Bum and the West Side King

by Sam Lee Jackson

  “Yeah, that too. We were kinda hoping they would be stupid.”

  “So, the two spotters came out, and she took them.”

  “Like you said, stupid. The man with the MANPAD stood up to see what was going on, and I took him. Two-hundred-yard shot. Damned good shot if I do say so myself.”

  “No witnesses,” he said with a smile.

  “Hey, Indigo saw it.”

  He did an exaggerated look around. “Don’t see her,” he said.

  “But, I do appreciate you finally bringing the ride to come get me.”

  “I came to get Indigo. I liked her.”

  I shook my head, “So you think I should bring Paz a woman, and while he’s distracted just shoot him from two hundred yards away, just to prove I can do it?”

  “Probably already has a woman, or several.”

  “So, this wasn’t really an idea you were having?”

  “Nope.”

  We sat and watched Elena some more. I finally finished my beer and Jimmy looked at me. I shook my head, and slid the bottle to the edge of the bar. He scooped it up and tossed it in the recycle barrel.

  Even in rehearsal, Elena got into her performance.

  We watched for a while. Girl could entertain. “How’d you meet her, anyway?”

  He looked at me, “I came in here for a drink, once. Ended up buying the place. It was a dump.”

  “She came with the place?”

  He laughed.

  “Luckily so. Let’s say she succumbed to my considerable charms.”

  “Considerable,” I said. He was looking behind me. I turned. Pete Dunn was walking toward us, from across the large dance floor.

  “Hoped I was at the right place,” Pete said with a grin. He stuck his hand out to Blackhawk, “Hi, I’m Pete Dunn.”

  “Pete lives a couple boats down from me. He’s a friend of mine and Eddie’s.”

  “Any friend of theirs,” Blackhawk said, taking the hand. He indicated a stool beside me. “Have a seat.” He turned and signaled Jimmy. Jimmy came down and wiped the bar while Pete got settled.

  “What’ll it be?”

  “You have PBR?”

  “Coming up,” Jimmy said, moving away.

  “You are under Eddies influence,” I said.

  He nodded, “Yeah, I think so. I’d never heard of Pabst Blue Ribbon when I lived in LA.”

  He looked at Blackhawk, “So you are the famous Blackhawk.”

  “Infamous,” I said.

  “Looks like you are straight out of central casting.”

  I laughed, Blackhawk looked uncomfortable.

  “Sorry,” Pete said with a smile. “No offense meant.”

  “None taken,” Blackhawk said.

  Jimmy set a bottle of PBR and a glass in front of Pete. Pete started to pull his wallet.

  “On the house,” Blackhawk said.

  “Thanks,” Pete said.

  “What brings you in?” I asked.

  “Nothing really. I was nearby, and I’ve heard you talk about this place, so I thought I’d see it for myself.”

  “Be it ever so humble,” Blackhawk said.

  Pete was watching Elena, “Nothing humble about this place.”

  He turned to me, “How’s that thing going, with that guy with the strange name. Paz, was it?” Then he stopped, “Oh, maybe I shouldn’t talk about that?”

  “It’s okay. We were just talking about that.”

  I signaled Jimmy to bring me a drink. Man of weak character.

  “You’re a writer.” I said. “Write me the scenario where a guy worms his way into a tight knit group of bad guys.”

  “How bad?”

  “Shoot their own mother and take her wedding ring.”

  “Whoof. That’s bad.”

  Jimmy set a Manhattan in front of me.

  “You serious?” Pete said looking from Blackhawk to me.

  “I’d be interested too,” Blackhawk said.

  Pete thought about it. While he thought, we watched Elena.

  Finally, he said, “To be realistic, instead of just some comic book story where the good guy comes in and kicks ass and takes names, I would write that it would have to be over a length of time. You say tight knit so they’re not going to accept this guy right away.”

  I nodded.

  “I’d make the guy,” he continued, “very non-threatening. No macho stuff that would get the hackles up on the other guys. Harmless, get their guard down.”

  “Like a one-legged bum?” I said.

  “That might work.”

  “Why would they let him in?” Blackhawk said.

