Real Men

i

I ’d driven my route. Turned in the cash. Made the entries for the horses, the numbers, the sports bets. It wasn’t so bad what I did. This was 1955. People were going to bet. It wasn’t my fault. It was just my upbringing nagging me to do the right thing.

Yeah. Sure.

I learned better in Korea. I learned it carrying kids who did the right thing to Graves Registration. No speeches. No medals. No bugle playing Taps. Just four of you lugging what was left of a buddy on a poncho. Knowing next time it could be you.

I was lucky. I got out with a Purple Heart and a bum leg. I got out knowing there was no such thing as tomorrow. Grab today. Get what you can.

My street was just off Wilshire. High fashion maybe twenty years ago. I parked in the garage under my apartment building and dug the Colt out of the glove box.

The gun was just protection. My route took me into scary neighborhoods. Cars got prowled sometimes, so I always took it in with me.

There were two people arguing in the elevator vestibule. They stopped and stared when I came in.

I had seen the woman in the building. I had never talked to her. Her looks put her way out of my league.

The man was heavy. Handsome. Snappy dresser. He was looking at my hand. I realized I was still holding the Colt. I hadn’t put it in my pocket.

Who are you supposed to be? he snarled.

The guy with the gun, I said.

That supposed to mean something?

You’re making trouble where I live, I said. Trouble causes cops.

The sneer in his eyes said he wasn’t impressed. You trying to tell me you work for Mickey Cohen?

Only Mickey Cohen I know drives a school bus, I said.

He didn’t like that. Cohen was in Federal Prison. McNeil Island. He still ran the bad stuff in LA. Everybody knew it. The only people with anything to gain denying it were people who actually did work for him.

Beat it, I said, before Beefy Boy had time to do any serious thinking.

Thinking didn’t seem to be one of his strong points. He sidled out of the vestibule and went to an old Cadillac. It took him that long to come up with an idea. He flipped me the finger and drove off.

The woman was gone by then. I hadn’t heard the elevator, but it was pretty quiet.

I looked at the gun in my hand and a shiver ran through me. If Beefy Boy had been a cop, I’d be wearing handcuffs. From now on, I’d leave it in the car.

ii

She was waiting for me when I got home the next night. The woman from the vestibule. She sat on the sofa, showing me more leg than women usually showed me.

Your door wasn’t locked, she said. Her voice was low, husky. So I came in to wait.

The door had been locked. I double-checked when I left. I’m funny that way. Going back to make sure I didn’t leave a light on or water running.

Buy you a drink? I asked.

You’re a bag man for Snake-Eyes Fletcher, she said.

After Korea I finished accounting school on the GI Bill. A guy I knew from the Army knew people who were looking for somebody good with numbers. When you’re a gimp with paper from a no-name college, you don’t get a lot of offers. Okay, so I was a bag man.

I had never met Fletcher. I hadn’t seen him but a few times. A trim, cold, dapper man who kept to his business.

I think he likes to be called Jack, I said.

The woman just laughed. I could feel her in my hip pocket, and she knew it. I made my way to a chair wishing my limp wasn’t so obvious.

What’s your name? I asked.

How much do you pick up every night? she asked. Money, I mean.

Twenty three stops. A bag from each. Fletcher’s operation was above a downtown garage, where cars coming and going wouldn’t be noticed. A quiet place to do the processing. Sort the bills by denomination. Make the entries. Total and cross check.

How much depends on what’s going on, I said. If there’s not much to bet on, it’s not so much.

It’s a lot, she said, or they wouldn’t have someone pick it up every night.

If you say so.

Ever think about just driving off with it one night? Getting lost and never coming back?

No, I lied.

A real man would think of that, she said.

I wouldn’t get to the city limits.

What if you got robbed? she asked. You know, hit over the head, so it wasn’t your fault.

How long have you been married? I asked.

She held up her left hand and inspected an empty ring finger. Tan lines revealed the truth.

You and Beefy Boy, I said. How long?

She didn’t answer.

Fletcher isn’t a fool, I said.

You are.

The husky voice was full of contempt. She was on her feet and gone, just like that. She had tried me out and I had disappointed her.

I moved to the sofa where her fragrance lingered. The cushions were still warm. It wasn’t much, but it was all I was going to get.

iii

It’s funny, the tricks your mind plays on you. One night a woman I didn’t know talked about driving off with the take. The next night I could feel eyes on me at every stop on the route.

There were some stops where I wasn’t surprised by the feeling. Parts of the city where it was real. Streets where neon flickered and sizzled over bars and pool halls. Where the sidewalk loafers saw everything without seeming to look at anything.

