A Perfect Shot

by Robin Yocum

  He grew up to be a big, raw-boned kid with hands so large they could almost hide a baseball, and a wide, round Moon Pie of a face, thus his nickname. As a teenager, Moonie had been the star pitcher for the Mingo High Indians and the American Legion team. Unfortunately, his IQ was about that of a baseball. Their high school coach once said, “That boy can throw a strawberry through a battleship, but he needs a map and Sacagawea to find his way to the mound every inning.”

  Education never became any more important to Moonie. In the early spring of his senior year, Moonie announced he was quitting school and taking a job on a river barge. “A river barge!” Duke said. “Three months before you graduate from high school and you’re dropping out to take a job on a river barge?”

  “I don’t need a diploma to work on a barge. It’s good money, and I’ll get to see the country,” Moonie said.

  “All you’ll get to see is that cesspool of a river. It’s an open sewer for every factory along its banks. Goddammit, Moonie, use your brain.”

  But Moonie Collier hadn’t used it up to that point in his life, so why break new ground? His maiden voyage was on the towboat Allegheny Star, which was pushing twenty-four barges of coiled steel to New Orleans. His mother was so upset that she refused to have anything to do with his decision, so Duke drove him to the locks in Stratton to meet the Allegheny Star. When they arrived, the first mate, a scrawny guy with an eye that listed off to the south, not much hair and fewer teeth, was standing on the gangplank with a cigarette dangling from his mouth, pissing in the river. Moonie said, “I’m Theodore Collier.”

  The first mate hocked and spit, further polluting the fetid water, then tucked his member back into his pants. “That’s nice, numb nuts. Get on the fuckin’ boat.”

  Moonie walked up the gangplank, a duffel bag slung over one shoulder, and said, “Thanks for the lift, Bo-Peep. I’ll be in touch.”

  Early on a Saturday morning in February, just over five years later, Duke was awakened by a pounding on his front door. He was still half asleep as he pulled on his bathrobe. The pounding continued. He staggered down the stairs and opened the door to find Moonie on his front porch in an army uniform, all spit-shined and polished. He smiled, big and toothy, and said, “Hey, Dukie.” It was the first time Duke had set eyes on him since the day Moonie walked up the gangplank of the Allegheny Star.

  “Hey, yourself, Moonie. Where in the hell have you been?”

  He shrugged like he wasn’t too sure, himself. “Here and there, Guam, the Philippines, Saudi Arabia, wherever the army wanted to send me,” he said, squeezing past Duke into the house. “They liked sending me places where it was hotter than blue hell. You were right about stayin’ in high school. I shoulda done that. You got any RC Cola? You can’t get an RC in Saudi Arabia to save your life.”

  Duke got dressed, and they went to Paddy’s Diner in Georges Run. Moonie ordered coffee, tomato juice, and a double order of the breakfast hash. Duke had coffee and a sweet roll. Duke said, “Moonie, your last words to me were, ‘I’ll be in touch.’ Generally, that doesn’t mean five years later.”

  “Things happen; you know what I mean, Duke? By the time that damn barge docked in New Orleans, I was sick of it. We were supposed to unload and head back two days later. I collected my pay for the trip down, told ’em I’d be back, then booked. There was no way in hell I was getting back on that damn thing. You work on the boat, eat on the boat, sleep on the boat, play cards on the boat, shit on the boat. All guys. All drunk. I got into four fistfights on the way down. I had to whip one guy twice. It was nuts.”

  “What did you think, that they docked every night for shore leave?”

  “To tell you the truth, I never gave it much thought. Big surprise there, huh? I disappeared into New Orleans. Man, that town jumps. I had a big wad of cash, and I wandered down to Bourbon Street—you ever heard of that?”

  Duke smiled and nodded.

  “If you can’t buy it on Bourbon Street, then it ain’t for sale.”

  “I’m not sure how that translates to you showing up at my door in a US Army uniform.”

  “Well, I had what you might call a small legal problem.”

  “I can’t tell you how shocked I am to hear that. What happened?”

  “This one night, I got drunk and went to a whorehouse . . .”

  Duke started laughing.

  “What?” Moonie asked.

  “You were drunk in a New Orleans whorehouse. What were the odds that legal problems would soon follow?”

  Moonie’s brow furrowed, and his eyes became slits. “Do you want to hear this, or not?”

