Shakedown on Hate St

by Matthew Copes

After work he spent an hour washing his car inside and out. It was a few years old but still turned heads. A black battleship with leather seats, four doors, and a big V-8. Gino didn't do small cars, and he didn't do imports.

  Before he left he removed the necklace and locket that’d been permanent fixtures around his neck since that day in December ’64 when his whole world exploded. When he raised them to his lips, the gold lotus flower tasted salty and metallic. Then he put them inside an empty pill bottle in his nightstand, fighting the screaming in his head telling him to abandon his plans. To avoid. Delay. Disappear. Drunken, shame-filled romps with prostitutes were one thing, but feelings equaled betrayal. A slap in the face of the women he’d promised to love and protect forever. He looked at himself in the tiny bathroom mirror, hating who he’d become. A man whose morals and backbone had been in a state of dormancy for decades. A man who’d allowed himself to be sucked into the rancid world of drugs and corruption only because he lacked the will to resist. A man whose dead, hero father would be ashamed of the choices his son had made. A man who’d walked through life like a zombie since losing everything. But now it all had to end.

  At 7:32 he eased the Detroit-born leviathan to the curb in front of her place. The door opened and Veronica descended the white marble steps. She looked amazing. Classy and conservative with just enough sexy thrown in for good measure. Easy on the makeup too. An au natural knockout.

  At eight o'clock he parked the Lincoln on the south side of Stiles just across from St. Leo's Bocce Park. The old men in their sweaters and khakis were long gone, having surrendered to December's early darkness hours before, preferring the comforts of warm chairs and old newspapers. Despite their absence he could still see them. Tossing. Smiling. Gossiping. New world men stubbornly clinging to the traditions of the old. The imaginary scene ignited an intense nostalgia for the country so close to his heart.

  Hand in hand they headed east on Stiles, then turned right at the corner onto South Exeter. Vito's stood inconspicuously between a bakery and delicatessen. The heavy green door was framed by two large, rectangular windows, the corners of which were adorned with hand painted gold scrolls. Inside, smartly appointed waiters delivered red wine and veal Scaloppini to quiet couples tucked in intimate corners. The square tables mimicked the black and white floor tiles, which were set on-point like diamonds, creating a deep and pleasing vanishing point near the double doors that led into the kitchen. It was small, private and perfect, just like Louis' in the Bronx, where a young Michael Corleone had gunned down Sollozzo and McCluskey after a trip to the head.

  “Ever been here?” he asked.

  She hadn't. He told her she was in for a real treat. To relax and enjoy. He'd take care of everything. They'd start with the antipasto.

  “What's that?” she asked.

  “A salad, with olives, mozzarella, hard salami, and roasted peppers. It's delicious. You'll love it, trust me,” he said.

  Gino marveled at the absolute serenity he saw on Veronica's face. He was dying. Tense and hot, just waiting for his head to explode, wondering what her reaction would be after he said what he needed to say. A beautiful girl like her, in her line of work had probably heard it all before. Empty promises from already married, nearly impotent bald men with beer bellies, kids and mortgages. Unable to wait another second, he took the fork from her hand and laid it beside her plate. He wasn't enjoying the antipasto. Until he said what he had to nothing would taste good.

  “Veronica, I need to say a few things. Maybe you'll think I'm full of shit, pardon my language. If you do, so be it. Please, just listen until I'm done.” He dabbed his mouth with his napkin, cleared his throat, and placed both hands flat on the table.

  “When I took you home the other night I had a dream. It may sound silly, but I’ve only ever had two dreams my entire life. Every night it’s one or the other, but the night I met you I had a third. It blew me away. We were sitting on the floor in front of a brick fireplace. A crackling fire burned inside. In the corner was a big Christmas tree decorated with colorful lights and shiny ornaments. At the top was a big silver star. Underneath were presents. Lots of them. All different shapes and sizes, and wrapped in pretty paper with ribbons and bows. On the floor between us was a baby. Our baby. Crawling around in a little, cotton one-piece. I wish...”

  “Gino, oh my God,” she interrupted. “That's beautiful, but we've known each other for like three days. Do you know what I do? I thought it was obvious, but maybe you didn't pick up on it.”

