A Perfect Shot

by Robin Yocum

  A few minutes later, Tony exited the store and climbed back into the Jeep, his face burning crimson. Duke put the Jeep in gear, pulled out onto Fourth Street, and turned east on Washington Street. As he drifted toward the traffic light at Ohio Route 7, Duke said, “I don’t know what went on back there, Tony, but please don’t feel compelled to share it with me.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  On Monday morning, Duke made his way down St. Clair Avenue as the sun climbed above the craggy hills that rimmed the West Virginia side of the Ohio Valley. It was a clear day, cold and windless, and the smoke from the mill billowed into the sky in perfect columns. The first frost of the season had crept through the valley overnight, and a thin coat of sparkling crystals covered the grass and the steel handrail that wrapped around the sidewalk at the bottom of the hill. Duke crossed Commercial Street hunched at the shoulders, his hands buried in the pockets of a canvas jacket. He used two fingers to turn the knob and pushed open the door to Carmine’s Lounge with a knee. His eyes teared when he entered the warmth of the lounge. He dabbed at his eyes with the cuff of his jacket and set his lunch pail and newspaper on the counter.

  The lounge was quiet, the overhead lights dark. Only the faint, under-counter fluorescents burned. The perpetual gin-rummy game was absent, and Carmine’s cigar was in the ashtray, cold, a dead ash protruding from its head, curling up like a fish hook. In the back, Carmine was standing with two thick-necked men who were sporting five-o’clock shadows at 7:28 in the morning. Through watery eyes, Duke saw both men turn away as he entered and walked toward the glass case holding the chewing gum. Carmine whispered to them and started his side-to-side gait toward the front of the lounge. He snagged two packs of spearmint from the case and slid them across the glass to Duke. “That’s good,” he said. “Keep your dimes. Go.”

  Duke looked at the goons. Their backs were to him, and they leaned in toward each other, whispering. One had his hands thrust into his pants pockets. The other’s arms appeared crossed at the chest, straining the seams of his jacket; his head was as big as a basketball, and a roll of fat bulged above his collar. “Is everything all right, Carmine?”

  “Yeah, fine, everything’s fine.” He swallowed hard, a look of panic consuming his face. “You go now.”

  “Who are those guys? Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Yeah, Duke, everything’s fine. Go on, get the hell out of here. It’s just business, that’s all.”

  “This doesn’t involve Moonie, does it?”

  “No. In fact, the numb nuts was in here first thing this morning and paid up. He’s good.”

  “Really? He paid up? Everything?”

  “Yeah, he’s good, he’s good. Now get out of here.”

  “So what’s all this about? How come the lounge is all dark?”

  “It’s about my business, Duke, and it’s none of yours.” The old man’s face looked more scared than angry. One of the goons turned around and gave Duke a hard look. It was Mr. Basketball Head. He had a tiny mouth and a thin, twisted nose. There are times in your life when you come into contact with people who live and operate in a totally different dimension, a place free of laws and conscience. The residents who populate this world could snap your neck like a piece of dry spaghetti. This man, Duke knew, was one of those people, and he got chills the instant their eyes met.

  Carmine walked around the counter, put a flat hand between Duke’s shoulder blades, and guided him toward the door. In a low voice he asked, “You remember our conversation from the other night, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good, because if you forget, if you get weak and cave, these are the kind of mouth-breathers you’ll have hanging around and telling you how to run your restaurant.”

  He pushed Duke out the door, slammed it closed, and rammed the deadbolt into place. A black sedan was parked in the gravel lot beside the lounge. A third man, a near-identical match of the two inside, was walking circles around the car, scanning the otherwise-vacant lot. Duke was relieved, at first assuming the goons were looking for Moonie. Apparently not. For a man of so little brains, Moonie sometimes lived a charmed life. His horse had apparently come in, and he dodged another bullet.

  Duke continued up Commercial Street to the mill, clocked in, and went to the locker room, looking for his pal. Moonie’s locker was closed and the shower empty. Four riggers were sitting on benches, playing euchre on the top of a plastic milk carton. “Anyone seen Moonie?” Duke asked the group.

  None of their eyes left their cards. “Nope,” the dealer finally said, turning under a nine of spades.

