Tales of River City

by Frank Zafiro

I felt a tickle of fear deep in my chest. “I’m sure. But I bet you made a lot more taking those bets than you lost taking mine.”

  He nodded. “Is true.”

  I stepped closer to the table. “Look, I’m in kind of a hurry—”

  “So you need money now.”

  “Yeah.”

  Oleg removed a thick envelope from the cash box and held it up. “Fifty-four thousand dollars. You want count it?”

  I shook my head.

  Oleg shrugged and dropped it on the table in front of him. “I not even worry about this money. I make seven times as much from idiots who bet on kid.”

  I reached for the envelope.

  Oleg watched my hand. “Besides,” he said, “I not lose this money, either.”

  My eyes snapped to his. They were flat, and a malevolent smile played on his lips.

  The unmistakable sound of a gun hammer being cocked came from behind me.

  I shot Oleg a deadly glare and turned slowly around. One of Bracco’s goons stood in the bathroom doorway with a pistol leveled at me. Fear washed through my stomach like a rush of cold water, making my arms and legs feel heavy.

  How in the hell…?

  “Who are you?” I asked. His face was vaguely familiar but I couldn’t quite place him.

  “Shut the fuck up,” he snarled at me.

  “What do you want?”

  He strode purposefully forward. I watched him as he approached me, and without preamble he brought the butt end of the gun downward in a sharp arc. I raised my hands too slowly and the hard metal bit into the meaty part of my neck.

  I grunted and fell to a knee. Pain radiated from that spot, pulsing outward.

  “I said to shut the fuck up,” he repeated.

  I struggled to catch my breath and stared at the concrete floor near his cowboy boots.

  “You tell Dom,” Oleg said. “Everything even now.”

  “Bullshit,” the goon said. “Dom said he gets half of this asshole’s winnings.”

  “Half!” Oleg squealed. “What the fuck is that, Joe?”

  I glanced up at Joe. The pitted face. The flat nose. Now I remembered.

  “It’s the cost of doing business,” Joe told him. “Now hand that shit over.”

  Oleg paused. “But I give you this guy—”

  “Give me the fucking money!” Joe told him, and swung the pistol to point it directly at Oleg.

  I sprang upward.

  Joe grunted in surprise when I grabbed his wrist with both hands and jerked his arm downward. At the same time, I drove my knee up. The point of my knee drilled into the fleshy part of his forearm. The gun discharged with a loud crack. Oleg yelped in pain and fell over backward.

  I drove my knee upward again. Joe’s grip loosened. The gun clattered to the concrete and bounced under Oleg’s card table. I pivoted and gave him a two-handed shove in the chest, sending him stumbling backward.

  We both paused, staring at each other. I was closer to the gun, but I wasn’t sure I could get to it before Joe made it back to me. Joe stared at me and I figured he was calculating the same set of odds. Behind me, Oleg moaned weakly, his voice soft and wet.

  “I’m not going with you,” I told Joe.

  His eyes flicked to the gun and back to my face. “Dom wants to see you. You’re going.”

  “I know he’s going to kill me.”

  Joe shrugged. “You shoulda took his deal.”

  I swallowed slowly. “You’re Joe Bassen, right?”

  “So?”

  “You used to fight.”

  A touch of pride lit up his face. “Yeah.”

  “What happened? You lose your balls? Turn chicken-shit?”

  His eyes narrowed. He jabbed his finger at me. “Hey, motherfucker, I was ranked. Number fourteen in the world. What did you ever do outside of this area?”

  I ignored his question. “Fourteen, huh? I remember that. Good for you. Even if it was ten years ago.”

  He watched me and said nothing.

  “I remember something else, too,” I said. “I remember how you got your ass kicked by that black kid—”

  “Shut up.”

  “What was his name? Forester? Something like that?”

  “I said, shut up.”

  I shook my head in disappointment. “He laid you out with a left hook that he brought all the way from the East Coast. Don’t know how you didn’t see it coming.”

  Joe’s face turned red. “You think you’re something special? Huh? Just because you beat some punk in a piss-ant fight?”

  “At least I didn’t get my ass knocked out by some moolie.”

