Archive for the '2004 Novel' Category
The Rat
April 9
I’ve been here for about ten years. I came in in 1953 and it’s the spring of 1963 now. I’m in Alcatraz, the Rock. No, I wasn’t part of the riots. I’ve been a good prisoner. I’m part of a new company now. One that involves bars and doors that lock from one side only.
This is the fourth or fifth time I’ve tried to write this all down. Before I’d start and someone would take my papers away, or I’d just get all frustrated with trying to write it all down. I managed to secret it all away this time, though.
The papers are hidden in a Bible I keep in my cell. It’s one of the few things they let me keep without going through it every five or six days. I write a little bit each night between dinner and lights out. I think I’ve written down everything that’s been important to my life.
I don’t know why or if anyone will ever read this. I doubt it. Not until after I die, that is. I got life in prison, not that it’s much of a life. I guess it’s better than having a date with Old Sparky, but not by much. Who knows? There’s talk that the prison might shut down in a few years. That we’d all be moved off to other jails, some of us set out on parole, if we’ve been good and all. I’ve been good. I’m a company man. I don’t cause trouble.
I’m still a company man for the Mob, too. I get word every once in awhile, when someone else gets caught. Ray is still in the midst of it all, keeping New York under a tight control. He’s almost eighty now, but some how he keeps going. I hope I’m that active when I’m eight. Actually, I just hope I make it to eighty.
The new guys that come in tell me how everything’s changed. They say it’s not like I remember. It’s more about drugs now than anything. The hookers and pimps work for themselves. The guns are still big, but gambling isn’t worth the time it takes to make sure the casino brings in enough to skim off of. And there hasn’t really been anything like bootlegging since the Prohibition was repealed. The Mob as I knew it is dying out.
They tell me how young all of the new recruits are. Kids fourteen and fifteen years old selling drugs at their schools. They say that a quarter of Los Angeles is overseen by a twenty-one-year-old hood that got his start in San Diego, running cocaine. I can hardly believe it. When I was out there, he would have still been running messages and pouring drinks.
Things don’t change much in here, though. From the first day in, I’ve been called by my number. Prisoner number 235505 at your service. Most of the inmates call me “Old Man” or “Kid,” depending on how they know of me. Guess it’s not too bad to be somewhat anonymous.
The Mob doesn’t really like people writing down histories of it. They’d rather keep their secrets to themselves and not have any records of what goes on. My conscience just wouldn’t let me sleep with all of this in my head, though. I kept having the dreams and screaming myself awake. The writing helps. I don’t have the dream any longer, not as often at least. I think the last time I had it was when I started writing all of this down, a year and a half ago.
Like I said, the Mob doesn’t really like people writing down their stories, telling what went on. I can’t help it, though. I guess I’m just a rat.
Once I was thoroughly awake enough to drive, I decided not to bother with a room in Modesto. It was only a coupe of hours west until I came to San Francisco and I could drive that before getting a room. So I got back on the highway and drove for two hours, coming at last to that city of hills.
I found a small motel just inside the city limits that didn’t look like it had too good of a memory. I paid the clerk for a couple of nights, and threw in an extra day’s pay to make sure he’d forget. He looked at me and nodded and marked room twenty-five as being rented out to a Mr. John Doe. I thanked him and took the room key.
I went to my room, stashed the rifle under the bed and lay down to take a nap. I hadn’t had a real rest in a couple of days, sleeping in the car didn’t count and with the two nightmares I had had, I wasn’t feeling all the fond of closing my eyes. I did, though, and was asleep in just a few minutes.
I was back in the dream again. Scrambling, trying to hide. The door opens and it’s not Max this time. No, first it’s Simon’s face, then Lucca’s. Then the face morphs into Manny’s, then Ray’s. Finally it turns into Sonny and the Mooch. Each of them are bleeding from their eyes and ears. They all ask me “Why?” and then switch to the next face. After the Mooch, the face draws in on itself and turns into my own. That’s when I heard a click and opened my eyes.
When I opened my eyes, I was peering up the barrel of the hunting rifle I had just bought the day before. At the other end of it was the desk clerk. I thought for an insane second about trying to take the gun from him, then decided it wasn’t worth the risk. If I got caught, I got caught. No one was going to help me, but I didn’t have to make it easier on them.
“Why you got a gun under the bed?” he asked. He wasn’t from California. He had too much of a hillbilly twang to his voice. Maybe he was an Okie. There were still a lot of them around at that time.
“Uh. It’s for protection,” I answered. I knew he’d never believe me, but it was the truth. I wasn’t wrong. The gun didn’t waver. He didn’t put it down. Instead he turned his head toward the door a bit and called to the girl standing outside.
