Blood, Guts, & Whiskey

by Todd Robinson

  These Two Guys ...

  Craig McDonald

  “So what about Saturday night?” Angelo checked his speed as they rolled through the small village—a notorious speed trap—and raised an eyebrow.

  Davey James was rooting through a sack lunch. “Don’t know, A,” Davey said. “Let me run that by Alex.”

  “What’s to run by?” Angelo Grapelli shook his head, picking up speed now that they were out of the little village. Saturday nights had always been a given until the past two months. Saturday nights were drinks, dinner, and more drinks with their ladies du jour at La Vecchia.

  At least that was so before Davey had begun sparking the recently widowed Alexis DeCastro.

  Jesus.

  Far as Angelo Grapelli could tell, that skinny Dutch bitch Alexis was drawing his partner Davey’s teeth.

  Angelo frowned, palming left onto a county two lane. He gestured at Davey’s lunch bag with his right hand. Angelo’s fat fingers were spangled pinkie to pointer with big, sharp, and shiny rings. “What’s today’s?”

  Davey said, “Fat-free pretzels, tuna fish salad in this funny little plastic bowl ... sliced tomatoes, and some fresh vegetables. Bottled water.”

  “Sounds healthy,” Angelo said. “How much you down now?”

  “Was three hundred and thirty ... three hundred and twenty-five on a good day,” Davey said. “Down to two hundred and eighty.”

  Angelo nodded, sour-faced. “Jesus, Davey, you look like you’ve lost a whole guy—hope this doesn’t affect your work. Gotta say, you’re less imposing from the gates, my man.”

  Davey shrugged, chomping on some baby carrots, talking around the orange debris. “Nah, A, I’m getting stronger. Benching three hundred and twenty now. Sounds more impressive to bench more than your own weight.”

  “Sure,” Angelo said, stepping carefully. “Sure, if some stranger could tell what you can lift just by lookin’ at ya. I’m just saying, before, you were like a damned tank comin’ at some guy. Now, you’re just another big guy.”

  “Don’t sweat it, Ang.” Davey spooned down some tuna salad, smacked his lips. “You got specific complaints? I let you down so far? ’Cause if you’ve got specific complaints, we can talk about those. Otherwise, we’re just jawin’ and if we’re just jawin’, it’s a dumb fucking topic and one we want to get off of, right now.”

  They locked eyes; Angelo blinked first. And hell, he was driving—had to watch the road.

  “Nah, I got no complaints about any of that,” Angelo said. “Hell, no.” He shrugged. “I’m just sayin’, Davey, you know?”

  “Well, just don’t.”

  Angelo tossed his cigarette stub out the window. Lit another. He frowned when he saw Davey roll down his window. Angelo suddenly realized he couldn’t remember the last time he saw Davey light one up himself. “So, you’ll tell Alexis about Saturday night?”

  Davey didn’t answer for a while, then said, “Yeah, well, Alexis, she’s not much of a drinker, see.”

  Yeah.

  Alexis wasn’t much of anything, near as Angelo Grapelli could tell. She was the beaten-on wife of some deadbeat Mexican grifter. Alexis DeCastro had lost her son about six months before her old man got clipped. The woman had been the DeCastro family’s only legitimate wage earner, working a parimutuel window at a thoroughbred track. When that racing season ended, the trotters started running at the other end of town, and Alexis shifted to that track.

  Angelo’s current steady lady was Molly, a busty, leggy redhead he’d met at the Red Fox Gentleman’s Club. Molly was the joint’s prettiest pole dancer. Molly was always the one selected to appear in all the newspaper ads for the Fox. That made her a minor celebrity in certain circles.

  Angelo tightened his grip on the wheel. “So that’s just a way of saying ‘no fucking way,’ huh, Davey?”

  “We could do dinner,” Davey said, chewing his tuna and staring down the hood. “But we could branch out a little, you know? I’m frankly up to here with La Vecchia and that sad-ass crowd—all the wannabes and never-weres and almosts jawin’ and lyin’. And all the civilians who come and stare and try to eavesdrop ’cause they’ve heard it’s where The Boys like to hang out. Jesus, it’s just tired, A, a tired fuckin’ scene.”

