A Perfect Shot

by Robin Yocum

  “The lesson lasted all of ten seconds. I popped him in the temple with a right hook, and the sonofabitch was out for fifteen minutes. I looked at the old man and asked, ‘Who’s next?’ That was the last time I ever held a spit bucket. I was good, Duke, really good. I had a left jab that kept ’em honest, and a right hook that put ’em to sleep. I won three Ohio Valley Golden Gloves titles and two Ohio State Fair championships. In fact, I won every time I stepped into the ring as an amateur. I was a few tune-up fights away from going pro.”

  He halted the story, sipped his wine, and stared at Duke. “So, what happened?” Duke asked.

  “Rather than go professional in boxing, I decided to go to the state penitentiary. I got hooked up with this heavyweight named Alexander Vojnovich, a Russian immigrant who lived in a little apartment over top of Whiteman’s Drug Store. I’m up there one day, and in the corner of the room is a safe door mounted against a frame of two-by-eights. He was a safecracker, but not a very good one. I go over, kneel down, and start messing with it. Turns out, I was a better safecracker than boxer. I got it open in a couple of minutes. Vojnovich says to me in this thick Russian accent, ‘You and me, Carmine, we could make a fortune.’

  “Hell, I never had two nickels to rub together, so a fortune sounded pretty good to me. That night, we broke into the A&P and I cracked the safe. Opened it like that.” He snapped his fingers. “We split four hundred dollars, and life was grand until the Russian got drunk and punched a cop a month later. He tells the cops that he’ll cut ’em a deal—says he knows a kid who’s been bragging that he did the A&P job, and he bets the kid’s fingerprints were all over the safe. They were, of course. Vojnovich dodged the assault charge, and I went to prison for four years. I was still young, and I figured I would get out of the joint and go back to boxing. But, while I’m in prison, I try to defend a buddy of mine in a fight and get hit in the eye with a chair. Lost the peripheral vision in my right eye. Good-bye, boxing career.”

  “That’s rough, Carmine.”

  “It’s reality, my friend. I think I could have been a world champion. Instead . . .” He nodded toward the lounge. “We all made decisions, good and bad, and we have to live with them, but there’s not a day that goes by that I don’t think about the bad ones.” He took a swallow of wine. “Anyway . . . after I got out of the joint, I got a job at the Fort Steuben Tobacco Shop, which was a front for a numbers-and-gambling operation for the Carlucci family in Youngstown. It was steady, and it beat working in the steel mill. I was going to work there a while, save some dough, and move to California—you know, get a fresh start. Donald Percy owned the cigar store and the lounge down the street here, which he was always bitchin’ about. He’s complaining about it one day, and I offer to buy it. I’d saved a couple grand, so he sells it to me. It was easy work. I collected bets and funneled them through the Carluccis, and I got 8 percent of the vig. It looked good on paper, but I was barely making enough to keep the place open. There were too many places in town taking bets.

  “About that time, early ’52, there was a turf war when the Antonellis started moving into the valley. It got bloody for a while, but the Carlucci family was no match for the Antonellis. They’re vicious sons of bitches, and they muscled the Carluccis out. On June 3, 1952, I remember it like a heart attack, ‘Quiet Al’ Antonelli shows up at the lounge and he’s holding the deed to the building. I figure he’s going to push me out, but he offers me a deal. He’ll sell me the building at a low interest rate, but it goes up two-tenths a year. He ups my part of the vig to 10 percent to start, but it drops two-tenths a year. He says he’s going to cut down on the number of places taking bets, so I’ll be able to cover the payments and make up the vig on volume. It seemed like a good deal at the time. I got a chance to buy the building, but they set their hooks into me, Duke, and I’ve been under the thumb of those bastards ever since. I still ain’t paid off that building, and every year the percentage I pay the Antonellis increases. I can’t keep it open much longer. Once I can’t pay ’em, they’ll take the lounge, and I’m out, and they’ll get some other chump to take over. It’s just a matter of time.”

  “That’s not a smart business move for them to let you go under.”

