“Like my Picassos and shit?”
“The TV?”
“It’s Curley’s. Everything is, except my bed.”
“Never mind then. Maybe I’ll go back later for the TV. Anything else good?”
“If you had any brains, you’d say no to Hugh, too,” Grayson says. “He won’t do it without you, and if you guys do it, it’s bound to go bad.”
Donny finds a piece of open space and drops gracefully to the floor into a meditation position.
Donny says, “All the more reason for you to go. If it goes bad, he’ll need help more than if it goes well. Anyway, this guy Hugh brought in is an experienced strong-arm robber.”
“The clown who was charged with manslaughter?”
“Yes,” Donny says. “I mean no. The guy who’s the boss of the motorcycle gang was inside for vehicular homicide, so he’s sending over this guy, who, I don’t know, what his crime was, this other guy. It got complicated and had nothing to do with me or anything I’m interested in so I zoned out until he started talking about some chick named Amy. Hugh says you knew her. She good looking?”
“Yeah, she is. She’s also trouble looking for a place to happen.”
“She’s a teacher in prison?” Donny says. “Weird job, for a good-looking babe.”
“No, it’s just as part of her college course, or something.”
“Hmm,” Donny says. “The biker coming is supposed to be a bad hombre. Strikes fear into the hearts of men.”
“These are college kids dealing the drugs,” Grayson says. “They might not be smart enough to be afraid.”
“Well, in that case, we may have to slap these brave bozos around in order to take their money and drugs.”
“I thought we were just after the money?” Grayson says.
“Yeah. That’s right. The bikers are taking the drugs.”
They hear a key going into a lock and Hugh steps inside the apartment and closes the door.
“Where’s Charlie,” Donny says.
“I don’t know, he didn’t show up. Maybe he’ll call.”
“Who is this biker coming here,” Grayson says. “Is he mentally ill, like every other biker in a gang.”
“What are you talking about, mentally ill,” Donny says.
“People who don’t wash themselves or their clothes for weeks at a time are mentally ill.”
Hugh pauses a moment. “They are a different breed, that’s for sure. But I met him already and get a good vibe from him.”
“Just tell him he didn’t make the cut,” Grayson says.
“You don’t tell these kinds of people anything, especially like, ‘You know the job we were going to cut you in on? Never mind. Thanks anyway.’”
“What? They’re treacherous?” Grayson says.
“Right,” Hugh says.
“And we’re going to hang out with these treacherous bikers?”
“But you’re saying you know these people, Hugh?” Donny says. “You can vouch for this guy and the chick, right? So, we don’t need to worry, is what I’m hearing from you.”
Donny looks at Grayson and shrugs while making a ‘Why not?’ face; No big deal.
“How much security are you really expecting to be in the drug dealer’s apartment?” Grayson asks. “I’m waiting for you to tell us instead of three goofy college kids and a burnout, there’ll be a squad of Green Berets.”
The buzzer sounds, Hugh hits a button, continues talking.
“I’ve been told there are never more than four guys there. So, we’ll have them outnumbered.”
There is a knock on the door. Hugh opens it and a bearded man walks in, hesitates and then comes into the room warily, like a dog sneaking up on a skunk.
You guys are real punctual,” the man says. “I like that in an outlaw.”
“This is Bird,” Hugh says, “Bird, this is my brother Mike and my cousin Donny. They’re good boys. Donny is an ex-Marine.”
“No such thing,” Bird says, with a horrible smile.
“You were in The Crotch?” Donny asks.
Bird held up a hand. “No. I’m not saying I’m a Marine. I just know the deal.”
Bird wore an oversized Army field jacket with a peace symbol on the breast pocket, bib overalls and engineer boots. He was a strange mix of styles; a top-heavy Irishman sporting an early Beatles haircut and a skuzzy beard. In the spaces between the thin whiskers and extra-large freckles, his face was the same color as a raw chicken. His legs were long and very thin, giving the impression his pant legs would snap like a flag in a gusty wind. He has some manner of tattoo that starts on the top of his right hand and appears to continue up his forearm. His image changed with each subsequent viewing. At first, Bird looks like a good-sized man in his mid-twenties, but when Grayson considers him more closely, he realizes he is older than that, maybe mid-thirties. When Grayson looks some more, he sees that if Bird shaved the beard, dumped the Ringo Starr haircut and took off the Army Jacket, he’d disappear: He is all disguise.