  Angelo bit his lip. He reached down to the ashtray, sucked hard on his unfiltered Marlboro, and then ground it out and tossed the butt out the window. “They still let a man smoke at La Vecchia,” Angelo said. Angelo and Davey had personally seen to that. The joint sat on the wrong side of the city corporation limits, rested in township jurisdiction. There were only three township trustees, all old men, so they weren’t hard to manipulate—not hard to cajole into passing a smoking exemption for La Vecchia.

  “That’s the other thing,” Davey said. “You go into that place and everyone is fuckin’ smokin’. It’s like eating inside a damned car muffler. Who needs it? You walk out of that joint stinkin’ like some whorehouse ashtray on dollar night.”

  Angelo couldn’t believe this shit. Did someone kidnap Davey and replace him with this scrawny prissy replica? Angelo shifted gears: “Alexis have any notion as to how you contributed to her, ah ... widowhood? Any pillow talk yet about how you did her old man?”

  Angelo could feel the weight of Davey’s death stare—those dark dead eyes on him. He kept looking straight ahead. At bottom, it was all really Angelo’s own fault. Luis DeCastro had been asking around for someone who would clip his wife ... open the door for Luis to get some insurance money when his wife Alexis fell. Someone talked to someone who talked to Angelo who recommended Davey.

  But plans went sideways. Lonely Davey had taken out Luis DeCastro for reasons that still bewildered Angelo. Then, more stunning, Davey had moved in on the woman he had widowed.

  “No, she don’t fuckin’ know,” Davey said. “She will never fuckin’ know, and if anyone thought about seeing Alex know, that someone would fuckin’ rue the day he fuckin’ made that big ass fuckin’ mistake.”

  Davey slapped one big hand to the dashboard to brace himself as the car went into a skid to the berm. With his other hand, Davey wrapped his fingers around the butt of his gun—didn’t even bother drawing it clear—just pointed it in the direction of Angelo’s head. If he pulled the trigger, Davey would just be out a sports jacket. Hell, the damned thing hung on him like a tent now, anyway.

  Angelo had his hands off the wheel now. He started to reach, then saw Davey’s hand under the too big sports jacket and raised his hands. “I fuckin’ resent the implication of that last statement of yours,” Angelo said. He slowly reached down, shifted into park, and put his hands back up. “Jesus, Davey! Look at us! I was just askin’ a question.” Angelo swallowed hard and lowered his hands. “That was no fuckin’ threat, Davey,” he said. “I know you construed it as such, but it was not a damned threat.”

  Davey looked at him with those dead black eyes. “Yeah? You swear?”

  “On the soul of my dead daughter, I swear, Davey.”

  Angelo reached down, shifted back into drive and then rolled off the shoulder and started picking up speed again. “What’s happened to you, Davey? What’s happenin’ to us?”

  Davey put away his gun and dipped his hand into his bag of pretzels. He held it out and Angelo took a handful.

  “I don’t want this thing with Alexis messed up,” Davey said. “You start raggin’ on my gettin’ small, then you ask a question like that about what Alex knows about what happened to her ex ... you bein’ you and all. Me knowing you like I do, Ang ... well, wheels start turning in my head, you start bustin’ my balls that way. Pieces starting fitting together into a picture I don’t fuckin’ like and won’t abide. I get this notion you’ve got a notion to try and fuck up what I’ve got going with Alexis.”

  Angelo shook his head. “Jesus, Davey, what kind of traitorous fuck do you make me for? You’re happy, maybe first time in your life, and I’m gonna go monkey with that? You believe that? We’ve known each other since we was, what, eight? Nine? I�
��m frankly disappointed, David. Let’s not go this long and suddenly let some woman get between us.”

  “Let’s forget it,” Davey said.

  “Sure, sure.” Angelo checked the mirror, said, “You two starting to talk some long-term thing?”

  “It gets talked about,” Davey said. “We’ll see.” He ate some more carrots. He offered the bag and Angelo declined: “Nah, eat too many of those, you’ll friggin’ turn orange.”

  “That’s a myth,” Davey said.

  “Nah, I seen it happen,” Angelo said. “Remember that one that danced over at the Lair? The blonde with the nipple rings?”

  “Yeah. What was her name?”

