No Beast So Fierce (6 page)

“I changed.”

Red was silent, confused. He struggled through rotgut wine, marijuana, and benzedrine to understand my refusal. I wondered how he'd become Johnny Taormina's solicitor. I'd never met the racketeer, but on the face of it Red appeared an unlikely choice. On reflection, however, it seemed more reasonable. They were from the same neighborhood and generation. Red was a drunken lecher, but he did keep his mouth closed and knew criminals outside the rackets, persons Johnny didn't know. Nor could Johnny run a classified advertisement for a bandit. Racket and thief underworld touch borders and sometimes overlap, but they are different. My few dealings with racketeers had made me simultaneously respect and despise them. They were successful, organized, cunning; they used money to make money. Only a small percentage ever went to jail, and then it was for a short vacation. On the other hand, most of them were, by my standards, traveling under false colors, more businessman than criminal. They pander to society's prohibited desires during business hours and live as paradigms of morality … And by comparison to the heavy criminal, who is the world's most independent predator, they are weaklings. Many will inform to the police on the heavy criminal. Society talks about police being corrupted by racketeers, but police also corrupt racketeers. The bookie stools on the robber quite often.

The folly of my thoughts rushed into awareness. I was thinking from the criminal view, with attitudes alien to my new goals. Decent citizens don't speculate even momentarily on robberies and stool pigeons and the ethics of crime.

It was 3:00
A.M.
when we departed. L&L Red walked us outdoors and offered to chauffeur me around in his car until I got one of my own, providing (he laughed) that I bought the gas. He wasn't working. The cabin lacked a phone, but he wrote the number of a pool hall where he could usually be reached during the day.

*    *    *

As Willy drove toward El Monte my mood vacillated between exhilaration and depression. It was a joy to ride through the night and look up at stars thrown like powder across black velvet. Yet I was enmeshed with the same kinds of persons, the same sordidness, that accompanied all the wasted years. Willy and Red were friends—but their lives were so circumscribed, so hopeless. Entwined, such people trap each other. I wanted to break clear, find other kinds of persons and another life. Yet I'd called Willy. It had been my free choice against the alternatives of the halfway house or wandering alone my first night of freedom. I felt no wrong in making the choice under the circumstances—what was wrong was the circumstances. I hoped I'd meet other kinds of persons I could like where I worked—wherever that was going to be.

“Are we going to your pad?” I asked.

“We could, but Selma's gonna be in my ass for being gone so long. I've gotta go to work in about three or four hours. I missed two days last week she doesn't know about. They're gonna fire me if I miss another one.”

“What kind of parole officer have you got?”

“A hope-to-die asshole. Man, he's so square—one of those educated fools. Got book learnin' up the ass, but doesn't know a fuckin' thing about life or people. He's one of those guys that lived in a neat white house with a picket fence and pretty lawn and went to Sunday school every day until he was sixteen. He never stole anything in his life—never had to steal anything. Him and his wife both teach Sunday school. I know he doesn't give her any head … probably didn't ball the broad until they were married. He acts like his job is some kind of missionary among the heathen parolees.”

The crude description was funny in a way, yet Willy's difficulties were vivid. There'd be no communication between someone like Willy and the personality he described.

“He should be happy you're not hooked and stealing,” I said.

“He wants everyone to be like him. People are different. I know that, and I'm just an illiterate dope fiend. I'll show you what an asshole he is. If he knew I was driving a car he'd throw me in jail and write a report to the parole board. He'd feel bad, but to him it would be his responsibility. Can't he understand that being without a car in L.A. is like being in Death Valley without water? It'd take me four hours to ride a bus to work.”

Willy went on to recount how he'd already lost two jobs because the parole officer had told the employers that Willy was a felonaddict on parole. The regulations required an employer knowing, but not many parole officers pushed it. A man running a business wasn't interested in ex-convict problems; he was more worried about something being stolen. So Willy was fired after a couple weeks, the employer giving some lame excuse and the parole officer never realizing the truth of what had happened.

