The old man pointed a shaking finger at the dog, a big German shepherd. The animal was cowering in a corner of the kitchen of the railroad fiat–his fine head was lopsided, a piece of his skull missing under the ragged fur. A deep pocket of scar tissue glowed white where one eye had been, the other was cataract-milky, fire-dotted with fear. The dog's tail hung behind him at a demented angle, one front paw hung useless in a plaster cast.
"Who did it?"
The old man wasn't listening, not finished yet. Squeezing the wound to get the pus out. "Buster guards out back, where the chicken wire is. They tormented him, threw stuff at him, made him crazy. Then they cut the lock. Two of them. One had a baseball bat, the other had a piece of pipe. My Buster…he wouldn't hurt anyone. They beat on him, over and over, laughing. I ran downstairs to stop them…they just slapped me, like I was a fly. They did my Buster so bad, it even hurts him when I try and rub
him."
The old man sat crying at his kitchen table.
The dog watched me, a thin whine coming from his open mouth. Half his teeth were missing.
"You know who did it," I said. It wasn't a question. He didn't know, he wouldn't have called me–I'm no private eye.
"I called…I called the cops. 911. They never came. I went down to the precinct. The man at the desk, he said to call the ASPCA."
"You know who they are?"
"I don't know their names. Two men, young men. One has big muscles, the other's skinny."
"They're from around here?"
"I don't know. They're always together–I've seen them before. Everybody knows them. They have their heads shaved too."
"Everybody knows them?"
"Everybody. They beat other dogs too. They make the dogs bark at them, then they…" He was crying again.
I waited, watching the dog.
"They come back. I see them walking down the alley. Almost every day. I can't leave Buster outside anymore–can't even take him for a walk. I have to clean up after him now."
"What do you want?"
"What do I want?"
"You called me. You got my name from somewhere. You know what I do."
The old man got up, knelt next to his dog. Put his hand gently on the dog's head. "Buster used to be the toughest dog in the world–wasn't afraid of nothing. I had him ever since he was a pup. He won't even look out the back window with me now."
"What do you want?" I asked him again.
They both looked at me. "You know," the old man said.
2
A freestanding brick building in Red Hook, not far from the waterfront, surrounded by a chain-link fence topped with razor wire. I rang the bell. A dog snarled a warning. I looked into the mirrored glass, knowing they could see me. The steel door opened. A man in a white T-shirt over floppy black trousers opened the door. He was barefoot, dark hair cropped close, body so smooth it might have been extruded from rubber. He bowed slightly. I returned his bow, followed him inside.
A rectangular room, roughened wood floor. A canvas-wrapped heavy bag swung from the ceiling in one corner. In another, a car tire was suspended from a thick rope. A pair of long wood staves hung on hooks.
"I'll get him," the man said.
I waited, standing in one spot.
He returned, leading a dog by a chain. A broad-chested pit bull, all white except for a black patch over one eye. The dog watched me, cobra-calm.
"Here he is," the man said.
"You sure he'll do it?"
"Guaranteed."
"What's his name?"
"Cain."
I squatted down, said the dog's name, scratched him behind his erect ears when he came to me.
"You want to practice with him?"
"Yeah, I'd better. I know the commands you gave me, but…"
"Wait here."
I played with Cain, putting him through standard-obedience paces. He was a machine, perfect.
The trainer came back into the room. Two other men with him, dressed in full agitator's suits, leather-lined and padded. Masks on their faces, like hockey goalies wear.
"Let's do it," he said.
3
I walked down the alley behind the old man's building, Cain on a thin leather leash, held lightly in my left hand. The dog knew the route by now–it was our fifth straight day.
They turned the corner fifty feet from me. The smaller one had a baseball bat over his shoulder, the muscleman slapped a piece of lead pipe into one palm.
They closed in. I stepped aside to let them pass, pulling Cain close to my leg.
They didn't walk past. The smaller one planted his feet, looking into my eyes.