  “Hell if I know ... some cartoon name ... maybe Bambi. We only went out about half a dozen times. But she started eating all these little carrots just like those ones ... went on a juice diet ... she turned orange.”

  “No shit?”

  “Nah, it looked like one of those fake tans,” Angelo said. “Kinda tan you get out of tubes or from sunlamps ... just this kind of off-orange. Right down to the whites of her friggin’ eyes. It was like lookin’ at a TV with bad color balance. Disturbing. . . like a jelly bean with tits.”

  Davey half smiled and sipped his bottled water. He resealed it and said, “What’s the drill?”

  “New tavern, just opened. It’s on the county line, but our side. Guy who owns it is an ex-vet.”

  “Iraq?”

  “Yeah, but from the first time around. You know ... Bush One.”

  “A Desert Storm vet, huh? This will not go smooth,” Davey said.

  “Expect not,” Angelo said. “I was in there the other night. Guy’s an ex-Ranger. Goes six-three, maybe six-four, and probably two hundred and sixty—all muscle. Why I said, you know, three hundred and twenty, you’d dwarf the cocksucker.”

  “Don’t sweat it,” Davey said. “We’ll get her done.”

  The place looked more like a VFW hall than the sticks tavern it was conceived to be. Davey looked at his watch. The wristband was loose now and Davey had to reach across with his right hand and twist the face around to where he could see the time. Eleven A.M. Davey reminded himself again to have his watchband tightened. Angelo saw Davey adjusting the watch and smiled crookedly. Davey flipped Angelo the bird.

  A man rose from behind the bar, wiping his hands on a dishrag. He said, “Hey, fellas.” Neutral, not even mock cordial. Davey narrowed his eyes, getting this feeling like they were maybe already made.

  The tavern owner was big enough—probably six-three barefooted. Broad shoulders and a short sleeve shirt to show off mature muscle. Imposing was the word for the tavern owner. Even if Angelo hadn’t told him, Davey would have made the big vet for an ex-Ranger.

  The keep said, “Township laws are a little hinky out this way. Can’t serve you anything hard until after one P.M.”

  “That’s the shits,” Angelo said, taking a stool near the TV. “Well, make mine ...” He paused, looking at tap pull knobs, then said, “A Sam Adams.”

  Davey didn’t really want a beer—all those empty carbs—but he didn’t need Angelo bitching at him either, particularly in front of this Goliath that Davey was supposed to maybe muscle. Davey said, “Amstel Light for me.” That wasn’t much better than ordering nothing. Davey thought he could hear Angelo’s eyes rolling sideways to appraise him. That damned mock smile was on Angelo’s face again.

  The keep tossed down a couple of cardboard drink mats and placed frosted mugs atop them.

  “Nice touch, frosting the glasses,” Angelo said. “Real classy.”

  “Glad you fucking approve,” the keep said.

  “ ’Spect we’ll run a tab,” Angelo said.

  The keep said, “No, these two are on the house. Enjoy ’em. Then I’d ask you to leave. I know who you are. I was warned by others who you’ve shaken down. I ain’t playing that game. Closed discussion.”

  The keep was standing close by the bar now, his arms at his sides. He was standing closest to Angelo, who blinked several times, then said, “Come again?”

  Davey scowled and sipped his beer. He figured the tavern owner had something close at hand on a shelf under the bar. A club—maybe a ball bat or a tire iron. Or maybe a handgun ... perhaps something bigger, like a sawed-off. The keep was looking at Davey, sizing him up. Davey shot the sleeves of his loose fitting jacket, covering up his watch that sat sideways on his thinner wrist. There was enough space between the band and the bones that Davey could have slipped his own big thumb in the gap and still have had wiggle room.

  The stranger said to Davey, “What? You sick or something? Cancer, or the like? Looks like you’ve lost a shitload of weight.”

  Davey heard Angelo cluck his tongue. Davey sipped more beer and said, “Nah. I ain’t sick. Just cut back on my bad diet habits. Got tired of eatin’ gym jockeys like you for breakfast. Tired of havin’ chunks of guys like you in my stool.”

  The man behind the bar shook his head. “That line wasn’t funny when Phil Hartman coined it fifteen years ago.”