  “That’s it, motherfucker. You’re dead.”

  Joe raised his fists and dropped into a boxer’s crouch. His eyes glazed over with rage.

  Suddenly, I was calm. I fell into a light boxing stance and brought up my hands. This was better than hiding at motels and sneaking around. This I knew.

  Joe Bassen had fought as a middleweight, but he looked like he could fight as a heavyweight now. He had a little bit of a belly on him, but his arms were thick with muscle and his chest looked solid. As he moved toward me, he still showed a fighter’s bounce in his legs.

  He snapped out a jab with a sharp exhale. I slipped the punch and circled away. He advanced on me, devoid of caution. I remembered seeing a couple of his fights years ago. He was more careful then. I guess a few years of busting skulls for Dominic Bracco had changed his style. Too bad for him, I figured.

  We danced around the small basement, my tennis shoes and his cowboy boots scraping across the concrete floor. Sometime after the first punch, Oleg stopped moaning. Either that, or I stopped hearing him.

  Joe stepped to his right and I shifted to my own right to slip away. Too late, I saw it was a feint. He shuffled left, cocked and launched a thundering left hook at my head. I tucked my chin to my chest and covered my head with a forearm. The blow landed below my ear. I tried to roll with it and it sent me stumbling. The bite of his knuckles stung, but the force of the punch rang in my ears and along my jaw. I saw floating spots in front of me and shook my head to clear it.

  He came after me, relentless, a small, evil grin pasted on his mouth.

  I’d hoped he couldn’t hit hard anymore and I was wrong. He wasn’t as fast as he used to be. Size slowed him down, but he’d been fast enough to land that hook.

  He doubled up on the jab, clipping my forehead with the second punch. An idea occurred to me, but before I had time to think it through, he followed with the straight right. I tucked my chin and leaned away, taking most of the shot on my shoulder and danced away.

  Joe lumbered after me.

  This is how I won the fight, I remembered. I lulled the other guy into thinking I was finished and counter-punched him with my best shot, a right uppercut.

  It worked before. It could work again.

  Joe looped another hook at my head and I ducked under it. His belly was exposed and I chopped at it with my right fist. He grunted and threw the opposite hook. I slipped it, stepped inside and unleashed my right uppercut.

  He was too quick. My fist grazed his chin as he stepped to his right. He countered with another right. It landed flush on my cheek and drove me back into a cement wall.

  Joe grinned at me. “Stupid fuck. I saw your fight. A real boxer, one that gets ranked, needs to know more than just one move.”

  He stepped forward and hammered at me with another right. I dropped my chin low and took the shot on the top of my head. It hurt like hell but when I heard the crunch of his knuckles and his howl of pain and surprise, it was worth it.

  “Son of a bit—” he started to yell before I drove my foot straight up between his legs. Then he let out a guttural sound and sank to his knees. I followed up with two hard shots to his face, shattering his nose with the second. He looked up at me with bleary, confused eyes.

  I thought about it a second and then laid him out with a left hook. I don’t know why I bothered. The irony would be lost on him.
r />   The basement suddenly became very quiet, except for my ragged breathing. I gave Joe another kick to the midsection for good measure. His body absorbed the blow but he didn’t react. He was definitely out.

  I glanced over at Oleg. His still body lay crumpled on the floor beside his chair. I grabbed the envelope with my winnings in it from the table. The cashbox yawned open next to it. I guessed another couple hundred kay was stacked inside.

  My mind whirred. I was already on Bracco’s hit list. If I stole money from the Russians, I’d be on theirs, too.

  Fuck it. Oleg’s dead body already put me on that list. Might as well have the money, too. I gathered it up and tucked it inside my sweatshirt pocket. Then I picked up Bassen’s .45, took a deep breath, and headed upstairs. I still had Mouse to deal with.

  The basement door was shut and the inside covered with soundproofing foam. Only the doorknob was exposed. I pulled the door open and peered around the corner. Mouse sat in front of the TV, watching a young girl croon “Because the Night” and butchering it.

