Bigger Than Jesus

by Robert Chazz Chute

  Your stuff is in the car and you’re about to say she should wait, this won’t take long. Then Jake yanks you inside by the collar. He shoves you back a few feet while he turns the deadlocks.

  “You shouldn’t put hands on me, Jake. I don’t like it.”

  “Easy, Cube. Pete wants to see you now, not later. The longer he stays, the more pissed he gets. I like it, but he’s too old for this music.”

  The wooden floor vibrates with the pumping bass line while something wafts up, muffling a chorus that sounds vaguely familiar. Madonna or Gaga? As you follow Jake down the hallway, you’re almost sure the beat is banging over a song from Annie, trying to obliterate it with equal measures of decibels and irony. Jake pounds his fist twice on another metal door and opens it, pointing you in. When the door clangs behind you, the music is muffled. You’re in the loading dock at the back of the bodega. The concrete floor cuts some of the thump from the banging beat from Como Si’s pit. Sound tiles do the rest.

  Pete, wearing the big cans of noise-cancelling headphones on his ears, sits in a circle of white light, smoke in one hand, a Kindle in the other. He looks up, holds one finger up and you stand at ease. A trickle of blood is thinking about trailing down your face again but you snort it back and tough out the ugly iron taste in the back of your throat. Damn Denny. He sure gave you something to remember him by.

  Pete stands and tucks the e-reader into an inside pocket of his brown leather jacket before removing the headphones. “Jake bought me these headphones last Christmas. Says I can wear them on the plane. I tell him, where am I gonna fly? I come here, a drive once in a while, I go back home, I come back here the next day. When am I going to use these big headphones? Wear them on a plane, they’re gonna think I should be flying the plane, am I right?”

  He seems to really wait for an answer so you shrug and nod.

  “No! I’m not right. Sometimes I work late and these headphones? It’s a beautiful thing. All those freaks downstairs can go deaf, I’m up here counting their parents’ money. I don’t go deaf, I win twice, am I right? Sure, I’m right.”

  You nod, but you’re thinking of Panama Bob disappearing into the dark air, then visible again, sprawled in the lit street. You couldn’t see it from your high perch, but you can see the spreading pool of bright red blood all too well in your mind’s eye. Did some woman across the street scream, or is that your imagination, filling in holes? Maybe you were the screamer. You’re never going out on a ledge again unless the building’s on fire.

  “Siddown, kid. You look like you been through the wringer.”

  “Yeah.”

  Pete vacates the folding chair and waves you to sit. “Jimmy’s looking for you. Wants to talk.”

  “He coming?”

  “Don’t worry about that. You talk to me. I’ll fill him in.”

  How much has Jimmy told Pete about the demise of Panama Bob? Does Pete already know? You don’t want to insult him by spooning it out on a need-to-know basis, but you don’t want to be stupid, either.

  “You want a drink or something? Some wine? Or maybe something cold from downstairs? You let me know and Jake’ll be right back with a seven and seven, rum and Coke, whatever you like.”

  “No thanks, Pete. I’m okay. When I have a drink, I like it without Jake’s spit in it.”

  Pete smiles for the first time. He gestures for you to wait and disappears into the gloom. When he returns to the circle of light, he’s got two more folding chairs. He opens each one and sits opposite you.

  You eye the empty chair. “Jimmy’s not coming, right?”

  “Nah, nah. I got a special guest coming. Actually, that’s something you can help me with. He’ll be here any minute. Jake spotted the guy in the line outside and we were just waiting for you. When Lily called and said how beat up you were, I had an idea.”

  “Lily called you?”

  “Yeah, while you were getting your stuff and clearing out of your apartment and whatnot. Looking at you, Jesus, I have to say — and I don’t mean this unkindly — my Lily, she did not underestimate. Did Bob do this to you?”

  “Big Denny.”

  “Really?”

  “Big Denny.”

  “How many times you shoot him before he went down?”

  “Didn’t. Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.”

  “Holy shit, people are falling all over the place tonight. Maybe I should sit on the floor, huh? Could get dangerous in here.”