“How're you getting along with Selma?”

“It was pretty shaky when I got out. I didn't go with her right away. You saw the new baby, huh?”

“Hers—but not yours?”

“Right. I was down two years. I didn't expect her to watch television. Shit, I didn't even leave the television. I sold it and shot up the bread the month before I got busted. But a baby! It's so stupid. Nobody has unplanned babies anymore, not with pills and shit. Even an abortion. And she didn't even tell me until I was ready to get out. The baby was four months old. Right then I didn't want to see her anymore, and when I got out I stayed at Mary's for a week until I got a paycheck. Joe was already busted. Anyway, Selma came over, one thing led to another, and we made up. Who am I to throw rocks at anybody? And the broad's treated me pretty good considering everything. She's a pain in the ass sometimes, but I'm used to her. We're all right, I guess.”

Willy stopped talking. He made me smile—so phlegmatic, unruffled by poverty and frustration. His dream was the permanent euphoria of narcotics and to be left alone. He would stumble along, accept the parole officer's indignities, incarceration being worse, live with his shrewish wife in patience, and he might finish five years parole.

“Let's stop and see Mary,” he said. “She'll groove on seeing you.”

“It's 3:30 in the morning.”

“She won't give a fuck if we wake her up. She's used to it.”

Mary Gambesi lived two miles from her sister and brother-in-law. Willy turned down an alley in the lower middle-class suburb and switched off the headlights. “She lives in the back.”

Willy cut the motor and glided to a halt. Tiptoeing, our shoes nonetheless scrunching on gravel, we moved through extreme darkness to a darker bungalow. Willy knew his way. He rapped his knuckles against a window. A dog yipped nearby, aroused by the sound. A dozen canine voices instantly joined in chorus.

“Now some fool will call the police about a prowler. Sonofabitch.” Willy rapped harder.

The windowshade fluttered; a pale, featureless face appeared. “Is that you, Willy?”

“Yeah, it's me … your old faithful brother-in-law.”

“Is that Max with you?”

“That's him.” Willy turned to me. “Selma must've called.”

We trampled through a flower bed and around the corner of the building. Willy muttered curses at the yelping dogs. Mary waited until the door was closed before turning on the lights. She held a flannel housecoat tight around her throat with one hand. She put the other to her mouth at sight of me. The gesture was so dramatic that it had to be spontaneous. “Selma called and told me, but I can't believe it.”

“Lazarus risen,” I said. “Everybody gets out some day, parole or pine box.” I could see that time had been gentle with her. Even barefoot, hair in curlers, she looked no more than eighteen. She waited for my appraisal, smiling softly. We shared a bond of affection.

“You haven't aged a day,” I said.

She made a deprecatory gesture; she was unaccustomed to compliments. “Sit down,” she said. “I'll be right back.” She wanted to put on slippers and close the doors to the children's room. She asked us to be quiet.

“You two got somethin' goin',” Willy said. “Why don't you pull her? She's a thoroughbred and she's free. Joe and her are all over.”

“She's still Joe's old lady as far as I'm concerned. And I dig her in a different way, anyway.”

“If you really want to straighten up, she's perfect for you. I know you dig them stallion blondes, but you've gotta be on top for that. For someone to stick with you, ain't none better'n Mary. She's almost too fuckin' sweet to be real.”

“Maybe she's too sweet for me.”

Mary returned at that moment, hair brushed out. The vast black mane tumbled over her shoulders. Again I was struck with how young she looked. “Don't you ever age?” I asked.

“I pluck out the gray hair,” She laughed, coloring.

“If I did that I'd be bald.”

“I noticed … but you look distinguished.”

“You still know how to make a fella feel good.”

She blurted suddenly: “Oh, Max, I'm so glad you're free. I just hope you can stay out and enjoy life for a change.” The gust of emotion made her blush. She turned to Willy. “Do you have any cigarettes? I know Max doesn't smoke.”

“Just cigars,” I said.

