No Beast So Fierce

by Edward Bunker

  We shared the half-gallon of wine. Added to what was already in his system, he was pole-axed. He fell asleep on the sofa in his clothes and snored gustily.

  Hanging my cheap suit over a chair so it would not become even more rumpled, I stretched out on the floor. I was drunk enough to ignore the smell of the blanket in which I was wrapped. Yet a floor and dirty blanket and the choice to live and die as I pleased were better than clean sheets and domesticity in a halfway house under Rosenthal’s tyranny.

  My last thought before sleep was of a sawed-off shotgun.

  2

  THE man who got out of a twelve-year-old Chevrolet in the parking lot of a bar catering to gamblers was a frail, gray sixty. His suit had been expensive a decade before, but was worn and sadly out of fashion. I’d expected a burly Sicilian, a flashy dresser. Big John Taormina, the mafioso, looked like a sad, nervous bookkeeper. His eyes had cataracts, shifted nervously, and met mine only momentarily when L&L Red made the introductions.

  “Glad to meet you,” he said, looking around the parking lot. “Let’s go inside.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” Red said grinning with his stained teeth.

  While we walked toward the side door, Johnny asked what Red had told me.

  “Just that you want a heist man to rip off a crap game.”

  “That’s all he knew.” Johnny was showing how closed-mouthed he himself was. “You a heist man?”

  “Among other things.”

  “Junky?”

  “No.” I answered, but I was piqued. He was no longer a big-shot gangster. Even if he was, I disliked being questioned. I said nothing more; the time would come to jerk his reins.

  The barmaid, elderly for such occupation, called Johnny by his first name and smiled. She knew L&L Red, too, but ignored him except for a perfunctory nod. He leered at her despite her dowdy fifty years.

  When the drinks arrived, Johnny started for his wallet, changed his mind, and told the woman to put it on his tab. She paused just long enough for it to be perceptible, then nodded acquiescence and moved away.

  Before going into details of the caper, Johnny began explaining why he was fingering the game. He was impelled by guilt to justify why he was being a traitor to his friends. He was in debt, had mortgaged his mother’s house (which he justified by mentioning that he’d bought it for her in the first place), and had lost four hundred thousand dollars gambling in five years, most of it to these same “schmuck” friends we were going to have robbed. All of them owed him favors when he was on top. None would help him. He needed money to pick up a bar with a cheap down payment and to set up a bookmaking operation in the General Hospital. It had thousands of employees, countless patients, and “big action”.

  “What’s the score worth?” I interrupted.

  “Fifteen to twenty-five g’s, counting the jewelry some of ’em wear. Mostly cash though.”

  “What kind of end do you want?”

  “Thirty percent.”

  “Off the top or after the nut?”

  “It’s not gonna cost anything to finance it.”

  “Oh, it’ll cost something.” I had thought of asking him for “front” money for weapons, but if he knew I lacked firearms it would weaken my position. What kind of bandit is without firearms? “Thirty percent is pretty steep,” I said.

  “I’m giving you a gift.”

  “Yeah, maybe thirty is okay.” I was lying. Once I had the money he’d get 10 percent, take it or leave it. He’d be safely watching television while I risked my life; 10 percent was all he deserved.

  “If you do this right, I’ve got some other sweetheart scores.” His voice was plaintive. He was trying to insure that I didn’t doublecross him. If I did, he couldn’t sue me for breach of contract. He couldn’t really do much of anything. He could shoot me—if he had the nerve and if he could find me. I doubted both of these.

  “Let’s sweat one at a time. How many people at the game?”

  “Anywhere from seven to a dozen.”

  “Any guns?”

  Johnny shook his head emphatically. “They’ve been playing together for years without any trouble. They’re scared of guns.” He leaned closer, whispering urgently, his cataracted eyes beginning to water. The game was in a rear suite of a large San Fernando Valley motel. It played once or twice a week. He couldn’t know the precise evening until a few hours before. A regular player would telephone him; then he’d let me know. I had to be ready. I’d be able to tell if they were there by looking outside for a yellow Cadillac convertible with a black top or a blue pickup truck with Acme Vending on its side. Regular players drove these vehicles.