  “Oh, by all means. Please, go on.”

  “I must have passed out, because when I woke up I caught this whore going through my wallet. I grabbed her and she screamed, and the next thing I know the biggest, blackest son of a bitch I’d ever seen in my life comes busting through the door, and I’ll tell you, Duke, he wasn’t in the mood to listen to anything I had to say. There was no reasoning with him, so I hit him right between the eyes, smacked that bastard with everything I had, and he just kind of shook his head like he was trying to get water out of his ears. I hit him again, and he still wouldn’t go down. That’s pretty much all I remember until the cops showed up. They had me down on the floor, this black buck and about eight whores sittin’ on my naked ass, one of them bitches pinching my balls like she was testing pie dough. And that’s how they hauled me out of there—handcuffed and naked. They cuffed me in the back, and I couldn’t even cover up my privates, not that that was a big concern to me at that point. I got to the holding cell, and there were two other naked guys in there, so it must be a regular problem. They charged me with assault and about twenty other things, all bullshit. I sat in jail for a couple of weeks, and they gave me a public defender who they must have hauled out of a garbage dump somewhere. He wasn’t wearing any socks. I asked him what he thought of my chances, and he said, ‘You’re totally fucked.’ So, the judge gave me a choice. I could do two years of hard labor in the state penitentiary at Angola, or I could enlist in the United States Army. Not much of a choice, really. A couple days later, I was on a bus heading for Biloxi, Mississippi, property of Uncle Sam.”

  They had just finished applying the first coat of stain to the mahogany bar, and the front room smelled heavily of mineral spirits. Moonie walked up and down the bar, working an old T-shirt into crevices where the stain had pooled. “We do damn good work together, don’t we, boys?” he asked.

  Duke snapped open a can of Iron City and toasted his friend. “That, we do, Moonie.” Angel nodded in agreement.

  Moonie took a hit off his tepid beer and wiped a sweaty forearm across an equally sweaty brow. Rivulets of perspiration streaked down his cheeks. “How long will it take us to finish it?” he asked.

  “A week or so. We’ll hit it with another coat of stain tomorrow, and it’ll be ready for sealer by Friday.”

  “I can’t wait to get it all set up.” Moonie said.

  Moonie was nearly as excited as Duke about the opening of Duke’s Place. He was going to work evenings and weekends, tending bar. He had bought a book of mixed-drink recipes—a little paperback that he carried around in his hip pocket, studying it when he had free time. “You’d have graduated high school with honors if you’d studied your history the way you’ve studied that drink book,” Angel said.

  “I’m more interested in booze than anything those dead guys did,” Moonie responded. “Test me. Ask me how to make a drink, any drink.”

  “How about a rum and Coke?” Duke asked.

  “Come on, goddammit. Give me something with more than two ingredients.”

  “Okay, a Manhattan?”

  “Good, a Manhattan. I know this one.” He squeezed his eyes closed for a few seconds. “One shot of Canadian whiskey, preferably Crown Royal, a quarter ounce of sweet vermouth, and a dash of bitters. You stir it in a glass of ice and strain it into a tumbler, and add a cherry.”

  Duke tilted his head and smile
d. “Damn, Moonie, not bad.”

  “Give me another one.”

  “How about a Maid Marion?” Angel asked.

  Moonie’s brows pinched in the middle. “Maid Marion?”

  Angel nodded. “Yeah, a Maid Marion—how do you make it?”

  “I never heard of a Maid Marion. Is that one of those foo-foo drinks you make in a blender and put a little umbrella in it?”

  “Could be,” Angel said.

  “Well, we ain’t servin’ no damn drinks with umbrellas at my bar.”

  “Your bar?” Duke asked.

  “That’s right. When I’m behind the bar, I’m callin’ the shots.”

  Duke put his hands on his hips. “Really? That’s interesting. You know, Moonie, foo-foo drinks will help pay the bills, too.”

  Moonie waved at air and walked toward the front door. “Well, I ain’t makin’ no damn Maid Marion or none of them foo-foo drinks.”

  Moonie opened the front door and leaned against the unfinished drywall, letting a cool breeze blow over him. The rain had stayed trapped in the Ohio River Valley for twenty-four hours, the low clouds mixing with the exhaust of the mill. Across the street, two neon pinkish-orange signs in the windows of the Oasis glowed EAT and DRINK. A steady stream of steelworkers ran in and out of the Oasis, slipping out of the mill on their breaks for a quick shot and a beer, and to drop off their gambling spot sheets.