  “I think that’s it for falls from high places for tonight, Pete.”

  He laughs. “You killed Big Denny without an iron? Respect. And all this time I been thinking you were a pussy. No offence, but I guess Lily’s right about you.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. She said you weren’t that big a pussy.”

  You watch him laugh and you think how much more you love Lily than she loves you. You can salsa your way into her heart. She’ll love you because you’ll always treat her the way a goddess deserves to be treated. The skim will help with that project immensely.

  Pete’s laughter winds down as he picks up your silence. “Good. Good. Hey, now. You know what I miss? The angles used to be shallower and easier. Used to be, you bet on a dog race, you had a decent chance you could win. Used to be, you want to fix a dog race, that was even easier. This one time, I’m at the track and I pay this guy, just another ham-and-egger. Pay this guy a hundred bucks and he clips all the dogs’ nails, you know? On their paws? He clips ’em all short but the one dog I bet on. You clip a dog’s nails, he doesn’t run quite as fast as the dog with nails. I look back, I think that was the easiest money I ever made. Made thousands on that one dog race and was home in time to watch the soaps with the wife. The soaps, I don’t miss, but that afternoon with my wife, first and only time I banged her three times in one afternoon. No disrespect to Lily’s mother, but you and me are talking here. Money is more than just money. It’s juice. Not even on our wedding night did I have it like that afternoon.”

  “I understand.” You don’t. He’s talking like he already knows about Panama Bob’s skim.

  “You know what else I miss, Jesus? Phone booths. Where did all New York’s phone booths go? The other day I saw a homeless guy and he’s talking into his Bluetooth.” Pete laughs. “A fucking Bluetooth! On a homeless guy!”

  You laugh politely. It hurts your ribs.

  “All these civilians are walking around and it’s the Jetsons. Everybody’s talking to somebody who isn’t there. People come into the store up front and no matter what time of day it is, there’s always some woman in there talking to her friend while she shops. The friend’s prolly got a job, but with the Facebook and the thing…they’re not really doing their job. It’s crazy. We all got jobs we gotta do, am I right?”

  “Of course,” you venture.

  “Of course, of course! So I know you did a tough job tonight. You were doing your job. You got beat up, but there’s no shame in that. The opposite, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Yeah? Yeah.”

  Something about his delivery feels rehearsed.

  “You know what else was good about phone booths back in the day? You want to shoot a guy, you just follow him around. At some point, the guy’s going to go into a phone booth. You come up close, pop him in the ear while he’s calling his mistress or saying goodnight to his Mom and bang! He’s down between the ‘good’ and the ‘night.’ Phone booths! No place to run. No extra drama when you do your job.”

  “A phone booth would have been helpful tonight. Couple of ’em.” The headache’s hammering harder. How does anyone know if they have a concussion? Maybe you’ve got one of those hairline fractures that kills skiers when they run into a tree or something without a helmet, like what happened to Liam Neeson’s wife and Sonny Bono. Maybe blood is slowly filling up your brain pan right now and you should have just gone to the hospital instead of coming here. And wouldn’t it be great if Pete could just shut up or maybe just shoot you so you could go to sleep and be don
e?

  He looks you up and down. “Listen. Seeing as you’re here and all messed up already, I got another job for you, but don’t worry, all you gotta do is sit there. This is going to be strange, but I got an idea to shake up the deadbeat I got waiting outside. You in?”

  “What have I got to do?”

  “Nothin’. Just sit there and look beat up. You can do that easy.”

  “For the next few weeks, probably.”

  “Ha. Yeah. But listen, as the guy who is dating Lily, you’re going to have to trust me like I’m trusting you with my daughter. When the guy comes in, I’m going to put on a show. I love the theater. You understand?”

  “Sure.”

  “Put your hands behind your back, behind the chair so it looks like you’re tied up.” You hesitate a moment, but you put your hands behind your back while Pete opens up a cell from his pocket and says, “Jake, bring the guy to the dock.” He mumbles into the phone, circling you and you’re feeling sleepy. You’re still thinking about your brain bleed when the hard plastic loops of the zip tie cinch up and cut into your wrists.