Bird turns his head and looks in the direction of Grayson, but not at him, as if Bird senses he is being examined and only wants to be seen in profile. His nostrils flare, his lips slide back and now Bird points his face at Grayson and gives him a good look at his stubby, yellow teeth. This may have been another example of a smile; if so, it was one not even a mother could love.
“Why don’t you take a picture?” he says, and he turns away again.
“Yikes,” Grayson says. “Bird, don’t be giving me them scary looks, okay? You got me terrified.” Grayson looks at his brother. “This guy looks like he’s dressed up to play a role or something. I think he may be a cop.”
“Lose this nitwit,” Bird says. “Or count me out.”
“Stan Belzer is the president of The Dark Lords,” Hugh says. “He’s known Bird since their diaper days and he sent Bird over, so he’s not a cop.”
Grayson says, “Oh, that’s right. And Stan’s the guy dumb enough to do time. Now I feel better.”
Bird moves toward Grayson, and Hugh steps between them with his hands up in a “halt” sign. “Let’s all settle down, please. Bird, he’s okay, he’s just a little jumpy, and tends to get nasty when he’s nervous. He’s an excellent driver, and can be very physical, if need be. We have a nice score on the horizon. Let’s not fight amongst ourselves and foul up this terrific opportunity.”
“If he calls Stan stupid again… Let’s just say there will be Hell to pay.”
“Jesus, God help us,” Grayson says. “These guys believe their own bullshit.”
Hugh hangs a white board on the wall and begins drawing squares and rectangles, and then populates them with red X’s and black O’s and layers on some swooping arrows, while narrating who does what.
Grayson says, “I understand everything except for which ones are we, the exes? And, is this a pass or a running play.”
Hugh turns toward Bird. “You have a piece, right?”
Bird snorts. “You want me to shoot him? I’ll do it, just say the word.”
“What do you carry, Bird?” Donny asks. He’s trying to calm the waters, addressing Bird as a trusted colleague.
The phone rings and Hugh heads into the kitchen and picks up.
Bird says, “Depends on the action. For this, I’ll use my snubby .38.”
“You like it?” Donny asks.
Bird reaches into his Jacket pocket and pulls out a revolver, and hands it to Donny. He hefts it, points it at the wall, sights along the barrel.
“It’s okay,” Bird says. “The recoil is a bitch, but it’s compact. It’s easy to get the rounds. It’s heavy for a carry piece, though.”
“Does it shoot where you point it?” Donny asks. “Mine kicks right. If I have to use it, I’m liable to shoot someone by mistake.”
“That’s no good,” Bird says. “This is dead on. We sell a lot of them, and I carry an extra one in my saddle bag. Brand new. A .38 Colt Special, two-and-a-half-inch barrel. I can even provide a box of rounds. All your
s for $100.”
“Deal,” Donny says. He hands the revolver back to Bird.
“Hey, hey,” Grayson says. “You already have a gun, you told me?
“I need a bigger one. Mine’s only a .22.”
Bird looks at Hugh. “Where is this other guy you said? Charlie. Does he need a piece, too?”
“No,” Hugh says. “That was him on the phone. He got jammed up at work. He’s coming over here tomorrow night for his run through.” He turns to the others. “Pick him up here tomorrow night, around seven.”
“Does he need a piece” Bird asks.
“He and my brother don’t do guns.”
“What good are they?” Bird says.
“My brother will drive, he’s an excellent wheel man and really knows his way around. Charlie will make the first buy,” Hugh says. “He’s small, looks harmless and friendly, kind of like a baby duck. The girl having the party will definitely like him.”
“Wait a minute,” Grayson says. “He’s tending bar about a five-minute walk from this place, right?”
