The Friendship of Criminals

by Robert Glinski

  Bonnie put a cigar box on the bartop and rummaged through its contents with fingers fat enough to suggest cloven hooves. “Fair enough,” he said, softer now that he was distracted. “Seeing you out there, I figured you’re the runaway I’ve been hearing about. Not too fond of the orphanage?”

  “I prefer going my own way.”

  “No argument from me. I’ve never been one for bosses,” he said, holding a needle before his eyes as if he’d drawn it from a stone. “Little devil took advantage of my eyesight. Okay then, now for the bad news. All I have is black.”

  “What?”

  “Black thread,” he said, holding a spool. “All I have for stitching your eyebrow is black thread. Going to make you look like a pirate, but it’ll hide the bone.”

  Sonny didn’t care if he used hot tar. The point was to close the cut and stay out of the hospital. Without waiting for further instructions, he slid his elbows across the bar, tilted his chin up, and pulled back his hair.

  Bonnie cleared the blood with a splash of water and went to work. His right hand stitched while the left held Sonny’s head still. “Not that it’s much of my business,” he said, “but you ought to reconsider who you’re throwing rocks at. Prison guards are thin skinned.”

  While the needle would have consumed most people, Sonny focused on Bonnie’s other hand. He could feel callused skin and smell the pipe’s lingering metallic residue. It wasn’t that the boy avoided human contact; it just didn’t cut across his path that often. And when it did, the exchange usually made him flinch and flee.

  “The eyebrow will heal fine. Not much we can do about the ribs.” Bonnie stepped back to admire the stitch work. “Young kid like you, they’ll heal soon enough. And you don’t look like a stranger to bruises.”

  Sonny pitched forward to catch his reflection in the mirror. Grazing the stitches with his fingertips, he said, “Maybe you could spare some bread if I scrubbed your toilets real good?”

  “When’s the last time you ate?”

  “A rotten apple this morning. That’s why that guard caught me. It cramped up my whole insides. Before that, I don’t know, maybe a day or two.” Sonny felt shame for the bones he’d pulled from a Green Street trash can the night before.

  “Forget the toilets,” he said, pouring Sonny an unrequested glass of water. “Before I saw you with Dickie, I was getting ready to cook steak and eggs. It’s just as easy to dress two plates. You like your meat rare or cooked clean through?”

  The kid didn’t have an answer. He’d never had steak. “Make mine like yours. I’ll eat whatever you come out with.”

  Bonnie turned for the kitchen, humming an Irish drinking tune. He liked easy-to-please patrons.

  Sonny was alone at the bar—on his third run through the bartender’s tune—when a slab of sunlight crashed the room. Wary of the prison guard’s return, he was relieved seeing a man no older than twenty-five stepping through the tavern door. Well built with a stern look, the stranger wore thick-soled boots, a gray flannel work shirt, and nothing but a dollop of oil in his blond hair.

  Unmoved by present company, the stranger settled two stools down and withdrew an ivory-handled penknife. He scraped his nails with deep, even strokes, mindful of keeping the droppings off his pants. All Sonny needed was a sideways look at the squared-off chin to know the two had never crossed paths.

  “Ah,” said the bartender, emerging from the kitchen with steaming plates. “I see you two have met. Good, good.” He set down the food plus several pieces of mismatched cutlery. “Don’t steal the fork,” he said, breaking into his own routine of cutting and swirling.

  The stranger leaned over to appraise Sonny’s steak. “Too little fat. The butchers in this neighborhood don’t know horsemeat from horseshit. I think there’s a little of both on your plates.”

  Cursed by a quick-setting loyalty, Sonny wanted to lash out in the bartender’s defense. His first steak looked better than anything he’d ever eaten.

  “You act like horsemeat is such a bad thing,” said the bartender, smiling to show he was not similarly offended. Two bites in and golden yolk was already smeared on his chin. “I’d be half the man without hoof in my diet.”

  The stranger looked at Sonny. “Who’s the kid?”

  Bonnie was bald enough that facial expressions extended into his scalp. “I thought you two had met?”

  “You said that.”

