Fifteen is Fine for Stein!
Ebony and Ivory in Paradise!
Racy Romp Revealed!
He secretly longed for disclosure. Merciful reprieve from the tiresome charade his life had become. He could move to Florida, buy a little house and watch the waves for the rest of his life. If he walked away maybe they'd leave him alone for more than two seconds. Out of sight, out of mind. No more embarrassing discoveries. No more damage control. No more stress. Let the cat out of the bag once and for all.
Hell yes I fucked those underage housekeepers. Let him without sin cast the first stone!
AT SIX-THIRTY THE ELEVATOR deposited them in the parking garage. “Can't we cancel this thing?” he asked. “The city workers and unions are picketing outside my office at this very moment, and we're on our way to a rally at a union hall. Does that make any sense?”
“We can't cancel it. It's too late,” Evan said.
At seven o'clock a jittery nausea poked his gut, and the deep voices of rough working men resonated in the air. Men with cracked and calloused hands. Men who wore overalls and steel-toed boots. Men who drove dump-trucks and bulldozers. Men who didn't take kindly to being fucked over. Evan gave him a nudge.
“It's time.”
He felt faint as he slipped through the curtains. His confidence was shattered, like a pimply fourth-grader in a spelling bee.
“Good evening, ladies and gentleman. Wow, it's great to see you all.” The spite and insincerity in his voice was evident. “You hearty people are the great builders of our society. Without you there'd be no trace of our existence. It's the supplies you deliver, the steel you hang, and the concrete you pour that stand as the great testament to the next generation that we were here before them.”
He paused for an embarrassingly meager applause.
“The next generation probably won't remember me. Just another name on a plaque somewhere. 'Stanley who?' they'll ask.” He thought that'd get a good laugh. He was mistaken.
“Where's my pension you bum?” a throaty voice yelled from the back row.
“That's a fair question,” he shot back.
An heirloom tomato launched from the mob and splattered on the hardwood floor. A withered head of iceberg lettuce followed, shedding layers with each mid-flight rotation. Folding chairs hit the floor with echoing thumps as they started for the exits.
“Brothers wait!” he bellowed, instantly realizing how pathetic it sounded. It couldn't have been more pitiful and transparent if he'd said it at an NAACP convention.
“Let me address the question. Isn't that why we're here?”
Despite his pleading the herd's collective consciousness was immutable. They headed for the exits, and with as much composure as he as he could muster he did the same. Gino had watched the whole painful scene unfold from backstage, and he was inclined to let it go on longer than he should have.
The original plan had been for the mayor to exit through the front of the hall where there’d be plenty of juicy photo-ops just ripe for the picking. Happy faces, twinkling eyes, and robust slaps on the back. The triumphant general bidding his frontline troops farewell. When things got rowdy Gino made the call to change the exit to the rear. His crew worked efficiently creating a safe passage to the car for the mayor and his aids. He pulled rank and told the regular driver to stay behind and help with the mop-up. Once the mayor was inside he slid into the driver's seat and started around the side of the building toward the exit, but a mob was approaching and drifted into his path to cut them off. He hammered the accelerator and headed for the ever narrowing avenue of escape. Fearing he might plow into the crowd, he yanked the wheel to the right and slammed over a curb. An axle breaking jolt rocked the car heaving the mayor onto the floor between the seats. The solid limo shrugged off the impact and made it safely away, but a repeating metallic clunk emanated from the passenger side wheel well, and its frequency increased and decreased in lockstep with the speed of the car.
Gino lowered the partition between the driver's compartment and the mayor. “Sorry sir. Rough night.”
“You're a master of understatement buddy.”
47
I'M NOT THE NERVOUS type but it made me edgy having the bomb in the house. La Lena left it on the kitchen counter, and she'd put the instructions underneath it like it was a paperweight. The snow globe she bought me for Christmas was right next to it, and their striking contrast was a poignant reminder of our bizarre existence. At the bottom of the instructions she'd drawn an adorable little smiley face inside a heart. I wondered what she was going for. Cute? Sadistic? Maybe it was a message. Fear not, love trumps all.
