by James R Benn
The Waffen-SS might take care of that for him. Those bastards worried him, worried any sane man. It wasn’t that they were supermen or anything, that was just propaganda. But they were good soldiers, good at what they did. They’d started off on the Eastern Front, most of them, and after a few years fighting Russians, they knew plenty about killing. But so did a lot of Krauts in their regular army.
The problem was that they didn’t seem to care much about living. They’d die as indiscriminately as they’d kill, throwing away their lives for a farmhouse or a hilltop or a foxhole. They’d stand, fight and die when any other Kraut or G.I. would pull out and live to fight another day, no shame to it, just common sense. They’d attack over and over again, jumping over the bodies of their comrades to get at what they wanted. You had to kill them all or run away, there was no in-between, no half-measures, no mercy.
Sleeping in ground zeroed in by their own artillery and probably soon to be reclaimed by its former owners, they were between a rock and a hard place, all right. Rock and a hard place, he should feel right at home. It sounded just like Minersville. Like their narrow two-story brick house tucked under the shadow of a mountain of rock.
Chapter Eleven
1964
Clay waited at the light for a line of cars turning into the Hubbard Park entrance. He felt hung over, as if he’d drunk too much of his cheapest whisky last night. His mind was thick, churning with thoughts of Addy’s ultimatum. His head throbbed. Too little sleep, too much thinking, and too many tears jammed up behind his eyes, threatening to drown his face and reveal the emotions he carefully kept stored away, like a folded envelope at the bottom of an old drawer. Most of yesterday had passed in a fog as he went through the motions of work, the shock of what Addy had said wrapping him in a cocoon of disbelief and confusion. He felt like a hundred pounds hung on his back all day long, the fear of losing her bearing down on him until every step was an effort and all he wanted to do was close his eyes and sleep. Fear of the loss, yes, but shame too. The shame of failure, of not being good enough to carry through with even the most basic human behaviors. A wife and family.
He and Addy didn’t speak much last night, and this morning they shared the bathroom and kitchen as if they were both trespassers, careful politeness replacing familiarity as they struggled in silence with what had been spoken. Excuse me. Want some coffee? Pardon me. I’ll get that. Goodbye.
Sunlight glinted on his windshield as colored leaves drifted off tree branches, fell on his hood and over the road in front of him, dancing across the blacktop like brightly colored insects. He watched as one leaf landed on the hood of his car. Bright yellow and red, its curled edges tip-toed across the hood until the breeze lifted and tossed it into the air. Clay watched it go and felt the sense of loss deepen, reaching down into his gut and take hold, as if it were going to stay with him a long, long time.
Indian summer was making a show on this October day, and plenty of folks were headed into the park for their last chance at a picnic under the bright sun. When the last car crossed his lane, with two women in the front seat and a pack of kids in the back, a boy at the window turned and smiled at Clay. Clay had a blank look on his face, at best, probably a frown. He could feel the grim set of his jaw, his lips pursed tightly against his teeth, drawing down the corners of his mouth. The boy turned his head as the car pulled into the park, watching Clay, the grin gone from his face. Clay wondered if he’d frightened him? Had the kid seen a glimpse of his future in the face of some old guy driving a beat-up station wagon filled with cardboard boxes, passing the park by on a warm fall day?
What would he have thought, back in ’47, if he’d seen a face like that as he pulled into the park for the first time, with Frankie Galluzo dragging him along because his girlfriend demanded he find a date for her cousin. Frankie had planned a picnic at Hubbard Park, and convinced Clay to risk a blind date, saying he’d bring cans of Ballantine Ale in a cooler and plenty of bologna sandwiches. His girlfriend Annette had gotten her cousin from Rhode Island a job as a telephone operator at the phone company on Butler Street, and she didn’t want to leave her alone on her first Saturday in town.
The first time he saw Addy she was spreading out a blanket under the shade of a maple tree by the pond. He smiled at the memory, Addy grabbing the corners of the blanket and snapping it in the air, letting it float softly down onto the green grass. He could smell the warm air of that day, feel the cold ice as he stuck his arm into the cooler to pull two chilled cans from the bottom. He remembered the dappled sunlight on Addy’s face as they started to talk, a conversation that lasted all afternoon. He shook himself, angry at letting the warm memory sneak up on him when it was the last damn thing he needed to think about.
