Come at the King

by Sherilyn Decter

  “Hey, Tommy. It’s Jimmy. I hear you was looking for me.”

  “Hi Jimmy,” Tommy nods to his mother who has been hovering in the hallway. She goes back into the living room. “Yeah, it’s been a while, and I just thought we could hang out for a bit. You know, catch up.”

  “Sure, that would be swell. How about I pick you up after school tomorrow and we can go shoot some pool or something,” Jimmy says.

  “Great.” Tommy checks to make sure his mother isn’t listening and speaks softly into the telephone. “Make it after lunch. I’m at Boys’ Central. You know where that is?”

  “Idjit. Yeah, I know. See you then.”

  Chapter 15

  T ommy hasn’t watched a clock like this since he was in grade school. The hours on Tuesday seem to crawl. Finally, the morning is over, the book bag is packed, and he’s flying out the front door of Boys’ Central High School, scanning the street for Jimmy. Students pour around him, all eager to be on their way to spend lunchtime with their own friends.

  “Swell car,” Tommy says, climbing into a late model Ford.

  Jimmy grins back, punching him in the shoulder. “Like it? I got it a couple of months ago. Set me back a few clams, but a man’s gotta have wheels.”

  Jimmy pulls away from the curb. “You’ve picked up some bad habits since I seen you last, Barnes. Cutting school in the afternoon. What will your ma say?”

  “What she doesn’t know won’t get me sent to my room without supper,” Tommy says with a wink.

  “Ha, that’s rich. Your ma is a real pistol. So, where to, To-o-om.”

  “Cut it out. It’s just my name,” Tommy says, grinning. Nobody’s called him Tom since Mickey, and it feels good.

  “Feel like some pool?” Jimmy handles the car with a confidence Tommy admires.

  “Sure, although it’s been a while since I played.” Tommy tugs at his school tie, stuffing it into his pocket.

  Jimmy grins. “Great. We’ll play for money then.” The comment earns him a punch in the shoulder from Tommy.

  “Idjit.”

  At the pool hall, Jimmy slips off his jacket. Tommy is startled to see him wearing a shoulder holster. Jimmy catches him looking. “Not in knickers anymore, kiddo.”

  With pool cues chalked, and glasses of beer and a couple of sandwiches waiting on a nearby table, Jimmy and Tommy catch up. Around them is the clack of pool balls on other tables, the faint, sour smell of old beer, and a heavy fog of cigarette smoke.

  “I went by Chalkie’s looking for you, but you weren’t there,” Tommy says as Jimmy breaks, scattering balls across the table.

  “Yeah, I haven’t worked at Chalkie’s for a while now. Mickey and Eddie got me doing other things. I think that you were around when he started. Eddie Regan.” Jimmy says the name with emphasis. He looks up from the pool table. “You met him, right?”

  “Yeah, he was Mickey’s driver. A kinda creep.”

  “Well, the creep’s kinda in charge now.”

  “Wow, no way. Where’d Mr. Mercer go?” Tommy looks aghast, clutching his pool cue. “He didn’t die, did he?”

  “Nope. He just left. After Mickey shot those guys. I hear he works with Max Hassel now. Out in Camden.”

  “Wow, I never thought Mr. Mercer would leave. Seemed he and Mickey were pretty tight.”

  “Not sure what happened. He went to Chicago and came back, and then there was that dust up at the Ritz—”

  “What dust up? I never heard about that, either.”

  “Sheesh, you are outta touch. Like I said before, Mickey shooting some guys. See, there were some goons came and tried to do a hit on Mickey, but he spotted them and took them out in front of the suite,” Jimmy says, sinking the three ball. “Though it’s really strange, because I heard some talk that they weren’t there to do a hit on Mickey at all. That it was all in his head.”

  “Mickey gunned them down? Right in the hotel?”

  “Right there at the Ritz. But, after that, Mickey and Mrs. Duffy went on a holiday and, by the time they got back, Henry was gone.” Jimmy scratches, and Tommy steps up to the table, shaking his head.