  Carmine frowned. “Are you listenin’ to me? These guys ain’t Wall Street investment types. It’s about control. They got me, and when they’re done, they’ll dispose of me. A few years back, Tony DeMarco thought I was shorting the Antonellis on their take. Frankly, he’s perceptive as hell because that’s exactly what I was doing. I thought I could squeeze a little off the top without being noticed, and I did for a while, but I got greedy. Tony sees the receipts are off and comes into the lounge with that devil dog of his and one of his goons, Emilio something-or-other, and accuses me of skimming. Of course, I lied my ass off. I said, ‘The bets aren’t coming in like they used to. Times are tough with so many guys being laid off at the mill.’ He says, ‘Carmine, mill rats always got money for booze, smokes, and gambling.’ The next thing I know, Emilio something-or-other’s got me by the back of the neck and I’m spread-eagle across the pool table—broke two ribs—and he’s grinding my face into the felt. You understand what’s going on here, Duke? This is my lounge. This is a place that I worked my ass off to keep, and now these two fucks are in there, knocking me around. Tony lets that Rottweiler of his jump up on my pool table, and gives him just enough leash so that his face is about an inch from mine. He’s barking, growling, blowing spit and snot all over my face, stinkin’ to high heaven. Tony said the next time I cheated him, he’d let go of the leash. ‘You’re lucky I don’t tell Mr. Antonelli,’ he says, ‘If this happens again, Carmine, I’ll let The Great Zeus chew your ugly face off.’ And he meant it. The bastard took every dime I made that day, and, before he left, he let that fuckin’ dog jump back up on my pool table to take a shit. I never saw a dog shit on command, but I swear that bastard did.”

  He drained his glass of wine and refilled it. “That’s my life, Duke. The Antonellis control it. I’m like a damn puppet. Don’t get me wrong, I knew when I got into the gambling business I wasn’t going to be dealing with the cream of society, but once those bastards get their fingers in your pockets, it never ends.”

  Duke blew out his air. “Man, I’m sorry, Carmine.”

  “You don’t have to be sorry, you just got to be smart.” He tapped his forehead twice with the tip of an index finger. “Don’t let them get their hooks in you. You’ve got to fight that, no matter how hard DeMarco pushes. You know where I wanted to be by this time in my life? I wanted to be living in Florida in one of those little pink or aqua houses on the beach, someplace where I could walk out my back door and feel the sand squish between my toes. I’d have me one of those Adirondack chairs, and every morning I’d sit there and sip my coffee, smell the saltwater, and watch the sun come up over the ocean. Instead, I never see a sunrise because of the smoke and shit that belches out of that mill. Instead of breathin’ in the ocean, I gotta go to work and smell stale cigars and stinkin’ steelworkers.” He looked at Duke and raised his brows. “No offense.”

  Duke laughed. “None taken.”

  Carmine groaned as he pushed himself off the stool, tossed back his wine, and set the empty tumbler on the two-by-ten before waddling toward the door. “Be smart, my friend.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  The halls, Duke recalled, had seemed particularly bright that morning, as though the white paint was luminescent and emitting a stark light. He had just walked through the front door when he was greeted by an unfamiliar nurse who was young and pretty and had chestnut hair that hung in soft curls around her face. She smiled and said, “We have a surprise for you today, Mr. Ducheski.”

  She escorted Duke down the hall, though he had been there thousands of times. When she stopped in front of Timmy’s room, she gestured toward the closed door with an open, upright palm, like a spokesmodel pointing out the features of a new Oldsmobile. When he walked into Timmy’s room, the boy was sitting on the side of th
e bed, a happy nine-year-old in cuffed jeans, a white T-shirt, and black, high-top basketball shoes—Chuck Taylor All-Stars, the same kind his father had worn in the big game. Timmy’s hair was combed and neat, his teeth polished and straight. When he smiled, the boy had a dimple in his left cheek, which Duke had never before noticed. “Hey, Dad, where have you been?” Timmy asked. “I’ve been waiting forever.”

  Forever, Duke thought. Yes, it had seemed like forever.

  The boy snatched two baseball gloves and a ball off the bed and started toward the door. “Let’s get out of here and go play a game of catch, okay, Dad?”

