Bigger Than Jesus

by Robert Chazz Chute

  You get into bed with her. Lily turns her head away, but she lets you take her in your arms and hold her.

  “You asked me about the movies,” you say. “Let me tell you about movies. When I got here from Cuba, I learned a lot of English from the movies. I learned to talk like the actors and lose my accent and be an American. That’s all it was at first. Later, it was different. Movies became about escape. I imagined that I could step into the screen and become part of the movie and everything would turn out okay. For a long time, it was like being really sick and staying indoors in bed, all the while knowing that other kids were playing outside in the sunshine. Escape was so close. I could almost touch the life I wanted. Freedom was in front of me, if I could just step through that window.”

  “Why couldn’t you be like the other kids?”

  You ignore her question. “Movies are what set Americans’ dreams so high. Every guy wants to be the best of the guys they see on screen and we all want a woman like you to tell us we’ve made it. We all want a woman like you, Lily. I want you to say…to be able to say that I pass. I met the movie standard and I’m one of the good ones.”

  Lily turns to look at you and puts her head on your shoulder. “As long as we’re part of this mess, this war, the Machine…as long as Jimmy Lima’s alive and as long as my father can find me…you’re never going to be that guy, Jesus.”

  You’re quiet for a long time before you tell her you have a plan. “The way out is through.”

  “Are we free on the other side, Jesus? Is it like we’re in a movie and everything works out in the end and we can look each other in the eye when we’re done and be sure we’re the righteous ones?”

  “Somebody once said that life is all about sex, death and mind control. If you can get the first, accept the second and use the third, you can be happy. We could be happy if we exercise a little mind control.”

  Cars start up and rumble off from the parking lot. You hear a maid vacuuming the room next door. Finally, Lily tells you the thing you have feared most.

  “If you want me with you on the other side of that plan,” she says, “you’re going to have to tell me the truth. All of it. Harv said something about the skim. What’s the skim? How did Uncle Bob die?”

  “You can be a hard woman, Lily.”

  “Tell me everything or I walk out that door. I’ll go to the cops. I’ll get protection from the FBI and you’ll never see me again. I’ll tell them I killed Harv to protect you and you’re mixed up in a gang war that killed two little kids. If you hold anything back, I’ll never forgive you and you will never, ever have your movie ending. You’ll never have me and I’ll never love you and I’ll spit on your grave. And, yes, ‘spit’ is a euphemism. Believe it.”

  You don’t consider your options. You don’t even hesitate. You tell Lily everything.

  MISSION POSSIBLE

  A couple of Vincent’s soldiers are watching the emergency entrance and another guy you recognize hangs out by the elevator on Vincent’s floor. Hospital security is the easiest security to bypass if you are wearing scrubs and stick to the stairwells. You wear a lab coat over a scrub top with tiny ponies running across it. The only thing that doesn’t fit are your black eyes. You still look like a raccoon so you wear big sunglasses. To top off the disguise, you carry a clipboard and wear a stethoscope around your neck. You blend in with some nurses coming in a side door from a smoke break. You’re in.

  Denny told you stories of mobsters who dressed up as women to whack somebody, but it’s hard to imagine most hit men would do it because if things go wrong, you don’t want to die wearing pantyhose. You wonder how Denny is now and if they’ve found the storage locker yet. How much money is the skim, anyway?

  The hospital’s cleaners try to cover up the smell of fear with industrial bleach. It’s an insult to your intelligence, trying to make you forget that this is the place people come to die. In Vincent Lima’s case, it’s the place to put off dying a little longer. He had to argue to get the prostate surgery. His doctors refused him at first, declaring that at his advanced age, the anaesthesia might kill him before the cancer got the chance. He’s a tough old guy, a bullet eater and much loved, if for no other reason than that he has survived this long and he’s still in the game.

  Behind schedule, you get lost in the rabbit’s warren between Radiology and hallways of empty offices that all look alike. You have to wander around, but you finally spot Marv by the entrance to the cafeteria. As soon as he spots you he taps his temple as if he has forgotten something — all systems go — and heads out the far door with you trailing behind. He gets on the elevator. You take the stairs.