“Mabel, get your ass in here.” Mabel came in, a sweet, if stupid, looking girl of maybe sixteen. “Check his wallet.” She nodded and went to rummage in my pants, which were hanging on the dresser. She pulled out my wallet and thumbed through it, pulling out what was left of the two thousand dollars I hadn’t spent on the car. She probably pull out about fifteen hundred dollars.
“Money, Chris,” she said.
Chris looked at her and said, “No shit, Mabel. Get his keys, check the car for anything valuable.” When he said “valuable” it came out more like “valable.” Definitely some backwoods hick.
I just lay on the bed as she took the keys from the top of the dresser and left out the room door. Chris never wavered with the gun. He held it on me until she came back carrying the ammunition and the pistol. She didn’t bring anything else as there wasn’t anything else to bring in. She told Chris that and he nodded.
“Alright, you. Why you have two guns? You in trouble with the law or something?” His “something” was a “sumpin.”
“I just like guns,” I said. “And they’re good protection. I carry a lot of money. I mean, you see what your girlfriend pulled out of my wallet. I keep a gun so I don’t get robbed.”
He laughed at this. “Did you a bum fuck of a lot of good, huh?” Mabel cringed when he said “fuck,” but he didn’t notice. “Get your ass out of bed and put on your pants.” He motioned toward the pants with the barrel of the rifle slightly.
I slid over to the far edge of the bed and put my feet on the floor. I half expected him to shoot me as soon as I stood up, but he didn’t. I took the three steps over to the dresser and pulled my pants down off of it. I put in the first leg, then the second, then pulled them up. After I had buttoned and zipped them, and fixed the belt, Chris said, “Alright, bucko. Now, you’re going to tell me why I shouldn’t just shoot you here and now. I could just say you pulled a gun on my Mabel here when she was cleaning your room. Or you flashed your pecker at her. I’d be alright in shooting you then, wouldn’t I? Yeah, wouldn’t nobody mind me offin’ some pervert who goes around springing his willy on innocent girls.”
He seemed like he was halfway considering doing just that, regardless of what I told him. I told him I was a salesman, though. That I had all that money because I had just come to San Francisco to attend a meeting, a sales meeting, a national sales meeting, and needed the money to smooze some of the other salesmen. I wanted them to buy from me. Some such bullshit. He didn’t buy it.
“Alright, alright,” I said, frustrated. “Just shoot me. Or call the cops. Or whatever. I don’t care anymore.” I sat down on the bed and I heard him leave the room and lock the door behind him. Mabel had left before I had answered with my salesman story. Turns out she had gone to call the cops on me. When they got there, they saw the guns, the money, the car. They managed to put two and two together most of the way, and I finally confessed the whole to them about Max. I never went into any details on how or why, just that I had done it and had a good reason. I checked into prison a week later, no trial necessary.
The next day I called Ray first thing in the morning and told him what Manny had told me.
“Come on, kid. There’s no way that Max’s that stupid. Why would he risk getting a professional hitman like you after him? That’s just crazy,” Ray tried convincing me. I wouldn’t buy it.
“No, Ray. He’s crazy alright. Max thinks I’m here to upset his casino and his operations here. He thinks I’m here to stuff him in some back room doing taxes. That or put him in a hole in the desert.”
“So we’ll just explain it to him. Surely he’ll understand,” Ray said. I was starting to think he was going deaf and senile. Did he not see the trouble that this all was? Didn’t he realize that Max couldn’t be explained to? He had to dealt with. And I wanted to do the dealing.
“Ray, I’ve already done that. I told him months ago that I wasn’t here for that. I explained to him that I was just here to make up for my fuck up in Chicago. He said he understood, but apparently he didn’t,” I was getting really tired of explaining this all to Ray. I just wanted him to say “OK, kid, go get ‘em.” Well, really I’d like him to use my name or something. “Kid” was getting really old. It was alright when I was thirteen, but now, almost forty. It was a little irritating. “Just let me deal with it, Ray. Give me permission to deal with him. I won’t even go after him. I’ll just deal with whatever he throws at me. I’ll convince him of the error of his ways. Just say OK, Ray.” I prayed under my breath. Oh sweet Mary, just give me Max’s blood.
The other end of the line was silent. I heard some shuffling and a drawer open and close. I hear Ray clear his throat. He wasn’t going to let me. I knew it. He’d say “Sorry, kid (again with the ‘kid’), we just can’t have any fighting in the ranks.” and that’d be the end of it.
Ray cleared his throat again. “Sorry, kid,” he began, “we just can’t have any in-fighting. Let us deal with Max. You just keep doing your job. OK?”
I muttered something that must have sounded like agreement and he hung up the phone. For the first time in my life, I wished that I wasn’t part of the Mob.
