Souvenir

by James R Benn

  That’s what today felt like to Jake. Too damn much metal in the air, and a lot of ground to cover to boot. Only one machine gun, only one tank, only one sniper. But between them and the couple of dozen other Krauts down there, the air would be thick with it. He felt sick, felt like puking and crying and crapping his pants. His hands shook, and he knew the only reason he wasn’t running at that very second was that his legs felt like jelly. This was a bad day, an unlucky day. He didn’t feel like a veteran, sorry for the wet-nosed replacements who don’t know shit. That had always made him feel invincible, or at the least, let him believe it. They’ll get it, but I won’t. I’m smart, tough, battle-hardened. Today, feeling the cold bite at his cheeks, watching the gray cloud cover through the pine branches, he felt only sick and scared, certain that the enemy fire wouldn’t notice which of the brown forms running through it was a veteran and which a rookie. It terrified him that these could be his last memories, the last thoughts to travel through his brain.

  “Jake. Jake!” It was Clay, with Big Ned beside him. They both looked at him with concern. They must have crawled up next to him and said his name several times.

  “Yeah, sorry. I was thinking.”

  “Listen,” said Big Ned. “We’ve been talking. Mostly Clay and me, since we both sorta found it on that Kraut. We want you to have it.”

  “What? Have what?” Jake said.

  Clay held out his hand with the .45 automatic in its shoulder holster. “This. From me and Big Ned, and Tuck.”

  “Why?”

  “Jake, you’re our leader,” Clay said. “Simple as that. We all know we wouldn’t have made it back to our lines without you. You oughta have it.”

  “Yeah, like you was our officer,” Tuck said, from behind Big Ned. “No offense intended.”

  “None taken.” Jake took the automatic from Clay’s hand. He knew he could never say no, never turn his back on these guys, the last of the only men he’d ever call brother. He also knew he didn’t want to make any more decisions, be responsible for any more lives, not today of all days. But with this gift in his hands, and with Sykes as their lieutenant, he really had no choice. He looked at each of them, square in the eye, even Oakland, hovering on the edge of the group.

  “Okay,” he said, swallowing the lump that surprised him in his throat. “Okay.”

  He unbuttoned the top of his overcoat and struggled to get his arms out without taking it off. The guys crowded around him, fastening straps and helping him get his arms back in the sleeves. Jake reached in and pulled the automatic out, then placed it back in. “Good fit. Nice and smooth.”

  “I cleaned it last night,” Big Ned said. “That Kraut didn’t take too good care of it.”

  “I will, I’ll take good care of it. Thanks, guys. I’ll never forget this. Never.”

  Chapter Twenty

  1964

  Take a statement, that’s how Bob said it. Come down to the station in the morning and we’ll take a statement. Routine, he’d said. Now, waiting alone in the windowless room, it didn’t feel routine to Clay. Resting his right hand on the table, he noticed it shaking, covered it with his left, and when that didn’t still the tremors, rested both on his lap.

  One table, two chairs, filing cabinets, fluorescent lights, gray linoleum floor. Clay pushed back on the chair in frustration, the scraping sound loud and harsh as it echoed off the hard surfaces. He walked around the table, once, twice, sat back down and held his head in his hands. He caught a sniff of smoke, and smelled his hands. No, not on the hands. It was inside, still in his nostrils and lungs, maybe burned into his heart.

  By the time the fire engines came, the fire had spread throughout the Tavern. With all the road crew equipment out front, they’d had trouble getting close enough, fast enough. Wood floorboards, booths, the bar, plus all the alcohol made the old wooden building a bonfire waiting to burn. The fire hoses had turned flame to steam and smoke, but couldn’t wash away the terrible, familiar smell of incinerated flesh. Afternoon had bled into evening, flashing lights illuminating the char and ash that had once been Jake’s Tavern. Clay had told Bob his story, and Bob had been considerate. Don’t worry about it, come down tomorrow morning and give us your statement. Clay looked at his watch. Forty-five minutes. The doorknob turned. Bob entered, dressed in plainclothes, a white shirt and tie, as if he’d just come from church, except for the shoulder holster and the .38 Police Special revolver.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting, Clay. Had to wait for the Fire Marshal’s report.”

