by Tom Golabek
My apartment is a comfortable place, complete with bar, pool table, and the largest bed in town. As you walk in, the first object the eye is drawn to is the large painting of a nude in the prone position, hanging on the wall. The furniture is not one particular style but assorted, with no fashion sense. I buy what I like. As one walks to the right and steps into the bedroom, he would be in awe of the ten by eight foot bed surrounded by a very expensive, a shocking pink rug made of llama hair.
To the left of the nude painting is the den, which is cluttered with a well-kept green felted pool table, a canary yellow couch and chair, and a fifteen-foot horseshoe bar which stands in front of a life size picture of Rocky Marciano. The rest of the joint is not too much to talk about, as the kitchen is small and the bathroom is just run of the mill.
Lola was home from the office, having completed a typical non productive day. Her most important duty of the day is to sort the mail. She also answers the phone, takes messages, and makes sure that there’s beer in the refrigerator. The sound of her high heels clicking against the wooden floor as she crossed the room to open the door made their way to my ears. Her eyes went wide and her mouth dropped open when she saw what I looked like.
“Where the hell have you been?” she asked in her high pitched, squeaky voice.
Not in the best of moods, I brayed, “To the ballet toots. Quit asking questions. Make me up some chow.”
She backed away slowly, and looked like she was about to cry from seeing my blood stained clothing. That was my Lola…the kind of broad that had a difficult time understanding the type of work I did.
I shuffled to the bedroom, shed my rags, and dove into the shower. The water hit my cuts sending a hell of a sting through my body. After ten minutes of fooling around in there, I dried off, and stepped into the bedroom to complete the rest of my normal clean up routine.
Lola had my pants and undershirt laid out on the bed by this time, and was watching my every move. She liked to see me dress and undress. What a dizzy dame.
She squealed, “The food is on the table.” I gave her a slight smile, slapped her on the can, and followed her out to the kitchen where we gobbled down a couple of sandwiches within a few minutes. After the chow, I pawed another smoke into my mouth and lit up. Lola wanted to go out, and I could use the exercise, so we dressed up, and headed to our favorite bar. The Lotus Lounge, which is located a few blocks from my apartment, is a nightspot we frequented.
We hoofed it out of the apartment, and B-lined it to the car knowing the trip would only take a few minutes if the lights were all Irish. We plowed into the car and took off, this time the green being with us all the way. I pulled the machine over, rubbing the sides of my new tires too close to the curb. Damn!
When we walked in, “Dutch,” the bartender, set up our regular drinks. Mine is a double of Four Roses, a smooth tasting American whiskey, with a short beer on the side. Lola’s is a watered down sloe gin fizz which usually gets her watered down.
Dutch, a couple of the boys, and I were shooting the bull while Lola gabbed with one of the local gals. After a while, I asked Lola if she wanted to whiz up town to the Red Hat, another one of the bars on my route. The bartender there owed me some cabbage, and this would be a good time to collect my payment. Mix business with pleasure is my motto.
She nodded after making a sour face, telling me that she wanted to finish her conversation. I backed off, and told her to flag me when she was done. Ten minutes later, we slid off the stools, put on our coats, and muttered our “See ya arounds.”
The cold night air felt good as we walked out the door to the street, hopped into the car, and roared up to Elm Street making a left onto Yonkers Avenue. I spotted an open space right outside the joint, and parked my G.T.O.
The Red Hat is what some people call a dive. It may have been small, and could have had a few negative aspects to it, but it was lively, and had an atmosphere, which caused a crowd to collect. I mean a “crowd.” Not the stuck up noses or “Tuxedo Tom’s.” These were down to earth people, the heart of the city…the working masses, garbage men, brick layers, plumbers you know, the meat eaters.
I opened the chipped wooden door for Lola, and we made our grand entrance. There was a poker game going on at the table by the door, and a couple of “steadies” worked the shuffleboard. We eased into a couple of seats at the bar, and Roxy, the bartender, set up our drinks, which were the sloe gin fizz, beer, and a double of Four Roses. Roxy was a quiet guy in his late forties who was hooked on “the trots.” He had a bad streak a couple of weeks ago and lost a bundle to the bookies, and since I’m a soft touch, I lent him some dough.
Without saying a word, he placed ten twenties beside my shot glass. The wink he gave with it told me that he made his “hit” at the track. After a couple more drinks, I felt it was time to travel, pulled out a ten, and slid it under my glass. Rox waved “so long” and we turned to leave.
Small drops of mist-like drizzle shrouded the city. From the side I saw something move. Then, that something muttered in a low deep voice, “Over here buddy.” All I could see was a snub-nosed .38, which looked like a cannon. I cursed to myself, and shuffled to the shadows where Mister .38 was standing. Lola was shaking like a nude Hawaiian stranded in Iceland as she clung to my arm. That’s what I like about these blonds… truly moral support.
A car pulled up in front of us with a shaky looking punk behind the wheel. This was when Mister .38 pushed his rod into my back, and shoved me toward the heap. Mike Murdock doesn’t go any place he doesn’t want to. It was apparent that these mugs weren’t checked out on this fact. The jerk in the car opened the door for us from the inside by leaning over the front seat. Right there I could tell that these guys were amateurs.
Being the gentleman that I am, I allowed Lola to get into the car first. As she stuffed her ass in my face, I pushed it. She was savvy enough to grab onto the driver’s neck as she went toward him, and caused him to be thrown against the other side of the car.