  Vincent is on the fifth floor. He’s supposed to be discharged today around five. It’s 4:30. As long as the guys downstairs don’t come up to ask if the big boss is ready, you might pull this off without a hitch. It looked good on paper, but everything looks good on paper on the first pass. In the military, they taught you all battle plans are solid until you actually confront the enemy.

  As you come to the top step, you see down the hall and spot Paulie Munoz at Vincent’s door. Marv stands behind him, looking sharp in a blue pinstriped suit. If not for the M on his neck, he could pass for a tall, buff accountant. According to plan, Marv tells Paulie that he’s to help out by providing a little extra security for the boss on Jimmy’s orders. Given that the Romanians will be out for vengeance as soon as they get over the shock of their loss, that makes a lot of sense.

  Paulie’s eyes are on Marv, but as soon as Marv sees you coming through the stairwell door at the end of the hall, he gives Paulie the nod. Paulie spins and sees you coming with the clipboard out front.

  “Jesus Diaz!” Paulie smiles and waves, a huge toothy grin spreading across his face, but he’s reaching for his gun as Marv smacks him behind the ear with the butt of the Smith & Wesson taken from Denny’s arsenal. Paulie’s legs wobble but he’s not out. It’s easy to give anyone a concussion, but that doesn’t mean they crumple and go to sleep. For that, Marv wraps his arms around Paulie’s neck while you pry the gun from his hand.

  Paulie’s eyes roll back and he’s out. Cat taught Marv that chokehold well: under the chin, scoop up, squeeze in and lock down the carotid arteries and it’s beddy-bye time. Paulie didn’t have a chance with you and Marv coming at him from both sides. In the military, you learned that if you find yourself in a fair fight, you’ve failed to plan properly.

  Marv holds Paulie under the armpits while you grab his legs and carry him to a gurney. A patient, an elderly woman with frizzy hair, pokes her head out of her room. She looks worried. “Should I call a nurse?”

  “No worries, ma’am,” you say in your best Australian accent. “He doesn’t care for the bleach smell. Fainted. You know how it is. Some people have a hard time with hospitals.”

  She comes out of her room a few more steps tied to an IV pole by the needle and hose in her arm. “Yeah…my dad had that problem. Fainted at the sight of blood.”

  You turn your back to the old woman and block her view of Paulie. “We should get the patient into a room, don’t you think, doctor?” you tell Marv in your most official voice. You’re already pushing a door open with your back and wheeling the gurney into a large room.

  A man lying in a bed by the window looks up from reading a book. “Excuse me. This is a private room.”

  Paulie’s coming around so Marv pulls the curtain closed, screening him in so the guy by the window can’t see him. Paulie’s undoubtedly going to have a huge headache. You zip tie him to the gurney while Marv takes off his tie and stuffs it in Paulie’s mouth. Paulie’s eyes lock on yours and you hesitate, just for a second, before pulling the pillowcase over his head.

  You lean close to Paulie and whisper, “We’re here for Vincent. There’s a Romanian guy outside the door with a straight razor. He’s under orders to cut your throat if you call for help. I’d be really quiet if I were you. That was his little niece and nephew you guys killed. The Romanian won’t need much pro
voking, you know what I mean? ”

  Paulie nods.

  “This is going to be over in a few minutes. Just relax.” Paulie nods again.

  You’ve done some jobs with Paulie. He’s not a bad guy. He is just doing his job just like you were when Jimmy told you to whack Panama Bob. You do Paulie a favor. “Stay away from Jimmy Lima’s house. When you get out of here, go home and have a long nap and put some ice on your head. Lay low. A storm’s coming.”

  You slip out from behind the curtain and the man in the bed still looks pissed. “Excuse me! I told you this is a private room! I paid for a private room!”

  You pick up his chart from the end of his bed and pretend to study it. You take the pen from the breast pocket of your lab coat, circle something at random and sign your name: Dr. James Bond. “Cutbacks, sir. I’m sorry, sir. You shoulda voted Democrat.”

