“What’s up, Dad? The last time you were in here, I think it was to read me a bedtime story.”
“Easy, son. Can’t the old man stop by without the third degree? What’s that you’re working on?” Tommy inspected the elaborate, half-finished fantasy drawing on his son’s desk. It was a vibrant mountainous landscape dotted with castles, and with dragons flying through the air. “It’s amazing; the detail is so intricate,” he said. “You should do something with this talent, son.”
“Wow,” Bobby said. “That’s the first time you’ve encouraged me to be anything but a cop. You feeling okay, Dad?”
“Never been better, son, never been better. Where’s your mother?”
“She’s at Aunt Diane’s. She said she’ll be home in about an hour.”
Tommy went downstairs and dug around in his wife’s cookbooks until he found a recipe scrawled on an old sheet of notebook paper. He went to the living room and opened the lid to their wooden casket-sized stereo entertainment center. He pulled an old 8-track tape from the internal rack and slid it into the player slot with a plastic click, then twisted the volume knob. The first strains of Bruce Springsteen’s “Born to Run” boomed out as he entered the kitchen pantry.
He selected ingredients while shuffling to the music and belting out lyrics.
“Sprung from cages out on highway nine...stewed tomatoes!
“It’s a death trap! It’s a suicide rap!...extra virgin olive oil!
“We'll run till we drop, baby we'll never go back!...pasta shells!”
A shadow fell over him, and he spun around. Margie stood in the doorway, her hands on her hips. Bobby was behind her, looking over her shoulder.
“What are you doing? What the hell is wrong with you?” she shouted over the music. Bobby walked over to the casket and turned the volume down. Other than the muted music, silence prevailed while she waited for his response.
He stood there defenseless, the recipe in one hand and a box of pasta in the other, his euphoria exposed. “I’m making Grandma’s cannelloni. I’m damn hungry, for a change, and I’m craving it.” He felt foolish and ashamed to know they’d been watching him. His joy evaporated as if someone had sucked it up with a vacuum. He was cornered in the pantry, Margie blocking the door.
She peered at him suspiciously. “What the hell have you been up to? What’s wrong with your eyes? Bobby said you smelled like dope when you came in, and you were acting all funny. What are you, stupid?”
His embarrassment turned to rage, and his mellow buzz was gone. “Stupid, huh? You think I’m stupid? I’m enjoying myself for the first time since I got sick, and you have to step on me? I’m gonna die. Being happy for once is acting funny?”
He stopped to glare at her, and she remained silent. “You don’t think I know where you been? Over to your sister’s, drinking with her again? You never stopped, I know. I know about your stash up there in the cupboard. I didn’t do nothing wrong. I went to visit Paulie’s grave. He was a saint, that man. Then I visited Moses—he’s not doing well. That’s all. And you’re still a goddamn drunk, Margie.”
He had revealed what they had both tacitly agreed to ignore for so long. He could smell the booze on her.
She countered with her own angry response. “That man was no saint. You think he was a saint? There’s a lot you don’t know. Nobody’s a saint in this world, but he was a good man, and I miss him too. I miss him a lot.”
She paused, as if considering her next words, and she began to cry. “More than you know, Tommy. We dreamed of someday being together without having to hide. He died because of you, and now you’re going to die too.” She whirled, sobbing, grabbed her purse from the kitchen table and went out the door.
Bobby stood back in the living room, watching silently, as he always did when they fought. He called out to his father. “Dad...”
Tommy didn’t turn to face him. “Go. Leave me alone.”
Bobby walked toward the stairway back up to his bedroom.
Tommy stood there in the pantry, letting the revelation wash over him, feeling he had nowhere to go and nobody to turn to. He replaced the ingredients and walked out as Springsteen’s last whispers finished the song.
Come on with me, tramps like us, baby we were born to run.
He pulled the 8-track from the slot, and it jammed, trailing a stream of tape like brown spaghetti. Son of a bitch, I liked that one. He threw it into the console and closed the lid.
