Shaker: A Novel

by Scott Frank

  And for a long time, Albert went along with Harvey. Not so much out of any kind of loyalty, as that he hadn’t yet figured out how to actually meet anybody in the mob. To that end, Albert and Bob started to spend more and more time in Kansas City, hanging out in various mob bars, particularly one spot called Dewey’s. They would sometimes stay there until four a.m. closing, then sleep in the car for a few hours before driving home.

  Roy preferred to stay at home with Harvey rather than go out and get shitfaced with Albert and Bob. The man had a lot to teach and Roy enjoyed learning it. Everything from guns to the various ways death could be dealt. Harvey knew it all. He had been a demo specialist in the early days of Vietnam and had a lot of stories that Roy loved to hear. Harvey wasn’t like Roy’s father. He was steady and, more importantly, stable.

  Roy kept waiting for them all to get caught, but they never once had so much as a close call. They felt as if no one would ever catch them and this bulletproof feeling made them all even closer.

  They all ate together and drank together and, like some kind of demented family unit, celebrated holidays and birthdays together. Every Wednesday night, Harvey insisted they all stay home. He would make dinner, usually spaghetti or some kind of Shake ’n Bake, and then the four of them would watch a movie they had rented in town. Their favorites were Casino and Field of Dreams, both of which they’d watched more than a dozen times each. Albert would often quote lines from the two movies and, for a while, started to dress the way he thought De Niro probably did in real life. All slacks and leather coats. Though, Roy once saw a photo in a magazine of the actor on the street in New York and he was wearing corduroy pants, a shitty windbreaker, and what looked like Velcro sneakers. Roy never had the heart to share the photo with Albert.

  Along with his guns, Harvey had begun working with copper, making weathervanes in particular. The garage was full of them—roosters, pigs, sheep, animals of all kinds. Harvey said that the pounding of the copper calmed him, and was good for his arthritis. Roy watched him work and would often help with the cutting and the welding.

  Roy was twenty-eight then. Rita’s sentence had been extended twice, once for beating the shit out of a guard who shut down some business she had, and another time for beating her cellmate over something Harvey wouldn’t talk about. The old man had become sad most of the time and Roy didn’t like leaving him alone. Harvey was sixty-two and already frail. At nearly six-six, he had joint problems and suffered from chronic vertigo. He had to walk with two canes in order to keep his balance.

  One day, they were out in the workshop, listening to the A’s-Royals game when Harvey handed Roy a small pistol. Roy weighed it in his hand and said, “It’s heavier than it looks.”

  “It’s the nickel,” Harvey said. “I knew this hitter, Rollie Sanchez. Half black, half Cuban. Out of Florida. Rollie used to carry four-shot derringers, one in each sleeve. Then a larger piece, like a .38, on his ankle for backup. What he’d do, he’d flick his wrist and the guns would be there. I used to make him these special loads, blue hollowpoints, blow a hole in a man big as a hubcap. Anyway, that’s his piece you’re holding.”

  Roy checked out the gun a bit more carefully now. He liked the feel of the smooth bone handle and oily barrel.

  “Where’s the other one?” he asked. “You said he had two.”

  “It’s with Rollie,” he said. “Inside a barrel, at the bottom of Biscayne Bay.” And then he smiled. “Or so I’m told.”

  He then nodded to the gun and said, “Keep it. It’s yours.”

  “Really?”

  “I want you to have it.”

  “It’s a lady’s gun, Harvey.”

  Roy turned to see Albert and Bob come in with another guy following them. The newcomer was blond, tall, and dressed like a surfer in a tank top, shorts, and flip-flops. He was one of those antsy guys who never stopped moving, was always looking this way and that, touching and tapping his fingers on everything in sight.

  Roy noticed that Albert’s face was bruised, there was dried blood on his lip. All three of them were drunk.

  Albert snatched up the gun.

  “Look at this, it’s a toy. Ken shoots Barbie with a gun like this. What are you giving my boy such toys for?”

