Bigger Than Jesus

by Robert Chazz Chute

  It was March in 1911 when all those people died screaming. Rusty fire escapes collapsed. Locked exits trapped young women in an inferno. That fire was a testament to the greed and unsafe labor conditions of the garment workers’ workplace. The squares have their murder houses, too. You don’t have to be a bad guy to get screwed over permanently by the boss.

  It takes almost half an hour to get to the mom and pop pizza joint. You look around one more time and, sure no one’s watching, you enter. The girl who was here last night (could it really be that it was only last night?) is nowhere in sight. Instead, a late middle-aged man with wispy white hair parted in the middle stands behind the cash register. You’re halfway to the bathroom to retrieve the key when he stops you.

  “Bathroom’s for customers only.”

  “Sure. I could eat.”

  “What?”

  Taking in the yellowed walls and the orange grease stains running down the proprietor’s apron, you’re not in the mood for pizza. The big pizza chains dress their kitchen workers in aprons that are the same color as orange pizza grease. Maybe this place is just as clean as anywhere else, or equally dirty, anyway. In a glass case behind the line of pizza slices — lukewarm for the flies under heat lamps — you spot pastries.

  “You make that pie here?”

  He shakes his head. The bakery next door supplies them. “It’s why the small place is always better than the chains. We got the extras. You want apple or cherry?”

  You order a slice of cherry pie and he tosses you a key to the bathroom. If you go south tomorrow, you’ll be eating key lime pie in the Keys. If you head north…what kind of pie do they eat in Maine?

  You unlock the bathroom door. You lean your weight against it to open it without touching the doorknob just as Jimmy Lima steams in.

  You aren’t obvious about it, but your hand is already in the front pocket of your trench coat wrapped around the SIG. You don’t pull it out. You’re pretty fussy about your clothes, but if you have to shoot through the pocket to wipe out Jimmy, you will. The skim will buy a lot more trench coats.

  Jimmy puts up both hands, empty, and smiles. He nods slightly left and right. Two heavies stare in through the front windows. Juan and Twist each give slow nods and narrow their eyes, like they’re daring you to draw in an old Western. Their hands are stuffed in their pockets, just like you, so maybe this is High Noon. Unlike that scenario, if Juan doesn’t get you, Twist will. God writes a mean script.

  In the movies, even the guys who are wounded pretty bad end up getting bullets pulled out by a mob doc or a veterinarian. In real life, if you’re lucky, you get dumped outside an ER. In the unlikely event that you survive, you’re handcuffed to a gurney and have to answer a lot of uncomfortable questions from steely-eyed detectives.

  Not that you have any hope of getting dumped out of a car at the entrance to Bellevue tonight. Not with Jimmy coming at you. If you live, he’ll call in a guy with a blowtorch and a guy with vice grips. Jimmy’s the kind of guy who holds a grudge so hard he won’t let you die for days.

  Time to switch tactics quick: You show him your empty hands and surprise him by stepping forward and hugging him.

  “What the fuck, Jesus?” he says. “Why haven’t you called?”

  And, now, ladies and gentlemen, the Academy Award for Best Performance Under Threat of Horrible Death goes to…

  “What the fuck? What the fuck! What’s going on? Did Pete find you Bob’s stash or not?” You’ve watched Pacino do this in so many movies, you’re sure you can carry this off as long as you sound angry instead of shit balls scared.

  Jimmy’s eyes narrow. “What are you talking about? Talk fast, Jesus.”

  “Did Pete find the fuckin’ money?”

  Jimmy glances at the guy dressed in the dirty white apron behind the counter. The guy’s listening but he looks bored like he’s practiced looking bored all day from an early age. He puts your slice of pie on the counter in a casual move. With just a little more oomph, he’d be tossing it at you. In Miami, the old Spanish waitresses smile and hold out the key lime pie on a saucer with two hands, like you’re still a kid and they’re playing mamacita, giving you a special after school treat. In New York City, the move is, “Take it or not. I don’t give a fuck. Just eat if you’re gonna and get the fuck outta here!”

  New York. That’s the attitude you have to make Jimmy believe. As in: Take my word or not. I don’t give a fuck. Just swallow my story if you’re gonna and get the fuck out!

  “Gimme a slice of cherry,” Jimmy says.