  “That’s okay,” Clay said, trying to sound calm, a little bored, and sympathetic. He felt silly sitting there with his hands on his lap, but he didn’t want Bob to see them shake.

  “Pretty much corroborated what you said. Fire started in the back room, the guy did have a gun. They did find some slugs in the debris, probably from his .38. Lots of liquor on those shelves. They even found the paint thinner can.”

  “Yeah, like I said. It all went up.”

  “Helluva thing,” Bob said, sitting back in his chair, staring at Clay. The table between them was empty. No paper or pen.

  “You going to take down my statement?” Clay asked.

  “Let’s talk it through, get everything straight, first. Then the statement will go easier.”

  “Okay,” Clay said, nodding his head, as if his agreement was necessary. He couldn’t keep his hands in his lap anymore, so he brought them up and cupped them on the table.

  “Tell me about the Colt,” Bob said. Clay had already told him last night, but he launched into it again.

  “It was a souvenir from the war. You know how it is,” Clay said amiably. Bob didn’t say he did. “I had it for years, and finally Addy put her foot down, made me get rid of it.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “No, I hid it away in the Tavern, and told her I’d thrown it out.”

  “Chris knew about it?”

  “I told you—” Clay caught himself, willed the frustration in his voice to wither away. “Yes, but I didn’t know he knew. He must’ve seen me put it away once. You know kids, he couldn’t resist looking. Lucky he didn’t shoot somebody.”

  “So Chris left about what time?”

  “It was around quarter to twelve. He was supposed to go get lunch and then do homework at the library. On his way up the street, he sees this guy hanging around the back of the Tavern slip into the back door. So he comes back, hears the guy holding me up, gets the automatic. Thank God he didn’t use it. Whacked the guy good with the floorboard though. Knocked his gun out of his hand.”

  “What happened next?”

  “You know, it’s all sort of a jumble. He crashed into the shelves, pulled out another gun, a small automatic, from an ankle holster, I think. I grabbed for the Colt, and I think at the same time Chris threw a bottle at him. He must’ve already been covered in paint thinner. He fired, and everything lit up, like throwing a match into gasoline. He fell, then started to get up—he was already on fire—and aimed the .38 right at Chris. So I shot him.”

  “Twice.”

  “Damn right. You know not to trust one shot, Bob, so don’t give me that routine. Two to the chest, like they taught us.”

  “Okay, okay. Then?”

  “Then I grabbed Chris and we got out of there.”

  “You ever see this man before?” Bob said. He hadn’t asked that question last night.

  “No, not that I remember.”

  “You have much cash on hand?”

  “No, just the usual change in the register we start out with. Friday’s receipts were already in the bank.”

  “Sort of a dumb time to pull a heist, don’t you think? Before a bar opens, after a week of road construction out front? Must’ve affected business, right?”

  “Sure it did. That’s why I closed, to get the cleaning and painting done.”

  “So why do you think he tried to stick you up?”

  “Like you said. Dumb.”

  “I didn’t say he was dumb. It was
a dumb time for a hold up. Armed robbery for register change?”

  Clay shrugged, his hands back on his lap. What could he say? The truth?

  “Clay,” Bob said, leaning in and speaking slowly. “You know that no one gets hot and bothered by the numbers anymore. You hear they’re even talking up in Hartford about legalizing it and having a state lottery?”

  “Good idea,” Clay said.

  “So if this has anything to do with the numbers, just tell me.”

  Clay shrugged again.

  “I’d need to know about it. There won’t be any charges. About the numbers.”

  “Yeah,” Clay said. “Especially since there wouldn’t be any evidence left.”

  Bob stood, kicking his chair back and slamming his hand, palm-down, on the table. “Stop fucking around, Clay. We know who it was. I wanted to hear it from you, but instead you give me a line of bullshit!”

