Bigger Than Jesus

by Robert Chazz Chute

  “Look in my wallet, Pete.”

  Jake comes forward and opens your jacket slow, as if he expects you to be booby trapped with a rattlesnake.

  “Not you, moron. This information is not for apes. It’s for my future father-in-law.”

  Jake draws his fist back to punch you square in the face. It would have been agonizing beyond belief on a night when you’d set new records for pain, but Pete catches Jake’s elbow.

  “Take it easy, Jake. I can’t have a civil conversation if he’s unconscious from concussions. Haven’t you noticed? He’s had enough punishment and we’re getting somewhere.”

  “You heard him, wage ape. Go over and guard the door. When Pete and I are done talking, maybe even an idiot like you will figure that you aren’t guarding that door to keep me in. You’re on that door to keep the devil out.”

  Jake looks at Pete, pleading with his eyes to scratch up his knuckles on your chin. Pete’s eyes flick to the door and Jake steams off.

  Pete reaches inside your jacket and pulls out your wallet. When he opens it, his face softens. There’s a picture of you and Lily on Coney Island. Big Denny took that picture. Pink cotton candy made beards for your smiling faces. Denny took the pictures and went on the rides while you and Lily walked the boardwalk holding hands.

  “I want to believe you, Jesus, but this is serious. This is not about you and my daughter. This is about Jimmy and Bob and the big boss and money.”

  “It’s not about the picture, Pete. It is about the money. Look at the money.”

  He pulls out the fold of fresh, new twenties. They are so new, they look like they’ve been ironed. Real ballers in the mob do what gangsters in the movies do. In Pulp Fiction and Goodfellas, bills are always rolled up with an elastic around the wad. You’re too neat to do that and you’d like to think you’re too smart to act the way Hollywood movies say you should. You use a Calvin Klein wallet made of glove leather.

  You might never have heard a chortle before now, but you’re pretty sure that’s it. Pete’s gone from violent to amused. That is, until Pete says, “What is this shit? This is — ” he counts it out, “$180. Are you seriously — ?”

  “Pete,” you begin to pitch the grift. “Look at me and look at you. Do you think I’m a dumb guy?”

  “You’re pretty jammed up to be called a smart guy, don’t you think?”

  A swing and a miss…

  “I’m sitting here and I’m out of lies. All I want to do is be with Lily and be safe.”

  “Where’s the skim, Jesus? Are you trying to play me? Jake can’t wait to take you apart and see what makes you work, you know.”

  Strike two…

  “I’m out of options so all that’s left is to tell you everything because you are so right. Anybody hits me again tonight, I’ll swallow my fucking tongue and call on God to kill me.”

  Pete looks you over, still holding the bills, forgotten in his hand.

  Ball.

  “Take a real good look at those bills, Pete. If those aren’t just about the best counterfeits you’ve ever seen in your life, stub your cigarette out on my balls right now and I won’t even complain.”

  He guffaws. You went from a chortle to an actual, certified, fully legit guffaw. You definitely got a piece of that one, but it’s still a foul ball. You aren’t out of this yet.

  Pete stares at the bills, one by one. His forehead makes three deep lines as he squints at each bill, holding them up to the light.

  “You asked me why I’m not running already. Doesn’t make sense that I’m not running already, does it? You’re right. I’m not running because I’m going to have to take care of Lily soon. She’s not going to live in a walk up in Queens over a deli, forever, Dad. Lily is meant to live on the Upper East Side and travel the world and go to those art museums she dreams of. Maybe our kids will grow up in a brownstone and we’ll have a view of the Park. For that to work, I gotta stay and make big money. No trucks or heists or highjacking or shakedowns or running around like errand boys for Jimmy Lima. Bob wanted to make big money. Literally, Dad. Bob wasn’t so smart that he could skim from The Machine and not slip up long before now. But he knew a guy from the joint who was an artist who gave him an idea.”

  “What guy?”

  Uh, shovel faster boy!

  “I dunno. Some tourist guy named Kit from Scotland, traveling through the US, got pinched on a bogus marijuana conviction. He and Bob talked in the yard and Kit gave him the idea.”