  She lowered her voice and leaned in. What she had to say wasn't polite dinner conversation. She laid her hand on his.

  “Gino, I'm a hooker. I sleep with men for money. I fuck disgusting men in shitty hotel rooms for money. I'm sorry.”

  “I know you do,” he said, trying to shrug off the dreadful gut shot and maintain his composure. “But the thing is, I don't care.” He paused, regrouping. “Wait, that didn't come out the way I wanted it to. Of course I care, but it doesn't matter. Don't you see? All that matters is what happens now.”

  Tear droplets formed in the corners of her eyes. He sipped his water.

  “What are you asking me? You don't know who I am. You don't know what I've done.”

  “Did you hear what I just said? That means nothing. Zero. Zilch. Today and tomorrow are all that matter. Yesterday can go fuck itself.”

  She croaked, stuck between laugh and cry. He patted her eyes with his napkin.

  “Yesterday can go fuck itself,” she repeated. “That's so beautiful.”

  “I mean it,” he said. “I'm asking you to be my wife. To walk away from this life. Get a job. Pay taxes. Start a family. White picket fence. The whole nine yards. I'm not rich, but I can take care of you. We can take care of each other.”

  The moment he finished, the unbearable tension in his head dissipated. His blood pressure and core temperature dropped to within normal operating ranges too. He'd said exactly what he had to say. He'd be able to enjoy himself for the rest of the evening. She was in uncharted territory. She'd never been around a man who didn't insist on licking her ass or sticking his prick in her mouth two minutes after they met.

  The waiter appeared with their pasta course. Angel hair and spicy seafood marinara. Gino figured spicy seafood would be good for a Puerto Rican.

  “Now, after this we'll have the veal,” he said. “It's my favorite. It'll melt in your mouth, trust me. The key is to take your time. Savor each bite.”

  She nodded, lost in thought.

  He thought back to that first night. Veronica nestled into his body. Looking down into her face as she slept. Watching her chest rise and fall with each warm breath. Her tiny hand resting on his, and that scent. That dream. That night he knew. She was the one who’d finally help him put the past to rest.

  He wondered what his mother would say when he told her he was marrying a Puerto Rican. She'd probably keel over dead. Heaven forbid her baby didn't marry a good Italian girl. The whole comically dramatic scene played itself out in his head. The laughs came hard and fast.

  “What's so funny?” she asked.

  “Nothing, nothing. I'm sorry. How's your pasta?” he asked lamely.

  “Gino, what's so funny?” Amused consternation contorted her face.

  She was adorable. He thought she was perfect before, but somehow she'd outdone herself.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Give me a minute.”

  She took his hand and their eyes met. She said, “Yes.”

  11

  I, DUTCH JAMESON, DO not like birthday parties. At least not the kind with loud adults singing silly songs and wearing ridiculous hats. Call me a killjoy, but I'm more of an intimate gathering kind of guy. I don't get on well with potheads either. I don't have anything against them, I've just got nothing to say to them. I'm sure they feel the same about me. So it was with reluctance that I decided to suck it up and make an appearance at my brother's birthday party. Mom had always called Alan her Little Christmas Baby since he was born on December 1
8th. We rarely saw each other for the holidays so it was the least I could do. I promised myself I'd stay an hour tops.

  I walked into the bar with a bad attitude and an uneasy feeling in my gut. A quick scope and quicker appraisal revealed that my instincts had been spot-on. Tequila shots, karaoke, and sloppy renditions of Happy Birthday! Three strikes right off the bat. Lots of tie-dye shirts, unpleasant patchouli odors, and those hooded, Mexican serape pullovers that stoners like too.

  Staying on the periphery was my survival strategy. It would lessen the likelihood I'd flatten some drunk hippy's face and spend the evening in jail. I grabbed a seat at the nearly empty bar and ordered a Jack and Coke. There was only one other guy there, and he didn't look like much of a reveler either. We made eye contact, smiled, and in the spirit of the evening I asked if he was there for the party. He was and we struck up a conversation.

