The Low Desert

by Tod Goldberg

  “Maybe one day we’ll go to the Empire State Building,” Billy said. “Would you like that?”

  Sal shrugged. “I guess so.”

  Billy reached across Arlene and into the glove box, came out with an envelope filled with cash. It was payday, Ronnie getting his cut from the H business. Twenty-five grand that went straight into his pocket, just for being Ronnie Cupertine.

  “Don’t be long,” Arlene said.

  “I won’t,” he said.

  “Tell Ronnie that I’ll give Suzette a call when we get back,” she said. Suzette was Ronnie’s wife. For now, anyway. She couldn’t get pregnant, so Ronnie was already looking for somewhere else to put his dick.

  “Keep the car running,” Billy said.

  “Do you need anything else?” Arlene asked. The glove box was still open, his pistol there.

  He looked into the backseat again, Sal’s head down in his coloring book. Maybe this would be the last day his son ever saw Chicago. Last day as Sal Cupertine, anyway. Maybe he’d come back as an adult, with a new name, barely any memories of this time when his father was in deep with this gangster bullshit. Who would Billy be by then? He saw himself owning a bar. One of those places where you could get a decent steak and a cold beer and on weekends, they’d have a little spot out back where they’d have BBQs, so you could bring your wife and kid to your daily spot and they’d realize it wasn’t some dive.

  Or he’d be dead.

  “No.” Billy closed the glove box. “I’ll be right back,” he said. “Ten minutes.” He gave Arlene’s hand a squeeze. “Hey,” Billy said, and Sal met his eyes in the rearview mirror. “Look up at the top floor. I’ll wave.”

  RONNIE CUPERTINE WAS a couple years younger than Billy, but he was already going gray at the temples, which made him look surprisingly dignified, so Ronnie played it up, wore nice suits, spent some money on shoes, styled his hair, even when he was going to be at a construction site seven hundred feet off the ground. He was also starting to do things like donate money to cancer research, ever since his father Dandy Tommy ended up with a bum pancreas that killed him in two months.

  “You got a luncheon or something today?” Billy asked when he found Ronnie on the south side of the building, done up in a blue suit, white shirt, red tie, looking like the fucking flag.

  Ronnie pointed out the window, which wasn’t a window yet, just a square covered in clear plastic tarp. “You ever been inside that building?” he asked.

  Billy looked down at the eight-story building across the street. “The Sun-Times? Fuck no. Spent my entire life trying to keep my name out of that fucking thing.”

  “I got a meeting there today,” he said, Billy thinking he sounded pretty satisfied. “I’m buying some advertising.”

  “You fucking crazy?”

  “Full-page ad,” he said. “Color. Gonna run every Sunday, starting this week. Then I’m gonna have smaller ads in Sports and Business on weekdays. Thinking I might start doing some radio, too.”

  “How much is that?”

  Ronnie shrugged. “Way I see it,” he said, “once I buy into the paper and the radio, we’re partners. I think they’ll see it the same way. Might be I start doing TV ads, too. That’s the next thing, Billy. They’ll have more room to talk about Nixon if they aren’t talking about me.”

  “You mean us?”

  “You know what I mean,” Ronnie said. Billy was afraid he did.

  “What would Dandy Tommy say?”

  “Eh,” Ronnie said. “He’s dead. It’s a new era, right?”

  “Doing shit in the open,” Billy said, “is gonna piss people off.”

  “Who? The Outfit? New York? Fuck them. Let them come at me,” Ronnie said. “It’s about complicity. The newspaper, they aren’t gonna piss on me if I’m giving them twenty Gs a month. Cheaper than paying off the cops. Cleaner than moving H and no one’s stiff in an alley because they OD’d on Mike Royko.”

  “Someone wants to write about you,” Billy said, “an ad isn’t gonna stop them.”

  “We’ll see,” Ronnie said. “In the meantime, you’re holding the first month’s rent.”