"Hey, man. That's a pit bull, right? Pretty tough dogs, I heard."
"No, he's not tough," I said, a catch in my voice. "He's just a pet."
"He looks like a bad dog to me," the big guy said, poking the lead pipe into the dog's face, stabbing. Cain stepped out of the way.
"Please don't hurt my dog," I begged them, pulling up on the leash.
Cain leaped into my arms, his face against my chest. I could feel the bunched muscles in his legs, all four paws flat against me.
"Aw, is your dog scared, man?" the big one sneered, stepping close to me, slapping the dog's back with the pipe.
"Leave us alone," I said, stepping back as they closed in.
"Put the dog down, faggot!"
I put my mouth close to Cain's ear, whispered "Go." as I threw open my arms. The pit bull launched himself off my chest without a sound, his alligator teeth locking on the big guy's face. A scream bubbled out. The big man fell to the ground, clawing at Cain's back. Pieces of his face flew off, red and white. He spasmed like he was in the electric chair, but the dog held on, wouldn't drop the bite. The smaller guy stood there, rooted, mouth open, no sound coming out, his pants turning dark at the crotch.
"Out!" I snapped at the dog. Gain stepped away, his mouth foamy with bloody gristle.
"Your turn," I said to the smaller guy. He took off, running for his life. Cain caught him, running right up his spine, locking onto the back of his neck.
I called him off when I heard a snap.
As we turned to walk back down the alley, I glanced up.
The old man was at the window. Buster next to him, the plaster cast on his paw draped over the sill.
Cough
This business, I know how it goes, the old man thought to himself. He'd been at it a long time. Dead reliable, that's what they always said about him. He kept his thoughts to himself. Nothing showed on his face. The way it was supposed to be. The younger ones come in, take over. In business, you have to make room for new blood. The young ones, they think I don't know that. I know how they think. Cowboys.
He mused to himself, alone in his room. They wouldn't call me in, ask me to retire. I would have done it, they asked me. When you're done, you're done. But they don't know how to ask. No class. It's as if they like to do it. Only amateurs like to do it.
I was never one of them. Not a Family man–just a soldier, doing my work. They let them retire.
The old man was just back from Miami. The last of the bosses called him down there. The old man thought it was just another job.
"You always done right by us," the boss said.
The old man didn't say anything. He wasn't a talker. That used to be a good thing, he thought to himself, waiting.
"Vito, he don't know you like I do. He's a young stallion. Wants his own crew, you know?"
The old man waited. For the boss to tell him about the retirement plan.
"They think you're past it. Spooking at shadows, hearing things–you understand what I'm telling you?" The boss puffed on his cigar. He wouldn't look the old man in the face. The old man got it then.
The old man didn't know anything about running. He had always lived in the same place, done the same things. Kept it nice and quiet. By himself.
When Vito called, they said they had a job for him in Cleveland. He knew it was time to show them he could still
do it.
His flight was supposed to leave from La Guardia at nine that night. I've been doing this forever–I know how it's done, he thought. They'll have a man on the plane with me. Take care of business in Cleveland. Sure.
He got to the airport at three in the afternoon. Stashed his carry-on bags in the coin lockers. Checked the schedules. Figured it would take about five trips through the scanners. Bought tickets for Chicago, Detroit, Milwaukee, Pittsburgh. Different airlines. All departing from gates in the same corridor.
He went through the scanner, one of the pieces of the gun buried inside his carry-on. The X-ray machine would show an aerosol can of shaving cream. He left the bag inside, walked back out, patient, taking his time. The old way. The right way. By seven o'clock, he had all the pieces through the scanner. The last time through, he had a garment bag over his shoulder. In the men's room, he put the pieces together and stuffed the soft carry-on bags into the larger case. Then he sat down to wait.
The old man felt the other guy behind him. He didn't look. Smell of some aftershave he didn't recognize–one of those new ones. Like perfume. The old man heard him cough. A dry, hard cough with a liquid center. Like his lungs were getting ready to go. It was better than a photograph.