It didn’t spook me until I started feeling it on the streets where there were no stops. Empty streets where the wind raised miniature dust devils in the headlight beams and the street lamps made gargoyles out of the eucalyptus trees.

After that everyone seemed to be watching. Even the old couple who ran the hole-in-the-wall grocery store. They seemed like nice people. My guess was their percentage of Fletcher’s action was the difference between razor thin profits and receivership.

The people at the greasy spoons, they weren’t so nice. Worn out souls who hunkered in the booths and tried to nurse a few extra vitamins out of the free coffee refill while they dreamed about getting a break. Any break. Even a little one.

In places like that everyone knew everyone and even a ripple in the routine got noticed fast.

Everyone knew my car. They couldn’t miss it. Flashy new Ford. Two tone. Raven Black and Goldenrod Yellow.

Everyone knew I worked for Fletcher. They knew what time I showed up. They knew how I acted when I did. Who I talked to and what I said.

I made sure I hit every location exactly on my normal time. Parked exactly where I normally parked. Made the same conversation with the same people. Just so nobody would get the idea anything was wrong.

Fletcher kept guys on the payroll to make sure things didn’t go wrong. And to do something about it when they did.

I had heard stories about the guy who had the route before me. There were questions about him. Nobody ever said what the questions were. One night he wasn’t there anymore. Not a peep out of anyone. He was just gone. No one ever saw him again.

He made a mistake. Maybe a big one. Maybe just a little one. Someone on the route spotted it and ratted him out. It was like the route was jinxed. Like I had moved into a haunted house.

My last stop was Lonnie’s Lanes. A bowling alley down where a lot of Okies lived. I pulled around in back, parked like usual.

It was quiet there. Dark except for the light over the service door. A stray cat arched its back and hissed at me from the lid of a garbage can when I got out of the car.

An acne scarred runt opened the service door and let me into a clatter of falling pins and a howl of hillbilly music from the jukebox. Stale tobacco smoke poisoned the air. It was stifling, but still not enough to mask the smell of food from the cafe.

The place put an edge on my nerves. It always had. I could never put a finger on why.

Okay, so maybe it was all in my head. Like the nightmares. The ones that left me shaking and drenched in sweat. Like never being able to push the bad stuff from Korea out of my memory. I was still glad to get back to Fletcher’s garage.

No more jumping at shadows.

iv

She was waiting for me when I got home. Sitting where she sat the night before, in just the same way. She made a neat distraction.

My only warning was a whiff of man’s cologne, and then I was down on my knees, doubled up in pain and gasping for air. I heard the door close and felt hands in my pockets.

Where’s the gun?

I remembered the voice from the elevator vestibule. She had brought Beefy Boy this time.

Forget it, Marty, she said. If he hasn’t got it, he hasn’t got it.

Marty grabbed the lapels of my sport coat and hauled me to something resembling a standing position.

Think you can take me? he demanded.

I could barely breathe, let alone answer.

I used to fight, he said. Light heavy. Sure, a couple guys took me in the ring, but they were good. They were contenders. Nobody ever took me on the street.

He was mad at me. I had scared him with the gun. He had backed off in front of his wife, and now he was mad at me.

He hit me a short jab in the stomach. The woman stood and came over.

He can’t do us any good if you kill him, she said. Just give him the set up.

There’s a fight tomorrow, he told me. Twelve rounds. Big build-up in the papers. You heard about it?

I managed to shake my head.

Swede fighting a shine. Big money on a fight like that. Lots of action.

I nodded. Not for any reason. It just seemed like a good idea.

The woman was getting impatient. She took over.

Your last stop is a bowling alley. You park in back. Just like tonight. Leave the keys in the car. When you come out, Marty clips you. Just enough so when they find you, you’re out cold and the car is gone.

It was stupid. I was going to tell her it wouldn’t work when Marty drove another jab into my stomach.

You got that?

That’s enough, Marty, the woman said. I’ll take it from here.

She shooed him out and helped me to a chair.

He gets crazy, she said. He’ll kill us both if you don’t go through with it.

The pain churning in my gut made that a convincing argument.

I’ll make it up to you afterward, she promised.

She kissed my cheek before she left.

v

The next night my gut was still sore where Marty had slugged me, and I could still feel his wife’s kiss on my cheek. I left on my route without telling anyone at Fletcher’s garage what had happened.

Marty and his wife would call me a liar. Fletcher’s guys wouldn’t know who to believe. When they didn’t know who to believe, they didn’t believe anyone. That’s when things could get ugly.

Calling in sick wouldn’t have done me any good. If I didn’t show at Lonnie’s, Marty would pick his time and finish what he started.

I had only one way to go. Drive the route. Take what came.

It was like Korea. Like the night patrols. Knowing something