  “Probably, because he does something for them. Something seemingly spontaneous. Something that shows he is as bad as they are, but he has no ulterior motive. Something that puts them into his debt.”

  Elena had finished her rehearsal. Blackhawk drained his beer.

  “Should have asked him in the first place,” Blackhawk said, sliding off the stool to join Elena upstairs.

  7

  I let my hair and beard grow.

  I found an old fashion boarding house about a mile from the SanDunes, and took a room. I paid by the month. The owner, Mrs. Haggerty, was an older widow, in her eighties, living on a small income. Her body had given up on her, but her mind was still sharp. First thing she told me was that she did her own taxes. Second thing was to ask me to follow her to the basement where she needed a box lifted down from the top of a shelf. The basement was packed with stuff. Easiest way to describe it is to just call it stuff.

  My room was on the second floor, and had a bed, a small dresser with a mirror and a closet. There was a set of stairs in the hallway that led to a private entrance on ground level. In the closet were extra blankets. On the dresser was a small placard indicating that hotplates were not allowed, but a small microwave was permissible. I don’t think most guys that would rent this room would even know what a hotplate was. I knew what one was because us boys in the home were allowed to watch the old TV shows. I had seen Barney Fife get in trouble with his landlady for having one.

  I shared a bathroom with two others on my floor. One was a night shift worker for the Post Office. I never saw him. The other was an elderly lady that spent her days watching her small television, and her evenings on the porch sipping tea and talking with Mrs. Haggerty. They rocked on old wooden rockers with cushions covered with wildflower prints they had crocheted. They watched the world go by. Her name was Mrs. Eberle. She told me with pride that she was related to a big band singer of the thirties and forties. I think she said his name was Ray. Ray had a brother, she said was famous too.

  In my closet, I kept my utility prosthetic under the blankets, and didn’t wear any foot. The floors were old and creaky, and I knew they could hear me stomping around. I was just a guy down on his luck.

  I began my assault by walking daily, in the afternoon, with the aid of a single crutch, to and from the SanDunes. Establishing a routine. Timing it to reach the bar in late afternoon. I would sit by myself and sip beer.

  I had bought a burner phone and gave the number to Blackhawk, Boyce, Mendoza, Eddie and Pete Dunn. I never used it in public. If asked, I used the name Jack Summers. It was one of the fake driver’s licenses I had kept in my safe deposit box. I let it be known that I was looking for work. I didn’t carry a weapon except for a pocketknife with a four-inch blade.

  Occasionally I would see Boyce, as the bag lady, rummaging through dumpsters. She ignored me. By the second week the bartender, Little Joe, Peggy and Wally Chen had gotten used to me. The bartender’s name was Frank.

  I normally sat on a stool, by the door, so I could lean my crutch against the wall, out of the way. And, it was as far from Little Joe and the others as I could get. The bar had a dual life. There were really bad guys in the back and regular bar people toward the front. As long as you didn’t know, or care, what went on behind the closed doors, it was almost just another neighborhood bar. There was a difference between Paz’s guys and the neighbo
rhood regulars. An attitude thing, but I’m not sure the regulars noticed. What I noticed was that, even though Paz must have had an army of dealers on the streets, they didn’t come in here often. Just this tight knit group.

  I had begun to be recognized by the regulars. Today was Wednesday. The weather was warm and dry. As usual. I arrived at my normal time and slid up on my stool. Also, as usual, I took two crumpled bills from my jeans pocket and laid them up on the bar. Frank brought me my Bud Lite.

  “Hear of any work?” I said.

  “Like I tell you everyday man, if I hear of something I’ll tell you,” he said, turning back to stocking the coolers.

  I shrugged, and took the beer and sipped it. This was pretty much the pattern. I would arrive in late afternoon and the regulars would filter in slowly over the next few hours. Some of them, would come and stay till closing. Most came for a couple of fortifying drinks before they had to go on home. Today, one of them, called herself Bernie, maybe for Bernadette or Bernadine, came in just behind me. She usually came in a couple times a week, and she was one of those that would stay till close or, at least, she would still be there when I left. She followed me in, looked around then took the stool next to me. She usually sat further down.

