Too Mean to Die

by Len Levinson

  “I don’t want to go anywhere with you!” Nettie screamed. “You’re a crazy son of a bitch!”

  “You heard her,” the madam said. “She don’t wanna go anywhere with you. You’re a little out of line. Why don’t you just walk out of here and we’ll forget about everything.”

  Bannon turned and looked at Nettie. “I’m going through a lot of trouble for you. Now, come on, goddammit!”

  “You’re not doing anything for me!” she shrieked. “You’re just doing it for yourself!”

  “Come on, soldier!” said the madam. “Why don’t you leave under your own steam while you’ve got the chance?”

  “I ain’t leaving without Nettie.”

  “I ain’t gonna ask you again.”

  “Come on, Nettie,” Bannon pleaded. “I’ll make an honest woman out of you.”

  “I am an honest woman!” Nettie hollered.

  “Soldier,” said the madam, “this is your last chance.”

  “Listen, Nettie,” Bannon said, “just put one foot in front of the other one and follow me.”

  “No!”

  The madam got out of the way and the two bouncers stepped forward. The one on the left wore a gray suit that was too tight for him, and the one on the right had on a shirt without a tie and the sleeves rolled up, showing massive hairy arms.

  “Let’s go, feller,” the one on the left said, holding out his hand to grab Bannon’s arm.

  Bannon jumped back out of range like a cat. He crouched down and looked at the two bouncers as they approached him cautiously.

  “Somebody call the cops,” the madam said, and one of the girls in the doorway ran off down the corridor.

  The bouncers moved toward Bannon. “Don’t make it hard on yourself,” the one in the suit said. He had cauliflower ears and had probably been a prizefighter. “Don’t make us get tough with you.”

  The bouncers were big tough guys, but they didn’t know who they were messing with. Bannon had been in hundreds of hand-to-hand fights with Japanese soldiers on Guadalcanal, and violence was as natural to him as fucking was to a whore.

  “You lay a hand on me,” Bannon said, “and it’ll be your ass.”

  “Come on,” the bouncer in the suit said. “Let’s hit the road.”

  The bouncer laid his hand on Bannon’s shoulder and, quick as a cat, Bannon ducked under his hand and punched him with all his strength in the stomach. Bannon’s fist went in almost to the wrist, and the bouncer said “oof,” bending over. Bannon hit him with an uppercut that straightened him out and sent him flying against the wail. He crashed against the wall and sank down, dazed.

  One of the women handed a billy club to the other bouncer, the one wearing the shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

  “Don’t make me use this,” the bouncer said, holding the club in his fist with the end pointing at the ceiling.

  “Put that thing away or I’ll make you eat it,” Bannon said.

  “Soldier boy, you’re getting to be a real pain in the ass around here.”

  Bannon turned to Nettie. “You can still come out of here with me.”

  “You can go straight to hell!”

  The bouncer swung down the billy club, and Bannon reached up and grabbed his wrist, stopping it in midair; at the same time he kneed the bouncer in the balls. The bouncer moaned and sank to his knees, clutching his groin with both hands. Bannon kicked him in the chops and sent him reeling backward.

  Women screamed, holding their fists against their ears. Bannon lunged toward Nettie and grabbed her wrist.

  “You’re coming with me!” he said.

  She didn’t say anything because she was scared to death. Bannon pulled her toward the door, but meanwhile the bouncer in the suit had picked himself off the floor and lurched in front of the door to block Bannon’s way.

  “Hold it right there,” said the bouncer, his lip bleeding from where Bannon hit him with the uppercut.

  “If you don’t get out of my way, I’m gonna go right the fuck over you,” Bannon told him, holding Nettie tightly.

  “Oh, yeah?”

  The bouncer reached into his pocket and pulled out a switchblade knife. He hit the button and the blade snapped out. He held the knife with his thumb on the blade and the blade pointing straight up in the air.

  “Put that knife away!” the madam yelled.

  The bouncer looked at Bannon and turned down the corners of his mouth. “Soldier boy, you fucked with the wrong guy. I’m gonna cut you up.”