  Sonny took note of the man’s accent. It wasn’t full-blown off the boat but prominent enough to turn t’s into d’s. Probably German, Sonny figured, or maybe one of the Slavs from the city’s northeast neighborhoods.

  Bonnie set down his utensils and used a bar towel to clean his face. “Okay, this here eating my gourmet is Sonny. No last name, just Sonny. Doesn’t like foster homes or prison guards and doesn’t seem to back down given long odds. I’m not sure what else there is to know because we haven’t gotten that far yet. And those stitches are my work, so don’t tease.” Shaking a thumb in the stranger’s direction, the bartender said, “Sonny, this is Anton Bielakowski. He is a serious man. Someday we’ll catch him smiling, but I’m not holding my water.”

  Bielakowski leaned across the stools with an outstretched hand. He matched the boy’s grip and added a little extra to let him know there was more. Turning back to Bonhardt, who was spinning his plate for better access, he said, “Where can we talk?”

  “Right here. The solution to our problem is two stools to your left. When I saw him this morning, I knew why I went to Mass and said all those prayers.”

  Bielakowski turned his palms up. “What are we talking about?”

  “A runner.”

  “Shit, really?”

  “No fooling.”

  “Underwriting a kid that age is risky. We’ve got enough handling the payouts and calling the right cutout numbers.”

  “It’s my choice. And I want him. Nobody else will do it anyhow, so what’s the damage for trying?” Bonnie looked at Sonny. “Kid, you got any idea what we’re discussing?”

  “Yeah, you’re talking about me running your numbers.”

  “See?” The bartender wagged a finger in Bielakowski’s direction before turning it on the boy. “All right, Sonny, here’s the breakdown. I want to use Anton’s policy bank because he offers the best payout in the city. Sounds easy, right? Well, the sand-in-the-ass part is I’m too far out. Their runners are whining about the distance.”

  “How far is the run?”

  “Port Richmond.”

  Sonny had never been to Port Richmond. Or Fishtown. Or even Kensington. But he knew numbers was a serious job and all the moving parts made money. “I’ll do it.”

  Bielakowski took a deep breath as if getting ready to speak, held it for a moment, exhaled, and inhaled another. “Hell, either it works or it doesn’t. My old man already has his reservations, so if this fails, it’s a short fall.”

  “I’m not failing.”

  “Okay, kid. We’ll see. While you’re working, your piece is ten percent. It’s good pay with no second chances. Late, slow, missing, dead, whatever. Those numbers come in when they’re due. You start here and maybe we’ll build up the route to Port Richmond.”

  Bonnie spoke up. “Make sure you’re sure, kid. This ain’t baseball with the boys. What are you, fourteen?”

  Hoping to strike a nonchalant pose, Sonny picked up his fork. “I can handle myself. The numbers will be delivered no different than with fellows twice my age.”

  “Could work better with him,” said Bielakowski, almost to himself. “Old and slow gets jacked all the time, and the lazy ones make it easy by taking the same streets. Maybe no one will figure him for a couple weeks. By then he’ll have the gig figured okay.”

  “Hear that, Sonny-boy?” said Bonnie, balancing a fork full of smashed egg and steak. “Be smart and you’ll make money. Be a dummy and that prison guard will check you into bed every night.”

  Bielakowski pushed away from the bar, brushed his shirt clean, and made sure his pant
s hadn’t caught on his boot tops. “It’s settled, then. We’ll take your numbers with Sonny as the runner. Dad likes using the last three digits of the total mutual handle. Everyone can grab those easy enough from the paper.”

  The bartender raised a hand good-bye. “My regards to your father,” he said. “And when Sonny drops off the numbers, give him some of that famous kielbasa. You need to keep your partners in good health.”

  “Forget the kielbasa. Nothing is better than our blood sausage. Everyone gets stronger eating kiszka. A pound a day and Sonny will be an ox.” The Pole sealed the deal with handshakes before exiting into the sunshine.

  Sonny relaxed into his stool. Life had tossed him heaters before, but nothing like what had just occurred. A steady job meant money, which meant food. Not grub he’d been given, or begged for, or pulled from a trash can. He’d have honest-to-goodness food he bought with his own dough.

