Hard Cash

by O. J. Anderson

conclusion

Joe fanned the money out like playing cards on his mother’s kitchen table. She took a couple steps closer to make sure she was seeing what she thought she was seeing. Four hundred dollars. As soon as she realized it she said, “Aw, Joey. Whad’ya got yourself into?”

“Nothin’, Ma,” he said. “I’m workin’.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I’m doin’ a thing for this guy.”

Her face winced and she turned away. She didn’t say it, but it was there: Aw, Joey. Nothing good ever came from doing a thing for some guy. Nothing. She sat down at the table and picked up her pack of smokes. Tapped one out. After it was lit and she had a drag, she asked Joe, “You want to end up like that Thomas kid from down the road?”

“I ain’t gonna end up like him, Ma.” Joe’s voice went up to this defensive note, the way it always did when he talked to his mother.

“Fifteen years, Joey. That’s what he got.”

“Ma...”

“They don’t call it hard time for nothin’, Joe. You know that?”

“Ma, would you listen a second? I ain’t going to prison. I’m doin’ something good here.” He watched as his mother shook her head and lightly flicked the end of her smoke against the edge of the ashtray. They were both quiet for a while, until Joe said, “I been thinkin’, Ma. Y’know, maybe I could do stuff... like when they don’t need me down at the docks.”

“Stuff?” she said, agitated. “What are you talkin’ about, Joe?”

“I don’t know. Just stuff. Maybe I could be somebody who does stuff for people.”

She looked up at him quickly. “You wanna be somebody now, Joey? Is that it? What do ya wanna be... a movie star? You want people to ask for your signature? Is that what this guy’s tellin’ ya, Joe? Huh? When did you go and start wantin’ to be somebody?”

“I’m not talkin’ about a movie star, Ma.”

“Listen to your mother, Joe. Don’t go getting any wild ideas in your head. They’re not gonna do you any good. You hear me?”

“Alls I’m sayin’, Ma, is that maybe I could be a good guy to have around... y’know, in a pinch.”

“Aw, Joey,” she said.

“What, Ma?”

She took a quick, forceful drag and, holding her breath, said, “What’re ya forty now, Joe?” Then pushed her jaw out and blew the smoke straight up.

Joe mumbled, “I’m forty-two, Ma.”

“My point exactly,” she said. “You’re forty-two years old and you live by yourself in that tiny room above the thrift shop. You don’t need to be worried about other people’s pinches, Joey. What you need to be doin’ is go back down to the docks and see if they’s hirin’ again.”

“Whad’ya think I’m doin’ every day, Ma?”

“I don’t know, Joe.” She was raising her voice now. “You’re comin’ in here with hundreds. Why don’t you tell me what you’re doin’.”

Joe shouted, “I’m walkin’ around in circles like a caged animal, Ma!” If he wanted to he could have pounded his fists on the table and smashed it to bits.

“Don’t go takin’ a tone with me, Joey boy.”

He slumped in his chair. He’d show her. He’d show ’em all.

She went silent for a minute, staring into her ashtray. Rolling her smoke back and forth between her fingertips. “Let me tell you something, Joe,” she finally said. “You see someone in a pinch... you turn right around and go the other way. You hear me?”

Joe didn’t say anything, but she kept after him, making him promise to stay out of other people’s problems. “Alright, Ma. Alright,” he finally told her. And they dropped the subject.

His mother carried on like they hadn’t even argued at all. She had a way of forgetting about things if she wanted to. After tapping out another smoke she told him all about the neighbors, prices at the deli, the weather, soap operas, and a few other things that Joe payed not much attention to.

After a while Joe told her that he had to get going.

* * *

The Tavern was only a few blocks walk from the bus stop. It was dark and hot inside. Full of smoke and TVs and locals in various states of sobriety, some with a week’s pay riding on the games. Some were cheering, others slapping their palms down onto tables. A lot of guys hoping to win big that night. But most of those mutts wouldn’t have known what to do with it even if they started winning the bread hand over fist.

Maybe some would go home and show their old ladies. Wave it in their faces. See that? I ain’t no bum! Others would keep betting until it was gone; those kinds of guys been broke so long they don’t know how to be anything else.

Joe made his way to the bar and asked for Frankie.

“Yeah? Who’s askin’?”

“Tell ’im Chris Allen’s here.”

The bartender picked up a phone from under the bar and said something Joe couldn’t hear over the games. He gave Joe a look, then hung up the phone and said, “Wait right there.”