  Duke walked across the yard to the administrative offices to see Angel, who worked in the mill’s finance department. Angel was working on his second cup of coffee and a payroll audit when Duke walked into his office. Angel’s nose was still his most prominent feature, though it no longer dominated his face as it had in his youth. His black hair was combed back off his face, and he sported an impressive moustache, which helped deflect attention from his nose. “Morning, Angel. Have you seen Moonie?”

  “I have. He was in here a little while ago and reported off. You just missed him.”

  “Why’d he report off?”

  “In all candor, I think he wanted to make a little show of his winnings. Apparently, he hit the trifecta at Mountaineer over the weekend. He’s flush with cash, and it’s burning a hole in his pocket. He said he was going to the Pittsburgh airport to get on the first plane for Vegas.”

  “Vegas?”

  “His last words to me were, ‘My luck has changed, Angel. I’ve got to keep the streak alive.’”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Frankie “the Troll” Silvestri was gone.

  He and his black, 1990 Lincoln Town Car vanished late Saturday after picking up the day’s gambling receipts at the Oasis. Rumors that Antonelli’s trusted courier had skipped town with one of the year’s biggest hauls hit the streets of Mingo Junction on Monday afternoon. The wagers covered that week’s college and pro football games, and Friday’s daily number. According to the most popular rumor, the Troll grabbed the bag of receipts from the Oasis, grinned mischievously at the manager, and quietly slipped out the front door, never to be seen again. It was said that he got away with more than sixty thousand dollars in cash. Joey Antonelli was apoplectic; Tony DeMarco was in a state of unbridled panic.

  Duke heard the rumor while eating lunch at the mill. While he acted disinterested, he actually found it quite amusing.

  “What did you hear, Duke?” Chinky Madrid asked.

  “Why would you think I’d hear something?” Duke asked.

  “Tony DeMarco’s your brother-in-law, ain’t he? Everyone knows that he’s the one who controls the gambling for the Antonellis around here.”

  “He doesn’t tell me anything about his business, and I don’t ask. Frankly, I don’t want to know.”

  However, Duke immediately thought of the ride he had given Tony to the Herald Square News & Tobacco the previous evening and the argument he had witnessed. Now, it all made sense.

  By Tuesday afternoon, Tony had been on the phone with Joey Antonelli a dozen times. When he called at 5:00 in the afternoon and there was still no sign of the Troll, Antonelli screamed, “I need you to find a guy who looks like an iguana and walks with a limp. How fuckin’ difficult can that be?”

  “I’ve searched the entire valley,” Tony said. “He ain’t here, I’m tellin’ ya. He’s just disappeared.”

  “When you find that ugly little prick, I want you to put a bullet in every joint in his body. I want him to suffer before he dies.”

  “I understand.”

  Antonelli slammed down the receiver.

  Tony turned off his tape recorder and smiled. “Keep talking, motherfucker, keep talking.”

  Eight days after the Troll had disappeared, Mama DeMarco walked to the front porch three times to tell her son that his dinner was getting cold. He ignored her. For more than an hour he had been pacing the front sidewalk, frowning and wh
ispering into his cell phone. He had an index finger jammed into his open ear, which he removed periodically to slap himself on the forehead with an open palm. When he sat down at the table, the family took their cue from Tony, and dinner was unusually quiet. The din that normally accompanied the Sunday dinners at the DeMarcos’ could drown out the roar of the blast furnaces. Not this one. Even the great Frank Sinatra had been silenced.

  This suited Duke just fine, since it was likely that the family would eat quickly and leave the table. He joined the silence, wolfing down his pasta with pesto and sausage. Duke had things on his mind, too. Duke’s Place was to open in about a month, and there was still a lot of work to finish. He hadn’t been up to see Timmy in four days. After dinner, he planned to visit his son, get in a quick workout, then get back to work at the restaurant. When he passed on the coffee and the wafer-cookie dessert, it solicited a glare from his mother-in-law. “Sorry to dine and dash, but I need to go see Timmy and get back to work on the bar,” Duke said, pushing away from the table. “Thanks for the dinner, Mama. It was terrific, as always.” No one looked up from their desserts as he headed for the back door.

