Blaze

by Richard Bachman

  Moochie walked down, wiping his hands on his apron. “Yo, Hankie.”

  “Chocolate egg cream for me,” Hank said. “Want one, George?”

  “Just coffee. Black.”

  Moochie went away. Hank said, “Blaze, like you to meet my brother-in-law. George Rackley, Clay Blaisdell.”

  “Hi,” Blaze said. This smelled like work.

  “Yo.” George shook his head. “You’re one big mother, know it?”

  Blaze laughed as if no one had ever observed he was one big mother before.

  “George is a card,” Hank said, grinning. “He’s a regular Bill Crosby. Only white.”

  “Sure,” Blaze said, still smiling.

  Moochie came back with Hankie’s egg cream and George’s coffee. George took a sip, grimaced. He looked at Moochie. “Do you always shit in your coffee cups, or do you sometimes use the pot, Sunshine?”

  Hank said to Moochie: “George don’t mean nothin by it.”

  George was nodding. “That’s right. I’m just a card, that’s all. Get lost a little while, Hankie. Go in the back and play pinball.”

  Hankie was still grinning. “Yeah, okay. Rightie-O.”

  When he was gone and Moochie was back down at the far end of the counter, George turned to Blaze again. “That retard says you might be lookin for work.”

  “That’s about right,” Blaze said.

  Hankie dropped coins into the pinball machine, then raised his hands and began to vocalize what might have been the theme from Rocky.

  George jerked his head at him. “Now that he’s out again, Hankie’s got big plans. A gas station in Malden.”

  “That so?” Blaze asked.

  “Yeah. Crime of the fuckin century. You want to make a hundred bucks this afternoon?”

  “Sure.” Blaze answered without hesitation.

  “Will you do exactly what I tell you?”

  “Sure. What’s the gag, Mr. Rackley?”

  “George. Call me George.”

  “What’s the gag, George?” Then he reconsidered the hot, urgent eyes and said, “I don’t hurt nobody.”

  “Me either. Bang-bang’s for mokes. Now listen.”

  That afternoon George and Blaze walked into Hardy’s, a thriving department store in Lynn. All the clerks in Hardy’s wore pink shirts with white arms. They also wore badges that said HI! I’M DAVE! Or JOHN! Or whoever. George was wearing one of those shirts under his outside shirt. His badge said HI! I’M FRANK! When Blaze saw that, he nodded and said, “That’s like an alias, right?”

  George smiled — not the one he’d used around Hankie Melcher — and said: “Yes, Blaze. Like an alias.”

  Something in that smile made Blaze relax. There was no hurt or mean in it. And since it was just the two of them on this gag, there was no one to nudge George in the ribs when Blaze said something dumb, and make him the outsider. Blaze wasn’t sure George would’ve grinned even if there had been someone else. He might have said something like Keep your fuckin elbows to yourself, shitmonkey. Blaze found himself liking someone for the first time since John Cheltzman died.

  George had hoed his own tough row through life. He had been born in the charity ward of a Providence Catholic hospital called St. Joseph’s: mother unwed, father unknown. She resisted the nuns’ suggestions that she give the boy up for adoption and used him as a club to beat her family with instead. George grew up on the patched-pants side of town and pulled his first con at the age of four. His mother was about to give him a whacking for spilling a bowl of Maypo. George told her a man had brought her a letter and left it in the hall. While she was looking for it, he locked her out of the apartment and booked it down the fire escape. His whacking later was double, but he never forgot the exhilaration of knowing he had won, at least for a little while; he would chase that I gotcha feeling the rest of his life. It was ephemeral but always sweet.

  He was a bright and bitter boy. Experience taught him things that losers like Hankie Melcher would never learn. George and three older acquaintances (he did not have pals) stole a car when George was eleven, took a joyride from Providence to Central Falls, got pinched. The fifteen-year-old who had been behind the wheel went to the reformatory. George and the other boys got probation. George also got a monster whacking from the gray-faced pimp his mother was by then living with. This was Aidan O’Kellaher, who had notoriously bad kidneys — hence his street-name, Pisser Kelly. Pisser beat on him until George’s half-sister screamed for him to stop.

