Tales of River City

by Frank Zafiro

  I still didn’t answer. I had figured we’d get back to this. The last time I had stopped her, she was depressed. Depression seemed to have a strange effect on Toni. It made her hope. She looked past the things she did for money or what she did with the money. She looked at the way things could be and that was all she talked about.

  She told me she could quit the streets. She told me that she typed seventy-five words a minute and could get a job as an administrative assistant. That she could get clean and be a good mother. That she and I could go out to dinner and that if I only gave her a chance, I would fall in love with her.

  “I know you could,” she repeated.

  “If only.”

  She cocked her head at me. “If only what?”

  If only I wasn’t so tired of this job that I daily want to blast a fucking hole in someone’s chest, including my own.

  If only my partner hadn’t been stupid and let some Russian punk pull out a .22 on a traffic stop and snap a round through his eye, where it bounced around inside his skull, turning his brain into jam.

  If only my wife hadn’t been a frigid ice queen for eleven years before deciding that it was just my dick she didn’t like and that there was a long list of other ones that were actually pretty fun for her.

  If only the judge hadn’t seen things her way and made sure her exit from the marriage included a financial windfall.

  If only we didn’t have an Internal Affairs lieutenant that was a weaselly little fuck who thought I was more worthless than chewed gum and spent every duty hour trying to prove it.

  If only I didn’t work with testosterone-laden super-cops who thought that a moustache and some hair gel made them all-knowing and invincible.

  If only my apartment wasn’t really one small room with a fold down bed and a paper thin door to a bathroom that still stunk from the last tenant, who obviously had dietary issues.

  If only I didn’t need to keep this piss-ass job to pay an ex-wife alimony for another year.

  If only you weren’t addicted to heroin, Toni.

  If only you didn’t give head to strangers for money.

  If fucking only.

  When I didn’t answer right away, she asked me again. “If only what, Paul?”

  She had started using my first name about a month ago. Don’t think I didn’t notice.

  I spit out my gum, the flavor already fading. Her eyes followed the chewed up wad as it flew outside the ring of light from the street lamp.

  “If only?” I bit off the words. “Well, if wishes were horses, then beggars would ride.”

  Her dull look didn’t surprise me. She wasn’t getting it.

  I clicked my tongue against my teeth. “Try this one, then. If worms had .45s, right? Then birds wouldn’t fuck with them.”

  Toni stared at me in the dim streetlight. I waited for the tired sigh, but it never came. Finally, she whispered, “Now you really are being mean.”

  I was getting tired of this. It was fucking depressing. Which, for me, was just about all I knew these days.

  “I guess there’s just a meanness in this world,” I quoted from the Boss.

  Toni turned and stalked away.

  I stifled a rueful laugh. Apparently not a Springsteen fan. Nebraska. 1982. A perfectly good answer to life’s nagging questions.

  Her stride didn’t slow down for a full block. As she crossed Magnolia, though, I noticed the sway was back in her hips. I tried to enjoy the form of her ass for a moment under the streetlight.

  I keyed the mike. “Charlie-143, clear.”

  “Copy.”

  “See you tomorrow,” I muttered, and walked back to my patrol car. The rest of my life was waiting.

  DOMINIC BRACCO

  “The Meat-Cutter’s Wife” is the first story I wrote featuring Dominic Bracco, though he gets a brief mention in the earlier-written “Pride Goeth.” Here, Dom tells his own story. We learn that he is exiled from New Jersey, but still on talking terms with his Uncle Angelo. Why was he booted out of the Garden State? I don’t know yet. He hasn’t told me.

  Dom is a proto-typical New Jersey mobster. What does that mean? He’s selfish but smart, charming but cruel. But as is always the case with a villain protagonist, I tend to find things about him I like. His honesty, for one. Dom may be what he is, but he’s honest with himself about it. Another thing I like about him is his vulnerability. Like most of us, he’s not as tough as his exterior portrays…though I have to admit, Dom is pretty tough in most ways. I mean, I certainly wouldn’t want to lose a bet on the Seahawks with him and then not be able to pay off.