  As the bartender ran a finger across his plate and licked it clean, he winked at the boy lost in his thoughts. “Don’t worry, kid. All that talk about getting jacked is Anton’s way of making sure you understand the stakes. Nobody touches a Bielakowski runner. I didn’t say it in front of him, but his old man’s reputation is why I’m using their policy bank. Bielakowski Senior is a scary old Polack that protects what’s his. You’ll be covered against anybody who knows better. Just watch out for the lowest scum and you’ll be okay.”

  Sonny nodded though he wasn’t all that concerned with his safety. What the bartender interpreted as fear was Sonny distracted by his first grocery list. He’d start with cake and work in milk and meat when he got tired of the bakery case.

  “One more thing,” said Bonnie, “before we go partners, there’s a loose end that needs trimming.”

  Sonny figured the bartender might shake him down a few points. Everyone grabbed more when they had leverage and sometimes when they didn’t. While he hated getting hustled, he wasn’t taking any principled stands, not this time. Anything the bartender let him keep was better than the fold hands of the last few years.

  Bonnie cleared his throat to no effect. “If you’re my runner, I can’t have you sleeping on the streets. Too unpredictable. Cops could scoop you up and I’d have no idea. Or you’ll catch pneumonia and I’m stuck with the day’s take.”

  “Well, you can forget me going back to the orphanage or a foster home. They’d never buy this routine.”

  “Easy, easy.” Bonnie used his hands to tap down the fuss. “As far as I’m concerned, if you’re tall enough to put your money on the bar, you’re old enough to make your own decisions. I’m talking about a different deal, one where we each get a little of what we need.”

  “I’ll hear you out.”

  “If you sweep my bar every night, you can sleep on the pool table. That’s it. I live upstairs and will lock the front door so you can’t steal my booze. In the morning, before work, we’ll eat breakfast together.”

  Negative reinforcement had taught Sonny to be wary of cherry deals. His world was a zero-sum existence where gains came at someone else’s expense. With every new foster family, the other kids were generous the first day or two, giving him tours of the playroom and letting him test-drive each toy. Then, after they realized his stay was long-term, Sonny became a competitive threat for the home’s resources. Goodwill was replaced by suspicion followed by hostility and violence. “What’s your family going to think? Could look like I’m taking what belongs to them.”

  Bonnie grabbed both plates and headed for the kitchen. He paused halfway. “At one time,” he said, looking over his shoulder, “I had a wife and baby girl. I lost one during childbirth and the other right after. I’m alone, so nobody on my end is getting jealous about an orphan boy.”

  “Pitts.”

  “What?”

  “Pitts. That’s my last name. Sonny Pitts. It’s sad sounding, so I don’t say it much.”

  “Jesus, it makes Bonhardt sound like Belgian royalty.”

  Sonny agreed about everything. The name, the job, the sweeping, and the pool table. He was on his way.

  11.

  MARCEK’S PROTOCOL WITH a new woman was letting a few days pass before calling. Some pals, wary of being labeled starry-eyed, swore by thirty-six hours. He stretched the shallow-water thinking to forty-eight. Angie’s protocol wasn’t any more impressive, waiting a week to call back. All that changed after the dance club, Greek diner, and confession on Christian Street. That first night, Marcek dialed Angie’s digits five minutes after driving away, her chocolate chip pancake–taste still fresh on his lips.

  “I loved tonight,” he said.

  “Me, too.”

  “I want to see you again.”

  “When?”

  He fought sounding tentative. “Today.”

  “Good. Me, too.”

  Every night ended with plans for the following day. No maybe or if you have time or I’m hanging with friends. All yes yes yes, more more more. Their time together was simple and tender, eating in cheap Chinese restaurants or walking through the city’s old neighborhoods and squares, sharing hopes and fears and all the minutiae soon-to-be lovers prattle about to keep the conversation going.

  One night, in line for a movie, Angie and Marcek started comparing their respective favorites—television shows (Friends v. Cops), ice creams (chocolate v. black raspberry), music (Mariah Carey v. anything else), cars (BMW!), booze (Jell-O shots v. Yuengling), Philly sports teams (Flyers v. Eagles), etc. Twenty minutes after the show started, still standing in the lobby, they decided to skip the flick and grab coffee. That evening, at his apartment, they had sex for the first, second, third, and fourth time. Like many inaugural experiences, it was a little awkward and too short, but they got better with practice.