  Through the rain and the dark, the pale lights of the business district spilled out onto the sidewalk. Cast against this hazy light, Moonie could see a solitary figure making his way up Commercial Street. An occasional lightning flash washed him in a white light, giving Moonie snapshot glimpses, like the flash of a camera in a dark room. The figure had stepped out of Carmine’s Lounge and limped slowly up the street, carrying a battered, blue duffel bag in his left hand. His right hand remained buried in his jacket pocket where he was known to keep a .44 Magnum. His gait was slow and deliberate, his eyes forever on the lookout for trouble.

  His name was Frankie “the Troll” Silvestri, a raffish, squatty, cock-strong courier for Joey Antonelli. He was a frightful sight. A birth deformity had left Frankie’s right femur three inches shorter than his left, giving him a limp that caused him to flop forward on the shorter leg and drag the longer one. At best, he was five-foot-three. He carried a protruding jaw and a severe under bite on a massive head that was too large for his body. His appearance made children cry and caused adults to cross the street to avoid passing him on the sidewalk.

  Frankie not only was hard on the eyes but also carried with him such a horrific body odor that he made the sulfurous coke plant smell sweet by comparison. Each time the Troll left the lounge, Carmine sprayed it with disinfectant to kill the odor. It was jokingly said that Antonelli’s money was safe with the Troll, because not even the most desperate thief would get within ten feet of him.

  Moonie watched as the Troll limped up Commercial Street and disappeared inside the Oasis. “That would be a good job, don’t you think?” Moonie asked.

  Angel and Duke were sitting on the floor, nursing their beers. “What job’s that?” Duke asked.

  “The Troll’s.”

  “Oh, Christ almighty,” Angel moaned.

  “You think being a bagman for Joey Antonelli would be a good job?” Duke asked. “You’re kidding, right?”

  Moonie was immediately on the defensive. “No, I’m not kidding. I’d be out of the mill. The work would be easy, and, if you did your job right, I bet Antonelli would take care of you.”

  “Sweet Mother of Christ, Moonie. He’d take care of you, all right. If you screw up he kills you. Very much the same treatment they might give someone who, for example, owed them a lot of money for bad gambling debts.”

  Duke let the words hang in the air, hoping they somehow penetrated the thick cranium of his friend.

  “I hear ya.” He sipped at his beer. “I told you already. I’m not afraid of Tony DeMarco.”

  “And that’s the worst thing you have going for you, Moonie,” Angel said.

  “I’d kick his sorry ass.”

  “Moonie,” Duke said, “if Tony DeMarco came in here, alone, unarmed, you’d kick his ass. No doubt about it. But he doesn’t play that way. He’d hit you with his car and break your legs, then have three of his goons hold you down while he took batting practice on your skull. That’s how he plays. You’ve got to use your head.”

  Moonie jerked around and flashed Duke a hard glare. “I’ll handle it.”

  “Okay, Moon, okay.”

  Moonie turned away from the door and slid down the wall. “You know, I’ve got a horse comin’ in Saturday night, and I’ll pay off those debts to Carmine.”

  “Yeah, you told me.”

  “You sure you don’t want in?”

  “Positive.”

  “How about you, Angel?”

  “I’ll pass.”

  Duke said, “And where are you going to get the money to put down on this horse? If you lose again, you’re only in deeper.”

  “Quit worrying, Duke. Carmine isn’t going to do anything. I’m too good a customer.”

  “Right. He comes up a couple thousand short to Joey Antonelli and decides to eat it rather than turn over the debt. You’re playing with fire.”

  Moonie arched his brows and grinned. “Did I mention that I got a horse comin’ in this Saturday?”

  Duke crumpled his beer can and tossed it at the garbage can ten feet away. It hit the rim and skittered off.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Tomato sauce bubbled on the stove in a large, stainless-steel pot. Rolls and bread sticks browned on the oven’s top rack. The lower rack held a spinach casserole. Veal cutlets fried and splattered in a skillet over a blue gas flame. The aromas of the kitchen filled the downstairs but could not totally overwhelm the stench of the cigar that Nina’s dad puffed and chewed in the corner of his living room, where his feet rested on a leather ottoman as he stared blankly at a professional football game on the television. He sucked the pungent cigar and grunted when the grandchildren got too loud. Otherwise, you hardly knew he was alive.