  “The guy that calls you … does he know you’re fingering a heist?”

  “Christ no! He calls because I sometimes play—when I can get a stake.”

  Though the score seemed excellent, Mr Taormina might be using a salesman’s license. His need for money might cause him to gloss over defects, particularly when he was taking no risk.

  My manner was coldly tough, which he expected and respected. “Let me have the address. Red and me can look it over this afternoon.”

  “Good. How long before you can get it?”

  “Next week—if I can find the right crime partner.”

  “Don’t you have anybody?”

  “Nobody like I want. This is going to take a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound wrestler. Somebody built like Red here.”

  L&L Red had been swiggling ice cubes and sucking the empty glass. At mention of his name, he looked up. “Huh?”

  “Nothing.” I explained to Johnny that I needed someone big enough to knock down anyone who hesitated. “This’ll be a small area with men already excited from gambling. We’ll knock on the door, claim to be police, which’ll get ’em more excited—but they’ll crack the door. When they do the bruiser crashes in. I come behind him with a sawed-off shotgun. I don’t want to blow anybody in half if I don’t have to. The gorilla can flatten anybody who flinches wrong.”

  Johnny nodded at the explanation, understanding the tactical situation, liking the professional ring. The casual reference to shotguns also intimidated him—as it was intended to.

  His handshake was firmly enthusiastic when we separated in the parking lot.

  With the first full tank of gas the M.G. roadster had had in six months, we headed northwest on the Hollywood Freeway outbound toward the San Fernando Valley. Traffic whizzed along. The wind breaking over the roadster’s windshield and the sun on my neck made me feel good. Life can be delicious even for the outcast and criminal.

  The white-on-black sign, Vine Street Right Lane, made me think of Abe Meyers. He might provide guns, financing, even the identification. Abe would be at the club now. The motel wasn’t going anywhere in the next hour.

  From a gas station five blocks away, I phoned ahead to find out if the police had been there. Abe was surprised at the call, claiming he’d learned yesterday that I was in jail. I withheld voicing my disbelief, though I was tempted to inquire where he thought I was when I failed to handle the situation with Stan Bergman. He said no police had inquired about me. “You didn’t escape, did you?”

  “No. I just hung up the parole. I’m comin’ in for a drink.”

  “Yeah, okay.” He sounded unenthusiastic.

  Red circled the block and went once down the alley without stopping. No plain cars or inconspicuous men were seen. I hardly expected them. I was too small a fish for so expensive a net.

  As we started down the alley a second time, another problem came to mind: L&L Red. He looked too much like what he was: a drunken, lecherous bum. His loose-lipped face was the archetype of depravity. His pullover shirt was torn at the right armpit so that hairs jutted out. I was ashamed of being ashamed—for compared to Abe he was virtuous, or at least had those virtues I esteemed: forthrightness and loyalty. Under the circumstances I couldn’t risk his unpredictability. Telling him a lookout was needed, I gave him enough money for a couple of short dogs of wine and told him to wai
t outside the club’s front door. If the police showed up he was to start kicking it. The thought of wine mollified his disappointment, and he was unable to argue against the need for a lookout. He let me off next to the alley door.

  Despite Abe’s assurances, and my own examination, I walked through the door with an inner coil. Police used moments like these to spring traps.

  Music came from the jukebox. The lights were out and the chairs were legs up on the tables. The dim cavern was almost empty. Abe was behind the bar, facing Manny and a large baldheaded man who were seated on the stools. Spread before them was an adding machine, green ledgers, and piles of receipts. Abe saw me, gave a brief wave of recognition, and returned to the ledger and machine. The offhanded greeting indicated how much my influence of three weeks ago had declined. Manny, however, came over.

  “What’s to it, Max?”

