by Joe Corso
Another said, “What’s he doing here?”
Trenchie wasn’t wearing a shirt. It was obvious that he must have been sleeping upstairs. The punks, in their plot for mischief, had jimmied the side door well before work time and figured they had at least four or five good hours before the bartender and owner arrived at noon. They only needed one hour anywhere in between to do their business. That’s all they needed to ensure the place couldn’t open today for the regular clientele. Now here stood Trenchie. Not good.
Trenchie’s eyes locked on the men as he slowly descended the stairs. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he headed toward the bar, directly to his left, stepped behind it, and slid his left hand under the bar, feeling for the bat. He wasn’t concerned. So what if they knew he was looking for a weapon? He had his secret weapon - his fists - and these four pissheads had no idea what Trenchie was all about. But a bat would make it a whole lot easier and a gun would be oh so much better - wishful thinking - but nevertheless. He allowed his hand to slowly and methodically sweep the underside of the bar, and there it was. He felt it.
Trenchie was used to this sort of fight. When he first entered prison, he had brawled a lot until the prison population got the message that it was just plain foolish to tangle with him. He wore a slightly bemused expression as he stared at the four bums, looking stupidly back at him, and he thought to himself that this was exactly like prison - he was facing four Latino men - just like in the joint. They were like a pack of wolves - too small physically to bring down their prey individually. They needed the strength of the pack to make the kill. The pack leader turned to his men and nodded at Trenchie. This was West Side Story, in a way.
They all looked in Trenchie’s direction. He was bare-chested. Quite visible to the gang were two small puckered circles of skin - one in his left shoulder, and another on his right side, just below the rib cage. They could only be bullet holes. The gang members knew bullet holes. They’d seen their share. The Latinos eyed the long knife scar that stretched along his upper torso, the result of whatever fight, and the muscular cut of his body, the result of years of prison yard workouts.
It looked almost as though Trenchie was wearing a Mona Lisa smile - that perplexing, enigmatic smirk that has long captivated so many Louvre visitors. Trenchie perched his elbow on the bar, waiting for someone to make a move. Rhythmically, he tapped, tapped, tapped the bat in his right hand into the palm of his left hand, all the while smiling and just daring them, daring them without saying a word. The four Latinos were frozen, firmly planted in their respective places, trying to decide how to take this guy. Most people would be paralyzed with fear and intimidated by what could be perceived as a dangerous situation, but not Trenchie. The fact that he wasn’t the least bit nervous was unnerving to the others, sort of a reverse effect, in an odd way. It was almost as if he was looking forward to this.
This was Trenchie’s kind of fight. Instead of looking for a protected area, maybe behind the bar or toward the door, he began to walk directly toward them, still tapping his bat. The gang boys fanned out - they learned that much from the streets. Trenchie focused his attention to his left, on the three guys moving in toward him. He was well aware of the fourth guy on his right. That guy was probably getting into position to sucker punch him, Trenchie thought. Trenchie waited. Just as the guy on his right was about to make his move, Trenchie swiped the bat in a left to right horizontal arc and bam, caught the guy hard, smack on the side of his head, splitting it open like a ripe watermelon. Latino punk number four went down like a sack of potatoes.
“Three to go,” Trenchie smiled and said.
Trenchie started walking toward the others. The pack scattered and circled him until each assumed a position - one on each side of him and one behind. Quick as a cat, the guy behind Trenchie spun around and landed a bottle shot to the back of Trenchie’s head. Trenchie, dizzy from the blow, staggered as blood spewed from the gash. As he dropped to his knees, the bat slipped from his hand, clattered to the floor, and bounced away from him. Thank goodness for the mean streets of New York and those years of fighting in prison, Trenchie thought. Most men would be finished by now. Suddenly, the punks were all over him, pummeling him, kicking his ribs, fisting his face. Bam! Bam! Bam! Trenchie was getting dizzier by the second. Thoughts floated into his head: how could a punk like this hit me with a bottle without me seeing him? I must be getting old; I need to put an end to this before somebody else gets in a lucky shot.