Shifting into first, Clay pulled harder on the stick than he needed to. When he jammed it into second he knew he had to calm down and not take it out on the car. No reason to screw up this relationship too. Taking a deep breath, he eased up on the gas and gently shifted into third as the car crested the hill overlooking the park on his right. Hubbard Park was set just under the mountain, its pond, flowers and paths nestled under the shadow of East Peak and Castle Craig, a stone tower built out of the trap rock that spilled from the mountainside. Way back, the sandstone had originally covered the mountain, but it crumbled with time, age and weather, falling away and mounding up at the base, revealing the harder trap rock at the core of the mountain. Stands of granite like giants overlooked the park, casting their shadows over the lives of picnickers who never gave it a thought between bites of deviled eggs and soggy tuna fish sandwiches.
Clay liked the mountains and their shadows. He and Addy lived under Lamentation Mountain on the other side of town, and he appreciated the twin hills and how they defined the boundaries of their home. They contained him. In the valley between the peaks he could always crane his neck around until he found one, got his bearings, and knew where he was. Once in a while, he’d remember something from the war, a landmark like a hilltop or cliffs along a river that he’d used to find his way. Back then, terrain might lead to death, horror, or safety. Here, it was always the same. Follow this and you’ll get home. You’ll be safe. He liked looking up at the hard stone that rose up out of the soft sandstone layer, granite slabs that refused to be worn down.
Much as he liked them Clay had a hard time thinking of these long ridges that ended in worn away cliffs as mountains. They might be mountains to some folks, these bottom-land New Englanders, but not to him. He liked them all right, but a mountain was a mountain where he came from, hard crests, coal mines and sharp gaps leaving no doubt that life was lived on a downward slope.
Leaving East Peak in his rear-view mirror, Clay turned on South End Road and drove toward the Silver City Country Club. It was one of the stops he should’ve made yesterday. After Addy had her say the day went slower and slower for Clay, until he gave up and went back to the Tavern, where he watched customers come and go, nursing a coffee until it was cold and a beer until it was flat. He saw Chris and Brick exchange glances after failing to get him to say more than yes, no or a grunt.
Clay knew he needed time. Time to get used to the idea of life without Addy, because he knew there was a good chance – no, a fair chance – that he wouldn’t be able to deliver on what she wanted. He was too good at what he did for them to just say sure, Clay, we understand, you need to call it quits so your wife’ll be happy. Good, that’s our top priority.
No, Clay was a cog in a well-oiled machine, a very efficient and productive cog. He hadn’t thought about it much, but everything he did to improve his take improved his boss’ take even more. He always got the same small percentage, but he had been making Mr. Fiorenza a rich man on nickels and dimes, and now there was no way out.
But there had to be a way. That’s what he really needed time for, to figure out exactly what he had to do and when he had to do it. How many times had he done that during the war? A quick huddle under cover and it was Big Ned, lay down a base of fire, w
e’ll swing right, Shorty and Tuck, you go left, give us covering fire from behind those rocks. Or maybe somebody had a better idea, but it was all done in a minute, under fire, pinned down. Under fire and pinned down, that’s me all right. But where are my buddies with their M1s?
Well, Clay said, almost out loud, there’s bad news, bad news and good news. My wife will leave me if I don’t quit the numbers, and Mr. Fiorenza will break my legs if I do. Good news is, there’s no more bad news.
There’s never good news.
The words echoed in Clay’s ears as he turned into the country club parking lot, and he couldn’t tell if he had actually spoken them out loud or remembered them from a conversation long ago.
Clay didn’t park in the main lot with the Cadillacs, Lincoln Town Cars, and assorted sports cars. Pulling around back of the clubhouse he left his station wagon next to a Chevy Impala. As he was getting out, a pickup truck loaded down with white sand and shovels drove in behind him and braked to a noisy halt as the engine conked several times before turning off. This was Clay’s territory, the province of cooks, caddies, and groundskeepers, all those who toiled for small change so the big spenders could have a nice day at the club, and not have to look at the junk heaps the help drove to get there.