Half a minute later Joe saw the bartender nodding towards him to someone across the tavern. He turned and saw two goons in suits coming at him. Couple of downtown scrapers, for sure. One guy had a long scar across his cheek and a permanent squint in one eye. The other one’s nose was pointing to his left ear.

The one with the nose said, “You Chris?”

“That’s right,” Joe said. “Where’s Frankie.”

“You got the money?”

The swinging started a couple seconds after Joe said no. These two were tough, but nothing Joe hadn’t seen before. They got a couple good licks in, but nothing serious. Joe would have had them too, he would’ve had them easy if the bartender hadn’t pulled a bat from behind the bar.

* * *

When Joe came around he was lying on the floor of Frankie’s office. His face was wet. Right eye swollen almost completely shut. Cracked lip. And his head was pounding. Joe could tell that the two punks got a couple extra licks in after the bartender laid him out. Standing over him holding a glass was the guy with the nose.

“Wake up, cupcake.”

Joe wobbled to his feet. His vision blurry. The two scrappers stood on both sides of him. Joe reached back and felt the lump on the back of his head and tried to focus on the man standing behind the desk. It was Frankie. There were at least six TVs in his office, all showing games with the sound turned all the way down.

“Joe Smith,” Frankie said, reading the name off a green union card.

Joe checked for his wallet. Gone.

Frankie looked at Joe like he was something that came in stuck to someone’s shoe. “What are you, a cop?” He said it like he wouldn’t have believed it even if Joe admitted he was one. But guys like Frankie could never be too careful.

“Nah, boss,” the nose said. “He ain’t no cop.”

“Ex-cop?” Frankie asked, dropping the union card.

“He’s ex-nobody, boss. Current nobody. Future nobody.”

Frankie came around the desk holding his hands out in front of him like he meant, What am I gonna do with this guy? He wore a leather sport coat over a shiny red shirt. A big golden medallion hung from his neck. Slick hair and lots of rings. He asked Joe, “So what’re you doing coming in here lookin’ for trouble and telling everyone your name’s Chris Allen? Huh?”

Still foggy, Joe didn’t say anything.

He snapped his fingers in Joe’s face. “Where you from, Joe? Huh?”

“Uh...” Joe could barely remember. “I, uh... I’m from the neighborhood.”

“No kidding, right?” Frankie laughed and looked Joe up and down. “I had no idea, huh boys?”

The two scrappers laughed and said, “Yeah, boss, yeah.” Then the nose said, “Ya can tell these neighborhood humps a mile away, boss.”

Frankie snapped his fingers like it was going to help him remember something. “How does that one go? How many guys from the neighborhood does it take to change a lightbulb?” He paused for a moment, then: “Five! One to hold the lightbulb and four to pick up the ladder and spin him around. Know what I’m sayin’, right?”

They laughed. “That’s a good one, boss. Yeah.”

“Let me tell you something, Joe Smith,” Frankie said. Things had just gotten serious again. “That’s the only reason your thumbs are still attached. You hear what I’m saying? Huh? This ain’t the neighborhood. You’re in way over your head here, so now you’re gonna tell me all about this little chicken-lipped twit Chris Allen. You following me, Joe? Huh?”

Yeah, he knew he was in way over his head. He had that part figured out all right. These were the kind of guys give you one chance to come out with it straight. Otherwise you get rolled up in a rug and left at the dump. Joe told him, “He wanted me to work you over pretty good.”

As soon as Frankie heard those words he backed up a step and clapped his hands together. Fuming. “Boys,” he said, “I want this punk Chris on a plate! I am gonna eat him for lunch.” Frankie spun around and kicked his desk. “For lunch!”

“We’ll get him, boss,” the nose said. “We’ll put him on a plate for ya.”

Frankie made fists with his thumbs and pinkies sticking out. Started shadow boxing. Jab jab hook. He asked Joe, “How much did he pay ya, Joe? Huh?” Duck, weave, uppercut. “How much?” Couple jabs.

“Five hundred bucks,” Joe muttered.

“Whoa!” Frankie shouted and stopped boxing. “Five bills for a thirty-grand beating. Ain’t that something.”

“Hey, boss... this guy must be dumber than he looks.”

“Thirty grand?” Joe said.

“That’s right. Thirty grand. The kid lost big in the playoffs.” Frankie ran his palms across his hair. “They never want to pay up though. Never. Me... I always pay up. Know what I’m saying? Sometimes you’re the bug, sometimes you’re the windshield. Right boys? That’s business. And sometimes business is breakin’ legs too.” Right hook and an uppercut. “What’d he tell ya, Joe? Huh? What’d he tell ya?”

