Odd Jobs

by Ben Lieberman

  The piano wire is so sharp it opens up a free-flowing cut around Zog’s neck. I keep squeezing. Zog is on his stomach now. “C’mon, bitch. It sucks when you can’t get any air, don’t it?”

  I have my knee in the center of his back and I’m pulling his neck toward me with all my strength. Can I break his back before I choke him to death? I know it’s not all Zog; he just finished my father. Balducci and his “I buy for free” fucking corporation is the real problem. Today, the solution starts with the Cellophane King. I can’t get my father or sister back, and I doubt I’ll get my mother a ticket back from whatever planet she’s been living on, but this is a start. If anyone ever bet anything on me, they can bet Balducci and his corporation are going down. I may end up with my head cut off and stuffed in a locker, but I will get my pound of flesh first.

  Zog goes limp and I’m pretty sure he’s not breathing anymore. It’s probably about time to let go of the garrote but I can’t seem to stop squeezing and I’m not sure why I won’t let go. I can’t believe I got up the balls to do this. How ‘bout that? I just whacked a guy. My heart has shifted in so many directions. My heart pounds because I was scared to do this, my heart pounds from the exertion of doing this, my heart pounds in retrospect, holy shit, I just did this.

  I let go of the wire and Zog’s face drops down with a thud against the warehouse floor and the force of the fall rolls him over on his back. His eyes are still open and are bulging from the sockets. His face is a nice shade of slate blue. More than anything I want to smash that face. I start punching it hard, hard enough to hurt my hand but I don’t care. Soon his face is a bloody piece of meat. “Do you know what it’s like to grow up without a father?” I yell at this dead man, still punching. Now I’m crying, too. “Do you know what a father is to a 10 year-old boy?” I see Balducci’s face and punch hard and I punch harder and I feel things breaking on impact.

  After a while my rage burns out and I stop punching. My hand is fucking sore. I get up and retrieve some green plastic wrap, packaging tape and an old Oriental rug I’ve stashed days ago deep in the warehouse. I’m going to need all of it to make this guy disappear. I wrap him up with the green plastic wrap and start taping around his ankles. Then I tape his neck, followed by his arms. “How about that for plastic wrap, you fat fuck? It’s even better than cellophane because I don’t have to see your face.”

  I roll out the Oriental rug. Once the carpet is laid out, I drop Zog onto the corner of the rug. I start rolling Zog and the carpet as one, like a cigarette. When he is completely rolled into the carpet, I tape it real good so it can’t unravel.

  Lifting Zog is a bigger problem than I thought. Zog’s a pretty big guy to begin with and the carpet’s not that light either. Plus, I guess there really is something to the phrase “dead weight.” I have to drag Zog to the entrance and that’s not so easy; I’m sweating through my clothes. I stick my head outside to make sure no one is around. There’s no one in sight.

  I pop the trunk to the Saab and struggle to lift Zog.

  This fucking guy has no shot to fit into this trunk. What was I thinking? In an attempt to adjust, I drop the front seat and start the long, hard process of squeezing Zog into my backseat. It’s kind of a bad time to get pulled over by the cops, so I vow to drive really carefully.

  The meticulous drive home takes about 55 minutes, which is about half my usual pace. To say I got a case of paranoia is an understatement. I park the car in our driveway and start hustling. My mother is watching a rerun of Family Feud from the ‘70s and Richard Dawson practically has his tongue down some 80-year-old grandmother’s throat. I call out to Mom as I head to my room but, as always, she doesn’t reply. Most of my gear has already been packed, but I have to do some rearranging now. I was going to stuff Zog in the trunk and put all my stuff in the back seat; now that needs to be reversed.

  I wash up, and on my way out I kiss my mother on the cheek. “Good-bye, Mom. I’ll call you when I get to school.”

  She looks at me and cocks her head. “Have a good time. What time will you be home?”

  “Mom, I’m heading out to State. You know, the university. In Albany.”

  She looks at me for a moment and answers, “Of course.” Then she turns her head and gets back to Richard Dawson.

