Deal on 159th

 
 

"Phillie," I say. That ain't his name, but everyone calls him Phillie, on account of this joint being named Phillies. He scurries over. Slips a cup across and pours coffee. It don’t look good, might just get this damn ringing out of my head, though. I take a slug.

“Phillie! This damn coffee’s cold,” I say.

“Heater's bust.”

"The heater's always, goddamn bust... What time you got, Phillie?"

"Just gone two."

He's always got,  "just gone two".

"Yeh, that's what I got," I say.

 

"Where are those two, tonight?" I raise my chin towards the empty counter.

"Who?" says Phillie, wringing out his cloth in a sink under the bar.

"You know who, the redhead and her feller," I say.

"It's early yet," Phillie says.

"Ain’t they usually here by now?”

Phillie shrugs his shoulders and moves over with his wrung out cloth to wipe around the bust heaters.

“What they come here for, every night, anyway?" I ask.

"Coffee, I reckon."

"I know what they drink.” I say, “Don’t get smart. Why here? At the fag-end of every night?"

“I don't know, I just get the coffee," says Phillie.

I look at him. He’s twitchy, cold and clammy. But it's creeps like Phillie who know it all. Always listening, sucking everything up, never spitting anything out. He's got it easy. If I listened more and thought about it, real hard, maybe I'd know it all too and I'd have it easy. Devil knows, I've been through it enough times, should remember, but...

"They're sure a queer couple." I say, "Just sitting there. Him staring over the bar. Her fiddling with her pocketbook. Keeping everything tidy. Never heard them say a word. You ever heard them speak, Phillie?"

"A while back... not lately."

"What'd they say, a while back?"

"Usual stuff."

"What’s the usual stuff for a couple whose tendency is to keep stumm?"

"About their kid. They talked about their kid. That kind of stuff."

"They have a kid?" I ask.

"Yeh, they did have a kid... once." Phillie says.

"What happened?"

Phillie’s watching the coffee dribble into the jug.

I hate that drip, drip. Reminds me of a clock. Reminds me how long these goddamn nights are. How many nights have I sat here, watching that cold coffee drip, drip, drip into the jug?

“Come, on Phillie out with it, I need to know. You know that I need to know.”

"Well," says Phillie, leaning on the bar and coming closer. Coming closer than you'd want a sweaty creep like Phillie to come. "The guy was in the mob, way back. One of the little guys, a payments man.”

“A payments Man?” I ask.

“Yeh, paid off clerks in the court, anyone the mob needed to keep sweet, that sort of thing. Not anyone big. Definitely not the muscle end of the business. Kept himself to himself, mostly."

"What about the Doll?"

“Her name’s Red. She had the apartment over there," Phillie nods his head towards the street. “When they met, Red was a hooker but well past her prime. And she was spending more time on her knees in church than in her apartment. Saw more stained glass than the preacher himself. She'd started looking for a way out. An exit, that wouldn’t ruffle too many of the mob’s feathers.”

"Come on. Come on. Get on with it. Tell me, Phillie."

"The Payments Man, he was one of Red’s regular punters. Then, one night, they arrive here announcing that they’re gonna get hitched. Red reckons, taking care of just one guy will be easier than looking after the whole damn neighbourhood.”

“Yes, and... the guy? Tell us the bit about the guy.”

“Well, he likes music. Crazy about opera, goes to the theatre every week, Puccini and that kinda stuff. Red ain’t so keen. But the arrangement suits them both. Red was nearer forty than thirty, maybe more. Then, the next thing is, they are in here and Red is telling the world she’s having a kid! A kid! Like it had never happen before. The preacher tells Red the child is a gift from above for having thrown the Devil out of her bed. The Payments Man also begins to hear guiding voices. Fancies himself as a righteous father. And he too wants out of the mob, but...”

Phillie looks around, like someone’s gonna be listening. Then says, confidential like,

“You’d know this better than your average John Doe; the regular way out of the mob is with a complimentary lump of lead in your head and a few days in the funeral parlour over the street there, and that place is owned by the mob!”

“...Why should I know that, better than most? What you getting at, Phillie?”