  Bernie, sometimes would bring a guy in. Usually a different guy, but always a guy that was big with the money. Buying drinks, betting on the pool games. Flashy. She hung on them, rubbing her tits, and laughing large as they bought the drinks.

  There was a young cowboy looking kid, a regular, named Butch that somehow had let Bernie lead him to believe that he was special. The rest of us knew better. Everyone in the place knew better. Everyone in the place knew he was barking up the wrong tree. But, she let that dog bark. Somehow, she had managed to keep those dynamics spinning without crashing into one another, until tonight.

  Bernie looked around the bar, then sat next to me. We had only been on a nod and smile basis up till now.

  “Hey Jack,” she said, situating her purse at her feet. “Buy me a drink?”

  “Sure,” I said. I started digging in my pocket. Frank overheard her and moved down to us.

  He held his hand out, “Save your money, Jack,” he said. He looked at Bernie and shook his head. “The man doesn’t even have a job. I’ll give you the first one on the house. But, that’s it.”

  She looked at him with the highest wattage smile she could muster, “Why, thank you Frank,” she said. “I’ll have a grasshopper.”

  A high dollar drink. Since she normally drank beer, Frank looked at her, then shook his head. Amused, he moved away.

  While Frank mixed the drink, Bernie pulled her purse back up off the floor, and dug out her lipstick and mirror. She applied a heavy swath of bright red on her lips and studied them in the mirror. She smacked her lips and put everything away. Frank brought the drink. Bernie picked it up, and without a look at me, she moved down the bar toward the middle, where she normally sat.

  An hour later the place was active. The pool table busy, guys lined up to take turns at the dart board. Little Joe helped out behind the bar. He was no bartender, but he could draw a glass of beer and make change. Bernie had singled out a young, nice looking guy with strong looking arms, and callouses on his hands. She had drawn him away from the booth he shared with his buddies, and had him next to her at the bar. She was all over him. She wasn’t a pro, but she had the moves.

  I was just thinking about leaving when Butch came in. He stood by the door for a long moment, then slowly moved forward. Unfortunately, the bar stool next to Bernie was empty. He slid up onto it. Bernie had her arm across the other guy’s shoulders. The noise level was high and I couldn’t hear what Butch said to her, but I could see her response. She didn’t remove her arm and she was laughing, almost taunting. Butch said something else, and the other guy leaned around Bernie and said something. Then Bernie said something to Butch. Something with a heavy dose of disdain. The other guy was staring at Butch with his best hard ass look. Bernie said something else to Butch then turned her back. Butch stood stiffly for a long moment, then turn and stalked out of the bar. Bernie and her fellow were laughing. Bernie signaled Frank for two more beers.

  I finished my beer, and reached for the crutch just as Butch came back in. He moved up beside me, and I could see he was holding a large, nickel plated revolver down low behind his leg. I could see Wally Chen notice. Wally couldn’t see the pistol, but he could see trouble. Chen moved his hand from near the glass of beer he rarely touched, to his lap. Butch started to bring the pistol up.

  I had an instantaneous decision to make. I could let Butch shoot the guy, and the guy would be dead. And, Butch would either serve life in prison or go to the chair, because when you go out to your truck and get a pistol to shoot someone, that is first degree intent. Or, Wally Chen would shoot Butch, or I could chance blowing my cover and do something.

  I did something.

  As Wally Chen stood with his pistol already in his hand, I swiveled and moved my left hand to Butch’s pistol as it came up. He was cocking it as he lifted it, and I took hold of it with the web between my thumb and forefinger between the hammer and the bullet. I clamped hard and twisted it from his hand. I hit him in the back of his long hair with my crutch. It wasn’t hard enough to put him down, but it staggered him. I tossed the pistol behind the bar and luckily it didn’t go off. I raised the crutch to protect myself if the boy decided to come after me. He stumbled two steps, then just stood there, his hand on the back of his head, staring at me.