  A Frank Sinatra CD played on the stereo system that had been wired into the kitchen for Nina’s mother. Her family loved Sinatra, and with the exception of an occasional Tony Bennett tune, that was all they played on the stereo. Duke was a Dean Martin fan. Martin—then known as Dino Crocetti—grew up a few miles away on Steubenville’s south end. Duke once slipped a Dean Martin CD into the stereo, and it brought nothing but ugly glares. There was no love for the hometown boy. Nina’s brother removed the CD and said, “We don’t play that hack around here. Sinatra, and only Sinatra.”

  Each Sunday, Duke had dinner with Nina and her family. Like any unpleasant experience, after a while he had grown numb to the pain and had long before given up complaining about attending the dinners. Nina’s mother insisted. Nina insisted. He went. They were early-afternoon affairs, beginning promptly at two, Italian feasts of pastas and meats and cheeses and wines. Nina’s siblings and their families arrived after mass. The women went to the kitchen while the men smoked and drank wine from little juice glasses, sometimes joining Nina’s father in front of the television, sometimes around the bocce court or horseshoe pit they had built in the backyard.

  Nina had three sisters, all of whom lived around Mingo Junction. Then, there was the only son in the family, Nina’s twin brother, Anthony Junior.

  Anthony “Little Tony” DeMarco.

  He was always the star of the Sunday dinners. About 1:30, he would enter the house like a Medal of Honor winner returning from war. He played the role of favored child to the hilt, always showing up with gifts—a bouquet of flowers, bottles of wine, fresh-baked desserts from an Italian bakery in Steubenville, or a box of Cuban cigars for his dad.

  “Mama,” he would call as he entered the kitchen.

  “Oh, my Antoine,” she would respond.

  They all spoke in the Brooklyn-Italian, wiseguy accent that Tony had acquired after he began
working for Salvatore Antonelli. His mother and father soon began using the same dialect, and Duke’s wife followed. This was comical, as everyone in Mingo Junction remembered when the DeMarcos spoke with an Appalachian twang and were simply poor white trash living in Dago Flats. Their home was a sad, dirty frame where the gutters and steps sagged, and paint peeled in hunks, a combination of neglect and the scouring effects of the exhaust from Wheeling-Pitt. When Duke began dating Nina, her mother had a thick moustache and had been barred from every store in the area for shoplifting. The DeMarcos rediscovered their proud Italian heritage after their son found his calling as an Antonelli enforcer.

  Each Sunday, Tony would stride into the kitchen smelling heavily of drugstore aftershave and hug his mother, throwing in three quick pats to the spine. She beamed at the attention and cupped his olive chin in her hands, leaving wispy streaks of flour on his stubble. He would then pull a brown envelope holding a half-inch stack of bills from an inside jacket pocket and press it into her hand. When he did, she looked positively orgasmic, and she would kiss him on the cheek before running off to the bedroom to stash the packet of cash. All this, under the watchful eye of Jesus Christ, whose pewter form adorned a wooden cross in every room of the house. Mother DeMarco had a perverse acceptance of Tony and his ways. Her son was a vicious human being, a predator with the morals of a hungry alligator, and it was certainly no secret how he earned his money. But, he had moved them out of the ramshackle frame in Dago Flats and into a stone, three-bedroom Tudor on Mingo Junction’s west side; he showed up every Sunday with a thick envelope of cash; and he paid for her electrolysis. Apparently, that enabled her to overlook a few personality flaws, such as a penchant for dropping seventy-year-old alcoholics over the side of railroad trestles.

  Tony DeMarco had a reputation as an enforcer without conscience or peer, but this did little to quell his burning desire for respect. He had money and power, but the lack of respect—within the Antonelli family and on the streets of Mingo Junction—was a hot coal burning in his gut. At one time, he was a force with the Antonelli family. He went to meetings and dinners with Il Tigre and sat at the right hand of the old man. His opinion was not only solicited, but valued. But when Il Tigre died, Tony’s future became as cold as the old man’s corpse. From the moment Joey Antonelli whispered in his ear at the hospital, Tony simply took orders. He was in, but he was out. Although he ran operations in the Ohio River Valley with cool efficiency and made a lot of money for himself and the family, he was virtually ignored by the younger Antonelli, except when there was an opportunity to dress him down.