He shrugs, his shoulders, puckers his mouth and carries on, “Anyway, Red goes to see the Boss, smooths his feathers.

“It’s OK,” the Boss says. If the couple stick around the neighbourhood, with their kid, they can go legit. The boss surmises that the kid'll be top notch insurance against any temptation the Payments Man may have to make loose with his tongue. But then the whisper is that the Boss wants to become godfather to the kid. Getting the son he never had. As his parenting ambitions were cut short with a knife in a fight with his mother’s lodger, at the age of thirteen. So, the Boss makes the Kid his godson. Clothes, schooling, singing lessons, concerts... the whole caboodle. Red and the kid want for nothing. Time passes and the kid begins to sing like an angel. Performs at christenings, weddings, dinners... that sort of thing. The Boss begins to let the kid spread his wings. Travel all over town. Singing and performing.”

 

"Then what, then what?" I say. Why does Phillie make such a big deal out of all this? Every night, on and on. Always the same old patter. I lean over and grab Phillie. Pull him closer. “Get on with it?” I say... then... there’s something black... dripping from my head onto the bar. What in hell..? Phillie wipes it up with his filthy rag and continues his prattle.

"The kid's coming back from singing. Some party on the other side of town. Calls in here for a coffee and a parli with yours truly.”

“Yes, yes. But why here? Why not go straight home and drink his own damn coffee?” I ask. “If he’d done that...”

“Well, he always called in here. In the early hours. Bringing me all sorts of scraps. Interesting stuff. The stuff that a bar wipe needs to know, stuff he’d heard, picked up from all over. Useful to... well, someone in my line of work. People would talk while he was singing. They reckoned he couldn’t hear. But he knew his music. Knew it so well he could sing and listen to a conversation on the other side of a room at the same time. Some talent, eh?”

 

I’m getting agitated. Phillie comes in close again. I hate this bit. It’s the same rotten smell every night. Stale coffee grounds. Cigarette butts. Sweat, and that smell Phillie has, like something has been dead for some time in his shoes. “Yeh, yeh.” I say, “Get on with it...This night, while the Kid’s here...”

 

Phillie looks aggravated for a moment but settles back down, “Yeh, well... This night, while the Kid’s here, a guy comes in, carrying a case. A musical instrument case. A trombone or something like that. Kid assumes the stranger's a musician. They start talking. Then after a while the guy opens up his case and gets out his instrument, only it ain't no damn trombone."

“Yeh, and then what?” I say.

Phillie rattles his knuckles on the bar, "Dut, dut, dut, dut!"

"Dead?"

"You said it bud, nothing else? The Kid’s laying on the floor, perforated. Side to side. Clean in two. Zip!"

I feel uneasy. I heard this before and it's like I’m heading down an alleyway I don't wanna head down. One of those dark places your Mom says, Son, whatever you do, don’t go down there. My head's still ringing. I hold up my hand. Damn, there's a hole in my goddamn head, just behind my ear. I can poke my finger in it. Blood, sticky and black, like pitch. Phillie gives me a napkin. I look over my shoulder. The wet street outside is cut through with reflections, holding up a patchwork of grey empty shapes rising into the night. I gotta get out there soon... It ain't long now.

"Who was the gunman?" I ask.

Phillie’s black eyes dart at me, out of his white lime washed face. He’s shifty, alright. He whispers through rotten teeth, "You know who the gunman was! A would-be wise-guy from over the river."

"Why'd he kill the Kid... the singer?"

Phillie's eyes flickered around, like they’d lost something. They fixed on the rag and Phillie does some more bar wiping. "That's what everyone wanted to know. Screwed up, they said"

“And, what happened next?” Red wants revenge, reckons there should the mob from over the water should pay for popping the Kid. But the Boss says those days of mob war are over. He calls a meeting. Talks to the Brooklyn bunch, who say the killer screwed up. Took out the wrong party. A deal’s made. The boys from the other mob agree to square it. They’ll get their fixer to deal with the matter. The fixer’s independent  from all of the New York mobs. A well respected man. Everyone calls him the Candleman”

"Candleman?" I ask.