  “What?” Clay was stunned at the outburst, but it was what he’d been afraid of. If only he’d been smarter. Al had been right. It was foolish to plan to kill him at the Tavern. If it had only been somewhere else—but, then maybe he’d be the dead one. It wasn’t so much a question of life or death right now, but of humiliation. The shame of a lie, the humiliation for his family, all of his moral defects laid bare. He couldn’t let it all unravel now.

  “Al DePaoli, uncle of Tony DePaoli. Remember him from Friday night?”

  “Yeah, the kid that got Chris in trouble.”

  “And now Chris is involved in the uncle’s death,” Bob said, standing with his arms folded across his chest, every inch a cop, friendship finding no foothold.

  “Leave Chris out of this, Bob.”

  “He’s in it. The only question is how far does this go? What did Al DePaoli want from you?”

  Clay closed his eyes, trying to figure the angles, how to play it, which way to go. The darkness behind his eyelids vanished and it was stark white, blinding, like a snowfield. Sometimes you couldn’t figure the angles, and you just had to keep pushing ahead, no other choice to be made. He could see tracers over the snowfield, luminous white against a gray sky. Smoke. It covered everything, then blew away. He rubbed his eyes.

  Chris hadn’t done anything wrong, didn’t even know about the connection between Al and Tony. He had to bluff, push Bob to see what he really knew.

  “How did you know? That it was this Al DePaoli?

  “Got his dental records. It was a match.”

  “No, I mean how did you know to check his records?”

  Bob hesitated. He sat down, folded his hands in front of his face, index fingers up and tapping, as he studied Clay. He seemed to come to a decision. “We’ve had him under surveillance. He gave us the slip a few times, including yesterday. But we know what car he was driving, and it turned up two blocks from your Tavern.”

  Clay felt small beads of sweat gather at his temples, beginning to trickle down. The cops had been watching Al. But if they’d ever seen Al with him, surely Bob would’ve brought that up, thrown it in his face by now. If he could stay one step ahead of the cops, maybe everything would work out.

  “So, Clay,” said Bob. “What did DePaoli want from you? What did you have that he got killed over?”

  “Hell, it was an accident, Bob,” said Clay. “It wasn’t like I was planning on it, it just happened. Self-defense.”

  “Never said otherwise,” Bob said, cocking his head and looking Clay over. “But fact is, he’s dead. In your joint. What was he doing there?”

  “Maybe his nephew Tony told him I kept cash around, who knows? If I knew anything more, I’d tell you. I offered you information about Fiorenza, remember? You gave me the cold shoulder on that one, so don’t give me a hard time now.”

  “We have all we need on Fiorenza.”

  “What?”

  “I’m doing you a favor, Clay. We know Fiorenza is the numbers guy around here, but that’s not what we were interested in. These guys see the handwriting on the wall, they know the state’s going to legalize the numbers pretty soon. So they’re looking to expand. Heavy-duty gambling, drugs, extortion. A war was heating up between Fiorenza and DePaoli, and we wanted to stop it, put both of them away. It’s part of a big statewide task force. We got enough on Fiorenza, but before we can find out more about DePaoli’s operation, he ends up roasted in your storeroom.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Clay muttered. He felt as if he were teetering at the edge of an abyss, having stopped purely by chance before stumbling in. He’d been right in the middle of that war, but too much of a small fry to be noticed. Until Al came calling.

  “Like I said, we don’t care about a two-bit neighborhood numbers game, but there’s a lot of unanswered questions here.”

  “I told you—”

  “Yeah, you told me. You never saw Al DePaoli before he stuck you up for your cash register change. But we’ve been going over Fiorenza’s books, and you know what? There’s over ten thousand dollars missing, receipts never picked up. From Meriden.”

  Clay’s mind tumbled with all these facts. Fiorenza kept books? The cops had the books? “Wait. You mean this guy keep records? How’d you find them?”

  “Search warrant. Soon as we found out it was DePaoli in that fire, we picked up Fiorenza. No reason to wait and let him consolidate. And they don’t call it organized crime for nothing. He’s got a full set of books, no names, but a complete record of receipts by date. There was a notation that “Meriden” had an estimated ten grand that hadn’t been picked up yet. So, Clay, let me ask you one more time. What did DePaoli want from you? Bad enough to set up Chris. Bad enough to come gunning for you. Bad enough for you to have a loaded .45 handy?”