  “Pride Goeth” and “And a Fall Cometh” are two closely related tales, as the narrator is the same in both stories. Dom figures into the story, too, though our narrator has a much different view of the mobster than he has of himself.

  This is one of the fun things about writing short stories set in River City – I get to explore different views of the same character. While writing here about Paul, who I don’t know very well, I get to take a different look at Dom, who I do…at least, as well as he’ll let me.

  In “Rescuing Isaac,” I get the chance to explore Dom a little bit more, although the same nagging question pops up again – why the exile from Jersey? And how heartless is he…really? You get at least one very definite answer to that question in this story.

  “Dead Even” was a 2009 Derringer Award Finalist. You could almost consider this a direct sequel to “Rescuing Isaac,” as it explores the events in that story within the context of this one. In it, I think both Dom’s selfish, cruel nature and his human vulnerability are on display.

  Someday, I figure he’ll go back to Jersey. For some reason. I don’t know yet. I’m sure he’ll invite me along. And I’m equally sure that the reason for his exile will probably come up. Meanwhile, River City has a place to bet on the Seahawks and the people there know where they can get a short-term loan, no questions asked…as long as you can make the vig.

  The Meat-Cutter’s Wife

  “Do you know what you’re asking me?”

  We were sitting in the office of my restaurant. Well, it wasn’t exactly my restaurant, but I owned a nice piece of it and talked the majority owner into naming it “Angelo’s” after my uncle back in New Jersey. I kept a small office off the kitchen. It was a good place to do business.

  Pete swallowed hard and bobbed his head up and down a few times.

  I pushed out a long stream of smoke. “Really? Because I’m not so sure. It sounds to me like you just asked to have a cop whacked.”

  Pete swallowed again and nodded. “Yeah.”

  “A cop, Pete? Why?”

  Pete shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

  I took a deep drag on my cigarette and regarded him for a moment. Pete was a civilian, a regular guy who worked cutting meat at Safeway. He did a little gambling on occasion and I took his action, but he was strictly small-time. The only reason I even bothered with him was because he consistently lost. Besides, it never hurts to have a contact in the meat-cutters union.

  My silence made him even more nervous than he’d been when he came into my office in the first place. He fidgeted in his seat, bit his lip, then twisted the wedding ring on his finger. I figured he’d be the one to break the silence with an explanation. Silence is a powerful tool in conversation.

  After a long minute, I put out my cigarette and leaned forward, surprised by him holding his tongue. “C’mere,” I said with a wave of my hand.

  Pete leaned in. Sweat collected around his mouth and as he drew closer, I could smell the coffee on his breath. His eyes met mine and darted away.

  “Listen, Pete,” I said. “One thing you should know. If I ask you a fuckin’ question, it goddamn well does matter. You hear what I’m saying?”

  Pete’s eyes widened and froze.

  “This ain’t no twenty bucks on the Seahawks we’re talking about here,” I said, my voice low. “This is kind of like, oh I don’t know…betting your life on something
.”

  Pete’s breath caught and then quickened, but he still didn’t say anything.

  “Cuz that is what you’re risking here, something goes wrong. Life in prison, Pete. Some big moolie driving hisself up your backside every day for forty years. You get me?”

  He nodded.

  “And that’s probably a best-case scenario if things go wrong,” I added.

  Still, Pete didn’t say a word. I got to thinking maybe he knew a thing or two about silence himself, this meat-cutter.

  Back in New Jersey, Pete’s behavior would be recognized for what it was, which was disrespect. But since my uncle Angelo sent me out to the Pacific Northwest, I’ve had to adapt. For instance, the bikers and the blacks were in charge of the prostitutes and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do to move in on that. I managed to get a small piece of the dope trade, but nothing spectacular. Gambling was where I made my living and even there the internet and Indian casinos were killing me. Now that the state has legalized card joints, I’ve had to make some huge adjustments.