  Bannon saw the knife flashing in the light of the electric lamps and didn’t take his eyes off it. He let go of Nettie, who ran to a corner and leaned against it, her face as white as the wallpaper. Bannon reached into his pocket and took out the cheap switchblade he’d bought at the pawnshop earlier in the day. He pushed his thumbnail against the safety and pressed the button. The blade opened out with a loud clack and Bannon waved it from side to side in the air while he spread his legs apart and got set.

  “Come on, motherfucker,” Bannon said. “Cut me up.”

  Bannon shifted his weight from one foot to the other as the bouncer advanced stealthily, light on his feet for such a bulky man. Bannon moved to his right and they began to circle each other. The bouncer feinted with his knife, and Bannon adjusted his posture to meet the thrust that never came. Bannon feinted and the bouncer raised his free hand. They continued to circle each other. The room was so quiet that the breathing of Bannon and the bouncer could be heard, along with the terrified gasps of little Nettie. Bannon and the bouncer were both big men, although the bouncer was bigger, and both felt at home with knives in their hands, but there was one fundamental difference between them: The bouncer had never killed anyone in his life, and Bannon had killed many men. Bannon knew that fights with knives usually ended quickly after somebody made the first move. As he circled the bouncer he wondered whether to make the first move himself and have the advantage of surprise on his side, or entice the bouncer to make the first move, which would leave the bouncer open for a stab.

  The bouncer feinted suddenly and Bannon stepped backward, but then the bouncer thrust his knife forward, directly at Bannon’s stomach, and Bannon dodged to the side, the bouncer’s knife slicing empty air.

  “I’m over here,” Bannon said with a grim smile.

  The bouncer turned to face him. Sweat ran down the bouncer’s face and covered the top of his head, which was bald. Bannon’s sudden move surprised the bouncer and rattled his confidence. He knew now that Bannon was faster than he, but he was sure he was stronger. If he could get close to Bannon, he thought he could muscle him and stick his knife in a soft spot.

  The bouncer had been a boxer, and he knew that when you fight a man faster than you, the only thing to do is cut off the ring and get in close so you can pound his guts out. He thought the same principle would apply to Bannon, so instead of circling he switched direction and tried to get closer, confident he could grab Bannon’s knife hand and then push his own knife into Bannon’s heart.

  Bannon moved the other way and the bouncer changed direction again, moving closer. Bannon switched again and the bouncer reached out suddenly to grab Bannon’s wrist, but his big hand closed on thin air, and in the next second he felt a horrible tearing pain in his stomach, a pain so overwhelming that his knees buckled and he nearly passed out.

  Bannon pulled his switch out of the bouncer’s gut as the screams of the women echoed in his ears. He reared his arm back and slashed through the air, severing the bouncer’s windpipe and jugular vein, blood spurting onto the rug.

  The bouncer collapsed at Bannon’s feet and lay still, blood pouring out his neck and throat. The women were hysterical and Bannon knew he was in a whole world of trouble. He took his handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped off the knife, then dropped it onto the dead body of the bouncer.

  Meanwhile the women wept and slobbered, hugging each other, certain he was a madman who would massacre them all. But Bannon was as calm and cool as he was when in combat.
r />   “Get away from the door!” he commanded.

  The women near the door whimpered and fled to both sides of the room, shivering, holding their hands to their mouths. Bannon turned around and looked at Nettie, who was sitting on the floor, staring into space like a soldier who’d been shelled for forty-eight hours. Bannon didn’t say anything to her, because there was nothing left to say.

  He walked to the door, opened it up and stepped into the hall. He heard footsteps coming up stairs. The roof, he thought, I've got to get up there. He ran toward the stairs and jumped up several of them, then realized that people were coming down the stairs also. He recalled that someone had been sent to call the police earlier. They must be closing in on him.

  He ran back to the room, and the women screamed again. They were bending over the body of the bouncer, and they scattered as Bannon leaped over the bed and landed next to the window. He opened it up and looked outside. There was no fire escape, only a three-story drop, and just then the alley below filled up from both ends with uniformed cops who had their guns out.