  He was a big likeable guy, and all Italian. I knew that even before he told me his name. Gino was dressed to the nines. Traditional but contemporary. Everything shiny and pressed. Not one out of place hair in his slicked back mane. Brooks Brothers meets Sicilian wise-guy. Turns out he didn't care for my brother's friends either, so we ended up having a few drinks and not socializing with anyone else. We discovered that we were both in Nam at the same time too, though in different areas. He was a breath of fresh air at a party full of dolts. Somehow his fiancé Veronica and my brother knew one another.

  He was there because she'd begged him to go, and I could see why he gave in. She was a short, gorgeous Puerto Rican with lots of contagious energy. They were sweet and sour, yin and yang. They'd been together less than a month, but were already planning on getting married and starting a family. Gino and I were being antisocial but she was the life of the party. Bouncing from table to table, she fit in everywhere. She'd pop over now and then to check on her man. She doted on him, in an adorable way. They delighted in their roles and it seemed genuine. Lucky them.

  If it wasn't for him, I'd have had a miserable time trying to fit in where I didn't belong. Before I called it a night I asked him what he did for a living. My guess was Cadillac salesman or olive oil importer. I was wrong. He worked security for the mayor's office, and earned extra cash driving a limo a few nights a week too. I filed it away for a rainy day. We shook hands, exchanged phone numbers, and said we'd keep in touch.

  NOT LONG AFTER HIS birthday things went south for Alan. I'd heard through the grapevine that he'd become more than just a laidback toker. That he'd moved into distribution, and not just dime-bags either. Apparently he was a real player. It unnerved me. I knew my brother well, and he wasn't smart enough or strong enough to navigate safely in that world. Not to mention he was ruining lives for money and would probably end up in jail, or worse.

  When I found out about his new enterprise I asked him to meet me for dinner. I didn't tell him why I wanted to see him. As far as he knew we were just a couple of brothers chewing the fat. After the small talk was out of the way I confronted him. Mr. Predictable denied everything, but I wasn't buying it. He was a horrible liar. I told him he was playing a dangerous game that everybody lost in the end. He got defensive and told me to butt-out. And how typical of me, he said, to come along and drop a turd in the punchbowl just when things were looking up. I found it annoying that the only time he showed any moxie was when he was pissed off at me.

  I'd always suspected he was envious of my success in business. Maybe he was just trying to one-up me. I told him to get out and promise he'd never go back. If he did, I'd do whatever I could to help. He wasn't interested. What really scared me was that the bonehead had two prior convictions. Both for small amounts of pot, but if he got popped a third time he was looking at hard time. He wouldn't last a week in prison.

  Shortly after my failed attempt to straighten him out the inevitable happened. As if guided by the hand of an aspiring novelist, he got busted selling hash to an undercover cop. A lot of hash. When I visited him in the city jail he was terrified and forlorn. He was convinced they'd give him the max, and I didn't see any reason to disagree. I doubted if his public defender could alter his fate. I resisted the urge to say, I told you so. No sense kicking a guy in the face when somebody had already kicked him in the nuts. I asked if there was anything I could do. He said he needed to talk to Gino's girlfriend Veronica, and that it was important. It wasn't the kind of help I had in mind. I wasn't getting involved in that mess. I told him I'd get in touch with Gino and relay the message, but that was as far as I'd go. I'd been meaning to touch base with him anyway.

  I’d kill two birds with one stone.

  12

  CLOSE PROXIMITY TO people for extended periods has always worn me out. And I define extended periods as uninterrupted blocks of time greater than eight minutes. The six week stretch from Thanksgiving to New Years has always felt like a never ending kindergarten birthday party in some unpublished chapter of Dante's Inferno. Thus, my holiday game plan has always been one of avoidance. No tree, no stockings, no company. I don't even answer the phone. As a younger man I made it a point to come out of hiding for the New Year’s celebration. Copious amounts of alcohol and single, drunk women looking to usher in the New Year with a bang were just the remedy for a month of isolation and self-loathing, but the older I got the less that appealed to me too.