  Pete looks from the bills, to you, back to the bills. “You’re saying these are fake?” He leans forward, studying your face. You hope the blood covers up any trace of a lie that’s leaking out.

  “It’s amazing what they can do with scanners and printers, huh?”

  You need a name. Who knows anything about computers? You spit out the first name that comes to mind.

  “Freejack Jack figured out how to make it work.”

  “Freejack?” Jake says, incredulous. “The guy who lives in Jimmy’s guest house?”

  “He used to be a straight citizen college boy before Jimmy picked him out of the unemployment line.”

  Your feet are braced, your shoulders hunched. You’re on a roll and talking fast, but if you don’t hit this one out of the park, it’s going to be a long night of cigarette burns and body blows and your pulped face will go through a sieve by the time Jake is done.

  “Panama Bob talked to Freejack. Told him to work on the idea of scanning currency.”

  Pete looks at the bills again. The corners of his lips turn down. “These?” He rubs a twenty between his thumb and forefinger, testing the texture. “You’re telling me this bill is a fake?”

  “It really is amazing what they can do with graphics programs. They’re even coming out with 3D printers now. You load up the back with plastic chips and out comes a Nike running shoe out the front. Currency is on the way out, anyway. By the time we’re done, nobody will believe in money at all, anymore.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Think about it a minute longer. You already can’t pass a hundred-dollar bill anywhere. There isn’t a grocery store from here to the West Coast that would let you give them a hundred-dollar bill, US cash money, no matter how real it looks. Try any store and they won’t give you any change.”

  Pete leans back and you watch his face as he works it out.

  Home run.

  Now for the tricky part. How do you walk out of here?

  “What was in the safe?”

  “A few of these bills. Freejack’s samples for Bob.” Swallow some blood and stall.

  Pete leans toward you, more interested than threatening now. “And the kid, Freejack. He’s not working for Jimmy because…?”

  “Jimmy wanted too much of a cut. I’m not saying it’s wrong, but you know how Jimmy is.”

  You catch Pete’s slight, involuntary nod at the truth of that. Jimmy Lima is notoriously cheap in doling out cuts to employees. “Holy,” Pete says. “Jimmy went to war with his own brother for a counterfeit scam.”

  You blink. Uh…why not? “It’s a lot of money, Pete. Enough for all of us to have a view of the park. For generations.”

  “I don’t buy it.” Jake pipes up from his place at the door and ruins everything. Almost. “Hell, I don’t even get it.”

  If you had to lay it out again, you’d screw it up and they’d change your name in the obit from Jesus Diaz to Cigarette Burned Balls. Fortunately, you do not screw it up because Pete comes to your rescue.

  “You don’t get it? What’s not to get, dummy? Bob has Freejack Jack make fake bills, right under Jimmy’s nose. Jimmy can’t kill Freejack because he’s the fuckin golden goose. Or the goose that laid the golden eggs or whatever. Bob tried to keep it all for himself and now Jimmy wants it all for himself.”

  Pete’s turns in his chair, holding the bills up to the light to admire them. “Bobby…poor Panama Bobby should never have kept this from Vincent. That was a sin and ungrateful.”

  “Unfaithful,”
you say.

  “Fuckin right!” Pete says. “Vincent takes in Bobby. Stepson, son, doesn’t matter. Treats Jimmy and Bob the same. Then Bob sees this opportunity and wants to keep it for himself. Selfish. Selfish and unfaithful are the only words. I don’t know how I’ll be able to show my face at the funeral knowing this about him now. And Jimmy? Jimmy lies to me about Bobby skimming. Lies to me about the counterfeit money. I’ve known that kid since diapers. Knew Vincent since Sing Sing. And lies and betrayal is all we get.”

  “Where’s the skim?” Jake asks.

  “There is no skim!” Pete says. “The skim is counterfeit bills! Bobby was going to keep it all for himself! Jimmy was going to keep it all to himself! It’s a disgrace!”

  “All that was in the safe was these bills,” you say. “Samples.” You’ve switched from bleeding to sweating.

  “This will kill Vincent,” Pete says, his shoulders slumping.

  “Only if he finds out what this is really all about,” you say.

  Pete’s eyes come up and you can’t tell what that look means. His jaw tightens but his breathing is shallow.