I slid the paper out gingerly like an opportunistic thief stealing a $5 bill from a sleeping wino's hand. The instructions were simple. First, how to store it until I needed it. Keep it cool, dry, and away from falling objects. Really? Guess that ruled out the hydraulic rock crusher at the quarry upstate. And second, how to make it go bang. That was simple too. Just plug a nine-volt battery into the detonator, flip a switch, then press a button. She’d forgot to mention to hide behind a large object between the last two steps.
I thought the basement might be a good place to stash it temporarily because nobody went down there. I hadn't been in ages either, so I snagged the old orange and black flashlight from under the sink and went to check it out.
The still air reeked of mildew and generations of moist filth. I fingered a crack in the archaic foundation, dislodging a spongy glob of mortar that fell to the floor. Next I peered into the dark crawl space behind the ancient boiler. Imagining the cockroaches, centipedes, and silverfish holed up inside sent a chill up my spine. I decided I'd rather die from shrapnel wounds to the face than stick my hand in there. The basement was no good. The only other option for the time being was to keep it in my apartment. A kitchen cabinet would have to do, right behind the Tupperware and cookie sheets. It would mean Soul couldn’t come to visit, but I had a feeling that things were going to start happening soon anyway. I wondered what life would be like without the two of them. I thought about Gino too. How he'd lost everything. A once in a lifetime love.
I climbed from the disgusting cavern taking the stairs three at a time, determined never to return. The grime and stench had triggered something inside me. Something I knew I couldn't control. A hot shower was the only known countermeasure, and maybe if I got it quickly I could avert the whole ordeal. I raced to my apartment and went straight for the bathroom, shedding clothes en route. I turned the water as hot as I could stand and immersed myself in it. I scrubbed my arms and hands over and over with my fingernails and a rough sponge, but it still wasn't enough. Imaginary tidbits of crud bombarded me relentlessly. The more I scoured the faster they came, and eventually they overwhelmed me. I sat in the bottom of the shower and pulled my knees to my chest and rode it out until the mania waned. The scalding water, cheap soap, and agitation had turned my skin puffy and raw. Summoning the last vapors that lingered in my depleted reserve tank, I rose to face the day, but before I was upright I was rocked by an epiphany of unknown origin. A name. One I hadn't uttered in two decades. Perhaps when I'd been in that trance my distressed mind had continued to chug away. Maybe Jimmy's magic hand had something to do with it. Whatever it was, I was convinced that a clear path leading to the restoration of my tormented soul had been laid out before me, and I intended to follow it.
Two minutes later I sat at the kitchen table wrapped in a bath towel smoking a cigarette, and the Baltimore-Metro phone book lay before me opened to the D section. With index finger and straining eyes I perused the listings for Daniels. Nearly a whole page's worth. I cross-referenced the last names with the first, in all its frustrating variations. Tom. Thomas. Tommy. T. Th. Thom. Thos. With a blue ballpoint pen I underlined possible matches and started dialing. Out of 22 possibilities, it took me 12 calls to find what I was looking for. One number had been disconnected. One woman didn't speak a lick of English and promptly hung up. Three of the numbers rang and rang but weren'
t answered by man or machine. I left three awkward messages I was sure would be deleted, and had three more unpleasantly odd calls with actual human beings who couldn't help. The woman who answered call number 12 sounded relaxed and friendly. Just the kind of woman I could picture as my friend's wife. I steadied my voice and paced myself going into the spiel I'd perfected. I told her who I was and that I was looking for an old friend. A man named Tommy Daniels who I'd been in Nam with nearly 20 years before. She said my name didn't ring a bell, and that her husband hadn't mentioned Vietnam in such a long time.
HE WAS ALREADY BELLY up to the bar by the time I got there, the draft beer in front of him one gulp away from extinction.
“Tommy Daniels. The one and only,” I said, extending my hand for a shake. He stood, slapped it aside, wrapped his thick arms around me and lifted me off my feet. Tommy was big. Probably six-three, 230. Hands down the strongest guy I've ever met, and it was all natural. He never lifted a weight in his life. Just like the lieutenant used to say, “Strongest motherfucker in Vietnam, and all he ever lifts are burgers, beers and broads.” There weren't many burgers in over there, but the other two were dead-on. I couldn't believe it. It’d been 19 years since I'd seen him, maybe 20. I hoped he had what I needed.