  The guy behind the counter nods and cuts another slice. You take yours and head for the booth along the wall, but before you can cut the shooters’ angles outside, Jimmy takes your elbow and guides you to a table in front of the window.

  Shit. You might not just say shit, either. You really wanted to get the key, but you have to go to the bathroom, too. Like The Devil used to say in boot, “You will be challenged not only when you are at your best, but when you have a fever, when you are unready, unsteady, sleepy and when you have to take a gargantuan shit. Persevere, anyway, and no whining!”

  Okay, but the heroes in the movies never got the piss beaten out of them, two big black eyes and a broken nose. Bruce Willis or Clint Eastwood or Al Pacino never had to con the bad guy, escape danger, save the girl, make an awesome getaway and at the same time desperately yearn to hit the can. The worst Harrison Ford ever got was frozen in carbonite or a scratch on his forehead as Indiana Jones. Boo-fucking-hoo.The guy from 24 never went to the bathroom though the show tracked every second of the day.

  You glance at Juan on the other side of the window. Both his hands are in his pockets and his scruffy beard makes him look hard. Twist leans over and gives you a smile, but not a friendly one. Could these be the two guys who enjoy hobbies with blow torches and vice grips? Denny was always fuzzy on the details of the murder house incident.

  “Can I get a large coffee, too, buddy?” you call to the proprietor.

  He shrugs and tells you a fresh pot is brewing. When he asks you how you take it, you tell him black and hot.

  Your gun hand is away from the guy at the window, but as you sit, Jimmy makes a great show of putting his hands on the table and spreading them out, lifting his chin in a jab that tells you to do the same. You put both hands on the sides of your plate and smile at Juan and Twist. “Won’t the guys be cold, boss? We should invite them in.”

  “I don’t think so, Jesus. They stay cold out there so things don’t get too hot in here.”

  “What are you talking about? Hasn’t Pete talked to you? I filled him in on everything last night.” You lower your voice and lean in, “Obviously, you didn’t want me calling you.”

  “Pete said he couldn’t find you. Even had Lily out looking but no luck. I’ve been worried about you, Jesus. I thought maybe you flew the coop with Bobby’s skim.”

  You drop your jaw and then concentrate on looking more angry. “What? Fuck Pete! I went straight to him to report.”

  “Usually it’s Denny who comes to the house to report.”

  “Usually Denny doesn’t think on his own. Denny follows your orders, not Bob’s. Usually.”

  “Wait. Are you saying Denny tried to stop you from killing Bob?”

  “How do you think I got this?” You wave at your face and dig into a big forkful of pie to slow down the conversation. You’ve got a lot of lies to keep straight.

  “What happened? Break it down, step by step.”

  “I got Bob. I imagine you already know the details about that.”

  “Took the big dive, yeah.”

  You scan his face for any trace of regret at having his brother killed. There’s still a difference between hard rocks like Jimmy and guys like you. His eyes hold no regret.

  “I told the cops he was depressed,” Jimmy says, “which might have worked except somebody in the street saw a well-dressed guy who looked remarkably like you out on the ledge with him before he went over. The detective tells me B
ob’s office was ransacked. When I gave you the job, did I not say to be discreet?”

  “That was me on the ledge, yes. I chased him out there because Denny warned Bob I was coming. While I was in the outer office telling Harv and Marv to beat it, Denny betrayed us.”

  “You’re claiming Denny warned Bob you were coming?”

  “I’m not claiming it. I’m saying he did it. Must’ve called him on the cell while I was getting rid of Marv and Harv. Then Denny showed up behind me as I snuck up to Bob’s office door. He was supposed to stay with the car and make sure Bob didn’t get past me and make a run for it in his Caddy.”

  Jimmy seems satisfied and tells you to go on.

  “Denny almost stopped me, but when Bob went out the window, I followed right after him to the ledge. Denny’s not that fast on his feet.”

  Jimmy takes a small piece of cherry pie and dribbles some red juice down his chin. His eyes never leave yours. “You got the key?”

  “I’m your hero. Bob handed it to me.”

  “He just handed it to you?”

  “He was bargaining.”

  “And he lost that bargain. Uh-huh. I get it. What happened with Denny?”