He lay down on the formal couch, unused except for the rare company they had, and closed his eyes. The clear vinyl protective cover squeaked as he tried to get comfortable.
Moments later he rose, plucked his jacket from the peg next to the door and left.
TOMMY SCANNED THE SEA of empty tables in the hospital cafeteria and chose one. He sat with his coffee and took note of the exhausted graveyard-shift workers on their breaks—doctors, nurses, maintenance people, cafeteria workers, aides. The full spectrum of income levels and employment for a building full of sick, desperate people. Real heroes.
He wished he could go upstairs and find his friends all there, and have their comfort and camaraderie to soothe his wounded soul. But it was late; he’d come down long ago from the effects of the drug, and he was exhausted.
“You lost, young man?”
He turned to see who it was, but he already recognized the accent and the soft, caring tone. “Nurse Carmen, what the hell are you doing here this late?”
The angel in white took a seat opposite him. “I’m pulling some extra shifts. We’ve got to get that piece-of-shit car squared away.”
Tommy thought about the contrast of her pristine appearance with that of her boyfriend and car. “What’s the deal with you and that guy? I still don’t see any ring.”
Carmen looked down and touched her ring finger as if expecting it to be there. “I did have one, like I said. We’re engaged. It was my mother’s, simple and nice. Buster had to hock it. We needed the money.”
The words touched Tommy and made him angry at the same time. “Carmen, Jesus. You can do better, kid. What kind of man doesn’t work to support his family? What the hell does he do all day?”
Carmen seemed caught between anger at the truth and her natural inclination to support her man. “Yeah, it’s always been excuses and promises with him. I’ve always believed it, or wanted to, anyway. My patience was wearing thin, but for some reason, he’s being nicer lately.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, it’s tough on him. My father has to live with us, and it’s difficult. He’s got Alzheimer's. Not long ago he grabbed me up and shook me. He wouldn’t let go, and Buster had to pull him off.”
“Oh, damn...” Tommy said. Whoops. He switched gears to fatherly advice. “Move on, Carmen. You’re beautiful, caring, and have a good career ahead of you. You’re a natural nurse. And a good mom, I’m sure.”
“I don’t have any kids, Tommy. Not yet, anyway.”
He realized that Vela had been lying back in the warehouse, as he’d suspected at the time. He’s still a piece of shit, either way. He doesn’t deserve her. She deserves better.
She smiled a weary smile at him. “My momma died from cancer. I was there every step of the way. I was just a little girl, so I had to grow up fast. I learned to care for her at home, giving her injections into her belly, feeding her. She wasted away until all I could recognize of her was her voice through the moaning.
“She made it through that Christmas, gave me a Barbie camper. I wanted that damn thing so bad but never wanted to ask. We didn’t have the money. I still don’t know how she found out I wanted it. Probably intercepted my letter to Santa. I still have it—beat up as hell, not much better than my real car.”
She looked down again. “She died at home, with only me and my brothers and sisters there. When it happened, we were like lost puppies circling her, sad and confused. Anyway, that’s why I wanted to be a nurse. Actually, a doctor.
“I don’t want to talk about me so much. What about y
ou? What the hell are you doing here this late? Can’t get enough of this place?”
Tommy shifted in the uncomfortable, rickety cafeteria chair. It squeaked, and he started, worried she might’ve thought it was him. She looked at him quizzically until she figured it out.
“Chair,” he said, repeating the action to confirm, and they both laughed. It momentarily broke the tension. “Domestic trouble, I guess you could say. Shit really hit the fan tonight. Some new wounds inflicted, and old wounds reopened. She’s a drunk, I knew that much. What I didn’t know was that she was doing my late partner on the beat.”
Carmen put her hand on his shoulder and looked him in the eye. “Listen, Tommy. We’re all flawed. I’m betting you did some things she never found out about. Cops are notorious for that stuff, right? Didn’t you hit on me, mister?”
“I did, but it was vanity. I’d never do anything; I’m too principled. The flesh is always tempted, but my virtue is strong. That’s the Corps in me. Not that I had a shot with someone like you. I was trying to get my ego stroked, a desperate old man is all.”