  “You want some?” Pisser asked, and when Tansy shook her head he said, “Then shut your fucking airscoop.”

  George never stole another car without a reason. Once was enough to teach him there was no percentage in joyriding. It was a joyless world.

  At thirteen, he and a friend got caught boosting in Wool-worth’s. Probation again. And another whacking. George didn’t stop boosting, but improved his technique, and wasn’t caught again.

  When George was seventeen, Pisser got him a job running numbers. At this time, Providence was enjoying the sort of half-assed revival that passed for prosperity in the economically exhausted New England states. Numbers were going good. So was George. He bought nice clothes. He also began to jiggle his book. Pisser thought George a fine, enterprising boy; he was bringing in six hundred and fifty dollars every Wednesday. Unknown to his stepfather, George was socking away another two hundred.

  Then the Mob came north from Atlantic City. They took over the numbers. Some of the mid-level locals got pink-slipped. Pisser Kelly was pink-slipped to an automobile graveyard, where he was discovered with his throat cut and his balls in the glove compartment of a Chevrolet Biscayne.

  With his living taken away, George set off for Boston. He took his twelve-year-old sister with him. Tansy’s father was also unknown, but George had his suspicions; Pisser had had the same weak chin.

  During the next seven years, George refined any number of short cons. He also invented a few. His mother listlessly signed a paper making him Tansy Rackley’s legal guardian, and George kept the little whore in school. Came a day when he discovered she was skin-popping heroin. She was also, happy days, knocked up. Hankie Melcher was eager to marry her. George was surprised at first, then wasn’t. The world was full of fools falling all over themselves to show you how smart they were.

  George took to Blaze because Blaze was a fool with no pretensions. He wasn’t a sharpie, a dude, or a backroom Clyde. He didn’t shoot pool, let alone H. Blaze was a rube. He was a tool, and in their years together, George used him that way. But never badly. Like a good carpenter, George loved good tools — ones that worked like they were supposed to every time. He could turn his back on Blaze. He could go to sleep in a room where Blaze was awake, and know that when he woke up himself, the swag would still be under the bed.

  Blaze also calmed George’s starved and angry insides. That was no small thing. There came a day when George understood that if he said, “Blazer, you have to step off the top of this building, because it’s how we roll,” well, Blaze would do it. In a way, Blaze was the Cadillac George would never have — he had big springs when the road was rough.

  When they entered Hardy’s, Blaze went directly to menswear, as instructed. He wasn’t carrying his own wallet; he was carrying a cheap plastic job which contained fifteen dollars cash and ID tabbing him as David Billings, of Reading.

  As he entered the department, he stuck his hand in his back pocket — as if to check his wallet was still there — and pulled it three-quarters of the way out. When he bent over to check out some shirts on a low shelf, the wallet fell on the floor.

  This was the most delicate part of the operation. Blaze half-turned, keeping an eye on the wallet without seeming to keep an eye on it. To the casual observer, he would have seemed entirely engrossed in his inspection of the Van Heusen short-sleeves. George had laid it out for him carefully. If an honest man noticed the wallet, then all bets were off and they would move on to Kmart. Sometimes it took as many as half a dozen stops before
the gag paid off.

  “Gee,” Blaze said. “I didn’t know so many people were honest.”

  “They’re not,” George said with a wintry smile. “But plenty are scared. And keep your eye on that fuckin wallet. If someone dips it on you, you’re out fifteen bucks and I’m out ID worth a lot more.”

  That day in Hardy’s they had beginner’s luck. A man wearing a shirt with an alligator on the tit strolled up the aisle, spied the wallet, then looked both ways down the aisle to see if anyone was coming. No one was. Blaze exchanged one shirt for another and then held it up in front of him in the mirror. His heart was pumping like a sweetmother.

  Wait until he pockets it, George said. Then raise holy hell.

  The man in the alligator shirt hooked the wallet against the rack of sweaters he was looking at. Then he reached into his pocket, took out his car-keys, and dropped them on the floor. Oops. He bent down to get them and gleeped the wallet at the same time. He shoved them both into his front pants pocket, then started to stroll off.

  Blaze let out a bull bellow. “Thief! Thief! Yeah, YOU!”