“It’s not that big a deal. He already says he’s leaving Oliver’s. He got a new job down the Cape, at a place called Dick’s, or something.”
“Is it in Providencetown? Sounds like a queer bar,” Bird says, and laughs a little too much.
“Provincetown,” Donny says.
“You say it your way, I say it mine.”
Grayson looks at Hugh, “I mean what if she’s already seen him at the bar?”
“Those are details. Big picture.”
“Man, you’re picky,” Bird says.
Donny says, “So, Hugh? So, whoever she likes best, me or Charlie, one of us gets her to call upstairs to the pharmacy students and tell them she’s sending him up, right?”
“Why would she do that?” Grayson asks. “Because you’re so charming and debonair?”
“No,” Hugh says. “She gets a cut on everyone she sends their way.”
“This is weird, somehow, and way more convoluted than I like,” Grayson says.
Hugh says, “Well, then, go home. Jesus, you’re a pain in the neck. You’re out, you’re in, what the heck? Go!”
“No, don’t,” Donny says. He turns toward Hugh. “I don’t want to go in with only Charlie. He doesn’t just look harmless, he is harmless. At least with Grayson, I know someone else has my back.”
“Okay, okay,” Grayson says. “I’ll stay.”
“And shut the fuck up, while you’re at it,” Hugh says.
“Allow me to finish, as I want to be sure I fully comprehend,” Donny says.
Donny Gates, when angry or frightened, is profane. In situations where he gleaned that a show of intelligence would be of utility, he tended to use, or employ, words, often very, very numerous in number, which were correct, perhaps, but loosely fitted, and/or oversized, in any event, just not right in the context. What’s more, he rambled on and on and on and on.
He says, “So she telephones upstairs. Then Charlie appears in the peephole at the door and we’re with him, me and this shithead,” he says, pointing at Grayson. “We then purchase some narcotics from them.”
“You could say we procure them,” Grayson says.
“At which point, you and Bird emerge in behind us, and if any of them, meaning the four drug kids, get any big ideas about acting out, we drop the customer disguise and dent their derbies. But if all goes smooth, you and Bird flee with the money and the narcotics, and we stay on and plead with these kids not to call the cops because we can’t afford to get arrested. When we’ve mollified them, we take off?”
“Mollified? What does that mean?” Bird says. “I never heard that word in my whole life.”
“Soothed, or calmed down,” Donny says.
“So, just fucking say, ‘calmed down,’” Bird says.
“Let me mention, if they act up, no guns,” Grayson says. “No need. If there are only four of them, we can handle that.”
“Of course,” Hugh says. “When we come in, we’ll shake them up good, and when the kids have been subdued and we scoop the cash and drugs, we bolt.”
“I hope these guys are incredibly stupid,” Grayson says. “Seems like the plan hinges on that.”
“Okay,” Hugh says. “Do you really think they’re going to call the station house and report a robbery?”
“I don’t know,” Grayson says. “First off, we need some way to really put them off balance, slow them down, and make sure no one goes for a gun. Second, we need to make it seem like calling the cops is the worst thing they can possibly do.”
“Okay. But I still say they’re not going to call the cops. They’d mess themselves up.”
Grayson says, “We need to insure they don’t call.”
“Look,” Hugh says. “They aren’t calling anyone and they won’t be coming after us. They’re not the Mafia.”
Grayson didn’t say anything. He looks away toward the small TV.
“What are you thinking,” Hugh asks.
“What we should do,” Grayson says. He doesn’t say anything for a beat.
Then, “When you and Bird come in, we become rogue cops, four of us, except for Charlie. He is an innocent who is there because of shit luck. Then we tie them up, we say, some shit, like, ‘the courts can’t stop drug dealers, so we rip them off and put them out of business.’ We take everything, money, drugs, and tell them they better stay out of the drug business. If they start up again, we will know and we will come back, and next time we’ll not only take their stuff, we’ll break things, like arms and legs. If they call 911, it will be us that dispatch sends, and it will get a lot worse than broken arms and legs. Have Charlie stay, and talk them out of calling the real cops. He says ‘I didn’t know those guys were cops.’ But he can’t get lugged because he has an open drug case in court already. That way if someone knows him from the bar, he’s covered.”
