“Which one is she?”
“She’s not here today. Don’t bet on Island Queen. She never performs well unless Pale Pauline is racing against her. Then the two will try to murder one another.”
“Why?”
“Who can know? They’re horses. They feel what they feel. They do what they do. Whatever hopes and dreams they have are the hopes and dreams of horses, not people.”
“What about that one?” I pointed to a pale gray mare.
He didn’t speak for a moment. Then: “That is White Glory. I don’t know her. She is quiet about herself and speaks only of the farm she has left behind. She is very sad.”
I laughed. “You’re so full of it, it’s entertaining just to listen.”
Antonio was at the track nearly every day, and there weren’t many other people I could talk to. Jockeys are about as dull as they come, and I didn’t see Joey that often; he was too busy. Any conversation with Mr. Paretti was over the phone and pure business. There were other soldiers I talked with every now and then: Go get this bag and deliver it to this guy. Pick up this car and take it down to niggertown and leave it but take the license, registration, and identification number. Go get this guy and bring him over to this address. You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to.
The soldiers were duller than the jockeys.
Not that the guys I left up in Boston were any better, but their topics of conversation were more interesting. We might talk about family back in Ireland or how the British and the IRA were trying to blow each other up. We had pools on the next likely spot the IRA might attack. Won some of them, too. And Boston politics were downright fun to watch—Los Angeles politics consists of one dumb guy arguing with another dumb guy, both of them crowded off the front page by which movie stars were sleeping together. I mean, I wouldn’t read about Elizabeth Taylor even if she were caught screwing a goat.
Okay. Maybe a goat.
I liked Antonio. He was pleasant and smart—he knew the difference between a simple dirty joke and a really rough one and when to tell which. He had been around the old country and had the stories to show for it. He liked beer and Italian wine and he had some Italian magic with fish that came deep from the dark heart of Tuscany. I can’t say we ever became friends exactly, but we enjoyed each other’s company. We talked about everything, and when we exhausted normal conversation we came back to the horses. Always he spoke of the horses: this one’s triumph, that one’s tragedy, the loss of that one’s friend or this one’s unrequited love.
Then Mr. Paretti told me to take care of a Leo Bernardi by the end of the week.
I didn’t look him up immediately. Instead I waited at the stables for Antonio. Los Angeles wasn’t so big that the name Bernardi was all that common. I decided to brace him about it. Family members can be fair game when you’re collecting a debt.
His face fell when he saw me. “I am in trouble?”
And like that I decided against it. “No. Just something on my mind.”
He put both hands on my elbows. “You are troubled, Larry.”
I shook my head and disentangled his hands carefully. “No.” Besides, I thought, it wouldn’t be professional.
Leo liked to hang out in a bar down in Long Beach. He must have known he was marked. No one can be that stupid. But he was still in the same place, sprawled over two stools at the end of the counter and joking with the waitress. He was pretty lit when I arrived.
I looked around. The floor was sticky and there was a doorway obscured by a black curtain. Had to be hookers or stag films. The place stank of rotten sawdust and old beer. There were a dozen men at the counter and a few filling out the tables and chairs but little or no conversation. A stage occupied one end of the room, but there was nothing happening and I got the impression nothing had happened for some time. The only rough character tended the bar and ignored everyone except me. We sparked on each other, neither wanting difficulties where there didn’t need to be any. He checked out the rest of the room and settled on Leo instantly, then moved away to the far side of the bar to watch.
I sat down close enough to Leo that he had to move his legs. I gave him an insulting once-over and he snarled something at me. I tried to look small and weak to invite attack as I snarled something back, mentioning his mother. He roared up off his stool and I slammed my elbow into his gut and got out of the way as he puked all over the bar. I grabbed him in an armlock and dropped a fifty to cover the mess. Seconds later, Leo was on the sidewalk, under my control, and still emptying out.