  Shoppers turned and craned their necks. Clerks looked around. The floorwalker spotted the source of the trouble and began to hurry toward them, pausing at a cash register location to push a button labeled Special.

  The man with the alligator on his tit went pale — looked around — bolted. He got four steps before Blaze collared him.

  Rough him up but don’t hurt him, George had said. Keep hollering. And whatever you do, don’t let him ditch that wallet. If he looks like he’s tryin to get rid of it, knee him in the jukebox.

  Blaze grabbed the man by the shoulders and began shaking him up and down like a man with a bottle of medicine. The man in the alligator shirt, maybe a Walt Whitman fan, voiced his barbaric yawp. Change flew from his pockets. He stuck a hand in the pocket with the wallet in it, just as George had said he might, and Blaze popped him one in the nuts — not too hard. The man in the alligator shirt screamed.

  “I’ll teachya to steal my wallet!” Blaze screamed at the guy’s face. He was getting into it now. “I’ll killya!”

  “Somebody get him off me!” the guy screamed. “Get him off!”

  One of the menswear clerks poked his nose in. “Hey, that’s enough!”

  George, who had been examining casual wear, unbuttoned his outer shirt, took it off with absolutely no effort at concealment, and stashed it under a stack of Beefy Tees. No one was looking at him, anyway. They were looking at Blaze, who gave a mighty tug and tore the shirt with the alligator on the tit right down the middle.

  “Break it up!” the clerk was shouting. “Cool it!”

  “Sonofabitch has got my wallet!” Blaze cried.

  A large crowd of rubberneckers began to gather. They wanted to see if Blaze would kill the guy he had hold of before the floorwalker or store detective or some other person in authority arrived.

  George punched NO SALE on one of the two Menswear Department cash registers and began scooping out the currency. His pants were too large, and a pouch — sort of like a hidden fanny-pack — was sewn in the front. He stuffed the bills in there, taking his time. Tens and twenties first — there were even some fifties, beginner’s luck indeed — then fives and ones.

  “Break it up!” the floorwalker was yelling as he cut through the crowd. Hardy’s did have a store detective, and he followed on the floorwalker’s heels. “That’s enough! Hold it!”

  The store detective shoved himself between Blaze and the man in the torn alligator shirt.

  Stop fighting when the store dick comes, George had said, but keep making like you want to kill the guy.

  “Check his pocket!” Blaze yelled. “Sonofabitch dipped me!”

  “I picked a wallet up off the floor,” the alligator-man admitted, “and was just glancing around for the possible owner when this — this thug—”

  Blaze lunged at him. The alligator-man cringed away. The store dick pushed Blaze back. Blaze didn’t mind. He was having fun.

  “Easy, big fella. Down, boy.”

  The floorwalker, meanwhile, asked the alligator-man for his name.

  “Peter Hogan.”

  “Dump out your pockets, Mr. Hogan.”

  “I certainly will not!”

  The store dick said, “Dump em out or I’ll call the cops.”

  George strolled toward the escalator, looking as alert and lively as the best Hardy’s employee who ever punched a time-clock.

  Peter Hogan considered whether or not to stand on his rights, then dumped out his pockets. When the crowd saw the cheap brown wallet, it went ahhhh.

  “That’s it,” Blaze said. “That’s mine. He must’ve took it out of my back pocket while I was lookin at shirts.”

  “ID in it?” the store dick asked, flipping open the wallet.

  For a horrible moment Blaze went blank. Then it seemed like George was standing right there beside him. David Billings, Blaze.

  “Sure, Dave Billings,” Blaze said. “Me.”

  “How much cash in it?”

  “Not much. Fifteen bucks or so.”

  The store dick looked at the floorwalker and nodded. The crowd ahhh-ed again. The store dick handed the wallet to Blaze, who pocketed it.

  “You come with me,” the store dick said. He grabbed Hogan’s arm.

  The floorwalker said, “Break it up, folks, this is all over. Hardy’s is full of bargains this week, and I urge you to shop them.” Blaze thought he sounded as good as a radio announcer; it was no wonder he had such a responsible job.