“Okay. But she stuck it out with you. She’s sticking this out with you now. One thing my patients always forget is that this is hard on their loved ones, too. Go on home, Tommy. Make amends. Life is too short.”
He drained his coffee, then rose to leave. He embraced her, thanked her, and deposited his Styrofoam cup into the trash on the way out.
Don’t I know it.
THE MUFFLED JUKEBOX music found its way out of the squat brick building and into the mind and memories of the man in the car parked in front. Keeping his eyes closed allowed him to more effectively travel back to the time and place each song invoked. That juke always had the best records in it.
Percy Sledge sang “When a Man Loves a Woman,” and in his mind he stood in the high school gym, senior year, trying to work up the courage to ask pretty Margie Madison to dance. The dance was almost over, and the previous three slow ones had resulted in someone else getting to her first. The Marine Corps and Vietnam lay ahead. This time he started off in a determined march across the floor to her. She was all I ever wanted.
The memory faded like mist as Tommy opened his eyes. He placed his hand on the car door handle. A small voice inside him begged for the courage not to go into the tavern and feed his addiction all over again.
Murphy’s Tavern. So long ago, it seems. He looked at the faded green neon sign above the entrance and thought about the problems he’d tried to wash away inside. And all the problems I caused by spending so much time in there.
The song changed, pulling his reverie forward, years later. The place was full of cops getting loaded before going home to angry spouses, sleeping children, and cold dinners. All of us driving home shit-faced after spending the day busting people for the same thing. Most of us turning slowly into alcoholics.
He put himself back, in penance, to a particular drunken night. With Paulie egging him on, he came up behind the barmaid and cupped her breasts through her shirt. He remembered turning to find Margie standing in the doorway, horrified and crying. I never would’ve done anything, honey. I loved you.
He brought himself back to the present and remembered what Margie had revealed hours earlier about his best friend. You dirty son of a bitch, Paulie...
He kept his eyes closed. The explosive beginning strains of “Light My Fire” by the Doors filtered out. They put him back at the Marine Khe Sanh combat base and the nightmare of the Tet Offensive. Rapid-fire images came flooding back to him. Friends blown to pieces. Picking up those pieces and stuffing them into body bags. Trying not to die.
Calling out to Margie, who was halfway around the world, nobody able to hear him crying in the deafening roar of combat in the jungle.
He opened his eyes again. He could see the shadows of movement through the glass-block window of the bar. The urge for a drink, to be on a comfortable leather barstool watching sports with other hapless lost souls, was growing on him. He pushed it down, pushed it away, closed his eyes again to try to make it stop. Maybe for a little bit. It’s almost closing time.
A sharp noise jolted him awake. He tried to jump up, but the still-fastened seat belt restrained him. A figure outside tapped on his driver’s side window again with a stick. He rolled the window down and tried to adjust his eyes to the early dawn light. The officer asked for his license and registration. Tommy handed them over, making sure his police ID was visible in the process.
The officer leaned in closer. “Borata? What, are you on a stakeout, old timer?”
His sarcasm annoyed Tommy. “Nah, got a call from an old buddy to give him a ride home, passed out waiting for him. Guess he made other plans. I better head out and go check on him at his place.”
The officer handed back the documents. “Sure thing, buddy. Stay out of trouble, okay?”
Tommy started the car and pulled down the street, unsure where he would go next.
16 Decline
Tommy leaned back and squinted to find his target through the glare of the rising sun. He selected another round from his cache of ammunition and fired. The pebble rose in an arc and bounced off the window pane. Dink. He repeated the action. Dink. Dink.
Finally, as he began to give in to the exhaustion of the previous night, he saw a figure moving beyond the window. The sash rose angrily, and Moses’ head emerged.
“What the hell is wrong with you, cracker? You got any idea what time it is? Get the hell up here so I can whup your punk ass.”
Tommy laughed as he moved toward the building entrance. He found the top of the stairs and entered the dim apartment. “Got any coffee, brother man? Cream and sugar?” he asked Moses, who was already at work brewing a pot.