  There was an afternoon fog hanging against the hillside, heavy and gray, a combination of mist and the roiling smoke from the mill being forced low by the heavy cover. Gray clouds put a dingy lid over the entire valley, as if God himself had tired of looking at the smoke and the filthy river and covered it from his view. Duke shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and walked into a light mist blowing down the hill from the west. He was nearly to the edge of the property and the safety of his Jeep when the squeaking hinges of the back door announced a visitor.

  “Duke, hold up.” It was Tony. He was smiling, having for the moment lost the scowl he had worn throughout the day. Suddenly, the happy paisano had returned. “Hey, I need to talk to you for a minute.” He jumped down the two wooden steps from the back porch and made his way to where Duke was standing. He looked around and, for a moment, seemed distracted by the gloom. “Shitty day, huh?”

  “Yep.” Duke nodded his agreement. “What’s up?”

  Tony grinned. “My sister, she doesn’t approve of you ownin’ a beer joint, huh?”

  “It’s a restaurant and taproom, not a beer joint. No, she doesn’t approve. But your sister doesn’t approve of me breathing, either.”

  Tony leaned forward, his lower lip protruding. In his heavy, fake Brooklyn-Italian accent, he asked, “You want that I should talk to her about that? You know, tell her it’s important to support her husband, something like that. I can make sure she understands.”

  “No, thanks, Tony. I’ll handle it.”

  Tony nodded. He had a way of doing so that made him look extremely offended—brows furrowed, a slight shrug of the shoulders, a glance away, a quick release of breath. “Whatever. I was just trying to help. So, listen, once you’re up and running, you’re going to handle some spot sheets for me, right?”

  “Gambling sheets?” Duke asked, knowing full well what he meant.

  “We don’t call ’em that. We prefer, ‘spot sheets.’”

  This was the conversation Duke knew was coming, the one Carmine had warned him about. “Tony, I don’t want . . .”

  “It’s easy money, Duke. Simple stuff. All you got to do is keep the spot sheets and collect the wagers. They get picked up a couple times a week, and you get a cut. And, I guarantee there won’t be any trouble with the cops.”

  “I’m just not interested. I want to run a nice, clean place.”

  “A clean place? A clean place? Are you insinuating my business is dirty, not good enough for your beer joint?”

  Tony could turn around any conversation to make it an insult, putting you on the defensive. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it. I don’t want to take a chance on driving away business.”

  Tony laughed. “Drive away business! Duke, my friend, it brings in business. Every bar up and down the valley has spot sheets. They’re harmless and very easy money.”

  “Let me ask you a question, Tony. If they’re so harmless, how come I went into the lounge last week and there were guys in there with black overcoats and fingers the size of Coke cans telling Carmine how to run his business? He let Antonelli in years ago, and now he doesn’t even have control of his own place. Louie Pitzaferato owned the Oasis for thirty years. Then, one day, Antonelli mysteriously owns it, and I’m guessing it wasn’t the kind of real-estate transaction I’d read about in the newspaper.”

  “Carmine got careless,” Tony said, his voice starting to climb. “He got himself in hock a while back. Fortunately, Mr. Antonelli was kind enough to bail him out in exchange for a portion of his business, that’s all.”

  “Well, I want to make sure I’m never in a position for Mr. Antonelli to show me the same type of kindness. I’m not interested.”

  The finality to the comment made Tony’s back stiffen. He was not accustomed to being told no. He composed himself, smiled, and brushed some imaginary dust off Duke’s shoulder. “Give it some thought?”

  “There’s no reason to think about it, Tony. I’m not going to change my mind.”

  The considerable jaw of Tony DeMarco clenched tight, and a building, internal rage turned his olive skin crimson—a wave of red that erupted on his neck and cheeks and ears. “I see,” he said, calmly. “Then, maybe you can do me a little favor, huh? Tell your buddy Collier that I want to talk to him.”

  “What do you want to talk to Moonie about?”

  “What? You writing a fuckin’ book, or somethin’? Just tell him I want to talk to him.”

  “He paid that money he owed Carmine.”

