Gangster

by Lorenzo Carcaterra

  Angelo walked away from the bed and out toward the kitchen. “Where do you keep the sugar?” he asked over his shoulder.

  “First cabinet next to the back door,” Ida wheezed. “If not there, look on the bottom shelf of the pantry. If it’s not there, then it’s someplace else.”

  “Be easier to go out and buy some,” Angelo said from the kitchen.

  Ida looked down at the platter by her feet. “Looks like you made enough to feed a full crew,” she said.

  “What you can’t finish, we will,” Pudge said, removing the damp cloth from her forehead.

  “I’m contagious,” Ida said. “Or so the doctor says.”

  “Yeah? Well, I’m hungry,” Pudge said. “And the doctor’s not here to tell me otherwise.”

  He pulled a fork from his shirt pocket and grabbed a piece of toast. He spread eggs and bacon on the bread, then sealed the mix with another slice. He handed the sandwich to Ida who took it from him. She took a big bite. Then she sat back against the pillows, her eyes closed, her face lit with pleasure. “If I knew you could cook like this, I would have had you work the kitchen in the Café,” she said.

  “Wait till you taste my coffee,” Pudge said. “You’ll change that way of thinking in a heartbeat.”

  Angelo came back into the room, three tin cups of coffee in his hands. “I found the sugar,” he said. “But not the milk.”

  “There’s none to be found,” Ida said, finishing the last bite of her sandwich. “You can always walk over to the barn and pull it out fresh. I’m sure Eloise will oblige.”

  Angelo handed Ida and Pudge each a cup and sat back down across from the bed. “I’m happy with what I have,” he said, holding up his tin, steam rising off its lip.

  “You about ready for another?” Pudge asked Ida, pointing over his shoulder to the platter.

  “I’m more than full,” Ida said.

  “Eggs not done the way you like?” Pudge asked.

  “The eggs were great.” Ida paused to wipe a thin row of toast crumbs off her nightgown and onto the floor. “But the hit on Garrett was even greater.” The strength was back in her voice. “A great first move.”

  “It was Angelo’s plan,” Pudge said without a moment’s hesitation. “He led and I followed.”

  “It’s a helluva start to what’s going to be a helluva war,” Ida said. “A gangster makes his reputation off wars like these.”

  “We don’t care about reputations,” Pudge said as he finished the final piece of bacon. “We only want to win.”

  “You’ll care when you get older and your blood’s not so quick to boil over the idea of a fight. A solid reputation can stop a war just as quick as it can start one.”

  “The shooting is causing Angus some problems downtown,” Angelo revealed. “It doesn’t look good for a cop to be gunned down, corrupt or not. It looks even worse if it happens in a confessional booth.”

  “What’s it costing him?” Ida wanted to know.

  “Double the monthly payoffs to every precinct below Thirty-fourth Street for the next six months,” Pudge said. “And we let the cops make some noise in the papers about how they’re not going to stand for shootings in churches. It’s just until the old ladies feel safe enough to go back in and tell a drunk priest all about their sin of the week.”

  “The money you lose now, you’ll make back when you take Wells out,” Ida said. “It all evens out in the end.”

  Pudge stood and picked up the empty platter. “I’m going to start cleaning up the mess I left in the kitchen,” he said to Ida. “Maybe you should close your eyes and get some sleep.”

  Angelo got up to follow Pudge out of the room, the three empty cups in one hand, but Ida stopped him, reaching out for his arm. “Are you okay with all this?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “I guess I trained you a little too well.” Her words were inked with sadness. “I needed to make you tough, and to do that I had to chisel away all the soft parts. Maybe I went and made you too hard. It’ll serve you well in life, but won’t make you much good to anybody else. For that, I have to say I’m sorry.”

  “What other choice did we have?” Angelo’s eyes were hard but his words soft.

  “Still, I wish now you had time to just be a little boy, enjoy that even for a short while. Pudge, too. I guess it just wasn’t meant for either one of you.”