I didn’t hear from Manny all that day. Around seven-thirty I got tired of waiting and tried his house again. He wasn’t home, but his wife, Belinda, answered.
“Is Manny there?” I asked.
“No. Manny no aqui,” she said.
“Oh. Can you tell him to call the Flamingo when he gets in? The Flamingo?”
“Si. El Flamingo.” And she hung up.
I decided to try his work again. He was there and the receptionist put me through. “Hello, this is Manny.” His voice had changed a lot from that job years ago in New York. I hadn’t seen him since Chicago, but I didn’t remember him sounding like that. He had grown up in the year or so since he had come out here. It was probably from the shit that cop had put him through in Chicago. An attack like that’ll mess up anyone.
“Hey Manny. It’s me. I need your help.” We exchanged pleasantries for a bit, then he asked what I needed help with. I related the story of the car trip to him. “Really I just need to know who gave her the gun. Whoever did that was the one that wanted me dead, I’m sure. That’s not something you’d trust anyone with. Think you can help me out?”
He didn’t say anything for awhile. “Where can I meet you at? Your place? The Flamingo? Or should we meet somewhere else?”
“No, the Flamingo should be fine. When are you coming by, Manny?” I was a little scared at how urgent he sounded. I was excited, too, though. I felt sure he already knew who it was that was behind it all.
“Alright. I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Meet me in the lounge. Get a good table. You know how I can’t stand to miss Sinatra.” And he hung up.
I went down to the club about ten minutes later. I had packed a gun in my old docker’s clutch and wanted to be able to check out the place thoroughly before Manny and I had our little talk. I found a table in the middle front and staked my claim to it with a little “Reserved” sign. I sat down a few minutes before Manny was supposed to get there and ordered us a couple of drinks. Vodka and tonic for me, gin for Manny. I didn’t know if he liked gin or not, but it didn’t really matter. We were there for business, not drinks.
Manny showed up a few minutes later, twenty minutes after we had talked exactly. He glanced around rather nervously, then sat down and gulped his drink.
“OK, I have to tell you all of this quickly,” he said. “I already know who did it, but what I have to say is that you need to just forget about it. You can’t do anything against him and it’s pointless to even try. They don’t allow in-fighting and if you report it, he’ll just get sent somewhere and taken care of. You won’t get your revenge. And if you go after him on your own, you’ll be out. They don’t like in-fighting. They won’t help you or keep you out of jail or anything. Trust me, just forget about it.” Manny looked around nervously again and gulped the rest of his drink.
“Hey, whoa, slow down, man. What’re you talking about?” I didn’t like the flighty look in his eyes. He was way too nervous.
“Max, man. Look, he planted the gun on the girl. He’s scared of you. He wanted you taken out. He’s a moron, though. Giving a gun to a girl like that. I’m surprised she didn’t shoot herself taking it out of her purse. He got drunk that night and was talking about how he would run his place however he damn well liked. Said there wasn’t anything the bosses could do about it once he took out their bulldog. He wasn’t counting on you coming back, obviously.” Manny waved to a passing waitress and ordered another drink. “What’s wrong? You haven’t touched yours,” he said, pointing to my Vodka tonic.
I took a sip, in shock. Max? Max had tried to have me killed? Did he really think I was there to take over his casino? God, the man was more deluded than I thought. Planting a gun on Joy wasn’t just wrong, it was stupid, like Manny said. She didn’t know what to do with it. And now she was dead. Max was responsible.
Manny, of course, was right, though. I couldn’t go after Max. Not on the surface at least. I’d have to be sneaky and devious like he had tried to be. That’d be hard,though. He’d be watching twice as closely now that I had made it back. And if he saw me here with Manny.
“Hey, when’s Blue Eyes coming on?” Manny asked.
“He was here last night. You missed him,” I answered, caught up in my own thoughts.
“Damn.”
I stood up and thanked Manny for the information. I dropped an envelope with five hundred dollars in it onto the table and walked away, weaving through the crowd so no one got a great look at me. Once I was out of the lounge, I slumped against a wall to think.
My friend from childhood. The guy I had protected against bullies. This guy was going to come back after me for being in the same town as he was? This ass was going to try and take me out just because he thought I was a threat to him?
The more I thought about it, the angrier I got. And the angrier I got, the more I started not caring if the bosses wanted in-fighting or not. I was going to get my revenge.
I spent that day in my rooms. I didn’t feel like seeing anyone, and I was a little paranoid. I felt that every woman was carrying a gun. Every guy seemed to be planning something against me. It was all I could do to sit and eat dinner in the restaurant that night. I had spent most of the day sleeping, the rest going over what had happened the night before. It still didn’t make sense to me.
