Victor Gischler - Gun Monkeys

But I couldn’t blame Danny. Amber was a knockout. Thick hair the brown of highly polished antique wood. Deep, dark eyes. She always had this knowing expression on her face, like she knew something you didn’t. A little impish half-smile. And you desperately wanted in on the joke.

So I’d gotten her the bullshit O’Malley’s job. Officially she was a “hostess.” She called taxis for the drunks. Ran errands. Brought paper sacks full of money to the back room. Mostly she winked at me and the boys, made us feel like we were all twenty years old again. That alone was worth what we paid her.

But don’t get the idea that any of the boys had inappropriate thoughts about her. We all sat there, a table full of doting uncles. Let someone even look at Amber sideways and wait for the bloodshed. Once a few sailors who had no business being in O’Malley’s in the first place thought a little grab-ass would get them on Amber’s good side. Suddenly, five ugly uncles had them by the ice cream suits. They’d woken up in the alley.

“It’s late,” said Benny. “Who’s closing?”

“Me and the new guy.” I jerked a thumb at Lou. He’d only been with us a month and was as dumb as a sack of doorknobs. But Stan said take him on. Stan said it, we did it. That’s how it worked until God or Stan said different.

“How long you guys going to call me the new guy?”

“Until we get a newer guy,” said Bob.

The most tedious part of the job was closing. Stan’s bookkeeper counted up the take for the night, balanced accounts, and locked everything in the safe. The bar out front did a good business. O’Malley’s had a regular crowd, mostly middle-class stiffs who pushed a pencil from nine to five and needed a few hours to unwind before going home to the wife and two-point-three kids. But what O’Malley’s pulled down in a week wouldn’t even pay for the men who sat around the Monopoly table every night.

When I was the new guy, I’d always wondered why Stan wanted a bunch of goons sitting around.

I remember it had been maybe a year since Stan had sent Thumbs Hogan to offer me a job. I’d been the little tin dog then, just a kid with a steady hand, a good eye and a quick trigger. I remember the night like it was yesterday, like it was slow-motion action footage, replayed over and again. Thumbs wasn’t there that night, so Tony Dale was the race car, Eddie Mex the top hat. Porky Mullins had definitely been the shoe. Strangely, that was my clearest memory the night of the holdup.

Porky held the shoe delicately between his thumb and forefinger, his meaty pinky finger stuck out like he was drinking tea with the queen. Each time he moved the shoe a space he’d say “Walk.” I thought he was about the corniest guy I’d ever met. A guy as big as a hippo in a plaid sports jacket.

Porky rolled a four. “Walk, walk, walk, walk.” His little pinky sticking out. “Hey, that’s Marvin Gardens. I wanna buy that.”

“I already own it,” said Eddie Mex. “Welcome to Casa de Marvin .” He camped up his Spanish accent even though he was fourth generation and born in Oregon. “No extra charge for breakfast in bed, huevos rancheros, and Bloody Marys.”

“I don’t care if you own it or not. I need it for the monopoly,” said Porky. “I got the other two.”

“Don’t give it to him,” I said. “He’ll load it up with hotels.”

“Hey, fucking New Guy, put a sock in it.” His eyes stabbed at me from behind big, fatty folds of flesh. “I’m down two hundred bucks, and I still don’t own dick here. I got Water Works and Baltic Avenue and one fucking railroad. Now I want Marvin Gardens, and I want it right fucking now.”

I shrugged, tipped my chair back, watched the show.

“Okay,” said Eddie. “You want it? A hundred bucks.”

“What the fuck? At least pull a gun on me. Ya damn spic. A hundred fucking bucks.”

Eddie smiled big. “ Lo siento mucho, seeenyooor, but if you want the land, you better fork over a Franklin.”

Tony Dale sat quietly like a big Irish lump.

Buzzzzzzzzzzzz.

We all checked our watches. The midnight drop. About five minutes early but no big deal.

Tony hit the button on the wall near his chair. The buzz stopped and the lock on the back door clicked. Eddie opened his mouth to spit another remark at Porky.

The back door flew open, and two black men dressed in dark jogging suits exploded into the room. Each held two revolvers in tight fists. They began firing immediately, spraying the room with lead.

If I hadn’t been leaning way back in my chair, I’d be dead. After the first shot, I fell flat on my back, the bullets shedding drywall over me. Eddie took it in the side of the head just above his ear, slumped to the floor like he’d had the air let out of him. Porky and Tony flipped the Monopoly table, cash and dice and hotels scattering. Tony had his pistol out but never got off a shot. The first black guy drilled him square in the heart. But Porky was quick, moved well for a big man. His silver-plated.45 flashed into his hand, and he unloaded the clip into the attackers. They twitched, dropped their weapons, sprawled on the floor.

It was all over by the time I got to my feet. I stood next to Porky, and he pointed his empty automatic at one of the dead black guys.

“Holy shit, that’s Leon.”

I looked at the corpse. “Who?”

“He washes dishes here,” said Porky. “Son of a bitch must’ve been casing us for a month. He knew we got cash drops back here.”

I looked at Porky. A dark stain crept out of his jacket, spread across his white shirt.

“Porky.” I pointed at his chest. “You okay?”

He looked down at himself. “Aw hell.” He opened his jacket.

A mess.

“Aw, shit, New Guy, I’m fucked.” He collapsed to the floor.

“Christ! Hang on, Porky. I’ll get somebody.”

I ran to the front of O’Malley’s. Deserted. Everyone had hot-footed it at the sound of gunplay.

I called the paramedics, but by the time they got there all they found was Porky lying on his side, eyes open, a pool of blood around him like cherry syrup, little green Monopoly houses dotting the blood like gumdrops.

Now cash drops came through the front. We only used the back door if we needed to cut out in a hurry.

“Charlie, hey, man, you listening?”

I blinked. Looked at Lou. “What is it, New Guy?”

“I asked if you’d seen Blade.”

“Yeah,” said Benny. “Where’s our knife boy?”

“He’s not here,” I said. “Are we playing or what?”

Benny and Bob took the hint immediately.

“What do you mean not here?” said Lou. “I can see that, man. Is he working or something?”

“Hey, New Guy, you don’t like the way I answer your questions?”

“It’s not that. I just-”

“Am I the information booth, is that it? I’m supposed to keep you informed about every little thing that goes on?”

“Sorry, Charlie. Never mind, man. I withdraw the question.”

Stan came through the door from O’Malley’s front room and into the monkey cage. He had the whole parade behind him. Stan’s right-hand man Larry Cartwright was in tow along with a fat guy called Jimmy the Fix who made sure all the hot stuff that came through got shipped to the right place to be fenced. Jimmy and Larry were movers and shakers in Stan’s organization. I didn’t know Larry Cartwright too well, but Jimmy was a stand-up guy.

Beggar Johnson came next. Young compared to Stan, maybe mid-forties. Blue blazer, pink shirt open at the neck, no tie. Black hair slicked back like Pat Riley’s. He stood straight and tall like he owned the world. Guys like him ran things from an ivory tower and only came down when it was doom time.