  The Christmas before I met La Lena things had gotten so bad I couldn't cope. I'd planned on barricading myself in my apartment the way I always did, with enough food and cigarettes to last a week, but I'd nearly gone insane six hours in. Instead I packed a bag and drove to the shittiest hotel I could find, just needing a change of scenery. I spent that Christmas with a call girl named Ray Ray who I met at the ice machine outside my room. She was a sweet girl from Pensacola who'd run away from abusive parents at 16 and never gone back. When we met she was just 20. We ate Chinese takeout, drank lots of Scotch, and bore our souls. She said she'd fallen in love with me, and that we should run away together. It was a tempting offer, and one most guys would've jumped on, but I couldn't. Ray Ray was too much like a daughter. “I owe you one,” she always told me after that, meaning a screw. We kept in touch and I took her out to dinner a few times, but I never redeemed her IOU, and eventually she disappeared. She'd gotten me through a tough time, and I like to think I did the same for her.

  Christmas 1982 was in the same vein, but worse. I would've cut off my right arm for another night with Ray Ray. The same went for La Lena. It'd been weeks since I'd seen her. Maybe a month since we'd made love. But in retrospect maybe I had it all wrong. Maybe we'd just fucked that night. Maybe it was just a fling. A fun little diversion from a boring life. I hoped that wasn't the case, but the ball was in her court. I didn't have her phone number and I had no idea where she lived. She never said and I never asked. The night we'd done our thing she'd shown up unannounced. I hoped she'd do it again. Another night like that would be more than enough to get me through to '83.

  But it wasn't to be. I didn't see La Lena or even hear from her. I stayed alone in my apartment for three days eating scrambled eggs, tacos, and canned peaches for breakfast, lunch and dinner. I watched Apocalypse Now twice, Force 10 From Navarone once, and read The Quiet American, Elmer Gantry and The Sun Also Rises from cover to cover, though I'd read them all before. I smoked enough cigarettes to kill a Turk, and did more pushups than the guys in lockdown at Pelican Bay.

  In many ways that was the lowest point of my life. The armored facade I'd spent years crafting was cracking. I was successful but miserable. Perpetually pissed off and ready to fly off the handle at the drop of a hat. Frustration and exasperation will do that. It was everything the world had thrown at me. My shitty childhood, the death of my saintly mother, and my clash with the law. All ancient history, but the guilt was still painfully fresh. Vietnam, and all the baggage that entailed too. Even the headlines in the newspaper that had nothing to do with me. I'd been worn-down to a raw nub. An exposed nerve. Add my pitifully weak brother going to the big house and what do you get? Hop
elessness and rage. When I saw Gino and Veronica together their genuine happiness shined a great big spotlight on my emptiness. The worst part was I had no idea how to fill the void. I didn't love anyone the way they loved each other. I doubted I was even capable. I'd already tried everything I could think of. New car, exercise, one night stands, booze, even prayer. Nothing worked. Especially the prayer. That worked least of all. In fact, it made things worse. It frustrated the hell out of me. How could an all-powerful, all-loving God ignore my prayers while I suffered so mightily? Maybe he actually delighted in petty torments. I was convinced he did, if he existed at all.

  Christmas night I stood at the kitchen sink staring at a stack of dirty dishes six deep. I'd gone in to wash them, but couldn't muster sufficient motivation.

  “More gravy honey?” I heard my neighbor ask his wife through the wall. They'd lived beside me for years and I didn't even know their names.

  I walked into the bedroom, got the old Bible from the drawer in the nightstand and took a knee.

  “Dear God, I'm a sinner and a wretch. I've been suffering my whole life. The bible says I'm not worthy of your grace, but I ask for it anyway.”

  CRICKETS.

  “Why do you turn a blind eye when little girls get raped?” CRICKETS.

  “Why do you allow women to be chained like slaves in the holds of Thai shrimp boats, peeling away until their fingers bleed, just so some slob in New York can enjoy a reasonably priced scampi?” CRICKETS.

  “Why do men the world over butcher each other in your name every day? Why are you such an aloof and petty prick?” CRICKETS.

  13

  SIX O’CLOCK AND I WAS just getting into my morning rhythm.

  I’d already cleared my digestive tract, eaten a heaping plate of scrambled eggs and cantaloupe, and retrieved my copy of The Baltimore Sun from the lobby. An insanely strong cup of instant coffee steamed away in my left hand, and the day’s first Winston smoked pleasantly in my right.