Moses shuffled from one area of the small kitchen to another. His spoon created a pleasant, rhythmic tinkling against the ceramic mugs as he stirred. “So what’s the deal? You come back for more of that good stuff you had last night?”
“Rough night, Mos. I had a good time here. Then I went back to my place, and the shit hit the fan with my old lady. She came back from her sister’s place loaded and started on me for having too much fun. It got ugly. Turns out she was banging my partner all that time, back in the day. The one I was telling you about, that got killed on the job.
“I stomped out, went to the hospital for a while and hung out in the cafeteria. Carmen was there, working an extra shift. Then I went to the bar, but I didn’t go in. Now here I am, no sleep, exhausted.”
Moses put the steaming cups on the scratched table and sat. “I’d offer you something stronger to drink, but I know better by now.”
“Don’t think I’m not tempted,” Tommy said.
Moses turned the television on. He adjusted the over-air antenna to pull in a better picture as the morning news program began. “Sorry,” he said, as he rose with a great effort and went into the bathroom a few steps away.
The sounds of his vomiting mixed with the drone of the news update.
“You need help in there, Mos?” There was no reply, only the sound of misery from behind the door.
There was a stumble and crash, followed by what sounded like an explosion of gastrointestinal gases. Tommy rose and yanked the bathroom door open, and was immediately overcome by the stench of feces and vomit. It brought him back to the war-zone hospital tents in Vietnam. Shit and puke splattered everywhere. His friend sat naked on the commode, slumping to one side, moaning.
“Get out, get out, give me some damn dignity, you asshole,” Moses said.
“Fuck that. You need help. Give me a minute.” Tommy exited, ran across the room and retched out of the open window. He opened the other windows, then removed his t-shirt, wrapped it around his face, and tied it behind his head. He went back into the bathroom, turning on the fan and then the tub faucet full blast.
Moses looked at him. “What the fuck is this, cracker? Home invasion? Get the fuck out and let me deal with my own business.”
Tommy grabbed him under the arm. “Get up
. Get in the tub. I’ll take care of this. That’s a fucking order. Do it, now.”
Moses complied while Tommy gathered cleaning supplies. He worked fast, occasionally ducking out to gulp down fresh air. During one trip, as he stuck his head out of the window, he saw Lukas outside working on his motorcycle, looking up at him.
“What the fuck you crazy old bastards doing up there?” he asked.
Tommy didn’t reply. He continued to clean, then went down the hall to the trash chute with plastic bags full of soiled paper towels and linens. As he re-entered the apartment, Moses emerged from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around him.
“I had to throw some of that shit out, Mos. I’ll replace it. You okay?”
“Not really, brother. Mr. C is coming to get me now, I feel it. I took all my damn pills this morning, then I puked them all up without them doing no good. It’s a losing proposition.”
Moses went to his bedroom to change. Tommy lit some incense sticks and placed them into a teak holder.
Moses returned and sagged into his recliner. “What’s the deal with our friend the priest?”
“This motherfucker is going to walk away, that’s what. That’s the Church, no doubt. They pay someone off, so they don’t get sued, then reassign his ass somewhere else just like they said they would. Like they always do. He’ll go right back to hurting other kids.”
Moses opened his tin box, removed a joint, positioned it between his lips, and flipped his lighter on with a pop. He leaned back into the frayed chair and drew deep. As the stream of smoke exited through his nose, he said, “Now that’s the shit.” He passed the joint to Tommy.
Tommy took a light hit. “We got to do something, Mos, if he’s still in that rectory.”
“I don’t know, Tommy. I’m getting sicker. Time is short for me, and you’re getting better. You may have this beat. Why risk going to prison? It could be a long stretch.”
They passed the joint between them as they spoke. Tommy lingered on the question, and then responded, “Nobody beats this. It’s a matter of time. We talked about this remission bullshit. It’s a temporary oasis, a short summer before a long, final winter.
Vigilante Angels Trilogy Page 10