  I leveled the gun at him and backed toward the front door. He twisted his head toward his shoulder but didn’t take his eyes off the television. He spoke a short sentence in Russian. When I didn’t answer, he turned around and started to ask again. He stopped cold when he saw the gun. His eyes widened. “Where Olek?”

  Without answering, I reached for the door, fumbled with the knob, and pulled it open. Mouse stared at me the whole time, frozen in place. His surprise looked to be fading to anger. Would he check on Oleg first or find a gun and come blazing after me? I didn’t know and I didn’t have time to wonder.

  I backed through the doorway, pushed open the screen door with my back, turned, and ran.

  My shoes slapped the pavement as I scuttled down the walkway. My footfalls crunched in the snow when I reached the sidewalk. I kept an eye over my shoulder and ran as fast as I dared on the slippery snow to Beth’s car.

  With a shaking hand, I slid the key into the driver’s door. I kept expecting Mouse to come around the corner with an AK-47, blasting at me. My hands shook worse when I tried to put the key into the ignition.

  The little Honda fired to life. I put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb. No sign of Mouse. No AK-47s.

  By the time I got onto Birch, a main arterial, the shaking started to fade. My head ached, but a thrill shot through my chest. I survived! And I had way more running money than I’d counted on. I won. I beat them all. Now Beth and I could get the hell out of this dirty little town and start somewhere fresh.

  I let out a whoop and slapped the steering wheel.

  Traffic was light. I took a right at Maxwell and followed it over to Division. Traffic was heavier there. Just in case Mouse or anyone else tried to follow me.

  The Celtic Spirit Motel sat off of Division on the north end of River City. Twenty minutes later, I pulled into the gravel lot and drove to the rear of the U-shaped layout. The curtains in number eighteen were closed, just like I told Beth to keep them. She had a light on inside, which I warned her against. It didn’t matter now, though. Bracco had made his play and he lost.

  I parked the car and went to the door of number eighteen. The motel key was oversized and slipped into the lock with a loud click.

  I paused and said, “Beth, it’s me,” before opening the door to an empty room.

  The scene took a moment to register. The door to the bathroom stood open and the light inside was off. A made bed with rumpled covers. Our suitcases sat in the corner.

  “Beth?” I called, but there was no answer.

  She went to the store. Or to get a burger.

  I took a deep, wavering breath and thought about that. Yeah, it could be. Even though I told her to stay put, it could be. Then I saw her purse perched on the nightstand, next to the telephone. The red message light flashed at me.

  “Oh, no,” I groaned. My stomach turned to lead.

  I picked up the phone and punched in the numbers to retrieve messages. The bland, computerized female voice informed me that I had one new message.

  Bracco’s unmistakable thick voice filled my ear. “Forget something?” There was a rustle and then Beth’s voice called out my name. Tears sprang to my eyes.

  “Hear that?” Bracco continued. “Maybe you should come home and we can work out a couple of things.”

  The message ended and the monotonous woman’s voice asked me if I wanted to delete it, save it, or listen to it again.

  I hung up the phone.

  My head pounded. I tried to swallow. My legs suddenly felt weak and I sat down heavily on the edge of the bed.

  Oh, Jesus, Beth!

  Tears streamed from my eyes. My mouth opened in a long silent scream. I pounded my fists down onto the bed beside me. My chest ached. When my breath returned, I cursed Bracco with every word I could think of.

  After a few minutes, I shook my head to clear it. This wasn’t over. He had her but he wanted something. Me.

  That sliver of beach in Mexico or California flashed past my eyes.

  I set my jaw and rose from the bed.

  I gathered up our suitcases and threw them into the trunk of the car. Her purse I put on the front seat next to me. I stole glances at it as I drove.

  There wasn’t any time for a fancy plan. I stopped at the night deposit location at our bank and deposited the money into our joint account, using about twelve different envelopes. The bank would report it to the IRS, but that was a problem that could be worked out later. I was running out of options.

  I folded a blank deposit slip in half. From inside Beth’s purse, I removed her wallet. I slid the deposit slip behind a picture of the two of us standing in the ring after one my fights. Beth was smart. She’d find the slip of paper and figure it out.