  “I want to see Abe and I haven’t got a lot of time.”

  “Man, he’s hung up. That thing they’re working on has to be in the afternoon mail. It means ten g’s.”

  “Shit,” I muttered.

  “Maybe I can help,” Manny said.

  Could he be trusted? Not for a moment did I suspect that he would voluntarily go to the police, but if he knew too much he’d have bargaining power if he was arrested for something minor, pandering or possession of marijuana. On the other hand, if all he could tell them was that I wanted, or had, some firearms it would be a minimal threat. It might intensify their desire to capture me, but it wasn’t evidence of a crime they could use in court. As long as Manny didn’t know where, when, or if they’d been used …

  “Guns? More than one?”

  “Yeah, a couple large-caliber pistols and a twelve-gauge shotgun.”

  “You can cop a shotgun at a pawn shop.”

  “If I had the bread. What I’d really like is some kind of submachine gun, a Thompson or a Schmeiser.”

  “Somebody called Abe the other day and wanted to sell an M16.”

  “Motherfucker! That’s just what I want.”

  “I don’t remember who called Abe. I’ll find out.”

  “How much did he want?”

  “Three bills.”

  “Goddam! How long will he have it?”

  “Who knows? I’ll talk to him. I’d loan you the bread but I don’t have it either.”

  “What about pistols? Got any ideas? If you know somebody who’ll loan ’em to you—it’ll pay off for both of you.”

  “I might be able to help there. I know a dude. Yeah, there’s a revolver in the office. One of the bartenders kept it while he was working. He had a heart attack and won’t be back for a couple more months. I think it’s only a .32. Want it?”

  “Damn right.”

  Manny started for the office. I followed.

  The revolver was a snub-nosed .32 made by a company I’d never heard of. As pistols go it wasn’t much, but the checkered butt felt good against my palm. “What about the others—that guy you know?”

  “I’ll see him tonight. I know he’s got some. Call me tomorrow.”

  When I left the office, Abe was still with the man at the bar. He saw me starting to leave and waved goodbye.

  The motel was immense and gleaming new. There was an Olympicsized swimming pool and a putting green for golf fanatics. There was also a large coffee shop. To arrive at the rooms and suites, which were two stories high, all facing inward toward the pool (upstairs was a balcony running all the way around) it was necessary to pass down a drive between the coffee shop and office, both of which had large windows. Walking in to take the score this way would be easy, but leaving, especially if I were in a hurry, might attract risky attention.

  Red parked a block away and we walked back, turned in, and sauntered around the pool. The day was hot and middle-aged, middle-class tourists were supine on canvas lounges, sunning fish-white flab and hiding their eyes behind dark glasses. Once again Red’s presence discomfited me, but not because of embarrassment. He stood out and this would cause him to be remembered. If the caper blew up and someone was shot the investigation would include tracing and questioning the guests. I always tried to be inconspicuous, hide my criminality.

  The suite where the game was held was the last one on the balcony. As we walked below it, I saw that the balcony ran around the corner and we (whoever went with me) could drop ten feet into a vacant lot outside the motel. We wouldn’t have to go back down the drive between the windows. Good.

  A possible problem, besides something going wrong inside the suite, was that some guest might be taking a night swim and see us charging through the door. I decided it was a calculated risk worth taking.

  “Let’s blow,” I told Red.

  “What about inside the room?”

  “I can’t afford to rent it. But how many mysteries can a motel have?”

  We went back to the car.

  The freeway through the San Fernando Valley was raised so that the view through the chain link fence—protection for dogs, cats and children—was panoramic. Smog shortened the horizon, but as far as it went I could see roofs of houses through lines of trees marking the avenues. Houses of soft pastel, TV antennas defacing the roof line. Frequently there came an instant of pale blue, a swimming pool. The skyline was flat except for an occasional cluster of a shopping center. This was the Mecca of the American Dream, the world that everyone wanted. A world of sleek young women (allied with Slenderella to be so) in shorts and halters, driving 400-horse-power station wagons to air-conditioned, music-serenaded supermarkets of baby-sitter corporations and culture condensed into Great Books discussion groups. A life of barbecues by the swimming pool and drive-in movies open all year. It didn’t appeal to me. Fuck health insurance plans and life insurance. They wanted to live without leaving the womb. It made me more alive to play a game without rules against society, and I was prepared to play it to the end. A tremor almost sexual passed through me as I anticipated the coming robbery.