  Besides, I realized Pete wasn’t being intentionally disrespectful. He was just ignorant. And here in River City, the culture that understood this thing of ours just didn’t exist. I don’t want my fucking ring kissed, but sitting in my office with a closed maw when I ask a question isn’t my idea of respect. At least he had a scared look on his face. That was something.

  “You can answer my question any time, Pete,” I said, and leaned back in my chair.

  Pete remained leaning forward, perched on the edge of his seat. Then he swallowed again and leaned back a little himself. “I need a problem to go away,” he said quietly.

  “And killing this cop is the only way to make that happen?” I raised my eyebrows and turned my palms up. “Huh?”

  He paused briefly, then nodded. “Yeah. I think so.”

  “You think so?” I shook my head at him. “Listen, if you’ve got some legal troubles, I can help you. I know some good lawyers, better even than Joel Harrity and not as stuck on all the fucking rules. Besides that, the juries out here are easy to work on—”

  “It’s not legal trouble,” Pete said.

  “Then what is it?”

  Pete pressed his lips together, took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Finally, he said, “He’s sleeping with my wife.”

  His voice broke at the final word and he hung his head. After a moment, his shoulders bunched and shuddered. I realized he was crying silently right there in my office.

  I almost felt sorry for the guy for a second or two. Here he was, cutting his little steaks and grinding his hamburger day in and day out, dropping fifty or a hundred bucks a weekend on bad picks, but basically taking care of his wife. He seemed like a decent enough guy and now this fucking cooz was stepping out on him. With a cop, no less.

  I sighed and reached for my pack of cigarettes. With a flick of my wrist, I shook one free and lit it. All the while, Pete sat in his chair and wept without a sound.

  After allowing him a minute or two, I tapped my lighter on the desk and asked, “Why don’t you whack the cunt instead?”

  His head jerked up and he looked at me in shock and surprise. “Wh-what did you say?”

  “She’s the one stepping out on you,” I said. “If anyone needs to get clipped, it’s her.”

  “I…I can’t…”

  “Then just divorce her, Pete.” I took a deep drag and let it out, sending a large cloud of smoke billowing toward him. “Christ, man, it’s only trim. There’s plenty more out there. You two got no kids. Just dump her.”

  He shook his head. Sorrow was in his eyes, but I saw something else creeping into them, too. Something that surprised me a little. Anger.

  “I love her,” he said through gritted teeth. His voice was thick from the crying. “And what he’s doing isn’t right.”

  He was right dead on about that. She was his woman. Some guy was moving in on his territory. He had every reason to want to defend it. Hell, maybe that was what she wanted. To see him fight for her. A lot of broads were that way.

  “Fine,” I said. “But this isn’t something you just do on a whim.” At least not here in River City, I thought. It’s too quiet.

  “I’ve thought this through,” Pete said quietly.

  “Really? How long has it been going on, this thing with the cop and your wife?”

  Pete swallowed thickly before answering. Then he whispered in a husky voice, “Three months.”

  I was drawing in smoke when he said that and I stopped mid-breath. “Three months? Why’d you wait so long to deal with it?”

  “I had to be sure.”

  “And now you are?”

  He nodded.

  “You caught them?”

  “Not me. But someone I hired.”

  “You hired a PI?”

  He nodded again.

  “And what did that cost?”

  “A grand.”

  “Yeah? What’d that buy you?”

  He swallowed and looked away.

  “Pictures?” I asked. “He get some pictures?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Video?”

  Pete nodded wordlessly. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a DVD in a thin black case. He hesitated, then slid it across the desk to me.

  “Jesus, Pete, I don’t want it.”

  “I…I can’t watch it. But I need to know what’s on it.”

  “You know what’s on it,” I said. “Otherwise, the PI wouldn’t have given it to you.”

  “Please.”

  I sighed. Then I took the disc and put it in my desk drawer.

  “Thank you,” he whispered.