"Yeh, on account that he is generally employed to snuff out guys. Tony Candele was his name. He was given the contract to snuff out the Kid’s killer.”

“Yeh, I know all this Phillie, get to the bit about 159th. That’s the bit I don’t get.”

Phillie continues gabbing, “Well, Red and her Payments Man are still out of joint over the mob’s deal. But the Boss says it’s settled. The Kid’s killer will be dealt with. It’s just a screw-up. Screw-ups happen. Business is business. Red says she wants retribution. Wants her kid’s killer to suffer. Every night. Wants to watch the killer suffer, over and over. Wants to see it with her own eyes, close up. Like she was in the front stalls of an all-night movie show. The Boss says, ‘It’s a pity about the Kid He was like a son to me but those who sow the wind reap the whirlwind..’ ”

“Phillie,” I say, “I ain’t interested in the Boss’s weather reports. I don’t want to hear all this stuff. Get to 159th for God’s sake!”

“I’m getting there. The Boss says, ‘Any way, there ain’t no money in vengeance. That’s work for the Devil!’

 

But Red don’t give up. She goes to church and the preacher says the Kid’s death is retribution from above. ‘What for?’ says Red. Over the years, the preacher has rolled out a few ladles of Old Testament brimstone and treacle and didn’t recall saying that the Kid was the Lord’s pleasure and now says the Kid’s death is the wrath of God. On account of Red having entertained the devil in her bed in such a free and easy manner all those years ago. Red says nothing, clams up. Leaves the church and makes straight to the nearest bottle of Bourbon. The Payments Man drags her home that night, and from a different dive every night after. A week, or so, passes and he can do it no more. Says, ‘I’ve had a enough Red, you can just go to the Devil, for all I care.’ Then he Sits her down and leaves her... on the corner of 159th.”

“This is it. This is the bit I want to hear. What happened then?”

“The Payments Man thought he’d left her for dead. Propped up in the ally with a bottle of Bourbon clenched in each of her fists. He stops by here to sob into a coffee. Sometime later, Red walks in. Says she’s got it sorted. Made a deal on 159th. Says she ain’t never going to church again.”

“What you saying, Phillie? What happened on 159th? Who’d she make that deal with?"

“I don’t know. Probably no one. Just a phrase she used. I weren’t there. Maybe she met someone... How would I know? I’m just a bar-wipe.”

Phillie sidles off crabwise down the bar. Wiping as he goes.

 

Goddamn! I still don’t get this bit. I take my hat off. Wipe the cold sweat off the back of my neck. Phillie knows more than he’s saying; I know that much. I’m gonna get it out of him this time, “Phillie, just tell me this, who...” But the door opens and cuts me off.

The couple come in. Sit at the counter. Red’s dolled up, everything in place. Red hair. Red dress. Red lips. Black lashes... but she don’t hide her empty eyes. Dried up. Dead and useless. Two spent slug cases. I look close. Her skin’s like some old repainted vaudeville flat. Caked over with flaking paint. A corpse made up for the day of the wake.

The Payments Man don’t speak, either. Phillie pours two coffees and puts them on the bar in front of the pair. Like the coffee, the guys eyes are bitter, black and cold. He too is holding something back. Something he can’t abide. Looks as if he dare not blink. That if he did pictures might flood in. Pictures he don’t want to see again. So he stares into the middle of nowhere.

She gets out a mirror from her pocketbook. Looks at nothing. Tries to wet her lips. Her tongue’s as dry as egg box pulp. She puts the mirror back. Gazes, empty eyed, at the same thing he ain't staring at.

I get the shivers; I've seen too much. I get up to leave, "Ok, Phillie." I say.

"Right" says Phillie. I pick up my trombone case and head out.

 

The door swings closed behind me and the cold air drills up my nostrils.

No noise! The ringing in my head has gone.

I reach up... no goddamn hole!