Tommy and I were the same age and both from Maryland. We'd even played high school football against one another, but the first time we'd actually met was in Saigon. One night over beers and rice whiskey we'd cut and pasted our pasts together. Turned out we had a lot in common. I didn't remember him personally, nor he me, but we both remembered one particular night. One particular hit in one particular game to be exact. I was a tight-end. Strong, but slow and plodding. He was a linebacker. The biggest, fastest, and most badass linebacker in the state. It was a Friday night under the bright lights. Home game for me, away for him. Late in the third quarter I ran a short slant right into the kill-zone between the linebackers. The quarterback threw the pass just as he got sacked. A high, wobbling meatball if ever there was one. I should've let it sail right over my head, taken the loss of down and lived to fight another day. Instead I jumped, caught it, planted my foot and turned to make my move, but after a ten yard sprint Tommy tattooed his helmet into my exposed sternum damn near killing me. That hit caused a fumble, knocked me out for the rest of the game, and they went on to win. I remember my girlfriend telling me what a dirty hit it was later that night as she gave me a hand-job on the sofa in her parent's living room. No way, I told her, it was legit all the way. After my one tour I left Vietnam, but Tommy volunteered for a second. That was the last time I saw him.
Before my ass hit the stool Tommy ordered two more cold ones. I thought I knew where the night was headed. Beer, booze and brotherhood. Maybe the two of us whipping a gang of young street punks at 2:00 AM. Sounded like therapy.
The bar was clean, comfortable and friendly. Somewhere between the shithole where Gino hung out and the swanky watering hole where Jasmine worked. We played the usual catch up game, and it turns out that Tommy came back with a heroin habit just like a lot of guys. He'd had a rough go of it. A junkie saddled with the perpetually fucked-up mind of a combat vet. It was a recipe for addiction, misery, and suicide, but somehow with a lot of willpower and a little help from the VA he got clean.
His was the typical story. Wife, two kids, a decent job and a mortgage. Two weeks in Ocean City every year. Ho-hum. I told him about me too, but I omitted all the bad stuff. As far as he knew I was a successful entrepreneur and confirmed bachelor living the dream. I didn't want him to see the real me. A man still haunted by demons from Southeast Asia, 20 years later and 9,000 miles away. Maybe if he thought everything was A-OK then it really was.
We talked about the war, but we didn’t dwell on it. Just a few stories, nothing too heavy. One thing we didn't talk about was the elephant in the room. Jimmy Barnes. Tommy had been close by when it happened. When Jimmy gave up his life for mine. I couldn't bring myself to utter Jimmy's name in Tommy's presence, and I prayed he wouldn't either. If that name was spoken I was convinced he'd tell me what a piece of shit I was. Maybe he'd spit in my face and tell me Jimmy was twice the man I'd ever be. I practiced what I'd say if he did. You're right. He was. Please, spit in my fucking face again. I deserve it!
Tommy had his shit together. He adored his wife and kids and even showed me the pictures in his wallet. What he had was enough. He didn't dare dream of more. He told me he'd found true peace, and I believed him. He drank way fewer beers than I expected him to. Maybe when you're fulfilled alcohol loses its appeal. That made sense to me. At quarter to ten he said he needed to get going. If he hit the road there was still a chance he could say goodnight to his kids before they reached REM sleep.
I'd been hanging on Tommy's every word for hours just waiting for the magic key to salvation I knew he possessed. The secret password that opened the door to a world of harmony. To a real life. One worth living. What I got was crickets.
As I watched him walk out I had the animal urge to jump him from behind and smash his head with my fists until his brains and blood gushed forth. How dare he withhold from me the very thing I needed most? Fuck you Tommy, I thought. Just like God. Mr. Crickets. I knew I'd never see him again and I couldn't have cared less. He was going home to a snug home and grateful family. I had an empty house and an uncertain future. Foolish me. I'd expected a breakthrough. A cleansing of my weary soul. A catharsis of epic proportions. After all, I'd had an epiphany in the bottom of the bathtub after a spastic fit. How could that not pan out? The whole thing had probably been nothing more than a misfiring synapse in my atrophied brain.