  “I saw Mickey at the funeral. My grandfather died,” Tommy says, focusing on the white cue ball. It bounces harmlessly against the rail cushion on the side of the pool table. “Darn.”

  Jimmy swaggers around the table, looking for a shot. “You’re a real shark, Tommy.”

  Tommy shrugs and grins at Jimmy. “I need more practice.”

  “I heard about your grandpa. Sorry about that. I didn’t know you and him were close.”

  “The last while. Yeah, we spent lots of time together. We went fishing and stuff. He was a nice man.”

  Tommy watches Jimmy clear the rest of the table. “Time for another game?” he asks, reaching for the rack.

  “One more, but then I gotta go.”

  Jimmy breaks. Balls scatter across the table. “Solids,” he calls, and sets up for another shot. “So, how’s school. Looks like quite the place. The kids okay?”

  “They’re all right. Most of them don’t spend too much time with me. Their dads are rich. Or maybe they were rich. The stock market and all.” Tommy’s eyes keep sliding off the gun Jimmy’s wearing.

  “Don’t know much about that. Stock markets and stuff. Except that Eddie says a bit of desperation is good for business.”

  “You spend a lot of time with Eddie?” Tommy asks, finally getting to set up a shot.

  “Naw, mostly Gus and Fingers. You remember them? We got moonshine runs to do. And I mostly work the bottling line.”

  “What’s the bottling line?” Tommy asks, and scratches.

  “Something Henry organized before he left. It’s like a small assembly line. Really quick. We can turn around barrels of booze in only a few hours.” Jimmy starts sinking balls.

  “That’s neat. Any chance I’m going to get a turn, or are you gonna run the table again?”

  Jimmy winks and sinks the last ball.

  “That didn’t take long. Let’s play one more game, but this time I break.” Tommy racks up the balls for another game.

  Tommy leans on the edge of the table after the break, looking for a shot. Looking up at Jimmy, he finally works up the nerve. “You ever shoot that thing?” he asks, nodding to the gun tucked under Jimmy’s arm.

  Jimmy, leaning against the pool cue, stares back silently. The boy is gone, and a man stands there. Tommy blinks, and his pal, Jimmy, is back.

  “You know, you sound like such a kid when you ask that. Try the four ball in the side pocket,” Jimmy says, gesturing towards the table with a half-eaten sandwich in his hand.

  Tommy stands and looks at his friend. They’ve been pals a long time. Before school even. His whole life. He walks around to Jimmy’s side of the table and makes the four-ball shot.

  The relaxing afternoon comes to a close too soon. “Can you give me a lift home? Mother will have supper on the table in a little while. I don’t want to be late.”

  “Sure,” Jimmy says, racking his cue and pulling on his coat. “How about we get together on Saturday night? Maybe play some cards.”

  “At the Ritz? I can’t go there no more, remember?”

  “Oh, right, I forgot. Well, I’ll pick you up around eight and we’ll figure something out. I don’t need to be at work until midnight. We can hang out before that.”

  They pull up in front of Tommy’s house. As Tommy turns to say goodbye, hand on the car door handle, Jimmy stares out the front window and speaks.

  “It was supposed to be an ordinary pick up. It was out of town, somewheres in Delaware County. Gus and Fingers and me have a load of moonshine in the back of the car and are heading back to the city, travelling along back roads,” Jimmy says in a low voice, as if he’s only speaking to himself.

  Tommy takes his hand off the door handle.

  “We are coming to a corner, and Gus starts to slow. Then, outta nowhere, there’s another car across the road, blocking our way. A couple of guys with shotguns get
out and yell we should get outta the car. We do, hands up in the air. They turn to open the doors to the back seat and Gus grabs his gun and starts shooting. Fingers, too. I don’t know how my gun got in my hand, but bullets are flying. Gus and Fingers are aiming at the two guys with shotguns. We had to shut ‘em down before they could fire.” Jimmy takes a breath. Tommy waits.