I look both ways down the grey streets. Light streams out of Phillie’s windows and along the wet sidewalks. But there ain’t much to see. Which way? Sure is cold. Maybe there’s safety... obscurity out there, somewhere to sleep... in that blackness. Or maybe... No, I got to go. I pull up my collar. Pull down my hat and step into the shadows. As soon as I do, Red steps out followed by her Payments Man. I quicken my step. They’re following. I turn the corner. There’s a limo parked against the sidewalk. I stop. From the Plymouth’s tail-pipe, exhaust snakes up and slithers into the night. The engine purrs like the breath of a big cat waiting in the shadows. Waiting for what? Could the limo be waiting for me? I ain’t expecting no pick-up. Maybe just a coincidence.

Red and the Payments Man turn into the street, behind me.

I walk on. Towards the limo. A door opens. It’s the Candleman! Goddamn Candleman! I freeze, can’t move. My feet sunk into wet concrete. Candy takes my arm. Then my trombone case with his other hand and drops it into the trunk. The limo door opens and I get in the front seat. Out of the window. Red and the Payments Man have caught up. They’re both watching me. Red’s eyes ain’t blinking.

From behind me, Candy, his voice like Italian leather on Bronx grit, whispers, “Its a-cold night, eh?”

“Yeh, sure is Mr Candele” I say, but I’m sweating like a stuck pig.

"You a-screwed up."

"What?" I says.

"Why'd you a-shoot the Kid?"

“I just did what I was told, Mr Candela.”

“Yeh? And a-what was you a-told?”

" 'Pop the goddamn song bird at Phillie’s.’ Mr Candela. That's what they told me. Take out the song bird at Phillies."

"Nah. You a-screwed up. You a-shoot the Boss’s Godson. The kid? Not only shoot a-wrong bird, you shoot a-goddamn wrong species!

I begin to panic, “What! But...”

“It was a-Phillie. Phillie! He was the song bird. You should have a-popped Phillie. He a-been singing on both sides of a-river for too long. You a-pop a-wrong songbird, Amico. Wrong bird... Amico, amico!”

 

I reach for the door handle. Where is it? It ain’t there! Just a damn spindle. I look at the driver. He grins. A big fat grin. Like he knows where the goddamn door handle is. Outside, Red steps closer. Stoops down, best she can. Cranks her neck sideways. Real close to the side window. Like she’s looking at something dead, something floating in a storm drain. What, once, might have been a smile, cracks across Red’s face.

Candy puts his hand on my shoulder, "Easy, easy, delicatamente il mio amico. You are a-one of us, amico, amico. We look after you a-fine. Don’t a-worry. Anyone can a-make a mistake. We’ll just a-need to tidy things up. That’s a-all!"

I relax a little but the cold sweat from my neck is burning down the small of my back, like a trickle of iced steel. The Candleman strokes the back of my head. Like I’m his damned pet rat.

“Si,” says the Candleman. “We just a-need to ...” Pow!

A neat little hole in my temple! Pow! The sound rings on. I shake my head but it won’t go away. Pow! The mob's way of tidying things up. A 22 slug from Candy’s gun. In the temple. Very tidy. A 22 usually stays inside your head. A 45 would be certain to blow half your goddamn brains out the window and over the sidewalk. Very messy!

Pow! It rings on and on, like a train in the night, that just won’t go on by.

I’m outside the limo. There’s no Red. No Payments Man. I look back to where I was sitting. See this guy with a gabby cross-eyed look. Flat nosing it against the side window. The limo purrs away. I pick up my trombone case and walk back around the corner.

 

I had it just then. Real clear. Just for a moment... Just for one goddamn moment, I had it. Knew it all. Now it’s gone. Now I can’t get a handle on it... and all I’m left with this goddamn ringing in my head. Cold sweat down my back. And a monkey-wrench churning my gut. It’s like waking from a damn nightmare; it’s as clear as crystal glass for a moment then, Pow! It’s shattered. Gone! Now I can’t get it back... I walk into Phillie’s place.

 

"Phillie," I say. That ain't his name, but everyone calls him Phillie, on account of this joint being named Phillies. He scurries over. Slips a cup across and pours coffee. It don’t look good, might just get this damn ringing out of my head, though. I take a slug.

“Phillie! This damn coffee’s cold,” I say.

“Heater's bust.”

"The heater's always, goddamn bust... What time you got, Phillie?"

"Just gone two."

He's always got,  "just gone two".

"Yeh, that's what I got," I say.