  You sit straight up like an electric shock has shot up your spine. You’re wide awake and about to protest but the flat look in Pete’s eyes tells you it’ll be better if you shut up.

  “This is even easier than a phone booth, huh?” he says. He gives you a grin and all you can do now is wonder how such an ugly animal could produce the beautiful woman you love.

  THE DOCK

  A knuckly fist pounds on the heavy door twice. The music from the pit below blares a moment as the door swings in. Jake Cibrian shoves a squirrelly guy dressed in black toward the circle of light. He wears a silver chain that hangs from the hoop in his ear to the piercing on his lip. When dealing with a guy like Pete, this is a mistake so obvious, it’s visible from orbit.

  “Edward! So glad you could join us,” Pete says. By his tone, he could be calling a puppy to come get a treat.

  Edward looks back at Jake. “There’s no need to be rough about this. I called you guys. I called you and you said we could work this out!”

  Oh, boy. This isn’t looking good for you or Edward. You pull at the zip ties. Useless. The sharp plastic edges cut into your wrists. Pete left you your gun in the small of your back, but what good does that do? Throwing yourself to the floor and shooting the bad guys from behind your back only works in movies. In real life, the effort might annoy Pete. Then he might have Jake drag you over to the loading dock door and crush your head.

  Edward rushes to Pete, the reasonable, older guy. He doesn’t know Pete. He only thinks he does. The kid pulls crumpled bills out of his pants. “Just like I said! There’s $400 there!”

  “And that would leave the remaining bill for your bets at…?” Pete still looks reasonable.

  “About thirty-nine thousand dollars.”

  For an older guy, Pete’s fast. Edward didn’t see the bitch slap coming. It knocks him sideways. “Never say the word ‘about’ when you’re talking about money, Edward. Money’s serious. Now siddown. I want you to meet my friend, Jesus.”

  Edward touches his cheek and sits at the edge of the chair, as if he might try something stupid like popping up and running. Jake stands with his back to the door, arms crossed with one hand inside his jacket. You know Jake’s already got his snub-nosed .38 in his fist. Standing like that is an old bodyguard trick. He looks like a guy standing with his arms crossed and looking surly, but his hand is already wrapped around the gun so if Edward runs, he’ll whip it out, looking like some kind of fast draw cowboy in a bad suit. That’s what you’d do if you were standing there. Wouldn’t it be great if Jimmy had sent Jake to kill Panama Bob? If he had, it’d be Jake tied up in this chair and you’d be standing there with a smug look on your face instead of a spreading bruise.

  Pete sits in the last folding chair and watches Edward closely. “I’m going to ask you some questions, Ed. I know you will answer me honestly. While we talk, I want you to look at my friend’s face here. Note the obvious pain that he is in. The busted nose and the puffiness. He’s working on blowing up into major shiners on each eye, don’t you think? Most guys, they get worked over, it’s mostly one eye ’cuz a lot of guys just think with one fist. Wild haymakers, same fist every time, pounding away. Most guys fight like they masturbate, one hand pounding away, am I right?”

  Jake’s girlish giggle makes you want to gut him even more than usual.

  “But Jesus, here, got worked over pretty professionally, don’t you think? You got to respect the work. His wounds look…symmetrical.”

  “Who is this guy?” Edward says.

  “This here is Jesus Diaz. He’s dating my daughter.”

  “Is that why you beat him up?”

  Pete guffaws. “You don’t know my daughter, Edward. Lily, she does what she likes and I just nod and say, ‘What can I do for you, sweetheart?’ And she still gives me a hard time. Nah, if Jesus is man enough for Lily, I got no complaints.”

  “So — ?”

  “I wasn’t done talking, Edward,” Pete warns. “This is listening time for you. I’ll let you know when it’s your turn. Just keep looking at his face.”

  Edward shuts his mouth and looks at you.