You have to be sure in this business, it's not a game, you only get one move, the old man repeated to himself. The catechism he learned as a youth. He switched to the no-smoking section on the other side of the departure lounge. The old man didn't catch a glimpse of him, but he heard the cough a few seats down. The young ones, they wouldn't pick up something like that. The old man was a pro.
Eight-fifteen. The old man got up, heading for the men's room. He knew the shooter wouldn't let him out of his sight. They couldn't be sure he'd get on the plane like some tame old sheep.
Some punk was combing his hair at the sink when the old man went inside. He took the last stall, shut it behind him. Waited.
He heard the cough. In the stall right next to him. He stepped out, bent down quickly, checked under the door. The guy's pants were around his ankles. The place was empty. The old man walked out, letting the guy hear him, slipping gloves on his hands. Checked the door to the men's room. Kicked a little wood wedge underneath to give him a couple of seconds. All the time he'd need.
He stepped back into the last stall and stood on the toilet bowl. The guy was reading a newspaper. The old man put two slugs into the top of his head. Pop, pop. The silencer worked perfectly. He left the gun in the stall.
The old man was back in the departure lounge before they had the first call for boarding.
They'd hear about it. They'd know he wasn't past it. Not some old man who couldn't do the job. He lit a cigarette–the way you do when a job is over.
Then he heard the cough.
Crime Partner
When I got out of jail one time, I had no place to go. A bunch of guys I came up with…from the old neighborhood…they had a big apartment out in Queens, invited me to move in with them. My closest pal there was a guy we called Easy Eddie. He was a stand-up dope fiend–not the kind who'd steal from a friend, even when his Jones was down on him hard. But he was stone crazy–never thought past the next couple of minutes. One time he ran out of dope. He calls the pizzeria, tells them to bring over a large pie with everything. Tells them to bring change for a twenty, that's all he's got. And he mugs the deliveryman in the lobby. And once he stuck up an ice cream truck right on the corner. Put a gun in the guy's face and walks away with about eighty bucks worth of change in his pockets."
Diamond giggled. "He sounds like a lunatic."
"He was, but a good lunatic. You understands"
"Yes," she said, leaning forward, being serious.
"Okay. Now Easy Eddie, he's buying dope. But another guy who lived with us, guy we called Bird, he's selling it. Soft stuff: marijuana, LSD, pills. Doing good for himself, too. He's got this nice apartment, color TV, stereo, new furniture. And he's got this nice old Alfa. A little red roadster.
"One day I have to make a run out to Long Island. I ask Bird, can I borrow his short, be back in a couple of hours? He says sure–he's waiting on a customer anyway.
"Easy Eddie asks if he can go along. Just to ride…get outside. I say okay. We go downstairs to the garage. The Alfa's sitting there, top down. Beautiful day outside.
"Then the maniac asks me if he can drive. Fat chance, I say to him. But he says he's clean as new money, hasn't taken a hit in days. Holds out his hands. Steady as rocks.
"Look, I say to him. You're a dope fiend. How'm I going to let you drive?
"Then he really gets on my case. How we came up together, how we're like brothers and all. Why don't I trust him? You know….
"Anyway, I figure, what the fuck, what harm can it do? So he gets behind the wheel and we pull out. We get about three, four blocks and I can see it's not working out. He's going about fifteen miles an hour in third gear and the Alfa's just stumbling along, bucking and backfiring. I'm about to tell him to pull over when we come to a cop directing traffic. The cop holds up his hand like this," I said, holding my palm out in the universal Stop! gesture.
"So what does Easy Eddie do? He holds up his hand the same way to the cop and motors right by. 'Hey, Stop!' the cop screams at us. I say to Eddie, 'Pull over, fool.' 'I can't,' he says, 'I'm holding.
"'Nail it,' I say to him. 'Go.' So the lunatic steps on the gas, but he doesn't downshift and we sort of chug away. Meanwhile, the cop is chasing after us, on foot. And we're in a mess of traffic. I look back–the cop has his gun out–he's waving cars to stop.