  Bannon spun around and heard footsteps in the corridor outside. He’d left the door open and realized that had been a mistake. He stomped toward the dead body of the bouncer and picked up his switchblade, because when combat soldiers are in trouble they tend to pick up weapons.

  A cop appeared in the doorway, looked at Bannon, saw the knife in his hand, thought for a moment that it was a gun, and nearly shot him down. But before his finger could move the final eighth of an inch on the trigger, he realized it was only a knife.

  The cop entered the room, followed by other cops. They were swarthy-skinned Hawaiians and looked scared to death.

  “Drop that knife!” one of the cops said.

  Bannon looked at the barrels of all the guns pointing to him and knew he didn’t have a chance. He dropped the knife and it clattered onto the floor.

  “Hold your hands over your head!”

  Bannon raised his hands over his head and two cops rushed toward him, slapping him down for concealed weapons.

  “He’s clean,” one of them said.

  “Cuff him.”

  “Hold out your hands!” a cop said to Bannon.

  Bannon held out his hands and the cop snapped the cuffs on. The cop grabbed Bannon by the collar of his shirt and pushed him toward the door. Bannon turned around and saw Nettie sitting on the floor, looking at him. Their eyes met and Bannon wanted to say something clever, but he couldn’t think of anything.

  The cop pushed Bannon into the corridor, full of cops staring and aiming their guns at him.

  “You’re under arrest!” he heard a voice say.

  The cops gathered around Bannon and dragged him toward the stairs.

  FIVE . . .

  The taxicab turned the corner and drove down a quiet residential street on the outskirts of Honolulu. Butsko sat in the backseat, smoking a cigarette, looking at the one-story stucco homes that lined the street. It was night, and lights shone through the windows of the homes, while street lamps lit their facades. It wasn’t a fancy or expensive neighborhood, and on front lawns were kids’ tricycles, broken dolls, and cars that had been cannibalized for parts to keep other cars going. It all looked familiar to Butsko, because he’d lived with Dolly on this street until they broke up nearly two years earlier.

  Halfway down the street Butsko heard blaring music. It was a recording of one of the big bands; he couldn’t identify which one because he wasn’t up on things like that.

  “Which house?” asked the driver.

  “A little farther down the block, on the right.”

  Butsko took a drag from his cigarette and blew the smoke out the side of his mouth. This street had been full of cop cars on the night he punched Dolly out. Oh, what a scene that had been. They’d taken him away in a paddy wagon and locked him in the Honolulu jail, and then he was transferred to the Schofield Barracks post stockade. Dolly went to the hospital to have her jaw wired up. I really shouldn’t be coming back here, Butsko told himself, but he couldn’t help it. He’d fought with himself but he’d lost. Something was pulling him out here and he was going along with it. Maybe I'm still in love with the bitch—I don’t know.

  The music became louder as Butsko approached his house, and he realized that that was where it was coming from. All the lights were on in the house: Dolly must be having a party. Dolly always loved parties.

  “Stop right over there,” Butsko said.

  “You got it, Sarge.”

  The cabdriver veered to the right, coasted a few feet, and applied the brakes. The taxicab stopped in front of Butsko’s old house.

  “Three-eighty,” said the cabdriver.

  Butsko reached into his pocket and took out his roll of bills. He looked at the house, and something told him not to go in. If Dolly was having a party, she probably had some guys there, and Butsko might be tempted to punch one of them in the mouth.

  “I said three-eighty,” the cabdriver said. He was a little old Chinese man.

  “I heard you,” Butsko said. “I’m thinking.”

  The cabdriver wanted to get nasty, but Butsko was a big ugly man and the cabdriver didn’t want any trouble. He looked in the rearview mirror at Butsko gazing at the house.

  I really should tell the driver to take me back to town, Butsko thought. There’s nothing in there for me but trouble.

  But then he heard a woman’s loud, raucous laughter above the music; he’d know that laugh anywhere. It was Dolly having a good time. On his allotment. In the house he’d put a down payment on. With some other guy.

