"We've got to have muscle, man! We can do the same things better… if we've got the organization!" he told Ray.
"Yeah, like that's what I say, too. We could get a couple more cools guys… and do some leaning of our own!" Ray agreed, enthusiastically.
They talked for hours and laid it all out. Their meticulous plans, they were convinced, was going to net them a lot of bread. The money would come their way, now, and they were going to use every means at their disposal. Don, of course, didn't tell the tall, freckled-face boy that for him, at least, this was going to be a short-term project. All he wanted was a stake… then he would get the hell out of Redfern. It was the street for him… probably in San Francisco! Things happened up there. He wanted to be in on it… where it was happening!
"You want to go the whole route, Don… use some real muscle?"
"Like what?"
"Like guns, maybe?"
"Guns?" Don was incredulous. "Christ! You get caught… and they send you up north! No simple little Juvie for that!"
"But, if you're smart… real brainy… you don't get caught!"
"Yeah… But…"
"I lifted a couple, already!" Ray boasted.
"Guns…?"
"Like, why should I put you on…?" Ray reached into his closet and produced two pistols, a snub-nosed.38 and a.45 automatic. He handed Don the.38, and he hefted it in his hand. "Be careful… it's loaded!" Ray warned.
Don was impressed. "Like, man… nobody'd argue with this!" He suddenly saw the weapon for what it was: a powerful force, in the hands of the wielder… and equalizer… a counter force. He had given up some ideas about peace, love… and non-violence that afternoon. Those ideas had fled as the blows rained down on him from the fists and boots of Jack Roberts and his two goons. Christ! What a temptation! "You want to learn how to use it?" Ray asked.
"Sure, man! Go ahead… lay it on me!"
Ray Donahue showed him the mechanics of the pistol and gave him a half-full box of ammunition and loan of the pistol so that Don could do some target practice.
"Now… don't let that thing get away from you!" Ray told him. "I can let you have it till Saturday… got it?"
"Right on… I'll get it back to you on Saturday, sure!"
Riding home on his big motorcycle, Don felt important, confident, even a little cocky, with the.38 tucked into the waistband of his jeans, his windbreaker zipped up to cover the butt of it. As he rode along, his hand would steal to the pistol, to feel it, fondle it, and he idly wondered whether or not he would use it. Could he point it at a person? More importantly, could he fire it… if he had to do so? He didn't know. One thing he did know: there could be no such thing as a three to one fight… with the loaded gun in his hand.
A station wagon, standing at the curb on the opposite side of the avenue, attracted his attention. A stockily built man labored, in shirt sleeves, to change a flat tire. It was almost one o'clock in the morning. There was no traffic. The man was alone.
Don rode on for two more blocks. He wrestled with an idea he couldn't shake. It was late. The guy was alone. He was a middle-aged establishment type, and he probably had a wallet stuffed with bread. Man! It would be easy! He fondled the butt of the short-barreled.38 that nestled in his groin. Like taking candy away from a baby! Shit! This could be perfect! The guy couldn't possibly identify me… it's so dark!
The boy pulled over to the curb and parked. His heart pounded. Fear and a certain sense of profound excitement welled up in him. He had experienced it once before and overcame it, as he reached into his mother's dresser drawer and stole a twenty dollar bill. What he contemplated, now, was bigger… much bigger. With an effort of will, he calmed himself. His mind was racing, planning what he must do. He must have every detail set in his hastily formulated plans. Every move must be thought through… so there could be no possible foul-up. Satisfied, finally, his mind made up, his plan of action settled, he went to work. He took off his boots, removed his socks, put the boots back on and used the socks, tying them on with bits of string from his saddlebag, to conceal the registration plate on the rear fender and the manufacturer's name on the right side of his bike. He was almost ready, but he looked around to make sure he was not observed. All the homes were dark and peaceful; however to throw off suspicion, he knelt down and pretended to tinker with the engine. It was a master stroke. A car drove by on the avenue, and he was caught in the glare of its headlights, as head down, he delved into the machinery of the motor. His heart beat like a jackhammer, momentarily, until he was sure the car would not stop. It continued on up the avenue, not pausing in its steady forty mile an hour speed. Damn! That scared the living hell out of me!
After long moments, he stopped shaking, mounted his bike, made a U-turn and headed back towards the parked station wagon with the flat tire.
Don had tied his handkerchief over the lower part of his face as he rode along and pulled his stocking cap down to his eyebrows. He pulled up beside the car and behind the man changing the flat tire, noting that he was just tightening up the lug bolts. Don said nothing. He waited, the gun in his hand.
The salesman looked up at him, finally, and started to say, "Got the damn thing…" He stopped. The menacing pistol in Don's hand was pointed directly at him.
Speaking low, Don told him, "Put your wallet on the hood of the car!"
The frightened man hastened to obey. It was the second time tonight he had stared down the barrel of a pistol.
"Now, put your hands up… on the roof!"
He retrieved the wallet, looked in, saw several bills and removed them. "This all?" he barked.
"That's it… l-look I've got to drive eight hundred miles to get home… I–I can't…"
Donnie put a twenty dollar bill back in the man's wallet. Then, he threw the billfold under the car.
"Crawl under after it!" Don ordered. Again, the full-faced man obeyed. Far be it from him to argue with a gun.
Stuffing the bills into his jeans pocket, Donnie mounted his motor cycle and roared off down the avenue, in the opposite direction from his home; then, taking a round-about route he worked his way homeward, parked his bike in the driveway, removed the socks from it and put them in his windbreaker jacket. Easy! Christ! It was almost too easy! The damned guy was seared almost shitless!
Don hastily counted the money, as soon as he was in his room. It amounted to seventy-nine dollars. Not bad! Not bad at all! He put the money in a safe hiding place, the gun into the back of his closet in a cloth duffel bag. He was just emerging from the closet when he heard a soft tap at his door.
"Don…?" It was Charity, his sister. "Can I talk to you…?" she murmured in a half whisper.
"Sure… why not?" He opened the door and let her in.
Afterward, she applied herself to her school assignments and watched a favorite T.V. show. It was later than usual when she prepared for bed. Her father had still not returned home, and she wondered, again, briefly, where he might be, deciding after some reflection, that it was not unusual for him to be away from home for long hours. He was probably drinking with some friends, trading stories, or maybe telling dirty jokes. He did get completely stoned, at times, she knew… but his absence out of her mind, went into the bathroom and began her bedtime ritual of bathing.
She couldn't, however, put her father completely out of her mind. The way he looked at her, lately, really bothered her. It was as though he was mentally undressing her, his half-lidded eyes following her every movement, avidly, devouring her every contour, and she knew, almost instinctively, that it was wrong. No father should have that kind of interest in his own flesh-and-blood daughter as a sex object.