He blearily looked up at me and I took that to mean he was done. I clipped him on the back of the head and he went limp enough to fit into the trunk.
I’d booked a room at a motel a few miles out of town across the highway from a training track—one of those no-questions-asked sort of places.
Antonio pulled in right behind me.
I got out of the car slowly, watching him. I had figured him unconnected. Was I wrong? “What are you doing here, Antonio?”
“I followed you.”
“I didn’t know you had a car.”
Antonio glanced at my trunk. Thumped it. There was no sound.
I lit my cigarette. “Who’s Leo Bernardi?”
He swore softly in Italian. “My brother’s boy. He and I came over together, but we didn’t see things the same way. You ever get involved in one of those family fights like in the old country?”
I shook my head.
He looked off at the track. Some two-year-olds were working out, running short sprints and then walking off the sweat. You could hear the trainers and the jockeys planning strategy.
Antonio turned back to me. “Back home you had family everywhere. Your sister married some guy you didn’t like or your uncle had a wife nobody could stand. Angry words were said and thereafter the guy or the wife wouldn’t be spoken to. For a while. But the family was always there. That wife’s brother might be the local butcher. Were you going to quit eating meat? Or the guy married to your sister was part of the family that ran the dairy farm. Were you going to stop eating cheese or drinking milk? Eventually the families would force people to be at least cordial to one another. Otherwise the town would fall apart.”
He shrugged. “Here it is different. Family isn’t everywhere—people are in different towns, different cities, different states. If you don’t like the butcher, you can go down the street to another one. If you don’t like the cheese, buy somewhere else or eat that health-food crap. If you don’t like what someone says to you, this is America, right? You tell him to buzz off.” Antonio shook his head. “My brother was a bum. I didn’t like him and told him so and that’s the last I see of him. He runs off and I hear nothing until the boy’s mother dies of emphysema four years ago. My brother is nowhere to be found but he left her with a boy, now a man. The bum could be dead for all I know or care. I only know about any of this because she’s on her deathbed and wants me to look out for my nephew, named after my bum brother. She dies. But my brother lives on in his son. Leo is a gambler. He’s a drinker. He chases after women. He is too lazy for work and too stupid to make crime pay. A year ago he disappears and today you have him.”
“Are you telling me you knew this day would come?”
“That Leo would fall afoul of one of you people? That was a certainty. That it would be you in particular? No. That is mere coincidence. I never expected to hear of it beforehand but only to learn his fate in the papers. How bad is it?”
“Bad,” I said. “Eight thousand with the vig. Paretti wants this resolved by the end of the week. No payment plan. No options. Maybe he pissed off Paretti or Paretti wants to make an example of him. Or maybe Paretti’s strapped for cash and needs to call in every marker he can.”
He didn’t say anything for a long moment. “Allow me to accompany you. Perhaps I can be persuasive.”
“You stay here. I’ll call you if I need you.”
Leo came around as I dragged him up the stairs.
“What the hell
?” he yelled as I slammed him into a chair.
“I work for Paretti.” I pulled over another chair and sat across from him.
He blanched and didn’t say anything.
“Eight thousand dollars?” I said. “Ring any bells?”
“I haven’t got that kind of money.” He stared back at me, sullen.
“Can you get it?”
“I don’t know where.”
“Would you be able to figure that out minus a couple of fingers? Or an eye?”
He kept quiet, just glared at me.
I shook my head. “Tough guy. I know all about tough guys. All bluster and beef. If you’re tough enough, you can stand anything. If you’re angry enough, you can overcome anything. Nothing but blind faith.” I leaned forward. “You want to know the truth? If I chop off your legs and arms and pull out your tongue, you’re just the toughest guy in the cripple ward lying in your own shit. Is that what you want? Paretti gave me the green light, anything I want to do. So either you give me the money or all you’re good for is holding down a rubber sheet. Which is it going to be?”