  The tank is full, the car is packed. It better not break down or I am going to lose it, for sure. The ride to Albany takes about three hours, except I need to make a quick stop with my good friend Zog.

  By 2:30 a.m., I pull into what’s left of Camp Pack-A-Tu, a children’s sleep-away camp that’s been closed for nearly 10 years. It’s a pretty secluded place about a half hour from Albany. The owners were two brothers who had a propensity for getting a little too friendly with the little boys. So between the legal expenses and the fact that there’s no discount big enough to convince parents to enroll their children in Camp Fondle You, it was enough to shut the gates for good.

  Albany weather can be pretty brutal, but in the fall and spring some of my friends and I used to go to Camp Fondle You and blow off steam. We would swim in the lake, barbecue some dogs and burgers. At night we basically had a race to empty out the beer coolers and smoke all the weed we brought. Those were great times.

  Anyway, this place is so special I want to share it with Zog. I’m not sure if he was much of a baseball fan, but I intend to build him a home in what’s left of the ball field, past left field. I have a battery-operated lantern and there is a full moon so I can get around easier than I thought. I tie a pick and shovel around the large carpet that engulfs Zog and drag him into the field. I use the tools to carefully remove some of the waist-high grass about 20 yards beyond the home run wall. By 5:15 a.m. I have dug a hole big enough and deep enough to fit Zog. Not knowing what else to do, I take the path of least resistance and just dump Zog, carpet and all, into the hole. By 6:45 a.m. the hole is filled with Zog and the original dirt. I put the weeds back and step on them a little bit, like when I replaced divots from all those golf rounds I caddied.

  I get my pick and shovel and head back to my car. The sun is starting to fight its way into a new day. I turn and look back at the baseball field and I’m thinking I did a pretty good job. The field looks untouched. Not bad for an amateur, I guess. I get the car going and head to school.

  Despite what I just went through, it’s hard not to feel a slight surge of optimism. There’s a new school year; everyone feels they have a clean slate. It’s just a matter of time before the reality of what I have to do will overtake me. Just getting by was hard enough before. Now I gotta finish up school and, more important, take down Balducci.

  CHAPTER 13

  I am majoring in business because of Jimmy Balducci. Okay, that sounds a little strange, but the one thing I have to say about Balducci and his “buy for free” corporation is that it has given me a direction and a focus that frankly I could never have obtained otherwise. Put aside whacking Zog, because we know killing is frowned upon in business ethics, being involved in drug dealing, sports handicapping and bookmaking, which I am now, is probably not good for my resume either.

  Yet, for me, things are looking a lot clearer. Well, in some areas things have gotten clearer; in others they’re still a little murky. I know I’m fucked up with how much I think about Jimmy Balducci and C.W. Wellington. But I’m working my ass off. I have been able to forge a path that’s unique, profitable and has ultimately put me in a position to accomplish what I want to do. What I know I have to do. Which is a lot different than the average poli-sci student stressing over law school.

  I’ve found ways to make money and a lot of it, and I’m not talking about drinking money for college; I’m talking about real-world money. I used to need money to get by around here and to keep up with the crowd, but I didn’t really need to be here per se. If I wasn’t at school I would figure things out without burning four years in college. But always in the back of my head I knew that, without some sort of promising career, there wouldn’t be a shot of getting back in C. W.�
��s good graces.

  Basically, I always had C.W. in mind. It’s practically the only reason I got involved in college. There have been some good times and I’ve learned a few things, but what am I really accomplishing here? Sometimes I catch a good professor or an interesting topic, and I’m grateful to be here. Sometimes in the classroom, I feel comfortable because it’s an even playing field, but it’s that time after class that I feel like I’m a step behind. Socially, up until recently, it was pretty difficult. I felt like I belonged here as much as Lily from the Tongue Room at Kosher World would belong here. But things are better now. Now that I don’t give a shit, I can fit in.

  I’m so busy that often at the end of the day I’ll think to my self, “Holy shit, I didn’t think of C.W. at all today.” But then again, when that happens, I just thought of her. Discovering the guy who wiped out half your family can shift your focus a bit. So my mind pictures Jimmy Balducci a lot more often and therefore, there’s less C.W. Wellington. My head must have been given a limited hard drive.

