by R. O. Barton
I heard the echo of the monotone litany in my head.
She grasped my hands, and softly jerked down, bringing me out of my head and said, “You were trying to save her life, and in doing that you were spared. You both would have been dead if you hadn’t done what you did.”
“That’s what my daughters said.”
“You should listen to them.”
“Yeah, they said that too,” I said, with a tone that suggested something on a larger scale.
Rachael shook her head and said, “You’re amazing, you go from where you just were, to flippant. How do you do that?”
“You’re reading too much into it. I’m a simple man.”
Still holding both my hands, she said, “I find you many things. Simple is not one of them.”
I opened my hands, thinking she would let go of them. She didn’t. I looked at my truck and wanted to be behind the wheel, driving somewhere.
She let go of my hands and said, “Right, you’re a simple man that reads and recites Greek poetry. I think you’re a very interesting man, Tucker.”
“Naw, I read it in a paperback novel once and it kind of stuck, was apropos at
the time.”
She laughed aloud, which made her face look like a cute old lady, and said, “I don’t know whether to believe you or not.”
“Maybe that’s what you find interesting,” I said.
Then I walked to my truck.
As I got behind the wheel, I thought I heard her say, “Tucker, you are a good man.”
Book Three
“THE CHAT”
Chapter 42
For most of the day I’d had to put any thoughts of Eddie Tuma and his attack on my home on a back shelf. Until now. They knew where I lived. My son could have been home alone.
The fervent anger I felt earlier had slowly festered into a resonate bestial rage that was fast surfacing. I knew I had to show some restraint. A lot of restraint.
I didn’t really have a plan and had learned long ago that plans had a way of blowing up in my face.
If you want to make God laugh, make plans.
I was better off to just have a general idea of what I was going to do and let it unfold from there. My general idea was to have a chat with Mr. Tuma, a serious one. With a lot of restraint.
I picked up my cell phone and hit the speed dial for Spain.
He picked up on the second ring and said, “I was hoping to hear from you before you went to see Eddie.”
No hello, just straight to the point. For some, caller ID has eliminated phone etiquette.
“Yeah. That’s why I’m calling.”
“Whataya need?”
“For starters, what’s he look like?”
After he finished laughing, he said, “You’ve never seen the man who’s trying to off you?”
I took it as a rhetorical question.
“How’d the interview go?” he asked.
“Very strange,” I said.
I felt dressed for the first time since early afternoon.
“Other than being long, how so?”
“I’ll tell you later. What’s Tuma look like?”
“God damn it, Tucker. Did you take the job or not?”
“Yeah, I took it.”
Why did I have the feeling he already knew that.
“When do you leave?”
He must be a friend, I hadn’t hung up on him.
“Never, if I don’t get this thing with Tuma straightened out.”
“How do you plan to do that?” he asked, with a worried edge.
“First, by finding out what he looks like.”
“Oh, yeah. Well he looks pretty much like any thirty-five old, guinea, whop, goombah. About five-nine, 180 to 190 pounds, no neck, no fat, with thick black grease ball hair.
“My, my, that’s pretty racial coming from a redskin pig.”
“I just talk that way about bad Italian Americans.”
“Right.”
“What time are you thinking about having this little talk with him?”
“That’s one of the things I was calling you about,” I said, as I turned right onto Harding. I was headed back downtown towards my office.
Spain said, “If it was me, I’d surprise him around midnight. He’ll be in his office by then. I did some checking while you were at Carr’s. About midnight he checks the receipts from the first show.”
“Show?”
“Yeah. His girls aren’t just your regular titty bar babes. He’s supposed to have a couple of real class acts.”
Somewhere in that statement I heard an oxymoron. But what do I know?
“Tucker?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re just going to talk, right?”
“That’s the plan.”
“But, you’re going to be carrying, right?”
“Right.”
He said, “Listen. From what I hear, Eddie Tuma’s a nut case. He’s volatile and been known to blow up and clean up his mess later.”
“That’s what you hear?”
“That’s the word on the street.”
“He’s evidently good at it,” I said.
“At what?”
“Cleaning. He hasn’t been busted, right?”
“Right.”
“Spain.”
“Yeah.”
“Thanks for the information.”
“Yeah . . . yeah. Call me when you’re through with him, if you can.”
“It’ll be late.”
“Call my cell. I’ll be up.”
Chapter 43
I went to my office to pick up something I might need. My kel-lite stick, a gift from Robbie Gray. Eight inches of hand forged airplane aluminum, the diameter a little larger than a roll of quarters.
As I sat by the window overlooking Second Avenue drinking Starbucks and thinking how Emmett could have been home by himself when Tuma’s men showed up, my blood began to boil.
I knew I had to calm down.