  Billy reached into his pocket, came out with the envelope. Ronnie flipped through the bills absently, then waved over a new guy, gave him the cash. Big Kirk they called him. He was a big white kid, but his last name was Biglione, gangsters not exactly fucking Shakespeare with the nicknames. His sister Gina was married into The Family, hooked up with some motherfuckers out in Detroit who had a bingo skim going at a bunch of retirement homes. This was Big Kirk’s summer job, getting sandwiches and coffee for Ronnie, standing around, looking imposing. He was maybe eighteen. Next year at this time, Billy figured he’d either be dead or in college. Billy hoped, for his sake, college. He counted the money.

  “Twenty-five,” Kirk said.

  Billy said to Kirk, “You ever count my money in front of me again, your mother will be on a fucking feeding tube.”

  Kirk stared blankly at Billy, like he hadn’t been taught that part of algebra yet. “I’m sorry?”

  “Give us a minute,” Ronnie said. Kirk went and stood beside the elevator. “Give him a break. He’ll learn.”

  “I’m serious, Ronnie,” Billy said, not that it mattered. But he couldn’t suddenly be a pussy on his last day. “Count my money? Some Detroit fuck? His balls even drop yet?” Billy looked back over his shoulder at Big Kirk. Kid had a crooked look on his face, like he didn’t know if he should smile or scream. “Dumb motherfucker,” he mumbled, but with his eyes, he tried to will the kid to leave, go downstairs, hop on the L, never come back.

  “He’s just doing what he thinks is right.” Ronnie took a few steps, motioned Billy to follow him. “You know what’s going on this floor?”

  “I don’t know,” Billy said, “a thousand typewriters?”

  “IBM has a government contract,” Ronnie said. “Making computers for the CIA. Up here, it’s gonna be all spooks and G-men. Want the walls soundproofed. They’re building an interior room back over here.” Ronnie pointed to an area on the floor marked off with red X’s. Maybe twenty by twenty. “They want it to have exterior walls made of metal, covered in cement. Survive a bomb. What do you think goes in there?”

  “Mr. IBM?”

  Ronnie considered this. “Not a bad idea.” He stopped walking once they were out of earshot from Big Kirk, looked out another plastic window. “What the fuck happened last night?” Ronnie asked quietly.

  “Germaio went sideways on him.” Billy shook his head at the memory. “And then the fucker stroked out. Started shaking, frothing at the mouth, and then he was toast. Maybe a minute all in.”

  “So if I determine that we need to dig him up,” Ronnie said, “coroner isn’t gonna see a broken neck or missing fingers or anything?”

  “Might be absent a couple teeth,” Billy said.

  “That can be explained. Anything unexplainable? A fucking wrench up his ass or something?”

  “No,” Billy said. But they would find Germaio. By then, it wouldn’t matter. Billy would be long gone. “Broken nose, maybe. But he’s gonna be under a house in about three days.”

  Ronnie pointed out the window. There were gray clouds hovering over the lake. “Supposed to rain for the next three days,” Ronnie said. “Summer storm. Gonna be eight million percent humidity for the next week. You don’t watch the news?”

  “I was busy last night.”

  “I bet.”

  “We buried him deep,” Billy said. “It could rain for a month, wouldn’t matter.”

  “Point is,” Ronnie said, “they ain’t gonna be putting foundations down in the fucking rain. Anyone see anything?”

  “Wasn’t how I had it planned,” Billy said. “But Germaio wouldn’t listen.”

  “I had you there so nothing would go sideways,” Ronnie said. He shook his head. “The guys respect you. And then you let something like this go down? It’s a lot of fucking cleanup.”

  “I didn’t let it happen,” Billy said. �
��Motherfucker turned blue on us. Besides, what were you gonna do with him? Have fucking tea and sandwiches?”

  “I wasn’t gonna kill him,” Ronnie said.

  “Of course you weren’t going to,” Billy said. He glared at his cousin for a few seconds; then he felt something soften inside of him. What was this bullshit? Grew up together like brothers, the only sons of two of the baddest motherfuckers on the planet, playing catch in the street with Family soldiers watching them like Secret Service, trick-or-treating as gangsters—trench coats, guns, hats, the whole nine—the neighbors giving up all their candy at once. Fast-forward and no one wore costumes anymore. He reached over and took his cousin by the arm. “I’m sorry, Ron. We fucked up. Whatever it costs, take it from my end. Germaio can’t afford it.”

  Ronnie took a deep breath, exhaled through his mouth, nodded. “Where’s Germaio now?”