The leader of the group grabbed Trenchie’s bat. It was his turn. He smiled tauntingly as he moved toward Trenchie. The thought of killing the Latino pleased Trenchie.
“You’re not so tough now are you hotshot?” mocked the Latino. “You may be big, but you went down easy enough, just like everybody else. Now I’m gonna make sure you stay down.”
It happened fast. The punk with the bat swung at Trenchie’s head, but Trenchie was up now, on his feet, fast as lightning. Trenchie raised his big arm protectively and the blow landed on the fleshy side of his arm. It was painful, but no big deal. Trenchie had honed his ability to anticipate where the blow would come from and how it would be delivered. The deflected blow he took on the arm was exactly where he knew it would land. He sacrificed a little pain for a quick victory.
Trenchie crouched, going into a boxer’s position. The three punks figured he was cowering. That gave them the confidence Trenchie was hoping for. Psychology, Trenchie kept reminding himself. It’s as about the mind as it is the physical strength. Trenchie was six chess moves ahead and he was getting into position to checkmate them all. To do that, he had to wait for the opening he knew was to come. Trenchie knew the ending - been there, done that. Just about now the punks were jubilant, filled with the cockiness of youth. They came at him, looking for a quick kill. It appeared the old man was tiring. The pack closed in looking to finish him off. With perfect synchronization, Trenchie’s arms fired from right to left. With his physical strength and the momentum of his body, he caught both guys with two lightening fast punches - one punch each - a left, a right - flush on the jaw. They both went down knocked unconscious by the punches. Now it was just the two of them left - Trenchie and the punk with the bat. It seemed like batboy’s confidence was waning so Trenchie faced him dead on. The punk’s head bobbed back and forth as he eyed the door, obvious that he wanted to make a sprint for it. There was a slight problem - Trenchie was now between him and his escape route.
Trenchie, resuming his smirk, motioned to the young punk to come and get him. With each step that Trenchie took forward, the kid took a step back. Batboy looked around nervously realizing he had run out of options. He had no other choice but to fight the big man - something he really didn’t want to do. His mind was racing. He had fought other big guys and won most of them and this big guy, blocking his way out, was only human. He had to be tired after taking on four younger guys. The kid raised the bat. All he needed was one good shot and he was outta here. The young Latino ran toward Trenchie screaming at the top of his lungs. Just as the punk was about to bring the bat down onto Trenchie’s head, a ham-sized fist leveled a blow to the right side of his head, landing flush on his temple. The power of the punch propelled the kid across the room, careening him off the wall like someone shot out of a cannon. He collapsed like a rag doll, falling unconsciously to the floor, his body slamming inside the broken innards of the jukebox. Trenchie looked around the room. The other three punks were still unconscious. He bent down, searching the ringleader’s pockets until he found what he was looking for, loose change and his car keys. Trenchie calmly walked over to the pay phone, put in a dime, and called Yip, then Big Red, each to assume his role - Yip with the cops, and Red for the club concerns. This place needed to be open for the dinner crowd tonight.
Trenchie walked out the door to the ringleader’s car, started it, and pulled the car forward about fifty feet, positioning it in front of the bar. Unfazed, he kept the motor running while he walked back into the bar. Trenchie reached down and
grabbing the unconscious ringleader by his feet, his hand still holding the bat, proceeded to drag him unceremoniously out the door, not at all concerned that the man’s head was hitting the steps, all the way to the curb. He draped the kid’s legs carefully over the curb, got back into the car, put it into gear, and slowly pulled forward until the car bounced once, then a second time. Trenchie could feel the crunch of bone against rubber, of joints separating, of tendons stretching and snapping, legs turning to mush. Trenchie put the car into reverse, backed over the broken and mashed legs once more and drove the car back to the location where it was originally parked. He shut off the engine, walked back into the bar and waited for Red.