  “Wh-whuh?” He looks white, fat and puffy, like just about anybody who can afford a private room.

  “The charge for the private room will be deducted from your bill. Please be quiet. If you disturb the other patient with excess noise, his throat might collapse permanently. A nurse and someone from hospital administration will look in on you shortly to sort out your room assignment. We’re moving you to a room with a jacuzzi.” You return the chart to the end of his bed and turn away. You leave the lab coat and scrubs in the bathroom before you’re out the door.

  Marv stands at attention outside Vincent’s door when you pop into the hall. He doesn’t conceal his admiration. “Respect, bro! It’s amazing how easy the lying comes to you. You don’t hesitate. If I were Lily, as fine as she is — don’t get me wrong — I sure wouldn’t trust you with all the maids around your mansion you’re going to have when we’re done with this.”

  “As a kid, I was trained by experts to think one thing while saying the opposite,” you whisper. You’re thinking of the words yes, and I love you and thank you. “Plus, I’ve seen all the Mission Impossible movies and watched a lot of improv.”

  A moment later, you’re standing in the old man’s hospital room. He sits in a wheelchair, dressed and ready to go with an orange paperback in his lap, facing the door.

  Vincent Lima’s lined face betrays no emotion, but he says, “Marv! And young Diaz! I didn’t expect to see you.”

  “We gotta go, Boss,” Marv says. “The Banda is out for revenge for car bombing the Cob.”

  “After what happened to his children, I don’t blame the Romanians. Cob was a good target but getting the kids…that’s too bad. Jimmy really screwed the pooch all the way around on this one. Killing kids gets everybody in an uproar. After the funeral of the little boy and girl, they’ll come for us.”

  “We got a tip that they’re going to assassinate you here!” Marv says. “We’ve got to get you back home where we can protect you.”

  “I was going home today, anyway. I was supposed to talk with the doctors before I left, but I guess they can call me.”

  “Are you in pain, Boss?” you ask.

  “At my age, pain is all I’ve got and all I can do is to try to give it away and not piss my pants too much. Where’s Paulie?”

  “Driving the decoy car.”

  “That’s what he’s good for. I’ll be glad to let you boys give me a ride.”

  Marv takes point and you push the wheelchair. You’re halfway down the hall before Vincent peers back at you and says, “You look pretty good for a dead guy. Jimmy told me you were dead, or as good as.”

  “Aside from a couple of black eyes and a bad beating, I’m feeling pretty good, sir.”

  “Sir. Heh. What’s the plan? You gonna whack me for the Banda? How much are the Romanians paying you? I can top it.”

  “This isn’t about you, sir. But I need to have a talk with Jimmy.”

  “So you’re telling me on your word of honor, on your mother’s name, that I’m not going to end up in your trunk today?” He smiles. The old guy has old school style.

  “My mother’s name was Maritza and I’m not here to kill you, sir.”

  “Respect.”

  Marv plows ahead, scanning for Machine security, but there’s no resistance along the escape route. You’re already out a side door beside Radiology and headed across the back parking lot to the street.

  Vincent looks up at the late afternoon sun, closes his eyes and his shoulders loosen. “What do you want to talk to my son about, young Diaz?”

  “He ordered me to murder your other son, sir. Bob was skimming, sir. I’m sorry to say it, but it’s true. The car bombing wasn’t necessary. He killed that Romanian guy and his two kids for nothing. He knocked off Bob so he’d be your only heir to the throne. He wants me dead so no one’s around to say otherwise when he takes the whole Machine to war against the Banda. Jimmy’s gone nuts.”

  The old man’s chin sinks to his chest and you almost miss his mumble. “Some throne. I’m a king of idiots.”

  Just for a moment, from the side, you think you catch a hint of a grim smile. You should know what’s coming next. You aren’t driving Vincent Lima to Jimmy’s house as a hostage. Vincent’s taking you for a ride.