  On the drive toward our small house in Hillyard, images of Bracco and his goons kept popping up in my mind. I saw them holding Beth, hurting her. No matter how hard I tried to force them down, the images rose up again, each more brutal than the last.

  No cars were parked in front of the little two-bedroom we owned. He probably parked in the alley. Fewer witnesses.

  I turned off the engine and wrapped my hand around the Bart Simpson key ring. I hadn’t prayed since I was a kid at St. Charles but I thought about doing it right then. I didn’t, though. If there was a God, he wouldn’t be listening to me.

  I slipped Bassen’s .45 into the small of my back and got out of the car.

  The walkway hadn’t been shoveled since the last snowfall. A medley of footprints crisscrossed between the sidewalk and the door. The living room curtains were drawn and the house looked deserted.

  I knew better.

  I unlocked the door and stepped inside.

  Dominic Bracco sat at the kitchen table. His hulking frame dwarfed the small chair, which he’d turned backwards and rested his forearms across the back. Next to him, on her knees, with her hands bound and a strip of silver duct tape across her mouth, was my Beth. Her terrified eyes beseeched mine.

  Next to her, similarly bound and gagged, was my trainer, Reggie. The old man bled from a jagged cut above his brow.

  “I see you got my message,” Bracco said.

  “I got it,” I whispered.

  Behind Beth and Reggie stood a smaller-framed kid, well dressed, with hair in carefully styled disarray. He held a pistol with a silencer pointed at the back of Beth’s head.

  Next to Bracco stood Joe Bassen. His nose was swollen and red. His face still bore a pained expression.

  “You got it,” Bracco repeated, his Jersey accent thick, “and now I got you, motherfucker.”

  I licked my dry lips. “What do you want?”

  “What do I want?” he repeated. He shook his head. “Did you really think you could tell me no? That you could just go your own way and fuck me over?”

  “I didn’t do—”

  “Shut the fuck up!” he shouted, his face suddenly enraged. He slammed his beefy fist on the table, causing everyone in the room to
jump. “Just shut the fuck up with what you did and didn’t do!” He raised his fingers to his face and rubbed his eyes, sighing. “You think you’re smarter than me? Huh?”

  I thought of the boxing match he wanted me to throw. How I refused. “No.”

  “You think I don’t deal with the Russians?” He shook his head. “I’ve got this fucking town wired, top to bottom. And I made you a perfectly fair offer. You should’ve taken it.”

  He was right. I should’ve. My pride got in the way. I didn’t want to be his lackey, even just once. And I figured I was good enough to pick my round. But even when I won, I knew it wasn’t all over. I knew that I hadn’t paid for that sin, not right away.

  My gaze met Beth’s. I gave her a short nod of reassurance. Then I turned back to Bracco.

  “I know I shoulda,” I croaked. “But what now?”

  “What now?” His ruddy face broke into a huge grin. “Well, now it’s payback time.”

  Fear raced through me anew, making my mouth dry. My fingertips tingled. I knew I didn’t have time to go for the gun in my waistband at the small of my back.

  “Please—” I started, but Bracco raised his hand.

  The kid with the pistol moved it from Beth to Reggie.

  “No!”

  He fired. The crack of the gunshot was suppressed, but the clacking sound of the slide echoed throughout the kitchen, coinciding with the sickening splat of the bullet hitting Reggie in the back of the head. He collapsed without making a sound. A red pool spread outward from his head across the white linoleum.

  Beth tried to scream behind the duct tape. The kid with the pistol grabbed her by the collar and gave her a shake. She stopped screaming, but slammed her eyes shut and cried fiercely.

  I stared at Reggie’s crumpled body. The poor man had been a second father to me. He believed in me.

  “You son of a bitch,” I tried to yell, but it came out as a sob.

  “Oh, we’re just getting started,” Bracco said. He motioned toward Beth with his head. “This little cooz here is gonna get it, too. But first, I think I’ll let Joe here fuck her a few times right in front of you.” He gave me a cruel smile. “Only fair, since you smashed his nose.”

  It was then that I realized the way things would have to go. There was really only one resolution to this mess. Only one path. As a result, a crazy calm washed over me. I cast a quick glance at Bassen. “You like that left hook, pussy?”