I drew back my elbow into Mister .38’s body behind me, doubling him over. The trigger on his snub-nose was tripped, and I felt a sharp pain in my left arm. I was lucky that it was just a flesh wound, but it was the end of my brown blazer.
This guy got me mad now. I could feel the “MADDOG’ sizzling inside me. My right hand went up for my .45 as I kicked the runt in the mouth. He was backed up against the wall of a building with my rod now aimed at his head. The mark of my toe was being washed from his jaw by his own blood. He got off another quick shot that hit the sidewalk beside me. I was so enraged I didn’t ask any questions about who he was or where we were going. It was either him or me. This was the end for this guy. I squeezed the trigger of my gun, and it roared again and again. Six bullets left my rod.
The first three shells took the top of his head clean off. The next three splattered his face over the sidewalk. I could see what used to be his brain ooze down the side of the building. One less rat for the city to put up with. My face had a grin on it.
The squeal of tires sounded as the other punk pulled away. My blond bomber, having learned a variety of survival skills over the years by being with me, had pulled herself together and jumped free as the car pulled away.
However, when she saw the bloody pulp that was the mug’s head a minute ago, she threw-up in the gutter. In fact, there were three or four spectators hurling at the curb as well.
I thought that I might as well show them their money’s worth, so I let go with another slug into the mangled mass of lifeless flesh. A piece of his scalp went flying toward one of the bystanders, and she let out a horrified scream as the bloody piece of flesh fell on her arm. She waived her limb violently as if it was just burned, then knelt over and fainted.
The cops were on their way. They didn’t have too far to go this time as the police station was just around the corner. The boys in blue broke through the crowd, and eyeballed the main attraction. Then they looked at me a
nd recognized who I was so they didn’t do any excessive pushing around. One of the veterans looked at the corpse as if he was saying to himself, “Now who the hell is going to clean up this mess?”
He turned to his men, told one to cover the mess up, and the others to take names and gather info from the crowd. Then he came over to me as I was putting my heater back into my quick action, leather holster. He grabbed my rod, and I was sternly told to follow him to the station house. Entering the police station, I saw Lt. Frank Komo. What a sight for sore eyes. He was behind his cluttered desk and said, “I should have known it was you Mike.”
For the second time that day, I took the grounds of self-defense. Frank gave me the usual lecture about the pressure I was putting on him by getting myself into these scrapes. I said, “Stow it, the kid pulled a knife on me and I maimed the bastard. Any guy that pulls a rod on me had better kill me, or I’m gonna kill him. If you think I’m going to wait until a cop comes by…forget it. I’d be dead by then.” He saw my point. I could see that he was trying to figure an argument against what I had just finished saying, however, he couldn’t.
Komo led the way back to the scene, and went through his cop routine. After interviewing a couple of witnesses, who confirmed that it was self-defense, he cut me loose. Komo looked at me saying, “Here’s your gun back. Beat it, next time you have to kill somebody, do it in the Bronx.” He followed up with, “Don’t leave town.”
The meat-wagon, photographer, medical examiner, and other crime scene types started arriving.
I headed to Lola. She had just finished spilling her guts on the sidewalk for the second time. The blond ran up and wrapped her arms around my waist to greet me. It’s an understatement to say she was glad that I was back. I kissed her, and helped her to the car. Lola never could stand violence, and usually became squeamish even if I swatted a fly.
We squirmed into the car, and headed home. The only words she spoke during the ride were, “give me a cigarette.” I stuffed two into my mouth, lit them, and handed one to her. She awkwardly put it in her mouth, and dragged on it. I burst out laughing. Lola doesn’t smoke. She realized what I was laughing about and threw the butt out the window.
I looked for a spot to park as we approached the apartment but there was none to be found. Finally, I came across a spot almost a block past my layout. I pulled in, got out, and locked up. It looked like we were going to have to hoof it back.
As we were passing one of the dark alleyways a few buildings from my shack, I heard a noise, and saw two figures looming in the shadows.
I yanked out my .45, pushed Lola out of the way, and hugged the wall. There was a streetlight behind me. I knew I was a perfect target so I had to act fast. The shadowy figures rustled in the darkness again. I pointed the barrel of my rod on them, and started to squeeze the trigger. Suddenly there was a shrill scream of a woman, and the two figures came forward from the dark with their hands in the air. I lowered the gun, and began to laugh so hard that my stomach started to hurt. Then Lola burst out laughing as well when she saw what was going on.
The shadowy twosome wound up to be a boy and a girl making out in the depths of the alley. Their eyes were scared and wide open. I don’t doubt they crapped in their pants.
I holstered my rod, and walked off still laughing, leaving the couple with no understanding of what I was thinking. They didn’t know how close they came to being splashed all over the cement. Looking back for a final glance, I noticed that they were shaking like leaves in a strong wind.
The doorman opened the large glass door for Lola and me. I flipped him a buck as we hustled up to the apartment. When we got into the pad, I hit the refrigerator and pulled out a couple of brews as Lola exited into the bedroom.
Some people say that a beer tastes at its best after a dinner…others say it’s better after a hard day’s work. I like mine the most after I kill some low-life creature.
Lola came out of the bedroom wearing the sheerest pink negligee on the East Coast. I guzzled on the beer to help me stop drooling; however, it didn’t do any good. Those nylons clung to her body, and her hips swayed as she moved towards me. Her breasts were high, and stood out as if they were defying gravity. This was too much for one man to take. Now was the time and place. I picked her up in my arms, and carried her into the bedroom.
* * *
CH 3 Chaos at the Heavyweight Championship Fight.