“See?” Hugh says to Bird. “I told you he was smart.”
“Who cares what they think?” Bird says.
“No,” Hugh says. “That’s good.”
Donny looks at Grayson with what seems like prideful love.
“This,” Donny says. “This is exactly why I don’t kill you every single day.”
Grayson shook his head. “It doesn’t take much to impress you guys.”
CHAPTER NINE
On Saturday morning Grayson stops at the curb, the nose of the car just short of the pitch-covered telephone pole. He crosses the street to a small, brown bungalow with a porch enclosed by jalousie windows. A strip of sidewalk and a stripe of grass separate the house from the street. If an eighteen-year-old lad who stood over six feet tall tripped in the gutter and fell forward, his head would bounce off the bottom cement step, and suffer quite a gash. The morning after the night Grayson had demonstrated that, his father had thrown him out.
Hugh is coming out the front door and Grayson waits on the sidewalk.
Hugh says, “Be on time tonight. We have to run Charlie through the new plan.”
Grayson took the front steps two at a time, opens the door and goes in.
The Old Man is in the kitchen, sitting in his chair at the same spot at the same table they’d had since Grayson was a small boy. He is reading one of his goofy AA books and now he puts it face down on the table, so the title was readable, unless you were to studiously ignore it.
“Mike. How’ve you been?” His father stands and offers his hand.
“Hey, Dad. You say that like you haven’t seen me in years. I was just here a couple of days ago.”
“Yeah? Seems longer.”
“What’s new?” Grayson asks.
“Nothing,” he says. “How’s work?”
“Ah, you know,” Grayson says.
“Yup. You still white knuckling the booze?”
“I call it exercising my will power. How’s Ma?”
“Go up and see. She’s awake, Hugh and I just put her in the chair.”
Upstairs in the front bedroom, his mother is propp
ed up in her wheelchair, by the window, looking out at the street. As a result of the stroke, or the shock, as his aunts called it, her left hand has curled into a claw, and her left arm is as rigid as the left side of her face is slack. The muscles on the entire left side of her upper body are taut and tightening a little more every day from lack of use. While her brain is unable to deliver any useful signals to that side, that side is doing a bang-up job sending pain signals up to her brain. Grayson’s father and three sisters massage her as best they could, but it’s hard on her and they didn’t have the expertise to know when enough is enough.
“Hi, Ma.”
He kisses her forehead and put his chin on the top of her head. His eyes stung, and he squeezes the bridge of his nose until it hurt enough to stop the tears. He kisses her cheek, and sat on the side of the bed, hunched forward, with his elbows on his knees, as they both look out the window to the street.
“Michael?” Her voice sounds like she’d swallowed shards of glass, and the way she says his name broke his heart. “Is it time for Soul Train?”
Grayson looks down at his feet. “Almost.”
“I saw you out the window, talking to Hugh, before he drove off,” she says. “It looked like you were having a nice talk. I’m glad. You need to get along with your brother. Promise me.”
“Okay, Ma. I will.”
“Catherine came to see me,” she says.
“Yeah?” Grayson says.
“She wanted to know how you were doing.”
“Did you put the fix in with her, Ma? Slip her a few bucks to talk to me?”
She smiles and flicks her right hand in a dismissal. “Tell her you’ll go to AA to stop drinking. That’s all she needs.”
“I quit, she knows that, but it didn’t seem to help.”
“She and I see it the same way. Her father quit a million times but never really stopped until he died, and that’s almost the same way it was for your father, except he went to AA.”
“What’s the difference?” he says.
“Stop that,” she says. “Oh cripes, there’s Joe. Is he going to water the grass? In March. He’s as soft as a grape.”
Across the street a retired welder named Joe McCarthy came from the back side of his house with a hose nozzle in his hand with the hose trailing behind. He stops short and nearly falls on his back when the hose caught on something that can’t be seen. He plants his feet and yanks on the hose without result, then disappears around the side again.
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