"I look over at Easy Eddie. He's pulling bags of dope out of every pocket. Ripping open the bags, throwing the powder into the air. The cop grabs a cab from somewhere, comes screaming after us, cuts us off. Sights right down the pistol at us.
"I get out of the car. Easy Eddie just sits there. We're both covered with heroin. Like we had the world's worst case of dandruff. The cop is out of his mind. He says to Eddie, 'I told you to stop!'
"Eddie just looks up at him. 'Oh, man,' he says, 'I thought you were just saying hello.'
"I go over to the cop, brushing the junk off my coat, pulling out these papers I had. Department of Social Services. I tell the cop that I'm Eddie's caseworker. I'm taking him back–he was on a supervised day-pass from Pilgrim State. The looney bin. Sorry about the whole thing. Blah, blah.
"The cop looks at the papers, looks at me. Then he gets a thought. He's a psychiatric patient–you're a social worker, right? Right. So how come he's driving?
"I tell the cop it's all part of our advanced rehabilitation program. So the patient gradually reenters society under supervision. I see the look on the cop's face and I immediately agree with him–this guy is not ready for discharge.
"The cop's acting reasonable about this and Easy Eddie's keeping his mouth shut. I think I have it locked. Then the stupid cop decides he's going to make a point. Asks Easy Eddie if he thought he could outrun a bullet. Easy Eddie sits there, like he's considering the whole thing. Then he asks the cop, how much of a head start would he get?
"I thought the cop was going to start whaling on him right there, but I kept talking to him, saying Eddie wasn't being a wise guy–he's just nuts.
"Finally, the cop pulls off in the cab. I get behind the wheel and take off. I'm not even in second gear when Easy Eddie bails out over the side. By the time I turn around to pick him up, find out what's going on…he's down there in the street, trying to scrape the heroin off the concrete with a piece of cardboard."
She knew there was a point to the story and she was trying to keep a straight face, but her whole upper body was quivering. Finally she gave it up. "Oh, God! You're standing knee-deep in smack and the cop's got an attitude about going through this stupid signal…."
"Pretty funny story, huh'' I asked her.
She caught my tone. "Well, it is. I mean…"
"Girl, everything Easy Eddie said was true. We had come up together. We were as close as brothers. He was a stand-
up guy. He didn't mean any harm–never thought about getting me in trouble. If we'd gone down for the dope, he would have taken the whole weight."
"So?"
"So he was really sorry about what happened. And I never rode with him again."
CROSS
Bandit
The Group Home was a garbage can. It wasn't as bad as the Institution, that part was true. We lived in rooms, not dorms. And the bathrooms were like real ones, in houses. The windows didn't have bars, and the fence around the house was nothing–just wood, with no razor wire on top. But it was a garbage can anyway…a place where you throw things away.
It was a mix inside. Not like the Institution, that was a mix too, but at least everyone in there was bad. In the Group Home, you had bad kids like me, on the way out from the Institution. You had to stay there for a few months before they let you go for real. But they also had other kids, kids who never did nothing, but they locked them up anyway because nobody wanted them.
That was Rodney. He was smaller than most of the kids, although he wasn't the littlest. Rodney had a bad leg, from where his mother's boyfriend beat on him. He had to drag that bad leg behind him when he walked, and he couldn't run at all.
A big black guy ran the place. He was the Director. That's what they call them in the Group Homes, not Superintendent, what they call them in the Institutions. Mr. Allen, that was his name.
When I got there, he told me it was a place where kids got ready to go out on their own. A Halfway House, he called it. Halfass was more like it–just like the joint, only there was more talking.
We mostly talked in Group. We would all sit in this circle and talk. About our feelings. Mr. Allen, he said that was important. To express your feelings.
I never did that lame stuff. You talk about your feelings, people think you're weak.
Born Bad Page 4