  It wasn’t a month later Angie identified their mark. He must have bought on her day off, because she knew nothing until her boss pressed the jewelry invoice into her belly. “Call this client for pickup,” he said, “and make sure the appointment is in the next twenty-four hours. Two days out is a no-go. Unacceptable under any circumstances.” That was the boss’s way of saying he’d already spent the money, probably at an Atlantic City casino.

  Before calling, Angie stole a moment near the cash register and phone memorizing the purchase details. She’d have no shot at a second look because her boss stored all off-the-books paperwork in his briefcase—away from staff and the IRS. The ticket totaled eighteen grand, a number that wasn’t fluttering anyone’s eyelids, except Marcek said ten was the floor, and fifteen was better than fine. Higher priority was that the buyer worked in Center City and was paying in cash. Done and done.

  Despite thinking she was being low-key with the invoice, something about Angie’s activity drew the boss’s attention. He grinned with a closed mouth and started around the counter in her direction. She rolled her eyes and skipped straight to dialing.

  Quick for his age and size, he needed two unanswered rings to close the distance, grab her hand, and push the phone into the cradle. “Hey, Ang, no calling up here. Go back and use the private showroom.”

  She knew why, asking anyway to hear his weak game. Since her first day on the job, she’d witnessed how he hustled the counter girls toward the private showroom, like being alone was their sole requirement for coupling with a fifty-five-year-old who’d eaten himself into diabetes.

  Still holding her hand down, he leaned in and pressed harder. “’Cause you’re too shy out here,” he answered. “Clients like flirting, makes them want to buy more. That’s good for everybody because when I win, you do, too.” The point was It’d be worth your while to give me what I want.

  Angie snatched her hand away and spun on her heels, tracking the counter toward the rear wall. When earrings transitioned to watches, she looked back with her finest fuck-off look, letting it go before he incorporated the rejection into a twisted mating ritual.

  Through a security door and down a half-lit hallway, Angie hot-stepped into the private showroom—a glorified closet decorat
ed with shag carpeting, fleur-de-lis wallpaper, and a desk draped in black velvet. With two guest chairs, the space was so cramped she couldn’t take a step in any direction without bending around a piece of furniture.

  Behind the desk, thighs against its edge, Angie dialed just as her boss entered doing an awkward lower back twist-and-stretch with his elbows chin high. She was glad for an answer after a single ring. Percolating urgency in every extremity, she wasted no time explaining the purpose of her call. The mark—a Center City lawyer named Billy O’Bannon who bought a Rolex for himself and a bracelet for a woman not his wife—said tomorrow after lunch worked because he could flip an expected retainer. She nodded at her boss to let him know the money was on its way, and maybe buy an extra peaceful second as he processed the news. Didn’t take, though. Like a horse left too long in the gate, he was anxious for action, stepping close and wedging himself between the wall and her back.

  He waited until she hung up the phone to coordinate a hand in her ass-crack with a whispered “Girl, you’re crazy hot. Let’s do this.” She fought smashing the phone into his bridgework, knowing violence of that order would close the shop and land her a preliminary hearing.

  Roth’s clumsiness gave her an out. When he closed his fingers to pinch her bottom, she jerked her pelvis forward and snapped her head back. The nose blow was enough to pause the momentum and give her room to slide toward the doorway. “Damn, Derek, get off me.”

  His look was more shock than pain, like the family dog had nipped him. “Ah, hell, Angie,” he said, working both sides of his nose. “Christ sake, you hurt me.”

  “Where do you get off pushing up between my legs?”

  He pinched snot from his nostrils, checking it for blood. “You do that on purpose? You try hurting me?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think you’re a little bitch.”

  “What would you do if someone pinched your balls?”

  “You offering?”

  “Piss off.”

  “Oh, come on, Ang. Wasn’t like I meant anything. We were just joking around, having some fun. You know, like kissing cousins.”