  I decided to visit Willy and Selma and told Red to head toward El Monte. When the traffic thinned, he eagerly, almost plaintively, wanted an assurance that I liked the score. Such servile eagerness aroused a reflexive resistance. I answered monosyllabically, but when he pressed me I agreed that it was “pretty good”. That agreement sent him on a circuitous tangent. He sketched over what good friends we were, the parties we’d had, the parties we would have. He wanted one more fling. He was getting old; his health was bad; he needed money.

  “I always look after you when you’re right.”

  “I don’t want a couple hundred as a handout. I want a share.”

  “Nobody gets a share unless they share the risk.”

  “I know … I know. But damn, Max … Jesus, I need it bad. I’m old and I gotta buy pussy. My blood pressure is way up. I need one more ball … a decent car and a gray silk suit; then I’m gonna kill myself.”

  The voice was impassioned and he undoubtedly believed every word. When the time came for suicide, however, he’d want yet another “last” hedonistic gasp.

  He began a new tactic. He’d use his automobile as a trail car on the heist, follow us close, and if anyone pursued he’d block them off, ram them if necessary. He swore he’d do it for two thousand dollars. I promised to think about the trail car, though I rejected the idea when he mentioned it. On a different kind of score a trail car was sometimes a good idea—a daylight bank robbery, for example, where immediate pursuit is highly possible. Here there was virtually no risk of pursuit and, even if someone came after us, I doubted that Red would act. It takes nerve to ram a police car when you know you’re going to jail and get your head whipped soft. Seldom can charges (beyond a traffic violation) be filed for such an “accident”, but the police know what’s happened and knock all the curl out of the driver’s hair.

  I silently decided that if things went right I’d give him a grand. It was less than he wanted, but good wages for driving me around for a few days. No doubt Johnny Taormina would give him something, too.
/>   3

  WILLY was still at work and not expected for at least half an hour. I decided to wait. Red had to pick up his check at the employment office before it closed. Red wanted to come back and take me barhopping on the money (his real purpose was to bind me closer), but I declined, easing his worries with a pat on the back and a promise that “everything is going to be all right, don’t worry. I’ll call you at the pool hall tomorrow.”

  Selma was cooking supper. Quite pointedly she told me that Willy was taking her and the boys to a movie that evening. She was cold to the brink of rudeness. I went outside to wait.

  The residence, with a long dirty driveway and weed-infested lawn, sat back from a semirural boulevard down which rolled cement and gravel trucks. I sat against the bole of a scrubby tree. The scene was banal and dreary, full of energy without beauty.

  Three young boys came down the roadside, carrying sticks they used to whack at high weeds. Two of them were Willy’s sons. The other, a year or two older, was fairer in color, slender, and with smooth complexion, quite a handsome boy. All were scuffed and smudged.

  They approached me with the shy openness of children who have known enough love, whatever other deprivations they may have suffered. The third boy was addressed as “Joey”. I recognized his resemblance to Joe Gambesi. He was Mary’s son. He went inside the house to telephone his mother; he was going to eat here and go to the movie with his cousins.

  Moments later, Willy pulled up the driveway. The Darin boys immediately forgot me. They rushed to the car and mobbed their father as he exited, grabbing him around the legs, jumping up and down. He grabbed them, one in each hand, by the belt, and raised them from the ground, then swung them around. They screamed in delicious fear. Setting them down and gently hugging their necks in the circle of his forearm, he sent them inside to wash for dinner.

  “Don’t shake hands,” he said. “I’m greasy as a pig.”