  “I think we need to educate you a little on the way things work out this way,” Angelo said. “This thing we offer, it’s what you call, compulsory. It’s not an opt out kind of thing.” Angelo frowned and said, “Your name, it’s Tom, ain’t it?”

  “Tom, yeah,” Tom said. “But you ain’t staying long enough to need my handle again.”

  Angelo slapped Davey’s smaller arm. “This dude’s got himself a temper, eh, Davey? I can see it building. What do you think? Guy’s a Desert Storm vet. Think he’s maybe got that, what you call it? Gulf War syndrome? Some headcase shit like that, maybe? Read me an article about all these guys, they get back from Iraq, they got temper issues. First thing they do, they flip and beat on or kill their old ladies. All these Gulf War guys, they’re all damaged goods. Head cases, you know? How’s your old lady, Tom?”

  “I’m single,” Tom said evenly.

  “Me too,” Angelo said. “Mostly. Though old Davey, here, he’s got himself a woman. Getting himself skinny to spark her more. High school shit, ain’t it?”

  Davey said, “A ...”

  Angelo switched directions, said, “Think we got us a ’roid monkey in Tom here. What do you think, Davey? Apart from the fact that ’roid junkies are nearly all homos, they’ve got anger control issues too. All those hormones go to work on ’em. Maybe they lose it too, ’cause the pills shrink their balls.”

  Davey toyed with his beer mug, pointedly keeping both hands wrapped around the cold mug where Tom could see them. Despite the beer, Davey’s mouth was dry. He felt sweat stains spreading under his arms. Davey looked Tom over again. Davey decided that on his best day, he still couldn’t take the retired Ranger hand to hand. And Christ only knew what the professionally trained soldier could do with a firearm. It was a revelation to Davey—that he’d met a man he considered more than his match. Tom shot him a glance, then turned his full attention back to Angelo. In that instant, Davey knew that Tom had also decided he could take Davey. But Davey sensed Tom had reached that conclusion a good while before Davey arrived at it.

  Angelo said, “Think we’re gonna have to take this asshole apart. What do you think, Davey?”

  “I think Tom has opted out on the program, A. I think we walk.”

  Now Angelo and Tom were both looking at Davey. Davey hefted his mug to drink more, then changed his mind and sat it down.

  “Looks like the one opting out on the fucking program here is you, Davey,” Angelo said.

  Now Davey took a drink. He put down the mug, keeping both hands on the bar so Tom could see them. Looking at Tom, Davey nodded, said, “Could be, A. It could fucking well be.”

  Angelo was seething. Red-faced, he said, “This cocksucker’s got you cowed! That’s it! You’re fucking afraid!”

  “That could be half of it,” Davey said.

  Tom was scowling now, confused. Like he was trying to grasp the dynamic, to decide if this was some arcane ploy they were running on him.

&
nbsp; Angelo turned to face Davey. “What’s the other fucking half?”

  “I’m sick of the life, A,” Davey said. He drained his beer. “Time for a new line of work. Maybe time to be self-employed, like Old Tom, here. So I’m walking, Angelo. You got any brains left, you’ll follow me.”

  “You fucking believe this?” Angelo said to Tom. “Davey here goes sweet on some cooze he widowed and he turns pussy on me. Fucking unbelievable. Drops a ton of weight, goes soft, quits smoking and drinking. You fucking imagine that, Tom? Big bastard like you—you imagine letting a fucking woman draw your teeth like that? We wrap this up, first thing I’m doing is I’m gonna go visit that pathetic bitch and let her know how you did her husband, Davey. Save you from your fucking self.”

  Dave swiveled on his stool. “You are a fucking dead man, A.”

  Tom bit his lip, said, “Take it outside, you two.”

  Angelo said, “You shut the fuck up, Tom. Sorry, but I gotta teach this smaller-but-still-fat fuck Davey here a fucking lesson. And I’m afraid you’re the lesson, Tom.” Angelo’s hand dipped into his jacket for his piece. Tom reached under the bar, got clear first.

  Angelo shuddered and then looked down at his nearly severed right arm and the spreading red stain in the center of his shirt. His lips and chin were sprayed with blood. Angelo said, “Well, fuck me.” Then he fell backwards off the barstool, arms spread and eyes to the ceiling.