  “Screwed up. He was tearing the place apart looking for the safe, looking for money. I thought if he had anything incriminating, it’s probably in a safe deposit box. It would have been easier to find that information out if Bob hadn’t run out on the ledge first. I had been hoping to ask him some questions before we were one inch away from the drop of doom.”

  “So you’re telling me Denny was searching Bob’s office and he let you back in the window with the key?”

  “Naturally. If he wanted the key, he had to let me back in safely. We had to get out of there before the cops showed up. We couldn’t very well have it out there and then. If I remember my Star Trek properly, the Klingon proverb is, ‘Only a fool fights in a burning house.’ There wasn’t a lot of time to dance, Jimmy.”

  “And later Denny blacked your eyes and made your face a balloon?”

  Better to stick as close to the truth as possible. “No. The cops were already on the way, so he didn’t have time to try to kill me for the key until he pulled into a construction site. He did all the hitting, but I got the last lick in.”

  “Uh-huh…. That’s a good story, Jesus. So where’s the key?”

  “If Pete hasn’t got it already, it’s in that bathroom, sitting on top of a ceiling tile over the john closest to the door. I brought Denny here to try to hash it out. I needed to know why he warned Bob when I went after your brother…on your orders.”

  Jimmy’s face darkens. A storm’s coming.

  “You gotta understand, Denny and I were good friends for a long time. I wanted to work it out between us. I was hoping he’d get his head on straight, maybe make that lapse go away.”

  Jimmy takes another bite of pie and chews angrily, giving you both time to think. You wonder, how much did the cops tell Jimmy about Bob’s death? People saw Denny in the street retrieving the key from Bob’s broken neck. He said they were tourists. Tourists talk to police. If it had been New Yorkers, you’d have a decent shot of them moving on before the heat arrived. You begin to sweat. You shouldn’t have told Jimmy that Denny was upstairs with you. You tripped up.

  The manager comes around the counter and sets the steaming coffee on the table. He drops the handwritten bill beside Jimmy.

  “Pete didn’t tell me any of this. He said he couldn’t find you. You saying Pete isn’t on my page?”

  “That’s not for me to say, boss,” you reply. “All I know is that I told him everything last night at the bodega’s loading dock over Como Si so he could tell you what happened. Sounds like Pete is trying to hang me out to dry.”

  Jimmy leaves the crust and finishes the cherry filling, chewing with his shark mouth open, grinding and mashing. When he swallows, Jimmy says, “That’s not a bad story, Jesus, trying to put it all on Pete and Big Denny like that. Except, I happen to know it’s not true. You’re a good liar, though. You must be a good liar to have such a big supply. You must be Bullshit’s East Coast distributor. I already got the key. We searched for it and found it twenty minutes ago. It was you who called Bob’s ex about the safe, not Denny.”

  Shit. Forgot that. Maybe you’re aren’t the best bullshit artist ever.

  And then it occurs to you. How did Jimmy know to find you here? The only person who knew you were coming here tonight was Lily.

  SMART OR GOOD?

  “Jesus. Now that you know that I know that you’re fulla shit, you want to start again?”

  “Who told you you’d find me here, Jimmy?”

  “A little bird told me.”

  “I see.”

  “Did the bird tell you that Harv is dead? Or how he died?”

  Jimmy’s shark mouth drops open another fraction of an inch. You’ve hit him with news. “Harv’s brother’s been asking about him,” he says.

  “He came after me. Harv died…horribly, but relatively quick.”

  “When it’s locked on you, Death never comes quick enough.”

  “You’ll be happy to know Harv wanted to get Bob’s skim and get the hell out of town, so I guess that’s another traitor you won’t have to worry about, though there will be plenty more. Remember The Godfather, Jimmy? You’re Sonny Corleone all over again. The hotheaded son of the boss everyone loves. I love movies so much, I’m amazed I didn’t spot the parallel before. Only you killed Michael. Well…Panama Bob was no Michael. Pacino played Michael as a real smart guy. Still, Bob’s dead and he’s still got us running in circles for the skim, so maybe we all underestimated him.”

  “Don’t talk to me about my brother, Jesus.”

  “You remember what happens to Sonny, right? A lot of machine gun bullets.”