  “Of course, the best thing for all concerned would be for Jimmy to get hit. Vincent would never have to know his own sons tried to screw us all over. Panama Bob’s dead. If Jimmy goes away…it all looks like gangland stuff. Say it was the Italians or some other gang. It usually is.”

  “You’re talking mutiny. You’re talking about starting a war to save your skin,” Jake says.

  “I’m talking about ending a betrayal and stepping up and finally getting what we deserve. We do all the work. We should be rich, too. When Vincent passes — and how much longer can that be? —- you’re the man running The Machine, Pete. Vincent’s true legacy will be secure, despite his lousy sons.”

  Pete smiles and, for the first time, he doesn’t look scary.

  Home run.

  THE SKIM

  The official story Pete will tell Jimmy Lima is that he couldn’t find you. Unofficially, he told you to go get cleaned up until he figures what the next move should be and when to make it. Pete tells Jake to drive you where you need to go and you accept on the condition that Jake doesn’t say one word to you on the way. Where else can you go? You arrive at Lily’s place.

  When she buzzes you up, she’s waiting for you in the hallway, her hair pulled back in a ponytail and wearing tight jeans and a peasant top. Lily looks great in Vera Wang and heels, of course, but you prefer her like this, barefoot and casually gorgeous. She runs to you as soon as she sees you at the top of the stairs. “Oh, my god! Jesus! You looked better before! Did Jake do this to you?”

  “Yeah. Jake’s an asshole.” You smile to yourself. She thinks you’re being brave, but really, you’re relishing the thought that Jake will never have Lily now. Every guy in The Machine wants Lily, of course. You tell the guys she’s your girl, though she won’t call what you have with her exclusive.

  “I have an idea,” you said one day not long ago. “How about you roll up those posters of yours, marry me and we run away together?”

  “They aren’t posters. They’re prints. Starry Night and the Dalis. And, no, not yet,” she said. “I’m only twenty-three. Rush in like my parents’ whole generation did? No thanks. That’s stupid. Let’s enjoy being young and see where it goes, okay?”

  It was either agree or lose her. You agreed, but soon, with Panama Bob’s skim and Jake and Pete chasing wild geese made of fake bills that aren’t fake? Maybe Lily will teach Zumba in Miami all the way into her eighth month.

  By the time a baby comes along, you and she will have set up and can play house on the same beach you washed up on so many years ago. Lily, pregnant with your child and playing in the sun and sand forever in back of a big house. That’s a good dream.

  She puts your left arm across her shoulders and tells you to lean on her on the walk down the hall. It’s awkward and mostly unnecessary, but you lean on her anyway and put your face in her hair. Lavender. She bathes in it. Her shampoo is lavender. Her perfume is lavender. Every lavender candle and waft on a breeze outside a soap store will always carry a sense memory of Lily.

  “I’m not here,” you tell her.

  “I’ll make you some eggs,” she says.

  “You’re going to cook something for me? Really?” Maybe you needed to get beaten up to ignite her maternal instincts. Nice to know she has some. Lily with maternal instincts is part of that misty dream of a life making sandcastles with your kids.

  “I’m not hungry,” you say.

  “You need to eat.”

  “If Jimmy calls, you haven’t heard from me.”

  “Eggs and toast make everybody feel better.”

  “Fine. Anyway, I’ll have a nap and figure out what to do next but I’m not here, okay?”

  “I got it, nowhere man.”

  She breaks off to let you enter her apartment door first. Your clothes are strewn across the floor and your go bag is dumped out on the coffee table. Given a second longer, you might have reacted, but someone pushes you hard from behind. You land softly on the couch. You look up to see one of Bob’s lanky bodyguards with the tattoo of a letter H on his neck above the collar. His twin brother, Marv, has a tattoo very much like it on his neck. Same size and style, Marv’s tattoo reads M.

  “Hi, Harv.”

  “Hey, Jesus.”

  Lily shrugs. “Sorry Jesus. Harvey was insistent you get in the apartment right away. In case you were followed, he said.”

  Your eyes shift to Harv. “Jimmy want a report?”

  “The boss is feeling hinky about the feds tapping his phones and his cell and his club and his car. Panama Bob’s death has him way too edgy.”