I sat and ate dinner in the restaurant, then decided I needed to force myself to enjoy the company of others. I found a table in the back of the lounge and moved it so I was sitting with my back against the back wall. Frank Sinatra was performing that night; a favor to Sonny. There was no way I was going to miss this.
Ol’ Blue Eyes came out on stage and he owned the room. It was packed with people. All of the tables were filled, with extra seats in the aisles and lining the sides of the room. He sang and crooned for an hour or so, then Dean Martin joined him on stage. The two of them bounced jokes off of each other and sang a few more songs together. Frank left the stage to take a break and Dean did a few solo numbers and told a few more jokes. Finally Frank came back on stage and Dean left again. Frank did another song or two and then the show was over. The curtain fell and the house lights came up. Everyone applauded. I slipped out and headed back up to my room.
In my room, I poured myself a couple more drinks, then, most of the way to sauced-ville, I lay down in my clothes and fell asleep.
When I woke up the next morning, I called Sonny and told him I wanted another day or two off to figure out what was going on and to get back to normal. “No problem, kid. No problem. Take all the time you need.” He hung up the phone and I took another shower.
There’s nothing worse than the sticky feeling of being in the clothes you drunk yourself under the table in. And that’s even worse the next day when you wake up in them. I peeled the shirt and pants off, rolled my socks and underwear down and stood in the shower letting the cool water hit me for five minutes.
Then I switched to hotter water and washed thoroughly. I still felt like I couldn’t get all the of the sand off of me. I felt coated in the stuff, all grainy and somehow shiny. It was a horrible feeling, but the shower helped.
After I toweled off and dressed again, I decided to call Manny. He’d know what was going on and who it was that wanted me dead. He wasn’t home, so I tried the casino. Max answered.
“Hey, Max. It’s me.”
“Wh - What’re you doing? Uh. I mean, I thought you were going to the ocean.” Max sounded surprised.
“Yeah, that kind of fell through. Listen, is Manny around? I need him to find someone for me. Or, rather, find out about someone for me. Anyway, is he there?” I was tired and the effort of communicating my thoughts to someone was almost too much.
“No. No, he’s not here,” Max said, still a bit surprised or nervous. “Have you tried his house?”
“Yeah. First try. No one’s home there, either.” I sighed. “Listen, whenever he gets in, tell him to give me a call.” I gave Max the number for my room at the hotel. He recited it back to me and we hung up.
It’s about 275 miles from Vegas to L.A. We got about a hundred of them under our tires before Joy went crazy.
We were driving along, talking about how pretty the desert and mountains were. She went quiet and just started answering whatever questions I’d put to her with short, one word sentences. Finally, I looked over at her. She had her head down and her purse in her lap.
“Joy, baby, what’s the matter?” I asked. She just shook her head and didnn’t move or say anything else. We were passing through some high hills or I would have pulled over and stopped, but I reached over and took her chin gently in my hand. “What’s wrong, sweetie? Do you need me to stop? I’ll have to go on a bit until we get off his hill, but I can –”
“Yes. Yes, you need to stop,” she was very forceful. I looked over at her and she had a small gun, some spitball-shooter I’m sure, pointed at me.
“Where’d you get that, doll face? You better put it away before something happens.” I tried not to show her how nervous I was. Anyone gets nervous with a gun pointing at their head.
“No, I don’t think I need to put it away. I want you to pull over. Now.” She held the gun a little higher, with both hands a little tighter. She wasn’t watching the road.
I pulled over. I pulled the car sharply to the right and we veered off the edge of the hill. It wasn’t a high hill, just a hundred feet or so. The car rolled, though. I popped open my door just before it flipped the first time and the car threw me out. I rolled down the hill after it, hitting rocks and brambles on the way down. One of the doors came off and I slammed down on it at one point.
Finally the car and I both ended up at the bottom of the hill. I was the only one that was going to move, though. I walked around the car, checking it out. It was smashed down on the driver’s side. The top and the hood were both caved in. The driver’s side door was the one that had come off and all the windows had broken out, too. It was a miracle I hadn’t been cut to shreds on one of those. I cared less about how I had survived and more about why I had been forced to drive off a cliff.
I peeked in through what was left of the front windshield. Joy lay on the ground visible through the driver’s side door. It looked like both of her legs were broken, but she still had the gun in her hand. I couldn’t tell if she was alive or dead. She didn’t move, but she could have just been knocked out. I climbed part way in through the window to move her. When I did, I saw the blood. At some point she had pulled the trigger on the gun. The bullet had hit her in the neck. Between the shock of the crash and the shock from the blood loss, she had died quickly.
I wasn’t sad.