The moment he received Trenchie’s call, Yip called Lt. Creighton and explained to him what Red had conveyed. Creighton, a short distance away from the precinct, rushed to the bar, arriving just as the first patrol cars were pulling up. Creighton and his officers called for an ambulance for all the men - the ringleader and his three sidekicks - and in the interim, the cops placed all of the men under arrest, three in a semiconscious state and one who would never walk again. The Lieutenant carefully assessed the damage. His report read in part:
“A gang fight was initiated on the corner of One Hundred Eleventh Street and Forty Third Avenue where an unattended car accidentally rolled over one of the men, causing severe damage to his legs.” It was clear now to Trenchie as to why Yip valued Creighton so much. This guy was worth every cent Yip was paying him, he thought. Trenchie viewed Creighton in a different light with a lot more respect.
Chapter Five
Sirens wailed as the ambulance lurched forward, made a right turn onto One Hundred Eleventh Street, raced towards Roosevelt Avenue, and made another right turn under the El speeding toward the Flushing Hospital Emergency room. Big Red watched the ambulance leave, then walked up the steps carefully stepping over torn, wrecked sheetrock and debris to get a better look at the damage the four punks had inflicted. While taking stock of the damage, Artie, Red’s contractor, walked in with two helpers, carrying the ever-present pad that contractors use for preparing their estimates. Artie gave the place a quick glance over inspection. From all the years doing this sort of work, he knew what was needed, so he made a list more from memory than from anything else. When he finished, he motioned to Red. Red nodded and walked toward the bar. Artie laid out some papers and pointed to the areas that needed immediate attention, working his way down, in order of priority, and handed Red an invoice.
“I’ll give you the cost of materials later. As soon as Lou leaves to get the material, I’m gonna’ start collecting the garbage. I have a truck parked outside and when I get a full load, we’ll take this shit to the dumps. Then we’ll start ripping down the back wall so when my man returns with the sheet rock and drywall compound, we can get the new wall up. I told Lou to get fast drying compound so we can paint early and get ready for tonight. I have the mirror guys working on replacing the mirrors. They told me they have that size mirror in stock and all they have to do is trim and frame ‘em. They assured me they’d have ‘em installed by tonight.”
Red liked what he was hearing. “Sounds good. Go ahead and do whatever you have to. I need to open tonight.”
Artie gave his worker a list of materials. The man headed straight to Dykes Lumber Yard in Long Island City. By the time his man returned, Artie and his crew would have the place ready to start the repairs. In the meantime, workers were already focusing on the bar so drinks could be served tonight. Alcohol was a big part of their business. The bar was a priority.
Artie continued, “I’ll have you ready to open tonight, and if any touching up is needed, I’ll do it in the morning, but I don’t think that’ll be necessary. Before I forget, did you call the vending company and ask if they have replacements for the machines that were destroyed?”
“Yeah,” Red replied. “I called the vending machine owners soon as I got the call from Trenchie and man were they pissed off! They were not happy campers.”
Red looked at his watch. “They should be here anytime now.”
“Well, if that’s the case then I don’t see why we can’t be ready for the dinner crowd.”
“Good, Artie, that’s what I want to hear. You get everything done by tonight and there’ll be a bonus in it for you.”
“I’ll give it my best shot, Red. Don’t worry, it’ll get done. ”
“That’s all anyone can ask. Thanks Artie.”
As Red sat down to speak with Trenchie, he noticed blood running down the side of Trenchie’s head, onto his face.
“Jesus, Trench, your head is wide open and you’re bleeding like a stuck pig. You need stitches. Come on. I’m takin’ you to the hospital.”
Trenchie laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“I was just thinking - if I bumped into those four clowns again and they were awake, I’d feel obligated to put them back to sleep again.”
“Come on Trench, be serious. It’s over. I talked to Yip. They’re gonna’ be booked. But I’m not gonna’ let you out of my sight, just in case. The last thing I need is for you to be goin’ back to the Slammer.”
The doctor administering the stitches, asked his typical questions - how it happened, what instrument hit him, what he fell against, and all Trenchie said was - he was mugged. He had no idea who the punks were. All he knew was that there were four of them and they got worse than what they gave.
“You couldn’t mean the four guys that came in a little while ago do you?