  My boy. Roy not sure how he felt about that. Albert talking about him like he was a little kid. Roy could see the blond guy looking at him funny, wondering the same thing. Wondering what people always wonder: What’s wrong with him?

  Albert pointed the gun at Bob, who grinned back up the barrel at him.

  Harvey said, “Careful.”

  Albert ignored him, said, “To shoot someone with one of these, you have to be very very close. No accuracy from anything more than twenty feet.”

  Harvey said, “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” and then looked at the surfer and asked, “Who’s your friend?”

  Albert ignored the question and pulled the trigger, sending the creases of Bob’s delighted moron-smile to the outer reaches of his cheeks.

  Harvey grabbed his canes and stood up and asked the blond guy directly, “What’s your name?”

  “Yeah,” Albert said. “What’s your name again?”

  The man smiled warmly and extended his hand to Harvey. “I’m Danny. Danny Leone,” he said. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Mr. Cooper.”

  “From who?”

  “Teddy Bruno. Jim Pyle. I was in Lansing with those two assholes.” Another smile.

  Harvey ignored the proffered hand and the smile and said to Albert, “I wanna talk to you. You, too, Bob.” He started hobbling into the other room.

  Albert looked at Roy and winked. “Uh-oh. Dad’s pissed.”

  They went into the kitchen as Danny walked over and watched Roy try to put the gun up his sleeve. Roy didn’t look up at him, lost in childlike concentration until he dropped the piece on the floor. Roy turned red, refused to look at Danny as he bent down and retrieved it.

  They could hear Harvey in the other room. “Where’d you meet him?”

  “Dewey’s.”

  “You meet a guy in a bar and you bring him out here? Are you out of your fucking mind?”

  Roy looked into the kitchen and could see Harvey swing one of his canes at Albert. Albert made a move to hit back when a six-inch blade came out of the bottom of the cane. Albert stayed put and started laughing.

  “Very nice, Harvey.”

  Danny asked, “This happen a lot?”

  Roy wiped off the gun and said, “Yep.”

  “That’s a nice piece.”

  “Thanks.” Roy still wouldn’t look at him. He was trying again to figure out how to get the gun into his sleeve.

  Danny sat down at the table, bounced his leg up and down, and listened to the ball game a moment. “I saw The Kid play in Anaheim. One of his first games. He was cool as a cuke, rare for someone’s just twenty.”

  “He’s nineteen.”

  “Lot of power for someone so small.”

  “Weighs one fifty-five.”

  “If he takes care of himself, he’ll be around for a long time.”

  From the kitchen: “Danny’s good people, Harvey, wants to work with us.”

  “So what?”

  “People vouch for him.”

  “What people? A couple of stick-up morons I haven’t talked to in ten years.”

  Bob said, “He punched Albert,” and then let out one of his sharp laughs. “Then he kicked him in the fucking head. Just spun around like Bruce Lee and tagged him.”

  Roy looked up at Danny Leone now.

  “Albert said some shit about his shirt and why was he barefoot and Danny clocked him.”

  Danny Leone smiled at Roy, nodded to the gun and said, “If you want, I’ll show you how to do that.”

  —

  Harvey would never completely trust Danny and it was six months before he let him come out on his first job. But Danny quickly proved himself a skilled thief, one who could handle any tool or piece of equipment and he nev
er lost his cool. He had experience with acids as well as explosives and Harvey, though he would never admit it, came to depend on him. Harvey did, however, forbid him to chew any gum on the job as the guy was so fucking intense with his nonstop bubble blowing and energetic chomping it drove all of them crazy. They eventually found that the best way to mellow out all that energy was to let him take a monster bong hit right before they got out of the car.

  While it was Albert who had brought him in, it was Danny and Roy who became close. It wasn’t long before Danny began hanging out with him in Harvey’s workshop. At night, if there was ever a disagreement over where to eat or which movie to rent, Danny almost always sided with Roy. He was protective of Roy and, having grown up with three sisters, liked to call him the little bro he never had.

  Although never in front of Albert.