  I nodded and took another drag from my cigarette. We sat in silence for a bit. I smoked the last of my cigarette while he stared at the front of my desk. I don’t know what he saw in the wood grain. Maybe he was imagining what was on the disc.

  Finally, I asked him, “Why don’t you just go find this cop and kick his ass?”

  “I can’t do that,” he said. “He’s a cop.”

  I laughed. “You can’t kick his ass, but you can have him whacked? Nice.”

  Pete turned red, but said nothing.

  I stubbed out my cigarette and grabbed a pencil and notepad. “Relax, Pete. I’m just bustin’ your balls here.”

  He didn’t reply, but I could tell he wasn’t feeling the humor. That was probably a good thing. Clipping somebody was serious business. Making it a cop was beyond serious. Truth be told, it was actually kind of stupid and I wasn’t sure I was even going to do it.

  “What’s the cop’s name?” I asked him.

  Pete pulled a folded sheet of paper from inside his jacket and held it out toward me. I didn’t reach for it.

  “Open it up and lay it on the desk,” I said.

  Pete looked confused, but he did as I asked. Once the paper was flat on the desk, he smoothed out the folds and turned it around so I could see it.

  The cop’s picture was in the center of the page, showing him in his uniform from the waist up. He was thick-bodied, with ruddy skin and dark hair streaked with gray. A confident stare beamed out from the photo at me.

  Definitely one who plays the ladies, I thought.

  I checked out his name underneath the photo. “Officer James Kahn,” it read.

  “Heh,” I laughed. “Just like the actor.”

  “Huh?”

  “The actor. James Caan.”

  Pete shook his head slowly, confused.

  “He played Santino Corleone in The Godfather. You know, Sonny the hothead son?”

  Pete gave me a blank look.

  “Oh, come on,” I said. “Sonny was the one that got whacked at the toll booth. They shot him up with Tommy guns. It was a great scene. Fucking tragic, but great.”

  “I never saw the movie,” Pete said.

  I shrugged. “All right. It doesn’t matter. Where’d you get this picture?”

  “The River City PD official website.”

  “You down
loaded this picture on your home computer?”

  “No,” he said. “I’m not stupid. I went to the library and used the free terminal. It only costs a quarter to print off a color page.”

  “The library has free computers?”

  He nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Anyone see you?”

  He shook his head. “The computer just sends a signal to the reference desk saying how many copies you made.”

  “How many’d you make?”

  “Only the one,” he said. “And I paid cash for it.”

  Aren’t you just a savvy motherfucker, I thought.

  “You sure about this?” I asked him, pointing at the picture on my desk.

  Pete nodded, his jaw set. “Positive. I want that fucker dead.”

  I sighed again. “If you feel that strongly about it,” I suggested, “why don’t you just take a few of your carving knives and go visit him some night?”

  Pete didn’t answer. He looked away from me, back down to the wood grain of the front of my desk. He didn’t need to say anything, though. I knew the answer. He wanted the cop dead, but he didn’t want it to change his life. He didn’t want the blood on his hands. That’s why he came to me. That’s what he was really paying for. A little distance to salve his conscience.

  “Okay, Pete,” I said. “I’ll think about it. But it will be expensive. You got that kind of cash?”

  “I’ve got forty-six thousand in my retirement fund right now,” he said, guileless. “I can pull it out to pay for it.”

  “What about your retirement?”

  He shrugged. “I’ll build it back up. I’ve got another twenty years to go.”

  I sniffed and rubbed my nose. “You’ll take hit for early withdrawal, won’t you?”

  “I’ll have to pay taxes on it,” he said. “Even if I put it back later.”

  “So you’ll net what? Thirty-five?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe a little less.”

  I thought about reaching for another cigarette, but didn’t right away. Times were tough here in River City. My uncle Angelo probably cleared a mill or a mill two a year back in New Jersey. I was lucky to break a hundred thousand a year here in Washington. I got to thinking this little job wasn’t so little after all. I might even have to kick a taste up to Uncle Angelo on it.