“Could be, Doc.”
As the doctor carefully looped seven stitches into Trenchie’s head, he noticed his bruised arm and asked him to remove his shirt so he could examine it more carefully. He couldn’t help but notice the scars. “Where’d you get these?”
Trenchie shrugged at first, then said, “Happened in the war.” The doctor seemed content with this story, sort’a admiring him in a way but in the back of his mind he thought that it might or might not be true.
Driving home, Red kept checking on Trenchie, asking if he was all feeling all right and how he felt. Trenchie, pointing to his head, simply said, “This is nothing,” but he seemed distant, in thought.
“Somethin’s bothering you Trench. What is it?”
“You know, Red. Somethin’s not right with this picture.”
“Whatta’ you mean?”
“Last night, it was almost as if these punks were looking for a fight, a reason to bust things up, like they wanted to start somethin’, almost like it was planned, and when they couldn’t do whatever the hell they wanted to do, they came back this morning. I don’t believe in coincidences. If I’m right, this happened for a reason, but why? Who benefits from your place gettin’ shut down? Who benefits from the vending machines being destroyed knowin’ who owns ‘em? Who has it in for you and is not afraid to go after a made guy? Ask yourself that and you might find out who was behind it. Now I could be wrong. It could just be a few dumb punk kids lookin’ for some excitement, but somethin’s not right here. Just think about it, because it’s been buggin’ me all morning. Now do me a favor and lend me a car. I wanna’ pick up a couple of suits and some other duds while the bar’s gettin’ repaired.”
Red tossed Trenchie the keys to his car and recommended Valentino Maximus for Trenchie’s new wardrobe. He wrote the name and address on a slip of paper telling him it was ‘the place’ where the guys who could afford it bought their clothes. Trenchie placed the slip of paper in his pocket and walked to the lot across the street got into the car and turned left onto One hundred Eleventh Street and headed straight to the Long Island Expressway. He took the LIE to the midtown tunnel, then Fourteenth Street across to Seventh Avenue, where he parked his car at the first spot he found. He walked the rest of the way to Spring Street—to the location of the New York outpost of an exclusive Italian firm, known only by those in the top percentile who could afford their wares. Valentino was thirty-seven years old and created the most exquisite handmade men’s suits in
all of New York City. His father, Flavio, still operating from the original store in Florence, Italy that he started when he was twenty-one years old, refused to leave his motherland, but had passed the trade down to his son.
Once inside, Trenchie announced that he was in a buying mood and asked to see a few of their best. Trenchie was promptly escorted into a room where a tailor was busy pinning cuffs, while a customer stood on a platform in front of a mirror. Trenchie was led to a vacant mirror where he was shown two hand-stitched suits - each with the crisp sharpness that was part of the Maximus signature. One included a sleek one-button jacket that could do double duty as a tuxedo, another, a narrow two-button suit that he was assured was rapidly gaining popularity. The details are what did it for Trenchie: intensely colored linings, and the tiny puckers at the shoulder seam indicating a sleeve that’s been set by hand. The Spring Street store kept a modest stock of ready-to-wear suits on hand for around five hundred per suit, but the real deal here had the base price of seven hundred fifty dollars, not including fabric. Trenchie bought two suits, two pairs of shoes, five expensive silk shirts, and five silk ties. He charged it on his brand new restaurant charge card. It felt great not having to worry about money. He left the store pleased. The suits were quality - no question that you get what you pay for. He slung the suits over his shoulder, placed the shopping bag with other items in his free hand and started to walk toward his car which was parked three city blocks from Maximus. He was in no hurry. If he rushed back, he would only get in the way of the workers doing repairs in the club. He thought of stopping for a drink in a little quiet place, somewhere to kill a little time, but first he wanted to put his clothes into the car. With all the bars in New York City, one had to be near where the car was parked, he thought, but then his mind began to wander. Hell it was great to be out of prison, out in the fresh New York air with the sun shining. Funny, his old man popped into head. He remembered his father telling him to take a moment to smell the roses, but he never knew exactly what he meant by that