  Duke grabbed hold of the doorjamb for support, his knees buckling at the sight of his only son walking across the room. “Timmy, you . . . you can talk.”

  Timmy beamed. “I know. It’s great, isn’t it? Can we go now?”

  Duke didn’t get a chance to answer his son. It was at that instant that he bolted upright in his bed, with tiny beads of sweat dotting his forehead, his heart thumping against his ribcage, and blood pounding in his ears. The dream had been so real, so vivid, that it took him a full minute to convince himself that it had been just that—a dream. Still, he jumped out of bed and began throwing on clothes.

  The banging of dresser drawers awoke Nina. She turned on the lamp on her nightstand and asked, “What are you doing?”

  “I’ve got to go see Timmy.”

  She squinted at the alarm clock on the nightstand. “It’s three twenty in the morning.”

  “I think something’s happened. I think Timmy’s made some improvement, or something. I’ve got to go see.”

  “Why don’t you wait until morning?”

  He was already out the bedroom door and heading down the stairs, still running his belt through the loops of his jeans. It was a twenty-minute drive from their home on Frank Avenue in Mingo Junction to the Heinzmann Convalescent Center on John Scott Highway in Steubenville. He rapped on the locked door until one of the nurses let him in. “I’ve got to see Timmy,” he said. He was no stranger to the nurse, and she opened the door. Duke ran down the hall until he got to Timmy’s door. He took a breath and slowly pushed it open. A small mound of blankets pooled in the middle of the bed. Gently, he peeled them away from his only son.

  Nothing had changed.

  Timmy was curled in a fetal position, the skin taut and shiny over the bones of his face, a line of drool running from the corner of his mouth to the pillow.

  He sat alone in the room and cried for an hour.

  More than a decade after the dream, Duke could still hear his son’s voice. It had been clear and happy and strong. “Hey, Dad, where have you been?” He was certain it had been Timmy talking to him. It was his voice; it was what he would have sounded like, if only he could talk. For years, Duke had vowed to get Timmy out of that place. That, like the dream, was just another fantasy. In his heart, he knew there was only one way Timmy Ducheski would ever leave the convalescent center.

  Duke was still in his mill clothes when he went up to visit Timmy after work the day after Carmine DiBassio had made his late-night visit to Duke’s Place.

  They had cut the boy’s hair that morning, leaving an army of black, quarter-inch bristles standing at attention around his head. It was done for sanitary reasons, but Duke hated it. It made the boy’s appearance even more pathetic. Duke took a red bandana from his hip pocket and wiped at the line of drool that was running down the boy’s chin and neck and soaking the collar of his gown. There was a folding chair in the corner, and Duke pulled it next to the bed. Timmy’s eyes were focused on a time and place far removed from his surroundings, and they didn’t move; there was no hint of recognition. He ran his hand back and forth over the bristles and said, “Hey, partner, I see they gave you your Marine buzz today, huh? Looks good. Looks sharp.” His hand slid down the back of Timmy’s head to a boney shoulder. “We’re about ready to start putting the bar back together. It won’t be long until we’ll have Duke’s Place open for business. Pretty cool, huh, Timbo? Wait ’til you see it; it’s going to be something. Hey, look what I brought you—some carnations—red ones. They had them on sale at the florist.” Duke snagged the dozen flowers from the foot of the bed and held them in front of Timmy’s eyes, twisting them like a kaleidoscope. “Pretty, huh? They smell good, too.” From the bottom of the nightstand he retrieved the vase he kept for Timmy’s flowers. He tried to keep flowers in the room—reds and yellows and oranges. He told himself that, like his dad, Timmy liked bright colors. He filled the vase with water from the bathroom sink and placed it on the dresser in front of Timmy, in line where his lifeless eyes seemed to be locked.

  He looked so tiny and pitiful in the hospital bed, his knees drawn up and crossed at the ankles; hands drawn up, limp and crossed at the wrists. The pupils looked upward as though fighting for daylight against the sagging lids. Soft, black facial hair covered his upper lip and crept down along his cheeks and under his chin. His flaccid muscle tissue was hardly noticeable under the translucent skin. His body was nourished by the bag of chalky fluid that ran directly into his stomach. His brain remained locked away in an unknown, unreachable expanse. It never got any easier. The visits were as painful now as they had been when Timmy was an infant and the wounds to Duke’s psyche fresh.