  Getting C.W. back was always a long shot, and so was any major Wall Street career. Being the mature adult that I am, I’ve got to be realistic about my priorities. I was always heading further away from C.W.’s world, but now I’m not fighting it. Hell, she probably thinks of me as often as I think about Zimbabwe’s political situation. Christ, if she or any of our old friends knew how much I still think of her, it would be so weird. It’s ancient history for everyone else. If I had a father, I’m sure he would say something philosophical like, “Women make you do crazy things.”

  But I don’t have a father and the reason is Balducci and his “corporation.” I know I can get close enough to Balducci to take him out, but that’s not really curing the disease. When my father was the DA, he was trying to take down the corporation, but Balducci got wind of it and they got to him first. Georgie Skolinsky was a nobody forced to be an informant and thrown in the middle of the crossfire. Skolinsky was informing until the corporation caught on. So working with the law got Skolinsky sliced and diced, and it got my father run over. My father had a family, Skolinsky had a family and I guess over the last 15 years the corporation has ruined hundreds or thousands of families. Not that it matters. The fact that it ruined my family is enough. This shit’s got to stop, and working with the police ain’t working. So I’ll bring them down another way. My father started a job and the way I see it, I’m going to finish it for him.

  I’m done working myself up into a jealous frenzy over how much money the Remington Academy crowd has or what cars the NY State guys get from their parents. I used to feel so cheated because my mom and I had to move from plush Manhasset to Hempstead. Like Hempstead was so bad. Shit, I was so damn entitled. Now my ambitions have a real purpose and all bets are off. Just about the only thing I care about is how to get Balducci’s corporation, and I know how I can do it. It’s going to take money and those “businesses” that I had been previously avoiding. Those odd jobs that, as Cliff might say, will keep the point of the sword aimed squarely at my gut. Now that I’m involved in drug dealing and gambling, I’ve pretty much sold my soul, but it’s all for a cause.

  I used to do a bunch of different things and I thought I was doing them just to get by. It turns out everything you do can be used if you remember it and exploit it when you need it. I’ve found uses for all the work I’ve done, including my time at Kosher World. Just noticing the way Sev leads, the way he can take over a room, is worth more than any class I’ve taken.

  I arrive at my apartment to get some much-needed sleep. I used to live in a group of dilapidated apartments located at the top of a hill on Cox Street. These clusters of apartments provide the barest existence and are less-than-affectionately called Cox Boxes. For the tenants, who are students trying to get by, there’s never any sentimental appreciation for the place. People hardly even know their neighbors. It’s hard to be social when you can’t fit a six-pack and enough friends to share it with into the place. You’re not in the dorms with freshmen, but you’re not really living in an apartment, either.

  That’s all behind me now. My buddies and I changed apartments recently when things started going well. Spring Valley Lakes is a four-tower, high-rise apartment complex complete with an amazing health club, tennis courts, clubhouse and restaurant. It’s where all the parties are.

  Spring Valley Lakes is practically its own ecosystem. The core seems to have developed from the new breed of lawyers being created. Besides NY State’s highly rated law school, there are all sorts of young lawyers spilling out from the Albany State Building. As the capital of the state, there is plenty of politicking that goes on, and therefore, Spring Valley Lakes has also drawn its fair share of lobbyists who need to bully and sway state officials on policy making. Good or bad, you can say what you want about the lobbyists, but the one inarguable fact is those dudes can throw a party.

  The group that tends to irk me the most at The Lakes is my peers from N.Y. State. There’s a fair share of N.Y. State Gorillas living here, jocks who are not as smart as their namesakes. The few times in the past that I was able to maneuver into a party at Spring Valley Lakes were always mind-blowing experiences. It amazed me that some father would pay for his little darling to live in one of these ridiculously expensive places. I understand a father not wanting Pumpkin to live in a Cox Box, but holy shit, why spoil your kid this much?