  All the air went out of the room. As if it were planned, the song on the jukebox came to an end. Bernie had no idea what was happening and was just turning. Little Joe, who had been behind and at my end of the bar, moved quickly up to us, came around and grabbed Butch by the back of his neck. He slammed him through the door. I slid off my stool and turned toward the door, my crutch in my hand.

  “Wait.”

  I turned. It was Wally Chen. Peggy stood behind him.

  Little Joe came back in. Now I had two in front and one in back. Not a good place for me. Everyone, including Bernie and her boy toy, were watching.

  “Who the hell are you?” Little Joe said.

  I just looked at him.

  “Who the hell are you, I asked,” he said, more forcefully.

  “Frank said not to talk to you guys,” I said.

  Little Joe looked at Frank, who was now across the bar from me.

  Frank said, “Yeah, that’s what I told him. I meant, not to bother you.”

  Little Joe looked at him for a moment, then he looked at me. He began to laugh. “Get him a drink. Anything he wants.” He turned and went back to his table.

  In a few moments, the noise level came back to normal. Frank brought me a beer and despite wanting to bolt out the door, I nursed it for a long time. When I thought enough time had passed I gathered in my crutch and slid off the stool. As I went out the door, I glanced behind me. Wally Chen was sitting at the back of the room, his back to the wall, his dark eyes locked on me.

  8

  At the boarding house, after midnight, I put on my foot, snuck down the hallway, as much as you could sneak across old, creaky wooden floors, and went down the stairs to the outside door. Carrying the crutch, I silently went out the back door and headed for the Mustang. I took the crutch just in the off chance someone came into my room and would wonder why I didn’t have it with me. The Mustang was six blocks away. Waiting under its canvas cover in the covered lot. I uncovered it, climbed in and drove to the boat. I needed a break.

  The LED light to my alarm on the Tiger Lily was still a peaceful green. If someone had stepped on board, it would be blinking red in its little tucked away spot down low where you had to bend to see it. I went aboard and reset it, drank a tall glass of water, and went to bed.

  After the best night’s sleep I’d had in a while, I showered, grabbed a bagel, and headed for El Patron. Halfway down the Black Canyon my phone alerted me to a text. There weren’t many I knew that would be
sending a text, so it startled me. I took the next exit and found a place to pull over. I’m one of those that think it’s stupid to try to text and drive. You can manage one or the other, not both. It was from Mendoza. ‘WHERE ARE YOU?’ it read. I texted, ‘on my way to El Patron’. It came back, SEE YOU THERE. I speed dialed Blackhawk. He answered, sounding like he’d been up for hours. His voice, like his shirt, never had a wrinkle, “You at the bar?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll be there in twenty.”

  He hung up. Blackhawk’s not much for idle chatter.

  Jimmy wasn’t in yet, so it was Blackhawk making the coffee when I came into the main saloon. I slid up on my stool, and he carried two steaming mugs, setting them on the bar. He sat beside me. The sweet and low and cream were already there.

  “What’s up?” he said.

  I blew on the hot coffee and took a tentative sip, “Mendoza’s coming,” I said.

  Blackhawk was looking past me, “Mendoza’s here,” he stated.

  I turned toward the double doors that were open, exposing the long hallway. Mendoza came toward us wearing an immaculate, dark blue, pin striped suit. The jacket over a crisp white shirt with a maroon tie. He walked like everything else he did, with compact grace. He slid up beside me and nodded at Blackhawk.

  “Coffee?” Blackhawk said.

  Mendoza nodded, “Black.”

  Blackhawk slid off of his stool and went for another cup. Mendoza swiveled on the stool and studied me.

  “Heard you had some trouble last night.”

  “How’d you find out?”

  He smiled, which was so infrequent it was a little unnerving “I mean, I literally heard it. We have that place bugged.”

  “You got Paz bugged, why do you need me?”

  “We have general bugs in the light fixtures, but we can’t get into Paz’s office. That’s where he does all his business. Why don’t you tell me what happened.”

  So, I told him.

  “I’m not so sure I got away with it,” I said. “Little Joe bought it, but Wally Chen is a different breed.”

  “Only way to find out,” Mendoza said, sipping the coffee, “is to go back in there.”