  Timmy should have graduated from high school by now and been enrolled in college, maybe playing basketball. Duke would have taught him his signature move—the jigger and the trigger. It should have been a time when Duke could still wrestle him into submission on the living room floor, but would feel it getting more difficult with each bout. His next birthday would be his twenty-second. There should be a woman in his life. They should be golfing and fishing and driving up to Pittsburgh to watch the Pirates on Sunday afternoons.

  Instead, there were just quiet visits amid the odors, stains, sounds, and florescent lights of the institution. The nurses and staff gave Timmy wonderful care, but Duke hated that place. They were always cleaning, but it still reeked of urine and rotting flesh and disinfectant. A trip down the hall revealed room after room of those too infirm or old or mentally impaired to take care of themselves. It pained him greatly that his son was destined to spend his entire life in diapers, surrounded by the moans and wild screams of those who would welcome death.

  Timothy Nicholas Ducheski was born at 9:22 a.m. on February 15, 1972. Nina went into labor late Valentine’s Day afternoon, and Duke drove her to Steel Valley Medical Center in Steubenville. They were two children ready to have a baby. Duke never claimed to be an expert on birth defects, or their causes. All he could tell anyone was that Nina’s pregnancy had been uneventful and all examinations normal. As she entered her third trimester, Timmy moved, jumped, and kicked in the womb, seemingly anxious to exit and begin his life. The doctor had given them every expectation of delivering a healthy baby.

  Duke was pacing in the waiting room, where expectant fathers were relegated in the early seventies. Throughout the night, nurses stopped by the room to give him updates, assuring him that Nina and the baby were doing fine. According to Nina, at about 8:00 a.m. a nurse hooked her to a bag of intravenous solution. Nina said the nurse told her the drug would assist in the dilation of the cervix and increase the rate of contractions.

  Thirty minutes later, a different nurse walked in and examined the label on the drug bag, and the blood drained from her face. She pulled the needle from Nina’s arm and ran from the room. The once-feisty baby within had settled limp in her womb. Nina said there was no movement. In a moment, an army of nurses ran into the room and rushed Nina into surgery, where she delivered Timmy by Cesarean section. Duke knew nothing of this until the doctor came to the waiting room and said, “There’s a problem.”

  He took Duke into the hall and said Timmy had been deprived of oxygen while in the womb.

  “For how long?” Duke asked.

  “I don’t know. Too long.”

  Timmy wasn’t stillborn, but he wasn’t far off. He was dark blue when he arrived, and the docto
r and nurses struggled to make him breathe.

  Duke had long believed that it would have been infinitely more merciful to have allowed him to go peacefully from the womb to the grave. He also believed that things happened for a reason, though he struggled to understand why his son breathed but didn’t know day from night or good from evil, and lived in a twilight from which there was no escape.

  However, that was how things were to be—a life that was never a life. He didn’t sue the hospital or the nurse or the doctor. He saw no margin in it. It was not intentional, and no amount of money would give Timmy his life back. The hospital’s lawyer told them that Nina had been given a drug to induce labor, and she simply had a bad reaction. It was rare and tragic, but beyond their control. Was that true? Or did the nurse give her the wrong drug? Duke didn’t know. He was nineteen, scared, and overwhelmed. The hospital agreed to cover Timmy’s medical costs for life, and three months after he was born, he was moved from the hospital to the Heinzmann Convalescent Center, where he had breathed—Duke refused to say “lived”—within the same four walls for more than two decades.

  Duke visited with Timmy for an hour that day. He told him about some of the things going on at the steel mill and the restaurant, but mostly they sat in silence. “I’ve got to get back down the river, partner,” Duke said. He kissed his son’s furry cheek, gave his calf a quick rub, and left.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  When Moonie Collier’s mother attended a parent-teacher conference when her son was struggling through the second grade, his teacher, Miss Conners, said, “Gladys, you’re going to have trouble with this one. That boy doesn’t know his alphabet from a submarine, and couldn’t care less.”