  Butsko became mad. He felt as if Dolly were making a fool out of him. The least he could do was let her know that she wasn’t making a fool out of him. In fact, he ought to tell her that he was going to see a lawyer the next day about divorcing her ass. That ought to stop the bitch from laughing.

  Butsko gave a five-dollar bill to the cabdriver. “Keep the change, Charlie.”

  “My name not Charlie.”

  Butsko pushed open the door and stepped onto the sidewalk. He threw his cigarette butt down, stomped on it, and hiked up his pants. He still was a little woozy from the drinks he’d had with his men. It had been a lot of fun, but they’d better not act too chummy with him when they got back to Guadalcanal, because a platoon sergeant can’t be effective if he’s too chummy with his men. You’ve got to keep them afraid of you and kick ass whenever they get out of line.

  The cab drove away and Butsko walked toward the front door of his house. He heard the music and sound of voices, male and female. That fucking Dolly. Throwing parties on his allotment while he was getting shot by at the Japs. It was enough to piss a man off.

  Butsko walked up to the front door and pounded his fist on it. He waited a few seconds and nothing happened, so he pounded again. The music and charter continued and he decided he wasn’t knocking loud enough, so he reared back his fist and really hammered hard, nearly putting his hand through the door.

  A few seconds later the door opened up and a staff sergeant stood there, a glass in his hand. Behind the staff sergeant Butsko could see people dancing.

  “Who’re you?” the staff sergeant asked, squinting his eyes at Butsko.

  “This is my fucking house!” Butsko said. “Who’re you?”

  The staff sergeant blinked. “Whataya mean, this is your house?”

  “Get outta my way!”

  Butsko pushed him to the side and entered his living room. Men and women were everywhere, dancing and talking, holding glasses. Most of them wore uniforms and everyone looked at him with question marks in their eyes. Just then Dolly entered the room through another door, carrying a bottle of whiskey, and when she looked at Butsko she stopped cold, turned green, and dropped the bottle.

  A sailor with fast reflexes dived toward the floor and caught it before it broke. Dolly stared at Butsko for a few moments, and he stared at her. She wore a bright red dress and had gained weight since he had seen her last. Her brown hair was curled and
waved in an imitation movie-star glamor hairdo. All conversation stopped and somebody lifted the needle off the record. Dolly pulled herself together and put her hands on her hips.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” she said.

  “This is my fucking house!” Butsko replied. “What are all these people doing here?”

  She pointed her finger at him. “You can’t come here! I got a court order out on you!”

  “Shove it up your ass!” Butsko said.

  A Marine taller than Butsko and nearly as broad, with gunnery sergeant stripes on his sleeves, stepped away from the wall. “This guy giving you some trouble, Dolly?”

  Butsko looked at the Marine and narrowed his eyes. Who is this scumbag? he thought. He thought he knew. The Marine was probably Dolly’s boyfriend or had aspirations in that direction. The Marine looked like he could handle himself, but Butsko was sure he could whip his ass.

  Dolly looked at both of them and knew a war was about to start in her living room unless she cooled things out. Moreoever, she was living comfortably thanks to Butsko’s allotment, and she didn’t want to antagonize him if she didn’t have to.

  “Well,” she said, clasping her hands together and smiling broadly at Butsko, “you took me by surprise, Johnny. I haven’t seen you for so long, after all.” She walked towards him, playing the gracious hostess, and held out her hand. “You’re always welcome here, Johnny. Let’s let bygones be bygones—what the hell.”

  She took his hand and squeezed it. This was the one contingency he wasn’t prepared for. He was ready to argue with her or beat the shit out of the Marine, but be didn’t know what to do now, because deep in his heart he still loved the bitch, despite everything.

  “Yeah—okay,” he said nervously. “Sure thing.”

  She could see that she’d caught him off guard, and her confidence returned. She’d always been able to handle the big lug before, except for the time he found her in bed with Sergeant Steeley, but nobody could hope to handle a man in those circumstances.