  “I aim at a third guy who has just hauled out a case of booze from the back seat. Both his hands are full. I shoot him right in the chest. He was staring right at me, then bang.” Jimmy shakes his head. “The look on his face, Tommy. The surprise. He drops the case and just stands there, a big red spot on his jacket growing bigger. He looks down at it, and then back up at me, and just sinks like he has no legs.”

  “Then what happened, Jimmy?” Tommy says in a whisper. The car’s engine is the only other sound.

  “Gus and Fingers checked the guys we shot, and put unbroken bottles back in the car. I just stood there like a goof, staring at the guy I killed. Gus came over and was talking to me, but I couldn’t hear what he was saying. I was just staring at the other fella’s open eyes. Fingers came over and grabbed me by the shoulder and gave me a shake. That’s when I started to cry, Tommy. In front of Gus and Fingers. Out in the middle of nowheres. Just standing there, bawling.” Jimmy takes another shuddering breath. “Thank goodness it was just Gus and Fingers. They never said nuthin. If it had been Eddie… ”

  Tommy is frozen, unsure of what to do. Jimmy gives a shaky laugh. “Yup, I shot a guy. Killed him dead. Shot at a few more since, but that first time… ” Jimmy brushes a tear with the sleeve of his coat. “Christ, look at me, blubbering again.”

  “I’m sorry, Jimmy,” Tommy says quietly.

  Jimmy turns to Tommy. “Yeah. So am I, kiddo, so am I.” Tommy gives a small smile and nod, which Jimmy returns.

  “Look, it’s been way too long. Let’s do this again, eh? Cards, pool, maybe a beer?” Jimmy says, staring hard now at Tommy, who nods back.

  “You bet, Jimmy. You gonna pick me up Saturday, right?”

  “Yeah, right. Saturday. I’ll see ya then. Night, Tommy.”

  Tommy stands on the sidewalk, his hand raised, watching Jimmy’s taillights. We’re not in knickers anymore.

  Chapter 16

  T he elevator door at the Ritz slides open at the fourth floor and Mickey strolls out into the hallway. There are a couple of guys that look familiar guarding the door to his suite, but he can’t recall their names. Must be new. Some of the new recruits that Eddie said he was bringing in. They leap to attention.

  “Mr. Duffy. Good to see you, sir,” they say as they open the door.

  Mickey nods as he enters the suite, and then pauses, looking around. About half the faces are new. At least Stan’s still at the table playing poker. The comfort and familiarity that Mickey is looking for is missing. I don’t know the rest of these people. Who are they? Can I trust them?

  “Mickey, how the heck are ya?” Eddie comes over and slaps him on the back.

  Mickey slips off his fur-collared coat and hands it and his hat to Eddie. “No need to shout, Eddie. I’m not deaf. Thought I’d drop in and play a few hands. See what’s going on.”

  “Of course, of course. Porter, grab Mickey’s coat and hat, will ya. And bring him a drink.”

  Porter takes the hat and coat from Eddie. Mickey looks around the room again, noticing that he’s the only one not wearing a shoulder holster. He rolls his shoulder, missing the weight.

  Mickey slides into the chair at the end of the table. Eddie bustles over and picks up his cards and moves his drink down to an empty spot further down. Stan follows all this and smirks. He raises his glass in a toast to Mickey.

  Mickey leans back and pulls out two matches to light his cigar. “Don’t start a new hand. I can wait. Stan, how are you?”

  Porter sets an ashtray down in front of Mickey and then backs away from the table, watchful.

  “Good, Mickey. Thanks for asking,” says Stan.

  Mickey nods. “And Alicja and the kids?” Mickey is puffing to get his cigar lit.

  “All good. Ernie’s around here somewhere. Or will be later.”

  “Good,” says Mickey. “He’s a smart boy, that one. Great to have him with us.”

  Stan smiles at the praise over his son.