  “I dropped him at his girlfriend’s,” Billy said. Germaio also had a wife and a kid. This was a lie that wouldn’t last long. “Where I picked him up.”

  “He’d have more money if he wasn’t paying for two families,” Ronnie said. “What time?”

  “I dunno,” Billy said. “Six?” Billy heard a shuffling sound, turned and saw Kirk trailing behind them, ten feet away. This Lurch-motherfucker. “Sure he’s home by now.”

  “I sent a couple guys over. They said he wasn’t home. Car was still in the garage. His dumbfuck son says he hasn’t seen him.”

  “What’s his wife say?”

  “Same,” Ronnie said.

  “He’s probably scared.”

  Ronnie nodded. “You know how many people saw the three of you inside the Lamplighter?”

  “No one would say anything,” Billy said.

  “Maybe not. But you dumb fucks left Dover’s car there,” Ronnie said. “I told Germaio to bring it back with him and he just left it sitting in the parking lot. Why would he do that?”

  Shit. Germaio hadn’t mentioned that. “He’s not real detail oriented.”

  “Yeah,” Ronnie said, “but you are.” He stepped closer to the window, found a tiny hole in the tarp, pushed his thumb through it, an arrow of breeze shot out. “Dover’s wife reported him missing this morning, and there was his fucking car, right where he left it. It’s gonna cost me a lot to keep this shit quiet. More than you can afford. Which is why I’m thinking I’ll just dig him up and toss him in the lake, let him wash up in a couple days, get someone to call it a suicide.”

  “They can figure that shit out,” Billy said.

  “Who?”

  “The coroner,” Billy said. “That’s how Junior Pocotillo got sent up.” Billy had gone to high school with Junior Pocotillo. A big fucking Indian kid. He’d killed some Russian mope who’d tried to jack him for his car, problem being that Junior had stolen the car in the first place. He’d strangled the guy and then tossed him in the lake, only to have him wash up the next morning. Doctors figured out pretty quickly that the body was already dead when it got tossed in the water. Billy didn’t know exactly how, something about the lungs, but he’d avoided dumping bodies in water since then.

  “Fine,” Ronnie said. “I’ll put him inside a burning car with a couple hookers. That make you happier?”

  “Just leave him,” Billy said. “There’s a problem, I’ll handle it. Free of charge.”

  “Oh yeah?” He cocked his head to the right. “Because isn’t that your car down there?”

  Billy gazed out the window. The DeVille was right where he left it. Except there was a Cadillac in front of it now. And one behind it. Another pulling up across from it.

  Shit.

  “Yeah. I’m out of town for the next week,” Billy said. “Going to Lake Geneva.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah. I told you.”

  “Right,” Ronnie said. He snapped his fingers. “Right. I remember now. You said, ‘Hey, cousin, I’m gonna run out of town with a trunk full of your money.’”

  Billy reached instinctively for the gun on his hip . . . but it wasn’t there. Because he was out with his wife and kid. Because he was going on vacation. Because it was in his glove box. Because he wasn’t thinking he was going to shoot his cousin. Not that Ronnie was holding. He didn’t carry a gun. That’s why he had guys like Germaio and Big Kirk. He was a businessman. Why he had guys like Billy.

  “What’s your plan? Canada? Mexico? Maybe join those Outfit assholes at the Salton Sea? Or you getting on a boat?”

  There was no use lying about anything now. Billy had been in this position before. Except he was the one asking questions. It got to this point, it was already done.

  “If it’s about the money,” Billy said, “you can have it.”

  “It’s not about the money,” Ronnie said. “It’s about family. This is our shit right here, Billy.”

  “Doesn’t feel that way,” Billy said.

  “You’re running off because you’re not busy enough? Because you’re dissatisfied with your job? Because you put Germaio in the dirt?”

  “Look,” Billy said, carefully, “one day, it was gonna be you or it was gonna be me looking at a gun. I’m saving us both. One of us is gonna be dead, one of us is gonna be in prison, that’s if we’re lucky. I don’t want either. I’ve got my own family now. I’m just trying to walk away.”

  “Looks to me like you’re running away.”

  “Yeah, well,” Billy said, “consider this my two weeks’ notice.”