Watching the people on Second Avenue gave me cause to ponder. Every individual was in his own life’s process. The people on the street looked so happy and carefree. Did violence touch their lives? How many had lost a loved one? How many had killed someone? How many of them even thought about such things? Even if any of them did, maybe they weren’t now. They were on vacation.
Maybe I could use a vacation.
I drank three cups of high test coffee, and by 11:45 was quivering in my truck, in the parking lot of The Men’s Room.
I was wired for 220 volts and pissed off.
Five minutes before midnight, I left the car and walked up the front door ramp. I thought of two things: I remembered midnight was the witching hour; and I was surprised to see this place was wheel chair accessible.
For some reason, things were already slowing down.
Before getting out of the truck I’d slipped the kel-lite stick vertically down the front of my pants, directly behind my belt buckle. It would stay there and be reasonably comfortable, unless I had to sit down, which I wasn’t planning to do. I was wearing my leather jacket. It made getting my .45 out just a little quicker than a sport jacket. And it was a little too big for me, making it easier to move faster.
I opened the door and was greeted by a security guard. He asked if I had any liquor or bottles of any kind and after saying no, gestured me to the cashier’s window.
The cashier was typical security type. A big and muscular dull-witted jock.
In a broken nose whine, he said, “That’ll be twenty bucks.”
“There’s a cover?” I asked. I’d never been in a place like this.
“Hey, man, you don’t think you’re going in there for free, do you?”
After giving him a twenty from my clip, he asked, “How many ones do you want?”
“Ones?” I asked.
With a ‘I’m talking to a moron’ sigh, he said, “Yeah, ones. Ya know for da girls. There’s change machines inside, but it’s easier to get it here.”
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I’d been careful not to make eye contact with anyone. As I peeled off another twenty, I was hard put not to give him one of my famous ‘soil your pants’ looks.
I didn’t want anyone to be able to recognize me in a lineup. You never know.
After getting my twenty ones, I went through the only other door in the foyer.
I was assaulted by rock music, smoke, flesh, and a disc-jockey type voice talking about the girls and up-to-the-minute specials. “Table dances only $5 for the next five minutes”.
The place was packed. There was one of those spinning mirror globes hanging above the dance bar. There were several laser lights hitting it, giving the whole room, top to bottom, an eerie, ethereal ambiance.
Satan hides in heaven.
There were topless women passing out drinks and dancing at tables occupied by both men and women.
In the middle of the first floor was a square bar, but not for selling drinks. Upon closer scrutiny, I saw that it was a raised rectangle dance floor with chairs all the way around it. None were empty.
The dance floor was about 30 feet x 50 feet, and there were two completely naked women dancing, one at each end. One of the dancers was almost straddling a women’s face. Oh well. They were very pretty, all over. Then again what did I know. I hadn’t seen a naked woman for a spell.
To the right of the center stage, the room tiered up three levels. Each level one step above the other. Each tier containing four top tables.
There was a stairway at the opposite end of the room from the entrance, where women were leading men up and down.
At the top of the stairs was an open room that contained big overstuffed chairs and love seats. I couldn’t tell what they were doing up there, but by the sex eating grins on the men coming down, it didn’t take much imagination to figure it out.
I thought for a man that had been celibate for three years, this might not be the best place for me to do this. Talk about your distractions.
I felt someone looking at me. It only took a few seconds to home in on his radar.
Sitting in a dark corner, in the back right-hand side of the top tier, was a man surrounded by four scantly clad women. I could barely make out his face, but had no problem seeing his left leg wrapped in bandages. It was propped up on a chair and the pants leg was slit to accommodate the bandage. He was very still and had moved the women out of the way so he could get a better look at me.
I had no doubt he had been out to my place poaching deer.
I had to move fast if I was going to get this done.
In the back left-hand corner of the ground floor was a door and standing off to one side, a man guarding it.
This guy didn’t look like the jocks at the front. He was older, about 35, very fit, and was definitely of the Italian, shark skin suit persuasion. He was around my height with boots on, six- two, a full head of black hair, swept back, giving me a clear view of the scar tissue around his dark eyes.
I walked over to him, which was no small feat unto itself. By the time I had waded through the legs and breasts that were offering me everything from a lap dance to a drink, he had a definite fix on me.
As I approached the door, he stood in front of it, and with a thick Jersey accent said, “Beat it slick. This ain’t the john.”
By the bulge under his right arm, I knew he was a southpaw and was carrying a shoulder holster. Typical. A lot of gangsters or wanna be gangsters carried their guns in shoulder holsters. It’s so cool. Good for me, bad for them.
There’s a lot of distance between the hand by your side and the butt of the gun. And, once drawn, the gun could only come to bear on the target in a horizontal motion. The average man’s body is less than 2 feet wide.
Drawing the gun from the hip, where it belongs, gives you the entire length of a mans body to connect with something.
He was giving his best stare, trying to make me poop my pants. I didn’t even have to pee.