  Tony smirked. Evil shone in those eyes. He was a viper who could strike in an instant, driving for the weakness in a victim. “Let’s just say I’m concerned. Moonie used to be such a loyal customer. But, for some odd reason, he hasn’t been in Carmine’s for a week. As a matter of fact, the last time he was in the lounge was just after the Troll disappeared. Hmm, isn’t that interesting? The Troll disappears Saturday night, and Moonie shows up Monday morning and magically pays off his gambling debt. Do you suppose there’s a connection?”

  It was Duke’s turn to fight the redness. A fire erupted in his belly and shot to his face. He fought unsuccessfully the urge to swallow a nervous gulp of saliva. “He hasn’t been in Carmine’s because he’s been on vacation in Las Vegas.”

  “Vegas, huh? Damn. He must have come into some serious jack.”

  “He hit a trifecta at Mountaineer.”

  “Must have been a hell of a bet. You just tell your buddy I want to talk to him, and he had better be able to explain exactly how he got that money.”

  “You’ll need a little more proof than your wild-ass speculation.”

  “Understand this, Ducheski, I ain’t no fuckin’ judge and jury. This ain’t something I need to bring to a vote.” He turned and started back toward the house. “Tell that dumb-ass to find me. He doesn’t want me to come looking for him.”

  “If you’re going after Moonie, you better take a couple of your goons, because one-on-one he’ll kick your ass.”

  Tony smiled. “I’d never give him that chance.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Sunday afternoons were peaceful times at the Heinzmann Convalescent Center. There was just a skeletal staff of three nurses, a nurse’s aide, and an orderly, who spent most of his time smoking on the back patio. No doctors or custodial staff cluttered the halls. Even the patients seemed more at ease, and Duke often wondered if the doctors upped the weekend medication dosages for the benefit of the small staff. Most families who visited on Sundays did so right after church, so it was usually quiet late in the afternoon. On this Sunday, Duke spent a silent hour with Timmy. He hadn’t opened his eyes, and he slept peacefully, without the occasional moans he so often emitted. Duke hoped his boy was dreaming of making shoestring catches in centerfield on a day when the sun was high overhead and sweat ran down his back.

  By the time Duke walked back a
cross the asphalt parking lot, the gray sky had started to break up, and spotty shafts of sunlight filtered down between the clouds. The west wind was shoving the clouds over the West Virginia hills, and the incoming air was crisp, free of the steel-mill pollutants that would again begin to fall when the wind died. He pulled out of the Heinzmann parking lot, turned left, and traveled down Lincoln Avenue before turning right on Wilson Avenue, a twisted, two-lane strip of asphalt that linked Steubenville and Mingo Junction away from the river. Those who used it regularly called the road, “the back door.” At the southernmost edge of Steubenville was Antrim Park, a three-acre parcel that had been deeded to the city by the estate of Frederick Quincy Antrim. It was hardly big enough to create a park of any size, so the city had put in a small playground, some picnic tables, a shelter house, four tennis courts, and two basketball courts. Duke pulled into the gravel parking lot, laced up a pair of black Chuck Taylor All-Stars, strapped on a knee brace, and retrieved the basketball that had been rolling around on the floor of the passenger side of the Jeep.

  Every winter and summer, Duke was approached to play on one of the local adult league teams. Some had even offered him under-the-table cash for his services. He always politely declined. He wanted to play. The competitive fire still burned, and Duke missed the game terribly. But reality was part of the equation. He knew he wasn’t the player he had once been. He had undergone two surgeries after high school, and his right knee was a sad patchwork of metal, plastic, and scar tissue. The brace helped secure the joint, but his knee would never survive the pounding of actual games. If he couldn’t compete at the level where he had once been, Duke Ducheski would rather not play.

  Still, he loved stopping by Antrim on afternoons when the courts were empty and he could be alone with the ball and the hoop. Duke still had the eye, and he could burn hours draining shot after shot from all points on the court. There were few things he found as satisfying as the sound of the ball sailing cleanly through the rim and rippling the cords. The release was refreshing. For a few hours, he wasn’t mired in a bad marriage or the caregiver of a mentally and physically handicapped son. Rather, he was simply a guy doing the thing he did best—draining the jumper.