  To Blaze, the floorwalker said: “Will you come with me, sir?”

  “Yeah.” Blaze glared at Hogan. “Just let me get the shirt I wanted.”

  “I think you’ll find that your shirt is a gift from Hardy’s today. But we would like to see you briefly on the third floor, ask for Mr. Flaherty. Room 7.”

  Blaze nodded and turned to the shirts again. The floorwalker left. Not far away, one of the clerks was getting ready to punch NO SALE on the register George had robbed.

  “Hey, you!” Blaze said to him, then beckoned.

  The clerk came over — but not too close. “May I help you, sir?”

  “This joint got a lunch counter?”

  The clerk looked relieved. “First floor.”

  “You the man,” Blaze said. He made a gun of his right thumb and forefinger, tipped the clerk a wink, and strolled off toward the escalator. The clerk watched him go. By the time he got back to his register, where all the bill compartments in the tray were now empty, Blaze was out on the street. George was waiting in a rusty old Ford. And off they drove.

  They scored three hundred and forty dollars. George split it right down the middle. Blaze was ecstatic. It was the easiest job he had ever done. George was a mastermind. They would pull the gag all over town.

  George took all this with the modesty of a third-rate magician who has just run the jacks at a children’s birthday party. He didn’t tell Blaze the gimmick went back to his grammar school days, when two buckies would start a fight by the meat-counter and a third would scoop the till while the owner was breaking it up. Nor did he tell Blaze they would be collared the third time they tried it, if not the second. He simply nodded and shrugged and enjoyed the big guy’s amazement. Amazement? Blaze was fucking awestruck.

  They drove into Boston, stopped at a liquor store, and picked up two fifths of Old Granddad. Then they went to a double feature at the Constitution on Washington Street and watched car-chases and men with automatic weapons. When they left at ten o’clock that evening, they were both blotto. All four hubcaps had been stolen off the Ford. George was mad, even though the hubcaps had been as shitty as the rest of the car. Then he saw someone had also keyed off his VOTE DEMOCRAT bumper-sticker and started to laugh. He sat down on the curb, laughing until tears rolled down his sallow cheeks.

  “Taken off by a Reagan-lover,” he said. “My fuckin word.”

  “Maybe the guy who spoiled your fumper-licker wasn’t the
same guy was took your wheelcaps,” Blaze said, sitting down beside George. His head was whirling, but it was a good whirl. A nice whirl.

  “Fumper-licker!” George cried. He bent over as if he had a stomach cramp, but he was screaming with laughter. He tromped his feet up and down. “I always knew there was a word for Barry Goldwater! Fuckin fumper-licker!” Then he stopped laughing. He looked at Blaze with swimming, solemn eyes and said, “Blazer, I just pissed myself.”

  Blaze began to laugh. He laughed until he fell back on the sidewalk. He had never laughed so hard, not even with John Cheltzman.

  Two years later, George was busted for passing bad checks. Blaze’s luck was in again. He was getting over the flu, and George was alone when the cops grabbed him outside of a Danvers bar. He got three years — a stiff sentence for first-time forgery — but George was a known bunco and the judge was a known hardass. Perhaps even a fumper-licker. It was twenty months, with time served and time off for good behavior.

  Before the sentencing, George took Blaze aside. “I’m going to Walpole, big boy. A year at least. Probably longer.”

  “But your lawyer—”

  “The fuckhead couldn’t defend the Pope on a rape charge. Listen: you stay away from Moochie’s.”

  “But Hank said if I came around, he could—”

  “And stay away from Hankie, too. Get a straight job until I come out, that’s how you roll. Don’t go trying to pull any cons on your own. You’re too goddam dumb. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Yeah,” Blaze said, and grinned. But he felt like crying.

  George saw it and punched Blaze on the arm. “You’ll be fine,” he said.

  Then, as Blaze left, George called to him. Blaze turned. George made an impatient gesture at his forehead. Blaze nodded and swerved the bill of his cap around to the good-luck side. He grinned. But inside he still felt like crying.

  He tried his old job, but it was too square after life with George. He quit and looked for something better. For awhile he was a bouncer at a place in the Combat Zone, but he was no good at it. His heart was too soft.