  At the end of the day, it appears many of the daddies are doing more than indulging their kids; they’re setting the table for themselves. Daddy came through with rent, BMW, furniture and plasma TVs for a reason. Don’t get me wrong; there are plenty of women who are busting their asses in school. Plenty of girls are getting good grades and studying for their LSATs or MCATs and are determined to make it in corporate America. But those girls ain’t living in The Lakes.

  The guys are worse. Forget earning a living and forget all the hotties they spent the last four years chasing. Why bother if you can hook up with a porker whose father has a business waiting for you? A lot of these missile-seeking budding socialites live above me, below me and next to me.

  Obviously, I don’t like them, so why do I want to live among them? That would be a very reasonable question; after all, I don’t view myself in the same bucket as them. I’m no angel, that’s for sure and I have issues that none of these clowns could even dream about. So I know I shouldn’t be judging anyone.

  But the main reason I’m at The Lakes is because of Glenn Bessen and the fact that I’m a bookie, among other things. First of all, Glenn Bessen is a senior who thinks he is God’s gift to the world. His dad thinks so too, and had this apartment — my apartment — outfitted for him. Glenn also thinks he can gamble, which he can’t, at least not very well.

  I took over this bookie business awhile ago when a guy named Andy Lyss approached me about running it. It was an up-and-coming business with a full list of clients, but Andy couldn’t run it effectively. The biggest problem was that he couldn’t collect from guys like Glenn Bessen. Andy couldn’t use force because Bessen, who comes from private-jet type hedge fund money, claimed to have influential friends and yada yada. As a bookie, you need to collect, but you are a little limited in your methods. It’s not like in the movies where you have big thugs breaking thumbs. You want to make a point but you don’t want anyone running to the cops.

  I was just getting involved in sports handicapping at the time, which, by the way is legal. I figured what the fuck. Any opportunity to make money. I bought out Andy and in return got his phone numbers, clientele and his willingness to transition his customers into a new voice: me. Glenn Bessen was one of those clients, a real prick, a rude, condescending deadbeat. In the end I had to beat the shit out of him to collect. I know I said it’s not like in the movies, but sometimes either a situation warrants it or a guy is begging for it. As a bookie, you have to be able to collect, and setting an example is good for the business. Turns out he didn’t want his influential friends to know he was an inveterate gambler, and a bad
one at that, because he never ratted me out. Funny thing is, he wanted to go on playing. He couldn’t go a day without making a bet. Eventually he reached the end of the line, though; Daddy must have figured out what was going on. I had to close him out, and that’s how I got this great apartment with the leather couches, artwork and expensive entertainment system. In exchange I gave him my Cox Box. Fair is fair.

  My apartment is on the 24th floor, and even before I put the key in the door I hear Loot and Carey arguing over something. I can’t make it out yet, but I’m pretty sure it’s not a debate on existentialism. I need my sleep and when these guys get going, winding them back down is challenging. Don’t get me wrong, I’m lucky they’re here, I don’t know how I’d get by if they hadn’t moved up from Hempstead. Loot was working at a dry cleaners and Carey was a busboy, so I didn’t ask for a huge sacrifice in having them come up here. They seem pretty happy and honestly, I’m more balanced with them around. At the end of the day, Loot and Carey are the closest thing I really have to family. I got a lot going on now, and I really need them. Right now though, all I need is sleep. The door opens to them arguing and the subwoofers whomping along with the not-so-soothing sound of Whip It Out’s hip-hop rampage. The storming rap music is causing the apartment to shake. I assume the neighbors have been feeling it for hours.

  These morons don’t even see me. Loot is in a frothing rage. He’s in his bathrobe in front of our 52” plasma TV and he is bouncing up and down on my black leather couch. His dark skin and black silk bathrobe nearly blend in with the couch. Loot continues bouncing and singing the same verse of a song. He is trying to sing Whip It Out’s song but changing the words to: “Biatch, pay me that 200 bucks now!” Usually, Loot’s hair is tied tight in cornrows, but when they’re untied, like now, his hair is one huge mountainous Afro that could almost tip him over the edge of the couch.