  WHAT WILL STOP HIM

  Marv sits behind the wheel and revs the engine while you help Vincent Lima into his car. You sit in the back seat of the 1966 four-door, hardtop Cutlass Supreme with the old man. The make and model, also known as the Holiday Sedan, is the same as Vincent’s first car when he was coming up. Everything is original except the custom paint job: “It’s bright red, for the flag of Navarre, where I was born,” Vincent explains. “After the Italian Families blew up my first car in ’73 — a misunderstanding — I bought another one just like the original. It’s a lucky car and we all need luck.”

  “So the bomb went off early or something?”

  “An old friend of mine, name of Jimenez, was borrowing the original for a date. Good guy. He first brought me into The Machine before I spoke any English at all. Fresh off the boat, as they say. He never made it to the date. That car was lucky for me. Not so lucky for Jimenez. The girl he was going to meet later on became my first wife. Funny, huh?”

  “How long before the Italians stopped trying to blow you up?”

  “Give up enough money and territory and they can be very reasonable and forgiving. I love the Italians. Good food. There’s a shake up every ten years or so, but they understand the Code and they get that we all make more money when we’re peaceful. We are kingdoms. We respect the borders of those kingdoms and there’s room for everybody. Usually. Sometimes…sometimes it’s worth it to shake things up so you get more territory. It’s not about the lives it costs in the short-term.” Vincent looks at you pointedly. “Good soldiers die for larger causes. Just like with the whole country, it’s about the money and the respect.”

  The old man’s smile is full and unforced. He’s supposed to be your bargaining chip, but instead, you’re the one with fear skittering up your spine like cold spiders. What was it Lily said? Fear is easy to spot. It’s everywhere.

  “You know, Jesus… What old guys like Pete and me understand, ’cause we’ve been through the worst of things, is loyalty. We need guys who know how to follow orders and keep their traps shut. You were in the army. You know. The Machine’s a private army that serves a business, just like any other army. In the regular army, no matter who a guy is, he doesn’t do what he’s supposed to do? Treason. Dead. Simple.”

  You sit back and nod and cross your arms, your right hand slipping around the grips of your SIG Sauer. You could shoot him right through your jacket and surely Vincent knows it, but he speaks with the confidence of a man who Death has missed on so many occasions, he’s sure he can’t be killed.

  “When I was coming up, younger than you, Diaz, I found that I had a talent for working things out with people. My old boss? Anbessa. Long before you came along, Anbessa called me The Ambassador. I could make things right. Maybe a few eggs would get broken and there’d be some ketchup in the omelette, but I could do what it took to make things r
ight and make The Machine safe. We respect the Blue so the local cops stay out of our business mostly and we respect the Code…mostly. The threats to The Machine’s business are often not from the outside. It’s ungrateful people you take in and feed, people who sit across from you at your table in your own home where you cooked the food. The ones closest to you are the ones to watch, Jesus.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You won’t remember this, but some guys got remote car starters when the remotes first came out.”

  “Denny told me about it. He said he’s done some wiring for you over the years.”

  “Yeah. Well…car starters are a great way for fat, lazy people to get fatter and lazier. Hard to believe the citizens we got now come from the same people who travelled across the world’s oceans in sailboats. Most people won’t get off the couch now unless it’s for candy. But for guys like us? Those remotes sure beat getting your wife to start your car. Trouble was, it caught on too much and the big bosses started looking harder at the guys who bought those car remotes.”

  Your palm feels wet on the SIG’s grip. All this talk of remote starters and car bombs makes you sweat.

  “Guys thought they were pretty clever. They said it was to warm up the car, of course, but it doesn’t get that cold in New York. New York can get chilly, but we’re soldiers. We make the city tough and the city makes us tough, am I right? If they thought there was a chance they’d get blown up some morning, they got a car starter installed. Those guys were scared and it started to make us think somebody was definitely up to something. Least that was the word. Then Anbessa — great guy, smart guy even for a wise guy — got suspicious of these three guys with remote car starters. One morning, they got blown up. It was in all the newspapers. The Machine got a little smaller that year, but I moved up faster.”

  “So you didn’t get a remote because it might make your old boss suspicious of you? I thought you wouldn’t do it because you didn’t want to mess up your classic car with wiring for a remote starter.”