I stayed for a few more beers after Tommy left. Dutch Jameson. The world's biggest sucker, drinkin' alone. I looked around the bar, and though I didn't recognize a soul their eyes were dissecting me. The bartender, the bearded weekend Harley guy and his fat wife two stools down. The young guys playing pool in the back too.
So you're the sorry bastard Jimmy died for huh? He fucked-up. You weren't worth it.
Ya, I'm the sorry bastard Jimmy died for. In the flesh. I never asked him to do what he did. So fuck all of you. I wish he'd never done it. You're damn right he fucked-up.
On the way home I stopped at a convenience store and picked up a big bottle of Jack. I stumbled into my place finding exactly what I knew I would. Nothing. An empty bed, an empty fridge. Not even a message on the answering machine. As if that wasn't enough the picture of Jimmy still sat propped against the lamp on my night table. I drank that liquor straight from the bottle, then went into the kitchen and flung open the cabinet doors. I dumped the pots, pans and cookie sheets all over the floor looking for the bomb. I wanted to plug in a battery, flip the switch and press the magic button. POOF. No more Dutch. But when I saw it I couldn't. I knew if I did I'd never see La Lena and Soul again. Instead I slammed my fist through one of the cabinets. The shards slashed my hand and arm. I ripped off my shirt and wrapped it around the blood-oozing flesh. I stumbled into the bedroom, the photo of Jimmy staring me down. “Fuck you Jimmy you stupid motherfucker!” I yelled, launching the bottle at him, wanting to silence those handsome eyes on that smiling face of his forever.
48
I REMEMBER SHAKING violently, but not knowing what was causing it. My poisoned and dehydrated mind was lost in the netherworld known only to hard drinkers. Then I saw something unmistakable, La Lena's silhouette. Just like the first time in the coffee shop. I watched her long, elegant arm rear back in slow motion, then snap forward too quickly for my eyes to follow. The impact to my face jolted my head into the hardwood floor.
“What did you do?” She repeated those words over and over sobbing hysterically until her strength faded. I'd only ever seen greater anguish on a face once, and that was on her face too, when Jefferson took Soul. She had the dubious distinction of holding the top two slots in the Most Anguished Face category of my mind. The third belonged to the VC who killed Jimmy, just after I'd plunged my M7 bayonet-knife into his gut up to the hilt.
T
hen she was on her knees beside me, her hands gently cradling my face with the same feminine hands that had just rocked me. I wanted to wipe away her tears but my hands were occupied supporting my unstable weight. I wanted to tell her everything would be OK too, but I didn't believe it, so I just sat dumbfounded. Then with her help I managed to stand. I'd been fastened to the floor by a pool of congealed blood that had seeped from my wasted arm. Spotty details came flooding back, and they were riding that all too familiar tidal wave of shame and regret.
She helped me into the bathroom and out of my clothes, then turned on the shower and steadied me as I got in. Standing wasn't an option. The room wasn't spinning, it was pulsing in and out of reality and it was too much to bear, so I sat in the tub and let the hot water wash away whatever bits of decay it could. She sat on the toilet watching, her labored breathing barely under control.
I dressed then she took me to the ER where we waited for hours before the doctor was able to remove the deep splinters, sew up the wounds, and set my sprained wrist.
Back at my place the sheer devastation I'd wrought walloped me like a two-by-four to the head. The kitchen floor was littered with shattered wood chunks and the contents of the cabinets I'd strewn about. A disturbingly large trail of blood led into the bedroom too. Had I been a third-rate detective I may have concluded that a murder-by-ax had taken place there the night before.
We ignored the mess and went straight into the bedroom. She pulled the blinds and we got into bed together. We hadn't shared a single word since we left the hospital, but before our exhausted bodies escaped into sleep I thanked her. I also told her she and Soul would be better off without me, and that they ought to run away at full speed and never look back.
Shakedown on Hate St Page 16