  “It all happened the way it was meant to, for me and for Pudge,” Angelo said. “I don’t regret it. Not for one minute. You shouldn’t either.”

  “That beautiful wife you found yourself,” Ida said, watching him walk away. “She still in love with you?”

  “She was when I put her on that ship,” Angelo said with a half smile. “But I can’t say for sure until I see her again. You know what a cruise does to women.”

  “It’s probably why I never went on one,” Ida the Goose said.

  She stared at the doorway as Angelo passed through to join Pudge in the kitchen. She put her head back on the pillow and listened to the two of them wash pans and dry dishes and argue over what went where. She closed her eyes and wiped at the tears running down her face with the ruffled sleeves of her gown.

  • • •

  ANGUS MCQUEEN UNDID the leash around the neck of his English bulldog, Gopher, and watched as the dog made a dash for the shrubs and leaves of Washington Square Park. Angus lifted his face up to the noon sun as he walked past empty rows of benches and large old trees, enjoying the solitude of a daily ritual not even a gang war was allowed to interrupt. A short distance behind him, sitting alone with a folded newspaper across his lap, Spider MacKenzie kept his eye on the boss. The lack of privacy was the one aspect of gangster life that never appealed to McQueen.

  “I don’t need anybody’s help to walk a dog,” McQueen had said to Spider before he left his office just west of the park.

  “I’m just looking to find a nice place to read my newspaper,” Spider said.

  “Go sit behind my desk,” Angus told him, as he slammed the outer office door. “That’s a nice place to read.”

  Angus liked Spider and found comfort in his silent company. He had just grown weary of the precautions and preparations that were needed to survive a gang war. In his career in the rackets, Angus had never initiated a war nor had he ever lost one. He had always been cautious in his routine and daring in his maneuvers, making all the key decisions with a cold eye on detail and a brutal stance against his opponent. This war was different. Maybe it was because he was too old and too rich to care. Or maybe it was just that the taste of this battle didn’t sit as well as had past glories. Whatever the reasons, Angus McQueen felt more like a participant than a principal in what was probably his most important battle. As he watched Gopher run back and forth across the sprawling lawn, a thick twig between his teeth, Angus knew, win or lose, this would be his final war.

  Angus bent down and picked up the twig Gopher dropped by the side of his paws. He reared back and tossed it past a row of benches and into a clump behind a thick oak tree. Gopher sat until the twig landed and then took off in search of it. Angus watched as the dog ran and disappeared behind the tree, sniffing frantically for the piece of wood. He then walked over to an empty bench and sat down, smiling when he looked across the park and saw Spider move three rows closer, the paper still folded over in his hand. Angus closed his eyes and let the warm sun wash over his pale face and dark suit as he waited for Gopher to return.

  From where he sat, Angus couldn’t see the dog, but he heard the rustling of the leaves and dirt and that brought an even bigger smile. There was a time Gopher could smell out a stick in less time than it took to sneeze. Now, it looked like the old bulldog was as much in need of a break as his owner. They both should follow the trail Ida the Goose left. Pack your money and your health and take them both out of town long before a bullet ends your day.

  The rustling had stopped for several minutes before Angus stood and walked toward the tree in search of his dog. As he got clos
er, he whistled several times but failed to receive a response.

  “Gopher!” Angus shouted out, the sound of his voice only stirring the attention of the rummies asleep under the benches and the young couples entwined on top of them. “C’mon, Gopher,” Angus said. “Get your old ass out here.”

  Angus was inches from the base of the tree when he stepped onto a pile of bloody leaves. The blood was brown, thick and fresh. Angus McQueen turned the corner, his hand on the tree, and stared down at his dog. Gopher was laying on his side, his throat slashed open. He was breathing in painful huffs, white foam forming and flowing down the sides of his jaw, his eyes staring up at a clear sky.

  “He didn’t put up much of a fight,” Jerry Ballister said. “But I would expect that from an English dog.”

  Ballister stood across from McQueen, the dying dog between them, holding a gun in each hand. “You turned your back on my offer,” he said. “For that alone you should die.”