“I wanna see Eddie Tuma.”
“Fuck off, pisshead.”
Pisshead? What happened to slick?
“Tell him Tucker’s out here.”
Now, that got his attention.
His stare seemed to invert. His face looked a little strained, like he had to think.
He cleared his throat and said, “Wait here.”
He started to turn and open the door, then at the last second pointed to a spot about 5 feet off to the side and said, “Stand over there.”
After I had moved to my designated position, he opened the door and went inside, closing it behind him.
So far so good, I was still alive.
I glanced over to the other side of the room where bandaged leg was still looking at me. I was hoping he couldn’t get up.
Carrying a tray full of drinks a fully clothed cocktail waitress hustled by and I said, “Excuse me ma’am. I think that’s an old friend of mine over there, the one with the bandage on his leg. What’s his name?”
She looked at bandaged leg, who was now talking on a cell phone, then back at me and frowned.
I moved over closer to the office door, leaned against the wall and said, “I’m just waiting for Eddie to get through so we can go out.”
Then I did something I hadn’t done in years, I winked.
She smiled and said, “Oh, that’s Tony.”
Gee, Tony, I wonder what that’s short for.
“Yeah, I thought that was Anthony. What happened to his leg?”
She said, a little breathlessly, “I think it was some kind of hunting accident.”.
My charm was making her faint. It couldn’t be she was getting tired standing there holding up that heavy tray.
“I notice you’re not dressed like the other girls.”
“I haven’t yet graduated to their level,” she said, with a laugh that almost made me forget why I was here.
It was obvious she never intended to graduate.
“I’m Tucker,” I said.
“Sheila,” she said, taking in my scar.
It dawned on me that it might not be a good idea for her to be seen being friendly with me.
“Sheila, I lied to you. I’m not a friend of Eddie’s. In fact, I’m sure he doesn’t like me, even a little. So if anybody asks what we were talking about, just tell them I was hitting on you. Okay?”
She gave me a big smile and said, “I like you even more than I did before.”
As she hustled away, over the loud music, I could barely discern her singing, ‘That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.’
It’s the scar, makes me look sexy.
I felt good, almost happy . . . almost. If I had time to give it much thought, I’d worry about myself. Considering where I was and what I was here to do.
Just as I finished adjusting the kel-lite stick for comfort and concealment, the door to the office opened and Sharkskin said, “Alright,” as he backed into the office.
He was careful to keep his body between me and a man sitting at a desk 20 feet away. Had to be Eddie Tuma.
“Close the fuckin’ door, shithead,” Sharkskin said, reaching up under his coat.
Shithead? What happened to pisshead? I think I like pisshead better.
I could have killed him five times.
I stepped into the office, onto a plush carpet, and closed the door. I heard it lock. How clever. I loved it.
By now his gun was out and pointed at me, a 9mm Beretta.
Six times.
I had expected this.
Sharkskin said, “Pull back your coat, let’s see what you got.”
I pulled back both sides of my jacket and turned all the way around, so he could see that all I had was the one gun.
“Take it out with two fingers, real slow, and hand it to me.”
As my thumb and forefinger touched the grip, I thought . . . seven times.
I held it out for him at arm’s length.
He took it, gave it a good look, whistled between his teeth, and said, “Niiice. I might have to keep
this.”
He stuck it in his pants, a little to the left of the belt buckle.
“Raise your pants’ legs, dickbreath.”
Yeah, pisshead was better, definitely.
I pulled my jeans up to the tops of my boots.
“Now turn your coat pockets inside out.”
“They don’t really turn inside out,” I said, as I turned the pockets so he could see they were empty.
I was beginning to think I’d heard that voice before, in the dark.
“Okay, boss, he’s clean.”
He must be homophobic, any rookie cop would have found the kel-lite stick. He hadn’t even touched me. I’d gambled and won, the first hand anyway.
He stepped aside, allowing me to see Eddie Tuma.
He was pretty much just as Spain had described. He was wearing a blue blazer with brass buttons and a white Polo shirt. I could just make out the horse. The first two buttons were open, so I could admire his chest hair. On his left wrist was a gold and diamond Rolex, and he had a diamond pinky ring… really.
This was going to be okay. Just the three of us in the room. No other doors, even hidden ones, that I could see, and I was looking.
Eddie Tuma must have assumed I was looking at all the large framed pictures on the wall behind him and the walls on each side of us.
They were obviously strippers who worked there, or had worked there. They were big pictures, about 3 feet by 2 feet.
In a thick Jersey accent, he proudly said, “I’ve fucked every one of those bitches.”
No howya doin’, no, it’s good to finally meet you. I didn’t feel properly greeted. But, I could tell he was a real classy guy.
“Well, I’m sure they say the same about you.”
He started to smile and nod his head, then, his brow plowed with thought.
Not only class, but smart.