I could see I got to him. Now came stage two: the lying. I never liked this part—it was a natural follow-on from the tough-guy stage. My sister’s sick. My mother is dying. I haven’t got the money.
The lies would come thick and fast. Until I passed through this stage I couldn’t get to the begging. That was when I’d find out where his money was. Not that he had enough—I knew that right off. If I hadn’t already come into this knowing it, I could have guessed by the desperate pitch of his bravado. Harry Cohen could pay Paretti back and was fighting to keep the money. Leo Bernardi couldn’t and was fighting to keep me from finding out. I could tell the difference.
“Okay. I got the money. Not on me, of course. But stashed. I was holding on to it—”
I took my cigarette, grabbed his knee, and stubbed it out on his thigh. Leo screamed.
“Leo,” I said gently. “You give me every dime you have. Every penny. I want your bank accounts. I want the deed to your car. I want your shirt and your shoes. Then, if I think it’s enough, I might let you keep something. Otherwise I’ll take everything you have, including your body. When I’m done, you won’t even be able to beg me to die.”
The light dawned. Then he looked over my shoulder and hope came back. “Uncle Tony!”
I shook my head. I didn’t turn around. “You were supposed to stay in your car.”
“Uncle Tony. This guy’s going to hurt me—”
“Shut up, Leo. You’re an idiot.” Antonio searched Leo’s face, then turned to me. “Eight thousand, you said?”
“That covers it.”
“I’m good for it, Uncle Antonio! Honest.”
Antonio stared at him like a bug. “Shut up.” He rubbed his face. “He’s my brother’s boy.”
“You have eight grand?”
Antonio shook his head. “No. But I know how to get it.”
He stood at the door of the stables for a long time. He looked at me, pain lining the wrinkles on his face. “What can I do? He’s my brother’s boy.”
I shrugged and didn’t say anything. What did I know about it?
He went in and wandered from one horse to another and then stopped. I could see him through the door talking with one particular horse.
Afterward we went up to the betting window and he put down a thousand on I’m a Nobody to win. Thirteen to one.
Then we went down to the fence to watch.
We sat through two races before ours came up. I’m a Nobody was dancing in the stall. Then came the bell.
I’m a Nobody tore out ahead in the first few seconds and stayed there, running hard, strides out and in. I remembered the track back east. Dogs run like that. He came by, eyes wild and the whites showing, mouth open and slavering, sweat splattering us as he passed. He whipped by and a moment later came the rest of them.
“He can’t keep that up, can he?” I asked.
Antonio shrugged. “Who can say?”
I’m a Nobody didn’t flag on the far turn. Coming back on the far side, I could see his sides heaving. Something dark was hanging from his mouth, but he didn’t waver. He roared through the home stretch and crossed the finish line. Kept going until he passed the stalls. Passed the gates. Until he reached us. Then he stopped, breath ragged and deep. The jockey was pale and frozen, staring not at us but at the horse.
Then, like some great oak, I’m a Nobody wavered, caught himself, and fell on his side. The jockey rolled off to his knees. He held the horse’s head and murmured to him. I’m a Nobody snorted, blood coming from his mouth, and stopped breathing. Everything was silent for a few seconds.
At that point, the crowd around us roared and moved forward. “Come on. We have to get out of here.” I jumped the fence onto the track and pulled Antonio over. We ran through the mud until the crowd thinned. I climbed back over and hauled him across.
“First the window,” he said.
We took just enough time for Antonio to claim his winnings. Then out of the park and into my car. Down Katella and over to a bar I knew on Cerritos. I hustled him inside and toward a dark booth at the back.
Antonio said nothing. He pulled out the money and retrieved a thousand, then gave me the rest.
“That’s too much.”
“Yes.” He fell silent.
I ordered us a couple of beers. I sipped mine. Antonio left his untouched. Once or twice tears welled up and fell on his cheeks. His expression didn’t change and he didn’t wipe them off.
Finally he roused himself. “Larry? Can you drive me home?”