  “I like Jesus. He’s a nice kid. But he’s here in this sad state because you and Jesus have something in common. You’re dealing with big problems, big people. You’re over your head and I don’t think you understand that. Jesus doesn’t know the forces that are coming together. We’re talking continents sliding around. Molten magma erupting in your face. Constellations turning upside down. And here you sit, a small person. You know what you guys are? You’re Job, like from the Bible. You’re both sitting on top of a shit pile and you’re thinking of complaining about it, but you complain to God, you know what happens? You piss Him off. Trust me. I was an altar boy. I know. Job said, God, you take everything away from me. You beat the living shit out of me and kill everything I love and leave me just on the edge of fuckin death! What are you doing to me?”

  Edward looks at you and says nothing. He’s looking very pale, like the blood’s draining from him. You’re probably looking pale, too, and not just from blood loss. Pete’s speech is as much to you as it is for Edward’s benefit.

  “So Job’s a whiner and you know what God says to him? He looks down at Job with his ass on a shit pile and he says, ‘Who do you think you are, Job? Where were you when I made the stars and named them and fuck knows what else? I am God and you are nothing to me. I can make you or I can break you and what I require of you is faithfulness. Never mind anything else, God says. Be faithful. Do as you are fuckin told or I’ll pull you apart, put you back together and pull you apart again just for shits and giggles because I am God and you are not.’”

  Pete pulls out a fresh cigarette from his pack and lights up. Edward glances his way and Pete points the lit cigarette toward your face. Another warning for both of you: for him to look at you while Pete is talking and a reminder to you that you are helpless.

  “My old priest grew up Baptist in Indiana before he converted to be a Roman Catholic. He tells it better,” Pete says. “He says, ‘Don’t box with God! Your arms are too short! Don’t play head games with God! He made your head!’ That’s somethin’, isn’t it?”

  Pete pauses for a thoughtful puff before continuing. “I usually say Roman Catholic. Romans ruled a long time. I like the idea that I’m part of something huge. Me? And Jake over there? We’re Roman soldiers. We got an empire and if you think you’re Spartacus or some shit? We’ll crucify you and burn your body and you’ll be a goddamn streetlight.”

  Edward does not sob aloud, but he’s crying now. Pussy. A real man curls up and cries on his kitchen floor when no one is around to hear him. A real man cries in the shower.

  “That’s what the Romans used to do. They’d barbecue a couple thousand slaves alive on a stick and the fire would eat at their fat and they’d be human candles, lighting the roads. Which were also bad ass by the way. I read t
hat the space shuttle was the size it was because the Roman roads were just so wide for a couple of carts to pass each other. I guess it had something to do with the width of the axles. All roads lead to Rome and all roads are based on Roman measurements. Somebody decided the railways should only be so wide and the space shuttle couldn’t be bigger than what railway cars could carry, so they based their specs on some Roman guy who built a road a couple of thousand years ago on a goat path. Amazing, isn’t it?”

  Pause.

  “Edward!”

  He jumps.

  “I asked you a question —”

  “Yes! Yes, it’s amazing!”

  “Good. Now you know what that’s all about?”

  Edward shakes his head.

  “College boy.” Pete takes a long drag and when he speaks, the smoke puffs out with each syllable. Pete transforms into a dragon spewing white smoke. “God. The Romans. Their roads. The shuttle. The railway. It’s all about faithfulness. Faithfulness is the root of how things work. We got a system.”

  Tears roll down Edwards cheeks.

  “I take the time to tell you this because I don’t know what they are teaching at that school you go to, but it seems you don’t understand the system and your place in it. You bet on a basketball game and you win, I pay you. You lose that bet and you pay me. You string me along and give me some bullshit, I start boxing, Edward. You’re just like my friend Jesus, here. You’re a babe in the woods. You don’t know your arms are too short.”

  Pause.

  Pete arches his eyebrows, inviting Edward to speak.

  “I understand.”

  “Good. So my question to you, Edward, is how did you get here this evening?”

  “I drove.”

  “Uh-huh. What do you drive?”

  “Toyota.”

  “Toyota. Toyota, what?”

  “Echo.”

  “Ah, the little one. Makes sense. You’re a kid. You got a gambling problem. You own it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is it in good shape?”