  Clay looked down at his hands. They weren’t shaking. He could see the faint lines of dirt still left under his fingernails. Al was dead. Fiorenza in jail. The Tavern burned to the ground. The twelve thousand, safe as can be. It was like running through a hail of bullets and making it without a scratch. He couldn’t believe it, couldn’t believe his luck, couldn’t take in what had just been handed him. Death and redemption, partners again.

  “Couldn’t tell you, Bob.”

  “I have two search warrants, Clay. One for your house, one for the Tavern. I’ll give you one more chance. I know there’s more you’re not telling me.”

  Clay shook his head. Bob got up and left the room. It would be more than two decades before they spoke again.

  * * *

  There hadn’t been time to speak with Addy before the police got to the house. Clay had barely beaten them there, after he’d gotten Chris to a friend’s house. Chris had become famous as the teenager who’d saved his father from an armed thief. That the crook died a gruesome death of his own making only added to his newly found status. Clay wasn’t sure what the effect of this violent episode would be in the long run, but for now, Chris was enjoying his notoriety.

  Addy had put on a good face for Chris, but it was daggers for Clay. He hadn’t cared about the search, he only wanted to tell her the good news. But there hadn’t been a minute to spare before the police came, two detectives and two uniformed cops, armed with court papers and attitude. He’d tried to explain there was nothing to worry about, but with police cruisers in the driveway and neighbors peering through windows, it hadn’t gone well.

  They stood in their living room, amidst a mess of cushions, magazines, books and papers carelessly tossed back in place. The police had been almost considerate, but thorough. Everything had been touched, opened, dumped, inspected. Clay watched Addy. She stood with her hand cupped over her mouth, her eyes darting over the belongings in her house that strangers had searched through. She began to shake her head, back and forth, back and forth.

  “Addy—”

  She stepped to the side, holding up one hand. She took the other from her mouth, seeming to reach deep inside to gain some control. By the look on her face, Clay saw things as she must have. Her home, her marriage, her security ripped apart. All by him. By the secret life he led and the secr
ets he’d kept from her. From everyone. Hell, he would’ve kept them from himself if it were possible.

  “Addy,” he said, softly and slowly. She didn’t step away. “It’s all over. I—”

  He stopped, stunned by the look on her face. Anger had melted away and her eyes were wide with sadness, her eyebrows knotted, mouth agape.

  “No, no,” he said, holding up his hands as if to stop the words that had already left his mouth. “I don’t mean between us, oh my God, no. I mean the numbers, everything. It’s all over, done with.” He could see relief, embarrassment, anger fly across her face. He held onto that stunned expression, thankful for his clumsy way with words, so glad to have seen her anger betrayed by the sadness there would be for her if they parted. Perhaps enough to prevent it, if he wasn’t too late.

  “How can I believe you, Clay, after this?” She gestured around the room, the disarray like evidence of his dishonesties.

  “Addy, the guy who died in the fire was some sort of mobster. Bob told me when I went down to give my statement,” he said, trying to sound like he and Bob were just two pals shooting the breeze. “There’s a big statewide task force involved, so they’re just checking every possible lead. There’s nothing for them to find, believe me.” So close. He was so close to everything working. If Addy could just see reason, everything would be perfect.

  “Clay,” Addy said, putting her palms up to her cheeks, rubbing them, rocking slightly on her heels while looking away from him. “Clay, it’s good that you’re done with the numbers and whatever else you were mixed up in. But it might be all too late. You’ve become a stranger to me. When did you turn into a numbers runner? Did it happen overnight? When we met, if someone told me to watch out for that Clay Brock, that someday I’d end up having my house searched by the police after a mobster is burned alive in his bar, I would’ve told them they were crazy! Now I feel like the crazy one. What kind of life have we been living? Is this the kind of life you planned when we got married? Who are you, anyway?”