  Angus beat his fists against his sides, frozen in anger by the sight of his dog, his eyes moist with tears. “You had a beef and it was with me,” he said through clenched teeth. “The dog had no damn part in it.”

  “I figured this way, you wouldn’t have to be buried alone,” Ballister said, baring his teeth as he cast a glance down at the dog.

  Angus bent down on his knees and petted Gopher, the dog’s tired eyes looking up at his, his breath coming in shorter spurts. “Shut your eyes, buddy,” McQueen whispered, one arm wrapped around the dog’s bloody neck. “And let it happen. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

  Ballister stepped up behind McQueen and pressed a gun against the back of his head. “Except for me,” Ballister said.

  He fired two rounds into McQueen’s head and two more into the small of his back. Ballister watched McQueen fall, then turned and left him there, facedown in the leaves, the front of his body keeping his dead dog warm, the black leash still wrapped around his right hand.

  Spider MacKenzie sprinted toward the sound of the gunshots and skidded to a stop when he saw the two bodies. He had dozed off sitting under the sun reading the newspaper and had bolted awake as soon as he heard the shots. He stared down now at the body of the man for whom he had worked most of his life. He swallowed hard, ran a hand across his face and took two deep breaths.

  “I’m sorry, Angus,” he said in a low voice. “I’m so sorry.”

  Spider MacKenzie then turned away and walked out of the park to find a pay phone and arrange for someone to come and remove the body of Angus McQueen, the first great gangster of the twentieth century.

  • • •

  ANGELO WAS BEHIND the bar of the Café Maryland pouring two cups of coffee. He put the pot back on the burner and pushed one of the cups across to Pudge. They drank in silence, the bar empty, the sign hanging off a chain on the front door declaring the restaurant closed. “It was a smart hit,” Angelo said. “But a lucky one, too. Spider doesn’t take the first nap of his life and he has an outside chance to save Angus and a better-than-even chance to nail Ballister.”

  “There’s no way they got to Spider, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Pudge said, holding the cup from his mouth. “He was as close to Angus as we are to Ida.”

  “There’s always a way, Pudge,” Angelo said. “You just have to be smart enough to figure the price. We know Jack Wells is a dangerous man. If the hit on Angus proved anything, it proved that. But we still don’t know how smart a man he is.”

  “Be a good idea to make him dead before we have a chance to find out,” Pudge said, downing his coffee in one long gulp. “And the sooner the better. Once word hits the streets that they got Angus, the other gangs will figure Wells has the upper hand and that you and me won’t be able to hold the crew together.”

  Angelo reached under the counter for the coffeepot and poured Pudge a fresh cup. “The crew will hold,” he said, dropping the empty pot into the slop sink. “At least long enough to see what we got planned. Plus, they should have it figured that Wells has no interest in them. He’s got a big enough crew. It’s the turf he’s after.”

  “The funeral’s set for Wednesday morning,” Pudge said. “Burial will be up in the Bronx at Woodlawn.”

  “What about the dog?” Angelo asked.

  “Nobody’s gonna mind we put him in the same grave as Angus,” Pudge said. “I’ll put somebody on it.”

  “Is the wake at Munson’s?”

  Pudge nodded as he drank his coffee. “Starts tomorrow night at eight.”

  “And Wells and Ballister will come and show their respects?” Angelo asked. “You’re sure about that?”

  “They have no choice but to be there,” Pudge said. “They won’t come on the first night, that’s for friends and family. But sure as we’re breathing, they’ll be there on the second, flowers in one hand, hats in the other.”

  Angelo leaned over and rested one hand on top of Pudge’s and stared across the wood at him. “So will we,” he said.

  • • •

  THE MURDER OF Angus McQueen affected Angelo in a much deeper way than it did Pudge. Up until the killing, Angelo thought Angus to be invincible, that fear of the great man was sufficient to keep anyone from getting close enough to bring him down. It was a naive way to think, but fit his character up to that point. For despite Angelo’s intelligence and innate ability to read people’s motives and anticipate their actions, Pudge was more the pure gangster. He functioned on gut and instincts, reacting quickly to a slight, knowing that any hesitation could cost him his life and that no matter how strong the shield around him there would always be someone, somewhere, willing to pull a trigger against him.