  “So he doesn’t want to meet.”

  “You tell me what goes, I go back and tell him in person tonight. Hey, Lily, can you make us some coffee, baby? Decaf for me, please, if you got it.”

  “Ain’t your baby,” Lily says, but she walks to the small kitchen just the same. Harv comes around the back of the sofa and kneels down. With his back to the kitchen and kneeling, Harv is a puppet show and all you see is his head and shoulders. He doesn’t slap you, which is nice, but when he asks you where the key is, it’s just as bad.

  “What key?”

  He sighs. “The key Bob always had around his neck.”

  “I imagine it’s still around his neck or in an evidence bag down at the morgue.”

  “Don’t shit a shitter, man.”

  “Easy, Harv. Sounds like you’ve got as much to tell me as I have to tell you.”

  Harv studies your eyes for a full minute before he speaks again. “You were in the army. I was in the army. Both a couple of grunts in this mess. Jimmy told Marv and me you’d be showing up at Bob’s office and if we wanted to be on the right side when all this shakes out, we’d go see him as soon as you showed up.”

  “That’s reassuring,” you say. “Bob was convinced you guys were stupid, leaving your post just on my say-so.”

  He shrugs. “Marv and me, we’re pretty worried. Jimmy’s talking about telling Vincent another gang hit Bob. Last thing we need is a war with somebody just to throw blame off on them. Why can’t everybody get along and make their money for Christ sakes?” Harv surveys your clothes strewn across the little living room. “Sorry about your clothes and stuff, man. I didn’t take nothing. I just need that key fast. Nice suits.”

  “Thanks. What’s the key all about, Harv?”

  “Oh, man! You know it’s about the skim. Enough money to get away from here. Enough for me and Marv and you, too, if you’re smart about it. How about we pull the pin and get out before Jimmy’s plan for world domination gets us jammed up? Marv talked Jimmy out of blaming the Italians, but he’s still only thinking about covering himself. He decided to blame the Romanians! He’ll tell Vincent the Romanians hit Bob.”

  “Why the Romanians?”

  “The Italians are too big to wrestle.”

  “The Romanians are crazier. Smaller the mob, the more psy
cho they are.”

  Harv wipes sweat from his forehead and nods. “Valid. The Liberians have a block in Queens. One block, but they’d gut your whole family for squinting their way on a sunny day. Some Samoan kids? Midgets and punks really, but they got half a block in Washington Heights. They’d kill anybody over a rainy day.”

  “Seems these smaller gangs’ moods are very weather-oriented.”

  “My point, smart ass, is, whoever Jimmy blames his brother’s death on, it’s war. Jimmy is only thinking of his own hide. What does he think Vincent’s going to do about me and Marv? We were supposed to be watching over Bob when Bob got himself killed! Before this is done, me and Marv are done. The doctors are keeping the big boss in the hospital another couple of days. We gotta get out before the sky starts raining shit.”

  “I feel for you. And it sounds like your true calling is to be a weatherman.”

  Harv looks at you as if he just clued in that he’s not talking to himself. “Hey, what happened to you, man? You look like a prize fighter.”

  “A prize fighter after his final fight. Denny rearranged my furniture.”

  “He try to stop you from doing Bob or something?”

  “Nah. We had a disagreement. Keep it to yourself, but uh…Denny was doing Jimmy’s wife.”

  “Christ! Him, too?”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. Jimmy’s on enough of a rampage. He was pissed at Bob and wants the skim, sure. Jimmy wants Cat Fornes back, too. I told him, I don’t think Cat’s coming back and Jimmy got pretty hot at me. All he can talk about is Cat. You’d think a big, tough son of a bitch like Cat, jiu jitsu fighter, tattoos and all, could handle himself.”

  “Yeah, that is a mystery,” you say, “but nobody’s too big for bullets.”

  Harv looks away. “You got any cream, Lily? Marv doesn’t let me have any cream. He’s on a health kick. He wants me to be thinner. Every day, I look at him and think I could look like Marv and be more muscular, if lifting weights didn’t bore the living shit out of me. Excuse my language, Lily. I got an allergy to the gym is all. Thin is okay without all the veins popping out. Marv’s my funhouse mirror.”