  Jimmy’s turning red. Good. It sure looks like Lily’s betrayed you. What’s to live for? Maybe if you get Jimmy mad enough, he’ll do you a favor and nod to one of his mooks and they’ll open up right through the window and kill you relatively quick, too, in the stereotypical hail of bullets. With the civil war coming, it’s bound to happen, anyway, right?

  “You know what other movies I like?” you ask. “Star Wars.”

  “What?”

  “Especially the first one where we first meet Han Solo in the crazy space bar.”

  “Chalmun's Cantina, also known as the Mos Eisley Cantina,” Jimmy corrects you. You blink. He smiles for the first time. “I’m older than you, kid. I saw it in the theatre first and own every incarnation up to Blu-ray. I’ve seen the first trilogy over and over.”

  “So you know the controversy about whether Han shot first?”

  Jimmy Lima takes a deep breath. “Heh. You think I’m Sonny Corleone. I think you’re Greedo. You’re the alien guy with the weird face that Jabba the Hutt sends to get Han Solo — ”

  “But Greedo just wants the money Han owes Jabba,” you add. “I always thought calling the bad guy alien Greedo was a little too on the nose, didn’t you? Greedo? Greedy?”

  “In Mr. Lucas’s defence, asshole, it’s a kid’s movie.”

  You shrug and nod. “So who shot first?”

  “Han Solo shot first in the original.” Jimmy’s leaning in, looking at your hot coffee. “That’s what I saw in the movie theater. Later, Lucas changed it so it looked like Greedo fired first.”

  You nod. “In the 1997 incarnation, yeah. Lucas wanted to make it clear to the kids that Han was the good guy. But in real life, if you don’t make the first move and shoot your enemies before they shoot you, you end up a dead sucker. Better to teach kids to be smart. Good is easy. Smart is hard.”

  Jimmy clenches and unclenches his hands, getting ready for action. “But they shot at each other under a table meant for cocktails. How could Greedo miss? It’s dumb. Han shot first. Had to, if he didn’t want his balls shot off. Shooting first is always the smart thing to do.”

  Jimmy Lima’s eyes are fixed on the coffee cup. He braces, telegraphing his move a se
cond before he goes for the large paper cup, grabs it and tries to toss the steaming coffee in your face, just like you did to Denny.

  Jimmy would have burned you badly, too, except you’ve already ducked and deked right to step beside Jimmy, putting his body between you and the guns outside. You jab the business end of your fork into Jimmy’s exposed neck and run. It doesn’t go in far. In the movies, you’d snag the jugular or the carotid and Jimmy would be a jigging, pumping fountain of blood. Instead, you get a band of muscle and open his skin up pretty well. Either way, he’s screaming and you’re running.

  You jump the counter and you’re already running past an open pizza oven, past the manager and out the rear fire door as Juan and Twist focus on Jimmy. You hope. You don’t dare glance back in case one of Jimmy’s boys is lining up his shot.

  As you hit the door, a high-pitched alarm goes off that pierces your eardrums and shakes your nerves. It spurs you to try to sprint harder. You can run hard or long, but no one can do both. You run until you’re out of breath and leaning on a wall in an alley. It would be easier to breathe and you could run much farther if your nose wasn’t a solid hunk of pain. Running makes your face throb.

  Jimmy’s got the key, but there’s good news, too. Maybe Lily didn’t betray you. Jimmy went for that coffee cup so quick and easy, like he knew that’s how you got a fighting chance over Big Denny De Molina.

  Denny is still alive and talking. Big Denny, you’re almost sure, is Jimmy’s “little bird” instead of the lovely Lily. Lily loves you, or at least she didn’t rat you out. That’s a start!

  That moment’s pause almost finishes you. You hear a boom and cement from the wall you’re leaning on chunks out to fall at your feet. Another boom and this time you hear the bullet whine by, smack and ricochet. You look back, expecting one of Jimmy’s hired guns. Instead, it’s the manager with the bad haircut.

  He’s got a huge silver revolver in his mitt. He might have got you, but his hand is shaking so badly, you can almost see the electric current of fear jangling through him. He steadies the hand cannon — a Dirty Harry .44 — and spreads his feet wide and drops into a two-handed shooting stance. He’d definitely have blown you away with his next shot, but he’s breathing hard and trying to hold his breath and thinking too long about sending you to hell.