  “Angelo still had an innocence about him, despite his demeanor, despite his actions,” Mary said to me. “The death of Angus took that away. The horrific events that soon were to follow helped bury that softness. In his later years, Angelo would only allow it to rise to the surface now and then. Mostly when he was around me and on many of the days he spent with you.”

  “He told me that he always felt Angus wanted to die,” I said. “That he had grown tired of the life and couldn’t think of an easier way out. So he walked into the setup and allowed himself to be killed.”

  “There might be some truth to that,” Mary said. “It’s hard to tell. They’re not exactly the type of men who confide their thoughts easily to others. But I do think that at different stages of their lives they grow weary over the constant battle for survival. Anyone can make money illegally. My father died rich doing it. Pudge made his millions and so did Angelo. That was always the easy part. The isolation, the inner turmoil, the hidden fears, those all take a toll and that’s what ultimately brings them to a sorry end.”

  I walked over to the bed and felt the top of Angelo’s forehead. It was cool and damp. “His fever’s all but gone,” I said, staring down at his sickly face. “I guess this’ll be another night he’ll prove the doctors wrong.”

  “It’s not by choice,” Mary said. “Only by will. He’s angry and he’ll stay angry until he dies.”

  “Because he’s dying?” I asked.

  “Because he’s dying in this way,” Mary said. “Civilians die like this, with tubes and respirators and people watching over their bedsides. He’s living out his biggest fear.”

  “I spent a few nights in the hospital that time he got shot outside his bar,” I said, walking over toward Mary’s side of the bed. “I was only a kid then and I was really scared. I didn’t think there was any way for him to pull through. The doctors were going crazy, they couldn’t figure a way to stop the bleeding. In the middle of it all, he looked over at me and saw me with my head down, crying. ‘Relax,’ he said. ‘I’m not going to be lucky enough to die from a bullet.’ “

  Mary stood over him and wiped tears from her eyes. “Very few of us get the death we deserve,” she said. “So we settle for the one that’s chosen. And no one has the power to change that. Not even Angelo.”

  • • •

  THE INSIDE OF
the cabin was dark and the wood-burning stove had long since turned cold. A window was partially opened and welcomed in gusts of chilling early-morning air. Ida the Goose slept on her side, with her back to the door, a heavy quilt covering all but the top of her head. The overhead kitchen light was still on, a bright beacon in an otherwise dark setting.

  The heavy footsteps creaked across the bare-board floor. They passed by the kitchen, the tall shadow moving casually toward Ida’s bedroom. The footsteps stopped in front of an open hutch and a half-empty bottle of whiskey. Two hands grabbed the bottle, yanked out the cork and lifted it toward the ceiling. Two long, full gulps later, a hand placed the bottle back in its spot. It was nearing six A.M. and the sun was less than ten minutes away from the start of another day.

  The feet came to a final stop at the base of Ida’s bed. A gun was held in one hand, rubbing against a leg and directly across from Ida’s serene face. Ida’s eyes opened when she heard the trigger cocked.

  “You’re the first man to come into my bedroom without an invitation,” Ida said, not moving, her eyes on the gun. “And my guess is the last one, too.”

  “I’m the one that killed your friend Angus,” the voice above her bed said. “I got to thinking it wouldn’t be fair for him to die alone.”

  Ida shifted her head slightly and looked up at the man holding the gun. “I couldn’t ask to go out in better company,” she said. She was fully awake now but still had not moved, except for the fingers of her right hand, which were wedged deep under her pillow.

  “I figured you’d be happy,” Jerry Ballister said. “Tough old gal like you was meant for better than to die up here in the woods all by herself. The bears be chewing on your bones by the time anybody got around to finding you.”

  “I didn’t tell many people about this place,” Ida said. “And I know you weren’t one of them.”