  Danny told Roy stories about growing up in the Huntington Beach surf culture, about being eleven years old and getting punched in the face while sitting on his board after stealing a wave from an older rider. He told Roy about the thirty-foot day he nearly killed himself at the Wedge in Newport and bagged the water for the next four years.

  Danny loved everything about California and was desperate to go back. He had stupidly come to Missouri following some girl, got into trouble because of her, and ended up in Lansing for eighteen months. He was trying to save up enough money, get back to Huntington where he and some buddies from high school had plans to start a surf shop. Danny wanted Roy to come with him, promising that his friends would be Roy’s friends. He said Roy could start all over in a place like California. It was the reason people went there. He was sure that Roy would love it.

  Roy never saw Danny with a woman. He never showed any interest in anyone in particular, though they all showed a lot of interest in Danny. It wasn’t as if Roy had anyone either. The only women he’d been with were prostitutes and that was fine with him. He didn’t need anybody. But in the bars, Danny would draw all of the women, then go home with none of them.

  This fascinated Albert, who would pick up women most nights of the week, but never bring them back to the farm. He would always find some place in the back of the bar, or a car or an alleyway, to complete whatever transaction Albert was in the mood for. He had no particular taste that Roy could see. Albert’s women came in all shapes and sizes, and were of all ages and races. One or two were missing a limb. Roy could recall one particular paramour named Shauna whose face and arms were covered with burn scars. She was actually the closest thing Albert had to a girlfriend, that one lasting a couple of months before Shauna disappeared.

  —

  Albert had all along felt that the real money was in murder for hire. Harvey said that he would need to be sanctioned for something like that and Leo Bianchi, the man who, at the time, ran Kansas City, would never endorse an outsider like Albert. Albert argued that once the man got to know him, Albert would be embraced like a long lost member of the family.

  Harvey said that he would more likely be garroted in a dark parking lot, then sawed into chunks and distributed to various dumpsters throughout the city.

  “You get mired or dragged down into some family bullshit,” Harvey warned, “you drag all of us down with you. Remember that.”

  “Or I lift you all up,” Albert said. “Look at it that way.”

  “How do you even get in a room with Leo Bianchi?”

  “Getting in a room with him is the easy part. It’s getting him to look my way that’s the trick.”

  One afternoon, Roy and Danny were watching the Royals lose to the Brewers. The Kid, still a rookie, was having a rare off day, when Albert got a phone call. He listened for a few seconds, then hung up and announced they all were going to a bar downtown.

  Roy didn’t want to go, he was happy right where he was, in Harvey’s living room. Danny, as usual, agreed. Albert said that he could watch the game at the bar. Roy thought about pushing it, but Albert gave him a look that said, Get the fuck up and get in the fucking car.

  —

  “Are you going to be antisocial?”

  They were all sitting at a table in an old topless place called the Play Room on Hunter Avenue. Albert had kicked out three gentlemen who had been sitting there, explaining to Roy that he’d have the best view of the TV from here. Roy thought the best place to sit would have been the bar, but today wasn’t the day to argue about anything. Everyone and everything seemed to annoy Albert. At the moment, he was pissed off that Roy hadn’t said a word since they got there.

  Roy said, “The game’s almost over” without looking at Albert, who had chosen a red beret and a denim jacket with the sleeves cut off to wear in public. The place was crowded and they were all jammed around the tiny table.

  “Roy loves his baseball,” Albert said to no one. “Especially that itty-bitty pitcher, The Boy.”

  “The Kid.”

  “Whatever.”

  Albert’s chair jumped and he turned around and looked at some pumped-up roid freak in jeans and an Izod shirt sitting at another table with an old dude in a black suit and two women in furs. The old guy had the look of somebody of note while the women were clearly both on the clock. The muscle went with the old man. He was watching the game and absently bouncing his leg, unaware that he was kicking Albert’s chair.

  “The Kid did a Right Guard commercial,” Danny was now saying. The man’s head hadn’t stopped swiveling since they sat down. He kept turning it this way and that. He finally looked at Roy. “You catch that, Roy?”

  Roy nodded. “I thought he was good.”