Clay grabbed the box with the right mix of brands for the two cigarette machines in the clubhouse. One off the bar, the other in the locker room. No reason for anyone who paid the dues here to have to walk far for a smoke. Clay backed into the double doors at the rear of the building and swung around with the box held in front of him.
“Where the hell have you been?”
Clay stopped short and looked over the cardboard box. A shiny baldhead barely rose above the top. If he hadn’t spoken up, Clay would have run right into him.
“Jeez, Dom, you almost gave me a heart attack.”
“Don’t give me that gee-willikers crap, Brock. You left me holding the bag, the real goddamn thing!”
“You’re going to give yourself a heart attack, Dom, never mind me. Things got away from me yesterday, that’s all.”
“That’s all?”
Dominic Telesca backed down the hallway, waving an unlit but well-chewed cigar over his head, at Clay, and everywhere in between. He was about five foot four, a combination of muscle, fat, and nervous anger. He wore a short sleeve white shirt, with the sleeves rolled up an extra inch to show off his biceps. A bartender’s apron was tied tightly around his waist, cinched against the fat that was threatening to overwhelm the muscles of his youth. Threads of gray showed in the black hair that edged his head, ear to ear, but no higher.
“Yeah, that’s all. You never run late?”
“Noooo,” Dom said, drawing out the word as if explaining it to a slow child. “Not when someone is waiting for me with someone else’s…” He stopped his backward progress to look down the hallway, then started up again when he saw it was empty. He pushed his face in close to Clay’s as he finished the sentence. “…moneeey.”
They were next to the cigarette machine. Clay dropped the box at Dom’s feet and looked at his face carefully. It was pink and flushed, little beads of perspiration bubbling up at the crown of his head and rolling off, dampening the band of his remaining hairs.
“Dom, what the hell’s the matter with you? You don’t pull in much here, this isn’t a rich man’s racket. If it wasn’t for the grounds crew and cooks it wouldn’t be worth the drive to pick up your numbers.”
Both men glanced around as Clay lowered his voice. There was a television on in the bar and the noise carried out into the hallway and covered their words. No one was paying attention to them.
“Fuck the numbers, Brock, this is the real thing I’m talking about. Fiorenza put the pressure on to bring in more dough, so we expanded. Horses, elections, whatever anybody wants to bet on. We had a crew in here Tuesday night from Waterbury, they all put C notes down on the first four games of the Series, can you believe that?”
Dom was grinning and the cigar now clamped between his teeth bobbed up and down as he spoke. Clay could almost see the dollar signs in his eyes.
“So you’re a big time bookie now, Dom?”
“God damn right I am,” Dom spit back, taking the cigar out of his mouth between two fingers and pointing it at Clay again. “Things are changing, Brock, so don’t mess it up for us. I don’t like being responsible for eight Gs of Fiorenza’s dough.”
“Eight?”
“Yeah, eight. Yesterday was Wednesday, right? Golf day for doctors. Once the Series heats up there’ll be more, so don’t miss no other days. I take it in, you pick it up, give it to Fiorenza, he gives me my cut. Nice and simple, okay?”
“Okay, okay. Nobody told me about this, Dom, I thought this was another nickel dime pickup. Don’t blow a fuse.”
Clay turned away from Dom and unlocked the back of the cigarette machine. It was nearly empty. Lots of nervous smokers laying big bets.
“Nothing personal,” Dom said he walked away. “Come on in for a beer when you’re done.”
Clay opened a carton of Parliaments and another of Kents, the brands the country club boys preferred. Filtered coffin nails. As if they thought they could hide from death, in their knit trousers and bright shirts, drinking highballs while sucking on their filtered smokes. Who were they kidding?
Clay was steamed, but he knew it wasn’t the putters and duffers he was mad at. Goddamn Fiorenza. Raising the stakes and not telling him. And Addy, of all the goddamn times she had to pick to deliver her ultimatum! Why now, right when everything else is falling apart? What the hell was wrong with two months ago, or last year for chrissakes? A year ago I could’ve walked away, maybe sold the tavern. Who’d want to buy now, in the middle of a gangster turf war?