  “I needed you, Billy.” Ronnie spit on the ground. “We’re getting pushed out of Vegas,” he said. “Fucking government is all over us. Moles in our unions, fucking snitches up and down the line. This building is finished, you think they’re gonna just throw up another skyscraper tomorrow? It’ll be ten, fifteen years before we get a contract like this one. But the shit I’m doing is going to set this family up for the next twenty-five years. You were gonna be a part of that, cousin. I can’t trust these fucking guys like I can trust you.”

  “I’m not in the car business,” Billy said. “And I sure as fuck ain’t in the newspaper business.”

  “You’re a small thinker,” Ronnie said. “It’s not about the cars. It’s not about the drugs. It’s not about the books or sharking. It’s about the customer. Meet the customers’ need before they even know they want something. The Outfit, the Five Families, all those fucks? They’re gonna be out of business in five years. We’re mechanized, they’re horse and buggies.”

  “Don’t tell me more of this McDonald’s shit, Ronnie,” Billy said. He reached into his pocket, felt the brass knuckles there, slid them on. “I had to bury a guy this morning. Ronald McDonald isn’t capping the Burger King.” Billy heard the dinging of the elevator. He looked over his shoulder and saw that Big Kirk was now only five feet away. Three black guys appeared at the end of the floor. Billy didn’t recognize any of them, which meant they were probably Gangster Disciples. The Family had been selling them guns for years. Shit.

  “Thought you said you needed me?”

  “I do,” Ronnie said. “And you want to go. So you’re gonna go.”

  “Four guys, Ronnie?”

  “Out of respect,” he said.

  “There one you want me to keep alive? For the story in the Sun-Times?”

  Ronnie smiled, but he didn’t look happy. “What’s in your pocket? Knife?”

  “Knuckles,” he said.

  “Big Kirk could use some scars,” Ronnie said.

  Billy nodded, looked back out the window. “I wasn’t snitching,” he said. “Wasn’t planning on it, either. You should know. I was just going to retire.”

  “Government would find you,” Ronnie said. “I’d be surprised if you made it out of town. If I knew, they knew. Next time we saw each other would have been in court.”

  Billy nodded again. “You gonna let me say goodbye to my kid?” Billy thinking if he got down there, Arlene would know what was up, she’d get that gun out, give him a chance.

  “Sorry,” Ronnie said. “I’ll take good care of
him while you’re gone.”

  “Oh, I’m coming back?”

  “He won’t know,” Ronnie said, “until he does. And that will be that.”

  “This isn’t the life I want for him,” Billy said. “Let him just be a kid. He doesn’t need to be like us. Promise me you’ll give him that choice.”

  “I can’t make that promise,” Ronnie said. “I don’t got a son. Maybe it would be different if I did.”

  “If you had a son,” Billy said, “I’d already be dead.”

  “It’ll be fast,” Ronnie said.

  The three Gangster Disciples were beside Big Kirk now. He guessed all three were carrying. Judging from their bugged-out eyes, they were also coked-up. He could maybe take out one of them, pop him in the temple just right, get a lick or two at least on Big Kirk, who looked like he was carrying a load of shit in his pants, but not a gun. Still, four on one without a gun only worked in Charles Bronson movies. Billy flexed his fist closed.

  He had one shot at this.

  One shot to save Arlene and Sal from a life of wondering. How many people from his circle of childhood friends had Billy disappeared under similar circumstances, Family members who strayed and ended up in tiny bits, buried under a Jewel’s being built in Springfield or dumped in the Poyter landfill or tossed in any convenient and deep pond? How many families did he lie to and say they’d been sent to Sicily for a job, or that they flipped and were now in the Witness Protection Program, or that they’d fled to Canada, even when he still had their skin under his nails? No. There would be no questioning of what happened to Billy Cupertine, because the end was gonna be the same. He was already dead. Ronnie had already killed him. If Billy wanted to keep his son out of this shit, the boy would need an object lesson. Sal would need to know exactly what Ronnie Cupertine did to his old man.

  Billy spun toward the tarp-covered window and smashed his brass-knuckled fist through the thick plastic, slid his arm all the way down, and then did the only thing that made sense.