“Smelly cigars if I remember right.” She asked if we were hungry, but the amphetamine in our systems left no appetite. Coffee was another matter. She began heating water and getting cups. I tilted the chair back against a wall and relaxed, tranquility spreading through me. I bathed in the warmth of friendship in the room. Watching Mary, I wondered what would happen to her now that Joe was gone. Would she find some working stiff? Yet she was so accustomed to criminals. I could remember her in the background when addicts came to buy from Joe. They'd fix in the bathroom and lie in stupors around the living room, dropping lighted cigarettes onto the furniture.

I wondered, too, about their children. Lisa was six and Joey Junior three when I went away. How had they turned out? What effect was the bizarre world of their parents and in-laws having on them? I asked Mary about them. Lisa, it seemed, was boy crazy and presently worried because her breasts weren't filling out as quickly as her friends'. Joe was a devil—but a delightful devil.

Mary mentioned that Selma was worried about Willy being with me, that I'd lead him into trouble. Willy shook his head in disgust, finished his coffee, and went into the living room to nap a while.

I didn't tell Mary, but Selma's fears were unfounded. If I was going back into crime, Willy would never be a participant. Beyond getting equipment and menial chores I'd never be able to trust him. I'd gone on one score with him—rather I'd taken him with me—and it would be the last time. The score was easy (as scores go): a bookmaker who carried at least two thousand dollars on him. The bookie weighed about two hundred and thirty pounds. The plan was to break into his apartment and wait for him. Willy would wait outside and follow him in and help me tie him up.

I made entry by cutting a screen in a bathroom, and waited in a Halloween mask. The bookie arrived twenty minutes later. I faced him, got the money, and sat him down on the sofa. He wanted to jump me. I could see it in his eyes. Willy never came. It was impossible to tie him up with one hand while holding a pistol with the other—and getting that close to him would be dangerous. I waited half an hour, finally backed out of the apartment. I knew the victim was leaping for a telephone the moment I closed the door behind me. I'd planned to have time to get away by tying him up. That was gone.

So was Willy. There was only a vacant space at the curb where Willy had parked. I sprinted through back yards and alleys to get away.

Willy was waiting at my apartment. He was trembling. He claimed that a prowl car had cruised by and doubled back, the policemen eyeing him. That's why he'd fled. I disbelieved him—but accepted the story without argument. Friendship was more important. But it was the last time I considered Willy for a caper. He lacked the necessary courage.

“Do you hear from Joe?” I asked Mary.

She sipped coffee and kept her eyes down. “Once in a while he writes, claims it's going to be different next time. But it's over, Max, all over. I've waited years for him to change. He won't. I don't think any of you will. I'd stay if it was just me, but I've got the children to think of.”

“You should wait until he's on the streets, not quit when he's down. You know how that looks.”

“I don't care how it looks. I've waited half a dozen times. I never even go on dates. When he's behind bars he always promises that things are going to be different. Maybe he believes it … I don't. All of you have some kind of sickness. This time he moved out before they got him. He'd come here and start fights and”—tears shone in her eyes—“he was living with a whore and selling heroin again. When he came to see the kids he brought her along.”

“Was he giving you any money?”

“He wasn't supporting us if that's what you mean. He'd buy things for Joey and Lisa and they thought he was wonderful, but he wasn't putting beans in the pot. We get more from welfare now that he's back in prison. It's strange to realize it's easier to raise my children—and feed them—if my husband's in prison.”

She poured fresh coffee and we talked until she was stifling yawns. I chased her back to bed, promising to drop by in a few days to see the children. Dawn was only an hour away. Willy and I could stop for coffee and pastry. He could then drop me downtown and go to work. I'd look for a job until it was time to report to Rosenthal's office.

My first night of freedom was over. It had not been accompanied by rockets, brass bands, and flying banners.

4

T
HE
classified section of the
Los Angeles Times
had pages of job listings. A tiny fraction might suit me, and of these only half a dozen were downtown where I could answer them before seeing Rosenthal.