Clay topped off the rows of the lesser brands, ripping open cartons of Luckies, Kools, and Winstons, each bearing the blue Virginia tax stamp. It was so easy when he started with Tri-State six years ago. Then picking up the numbers receipts, since he was in the bars and shops anyway. Why not pick up a few paper bags full of slips and cash, why not sell them at Jake’s Tavern? Swell idea. More cash. Don’t worry, nobody pays attention to the numbers. Who said crime didn’t pay? Problem was, it did.
Clay finished up in the locker room and headed into the barroom. The bar curved out from the wall on his right, a U-shape slinking back into the far corner where a television was set up. The floor to ceiling windows on his left presented a clear view out over the golf course, the intense green of the manicured grass startling in its perfection. A foursome was putting out on the eighteenth hole, but they had no audience. The dozen or so men in the bar had their backs to the windows, watching gray images swim across the television screen as Dom swiveled the rabbit ear antenna. The picture cleared and as Dom stepped back a roar rose up from the set. Third game of the World Series, first one played at Yankee Stadium. Dom caught Clay’s eye and motioned him to the end of the bar away from the television.
Setting down his cardboard box at the far end of the bar, out of sight, Clay sat on the last stool. He felt out of place, a workingman in a roomful of men who didn’t have to be at work on a Thursday afternoon. A deliveryman. Dom pulled a small draft and set it down in front of Clay.
“Cards got it tied up in the fifth, one one,” Dom said, chewing on his cigar, still unlit. “You a Sox or Yanks fan, Brock?” Dom leaned over the bar, studying Clay as if there might be a hint of his allegiance hidden somewhere in his face. In this part of the state, Boston or New York was a tossup.
Clay took a drink. The beer was cold and crisp, and it washed away the dust that always seemed to cling to the cardboard he carried around all day.
“Neither. Phillies.”
“Phillies! Those bums! You gotta be kidding me!” Dom had to take his cigar out of his mouth or he would’ve dropped it. His eyebrows jumped up his forehead in disbelief.
“That shoulda been them playing the Yanks right now, not St. Louis. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, how can you be a Phillies fan?”
“Wasn’t always from around here,” Clay said, then lifted the glass again, wishing he hadn’t even said that much. Closing his eyes as he swallowed, he could feel his fingers on the radio dial, trying to tune in the Phillies game, the static as clear as if it were yesterday, not twenty years ago.
“Yeah, but geez, the Phillies were all set to clinch the pennant, then a ten game losing streak, how could you stand it?”
Clay shrugged his shoulders. Once a fan, always a fan. If Dom didn’t understand loyalty, there was no talking to the guy. Clay had been disappointed, almost angry at the time. The Phillies’ September Swoon, the sportscasters called it. Now, it was just another loss to be endured. Maybe it was silly, it was only a game after all, but he had wanted to feel that exhilaration, that joy by association when his team won the pennant. It was nothing compared to his real problems right now, but if his team had made it to the Series, he’d have had something to take his mind off those problems, if only for a minute. The excitement of a win or a good play could block out the pressures squeezing him from all sides, building up in his head, and let a little whoop of joy break through. A Dick Allen home run or maybe even another Jim Bunning perfect game would’ve let him forget for a few precious seconds, before the numbers, cigarettes, betting and Addy and Mr. Fiorenza and Chris all swarmed back into his mind, each wanting a piece of him.
“Thanks for the beer,” Clay said, standing up. He looked at Dom, waiting. He glanced down at his cardboard box.
“Yeah, no problem.” Dom looked around the bar. Everyone else was focused on the television. A groan rose up. Bottom of the sixth, and the Yankees left the bases loaded as Tom Tresh hit a pop infield fly. Dom reached under the bar and dropped a paper bag into the box, stuffing it down between half-empty cigarette cartons. Eight thousand in cash. Clay pulled the zipped leather bag he collected the coins from the vending machines in from between a stack of cartons and dropped it on top of the bag.