Joe said, “Told me you were puttin’ the squeeze on him about a business deal and smackin’ around your old lady.”

Frankie pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. “This kid is dead, boys.” Looked like he was about to hyperventilate. “No... Dead’s not even good enough. I want him deader than dead. I want him dead twice!”

“We’ll hire a doctor, boss.”

Maybe it was the blow to his head, or maybe he was dumber than he looked, but it wasn’t until that point that Joe started to figure out what had happened. He asked Frankie, “So, you ain’t smackin’ around no kids then?”

“What?” Frankie said. “What kids? What are you talkin’ about? Huh?” He looked at Joe, saw his confusion. “Listen, ya lug,” he said. “You been had. You got suckered. This uptown punk sent you here to take his beating for him. Tonight was his last chance to pay up or we break thirty grand worth of bones. You hear what I’m tellin’ ya, Joe?”

“Yeah,” he muttered. “I hear ya.”

* * *

A whack in the head with a baseball bat. That’s what you get for thinking you was ever going to be something more than an extra pair of hands down at the stinkin’ docks. For letting yourself get a wild idea in your head like that. Like you were ever going to be somebody. Really, Joe, you should know better after all these years. Whenever you go getting these crazy ideas like you’re going to improve your lot in life, there’s always someone right there to whack you in the head. Put you right back in line.

* * *

He took the bus up to 15th and walked around — keeping his head down so nobody would think much of him — until he found the place he was looking for. D’Annato’s. It was an expensive kind of joint. Heavy wooden doors shined up real good. A lot of brasswork and tiny white lights too.

Joe put his beat up and swollen face against the glass. Cupped his hand next to his eyes to block some of the light coming from under the awning. He looked around for Chris Allen. There were lots of people inside. Seemed like they were having a pretty good time. Big plates and wine bottles. It looked warm in there.

He didn’t notice Chris until the kid stood and turned to walk to the restroom. It was him all right. Smug little punk. Not a care in the world. Acting like everything’s okay. Enjoy those teeth while you got ’em, Mack.

Joe moved away from the glass a little and caught a good sight of himself. The eye looked rough. He was fish-lipped pretty good. And his vision kept going in and out blurry. Probably had a concussion. But that was nothing compared to how he felt inside. That’s where the real damage had been done. And he was about to make this uptown twerp look as bad as he felt.

Joe backed into a tight little alley right next to the restaurant. It was just big enough for some trash cans and old wooden pallets. I’ll be right here waitin’ for ya, Chris. I got all night. No place else to go. He kept near enough to the edge of the brick wall so that he could see who came and went from D’Annato’s. And waited.

Five bills for a thirty grand beating.

Ex-nobody. Current nobody. Future nobody.

Where’d you go gettin’ a hundred, Joe?

You don’t need to be worried about other people’s pinches, Joey.

You been had. You got suckered.

Joe was at a boil by the time Chris finally came out from the restaurant with three other people. Almost missed him he was so angry. The other three headed across the road. But, lucky for Joe, the kid turned his way and walked right towards him. All Joe had to do was step out and growl, “Hey Chris.”

“Joe?” The kid stopped on a dime and sort of reeled back a little bit, in a mild state of shock. He tried to play it off though. “You, uh... you don’t look so good, buddy.”

“Don’t feel too good neither,” Joe said. He stepped over to the side of Chris so that Chris was now between himself and the entrance to the alley. Took a step forward.

“Um, listen, Joe.” The kid tried talking neighborhood again. But this time there was a quaver in his voice. “I didn’t bring the dough with me tonight. I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

“Yeah, I bet you wasn’t.”

“What?” Chris took a step back. “What’s going on, Joe?”

“You set me up.” He pushed Chris farther back into the alley.

“Joe...” Chris reached for his pockets. “I’ll give you money! I’m sorry.”

Joe grabbed him by the throat. “Don’t want your stinkin’ money.” He balled up his fist.

“No, wait,” the kid croaked. “Joe... listen!”

“Say goodbye to your teeth.”

* * *

Joe stepped back out onto the sidewalk and felt the icy-cold wind slice into his skin. He zipped up his sweatshirt as far as it would go and pulled the hood over his head. He had no money now for the crosstown bus. So he started walking back to his place over the thrift store. It would take him a good long while to get home tonight. He thought back to what Myrna had said. Things are gonna get better real soon. You’ll see.

They’d better, he thought. Have to. But until then, it was gonna be a hard winter.