  “And how about you, Gus? Those dogs still running lucky for ya?” Mickey asks.

  “Oh, yeah. Fingers and me, we been cleaning up at the track. Ya know I always like to pick my dogs based on the race they gotta run. Fast out the gate versus endurance down the stretch. Those break and one-eighth calls are killers, ya know?”

  “I hear ya, I hear ya, although I always feel a bit sorry for the poor bunny.” Mickey winks, and Gus and Fingers laugh.

  The men settle back into their card game. The betting pot grows as the hands are played. Mickey finds the usual card talk soothing on his hackles; the sounds, the smells of cigarettes and cigars and good whiskey—the perfume of the dames perched on the laps of some of the boys on the couch. It’s good to be home.

  The new faces glance nervously at Mickey. They’ve heard the stories, some now grown to legendary status. Eddie smiles and jokes and nods, bursting with good cheer. Mickey ain’t fooled; just before they bite, dogs grin like that. Lots of teeth, but cold eyes.

  Mickey’s dealt in the next hand, and loses. The old hands, Gus, Fingers, and the others, look nervous, casually picking up their glasses in case the table goes flying.

  Eddie stands up. “Hey Mickey, how about we go downstairs where it’s quiet and I can fill you in. Business is good.”

  “So I hear. Malazdrewicz keeps me updated,” Mickey says, nodding. He glances around the table and then at the room. “Sure, I wanna hear your take on all of it. Although maybe the fellas here could give us some space? No need for me to leave my own suite is there?”

  All eyes in the room look to Eddie, who looks startled, stepping away from Mickey. He recovers almost instantly and starts barking orders.

  “You heard the man. Everybody out,” Eddie shouts, waving his hand toward the door.

  The men file out.

  “See ya around, Stan. When you see Alfred, tell ‘im I said hi. I gotta bring the Duesy in for a tune up. She’s running rough,” says Mickey.

  “Will do, Boss, I’ll tell him. He loves that car of yours so it will be a treat,” Stan says and closes the door. With silence restored, Mickey pushes his cards to one side. Eddie, who had been moving to the couch, changes direction and joins him at the table.

  “So, Eddie. Tell me everything. I notice we got more new faces around here. Replacements or additions?”

  “Additions, Mickey. I figure, if we’re going to grow the business, we’re going to need some extra hands. And it’s easy to pick up guys right now. Everybody’s out lookin’ for work.”

  “And we’re growing the business? How exactly are we doing that?”

  “More customers. We got the north side sewed up tight, and us and the Italians are running the south,” Eddie says.

  “And we got enough product for all this new business?”

  “Oh sure. We took over the ‘shiners that Hoff was running, and Max Hassel has managed to meet our needs.”

  Mickey nods. “I like the sound of that, Eddie. You’re doing great. Malazdrewicz says the money’s flowing. You’re making sure not to write stuff down, right? Keeping it all up here?” Mickey says, tapping his head.

  “Sure thing, Boss. No paper trail, just like you always tell me.”

  “Good. It’s that paper gets you in trouble.” Mickey stares into the bottom of the glass of whiskey he’s got his hands wrapped around. “Hoff giving you any trouble?”

  Eddie coughs. “Hoff ain’t around anymore, Boss. The feds ran him outta town, remember?”

  “Oh, yeah right.” Mickey pauses, thinking. There’s a thought there that he’s chasing, but just can’t catch it. “I meant Hassel. Hassel giving you any trouble?”

  “Naw, he’s good. And Mercer is g
ood to deal with. Always makes sure we’re happy.”

  “Mercer?”

  “Sure, Boss. You know. Henry Mercer’s out in Camden—“

  “Running the breweries. Yeah, I know,” Mickey finishes Eddies sentence, scowling. “He should be running ‘my’ breweries.”

  Eddie looks away. He knows that Mickey and Max Hassel are business partners. “Henry Mercer is Director of Operations or some shit like that, Boss. He oversees all the breweries.”