I could. He lived in a tiny bungalow a few miles away. He shook my hand in a formal way and walked slowly up the path and inside his house without looking back.
The total had been $13,000. Minus Antonio’s seed money and what Leo owed Paretti, I had $4,000 left. I put it in a coffee can in my apartment.
Antonio didn’t come back to the track, and after a couple of weeks I looked him up. He was gone. I put out a couple of feelers—not enough to attract much attention. I didn’t want anybody taking too much interest in the old man. He’d sold the bungalow for cash and left town. One guy said he went back to Italy. Another thought he’d gone to Atlanta—why, he couldn’t say. Why would anybody voluntarily go to Atlanta?
I didn’t ask Leo. I didn’t want to see him.
Six months passed.
Once I’d delivered the money to Paretti, the word had gone out: Leo was a bad risk. Nothing personal, you understand. Just business. Unless you seriously want to make an example of someone, it doesn’t make sense to get into the same position twice. Apparently some bookie in Santa Monica didn’t get the message. Leo ran up a quick $3,000 note before he was found out. Then, of course, he tried to skip town and Paretti called me.
I could have paid it off. I had Antonio’s money. But I kept thinking of I’m a Nobody, dying in front of us. It felt like a promise.
So I went looking for Leo.
The papers loved the “brutality” of the crime, and I took a quiet trip up north to Crescent City for a while.
I rented a little house on the ocean end of A Street. I drank coffee and read the paper for nearly a year. I joined a little boxing club on the other side of town to keep my hand in. Nothing much—maybe half a dozen of us taking out our boredom on each other. I bought a boat and learned how to fish in the deep blue sea.
Back east, Buddy McLean got out of jail and the war started up in earnest. It was the weekly Irish slaughter.
I went back to work in ’63—just after Kennedy got shot. DeSimone was on shaky ground with the organization. Joe Bonanno put DeSimone on a death list but didn’t carry it out. DeSimone got pretty crazy at that point, so we all kept our heads down to avoid any shrapnel. The paranoia must have killed him in the end; he died of a heart attack in ’67 and Nick Licata took over. We all breathed easier.
Then Alfredo Paretti retired and Joey and I both wanted his job. I took Joey out on my boat
and came back alone. He’d done right by me so I made it quick. He thought I’d agreed to let him have the job. He never had a chance to regret it.
That’s where I’ve stayed: lower management. High enough I don’t have to do the heavy lifting but low enough not to be a target.
I still read the news from back east, where winter is close to the bone and the alleys stink of garbage. The names change in the Irish mob, but they manage to keep enough blood in the streets to stay the same.
Sometimes I go to the track. I don’t bet but I like watching the sweaty grace of the horses. I think of Antonio often. It’s not the same without him.
But the horses are beautiful. The weather is picture-perfect every day and everybody is tanned and smiling. Antonio’s money remains in the same old coffee can.
I still kiss the sweet warm earth of California.
WILLIAM SOLDAN
All Things Come Around
FROM Thuglit
It’s getting late, and Travis Hayes can’t think straight with all the noise. Cody’s screams have reached an unbearable pitch by the time the traffic on I-680 slows to a crawl, then stops. An accident. Tractor-trailer jackknifed on the ice. Half a dozen other vehicles lost control trying to avoid collision. A few have gone off the road, partially buried in the snowdrifts along the freeway. Several more have accordioned into one another like a twisted metal centipede. Behind him, impatient motorists lay on their horns and his son shrieks in his car seat. The boy is cutting molars and having a hell of a time of it. No one ever tells you, Travis thinks. No one ever sits you down and prepares you for these things.
“It’s okay, buddy.” He reaches back, offers Cody the soft, circular teething ring from the diaper bag on the passenger seat. Cody flails, slaps it away. His pudgy little face is ember-red and shiny with snot and tears.
The Best American Mystery Stories 2017 Page 36