  Bob laughed and said, “Roy’s his biggest fan,” when the bodyguard once more kicked Albert’s chair. This time Albert leaned back and twisted his upper body toward the other table. He smiled at the two hookers, then craned his neck to look at the old guy.

  “Pardon me,” he said. “But is there some reason your boy keeps kicking my chair?”

  The old guy looked at him, annoyed, and said, “What?”

  “Your muscle,” Albert said. “He keeps kicking my chair. It’s distracting.”

  The old guy looked at Albert, then at the bodyguard, and said, “Larry, quit kicking this asshole’s chair.”

  The bodyguard shrugged and said, “I didn’t know that I was doing it.” And then he smiled at Albert and whispered, “Excusez moi, amigo.”

  Bob said, “Did you know that fan is short for fanatic?”

  Albert sat forward and said, “I did know that, Bob, as I was the one who told you.”

  They sat there for another ten minutes until Roy caught Albert watching the bodyguard get up and head for the john in the back. Albert waited a three count and then stood up and said to Danny Leone, “Order us another round.” Roy understood the look on Albert’s face and automatically got up and followed him back. Danny stopped his bouncing and started to follow, but Bob put a hand on his leg and said, “Let’s watch the game, so we can tell Roy what he missed.”

  Albert and Roy walked into the bathroom, Roy locking the door behind them, just as the big bodyguard was turning away from one of the urinals. He saw Albert and smiled. “Hey, it’s Pepe Le Pew.”

  Albert said, “That’s funny,” and reached out and gently touched the man on the side of the neck.

  The bodyguard recoiled and said, “What the fuck?” then sank to his knees and began pawing at himself where Albert had made contact.

  He stared straight ahead, confused, and said, “Oh, God,” his head lolling to one side as blood began roaring through his fingers. He felt the warmth and removed one hand and stared stupidly at the sticky liquid, somehow not understanding where it had come from. “Jesus Christ.”

  “No, no,” Albert said. “Keep your hand there.” He then crouched down in front of him, helped him put his hand back on his neck, and said, “Keep pressure on it. I don’t want you to pass out just yet.”

  The bodyguard looked up as Albert held up a miniature knife for him to see, nestled in the palm of his hand.

  “I call this one
Stuart Little on account of how small it is. But then, as you can now see, size doesn’t matter, does it?”

  “I feel sick.”

  Albert helped the man sit all the way down on the floor and looked him over.

  “Tell me—Larry is it?”

  “Uh-huh—”

  “Tell me, Larry, do you work out a lot?”

  “Every day.” For some people, it apparently takes a lot more than pain and looming death to keep vanity at bay.

  “I can see that.” Albert nodded and sat back. “But not me. I hate exercise. In fact, I’m in terrible shape. But I do know the names of all the muscles. For example, the one I just severed in your neck is called the sternocleidomastoid. It’s a tendon that runs from the back of your big ears down and around to your sternum. That’s why you can’t keep your head up. Stay awake please.”

  The bodyguard started to fall over, but Roy helped Albert steady him.

  “Now you were very disrespectful to me in there,” Albert went on. “What I’m thinking is that maybe you don’t know who I am.”

  “Who are you?”

  “That’s what I thought,” Albert said and then stood up and loomed over the man like some kind of terrible shadow. “I’m Albert Budin.”

  “Albert—”

  “Al-bare Boo-dan.”

  “Okay. I’m sorry, Mr. Boudan.”

  “That’s all right, Larry. It’s not like I’m some big movie star like Mickey Rourke and you’d be stupid not to recognize me. I’m just a working man, like you.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Boudan, I didn’t know it was you.”

  Someone knocked on the door. Roy banged on it with the bottom of his fist and shouted, “Occupied!”

  Albert said, “That’s my point. You didn’t know who I was. So you didn’t know what I could do to you. You didn’t know that I carry this small knife in my sleeve that can cut you ear to ear, just like you didn’t know about this piece I have in my belt.”

  He lifted his shirt so that Larry the bodyguard could see a .32 nestled there.