Frank went through the motions, but he bought our story because he wanted to.
“You know Claire had talent and would have gone far,” Tommy said. “But I wonder, was she a good lay?”
“Not as good as that Follies dancer in Paris,” I said.
“Yeah,” he chuckled. “Now she was a good lay! After this operation I’m going to have to make up for lost time.”
You see, I knew Claire was lying when she said Tommy had made her his mistress. When Tommy took that bullet for me, it clipped a nerve and rendered him impotent.
CHILI DOG
by Chris Everheart
Downtown (St. Paul)
Aquick chili dog for lunch and I gotta get moving. There’s never enough time in this racket. I start driving across town at 8 a.m. collecting the receipts, drive all the way out west to Lake Minnetonka to get them looked at, pick up a bundle of cash there, and drive back to the east side of St. Paul, stopping along the way at each establishment to distribute the money. I tell you, it’s a meat grinder. But this is the best part of my day—a quick stop at the Gopher Bar and Café on 7th Street in downtown St. Paul for a beer and a Coney Island—a chili dog piled so high with toppings that you have to eat it with a knife and a fork. This is what accounts for a lunch break—twenty minutes with an axe hanging over my head. Then back on the road again, driving clear out to Hudson to pick up yesterday’s receipts and drop off yesterday’s cash. Hudson is always a day behind because they’re way out there. Benno could front them the money, but he doesn’t trust anyone—not even me. I hate to think what would happen if he knew I stopped here every day, leaving his payroll in the car, even for only a few minutes.
But what the hell am I supposed to do, eat lunch in the car? I ain’t no pig! I hate eating in the car, spilling food all over my custom upholstery. And trying to keep a big Continental on the road and eating a chili dog at the same time is more frustration than I can stand. Hell, if I wanted to work under those conditions I would have taken a job at my uncle’s foam factory over in Northeast and spent my life working on the dock, breathing truck exhaust and wrenching my back every other day. I chose a life on the streets because it had more pizzazz, more excitement, and, for Christ’s sake, more money. Now I end up working for Crazy Benno, still humping an impossible schedule and making minimum organized crime wage. It ain’t fair. So, yeah, I guess my little chili dog break is a “fuck you” to the new gangster order.
I rush out the front door of chili dog heaven, digging a piece of sweet onion out of my teeth, and head toward the parking lot. I hate to leave the car sitting very long. You can’t be too careful when you’re carrying $70,000 in cash. Granted, it’s in a strong box in the trunk and only me and Benno know the combination, but I still get nervous every time I stop— kind of like driving without car insurance: You know nothing is going to happen, but you’re worried anyway.
As I round the corner of the building, headed for my car, someone slams into my shoulder, knocking me down as I say, “What the…?”
Next thing I know, the guy is on top of me. “Where are they?” he says.
I quick reach for my gun but it ain’t there, and I feel a sharp, sweet whack at the back of my head. I look up and there’s this grubby tattooed guy with my gun in his hand.
“He said, where are they?” growls Tattoo, and whacks me again. I’m not sure what they’re talking about, then I realize Dude #1 is digging in my pocket.
“Hey!” I say, as if it’s gonna stop him. I take a swing at him but he’s already on his feet, my keys sparkling in his hand. “Motherfucker,” I yell, “get back here!” But he keeps on going, running toward my Lincoln, Tattoo following.
I immediately stand up, and my head spins. Fucker hit me harder than I thought. I stumble and grab the wall as the bums start my Lincoln and peel out of the space, spitting gravel everywhere. Goddamnit, I just had that thing painted and they’re gonna scratch it all up. As they spin past me and I watch helplessly, I see Tattoo smile slyly behind the passenger window and wave my gun, taunting me. “SHIT!” I yell. What am I gonna do?
When from around the corner, I hear, “Davy? Are you all right?” I look over to see Curtis, one of the regulars at the Gopher. He’s a small-time hood and a real likeable guy. He’s always nice to visit with on my little lunch breaks. I guess I overlooked him in there today, but I’m happy to see him now.
“Curtis,” I say, “thank God! You gotta help me! These two assholes just did a job on me and took my car.”
“Let’s go,” Curtis says, and from behind him appears a heavyset guy I haven’t seen before. He doesn’t say anything but he moves with us in the direction of Curtis’s car, so I figure he’s with him.
I jump in the front seat, Heavy in the back, as Curtis starts the ignition. “I saw them go toward Jackson Street,” he says. “They’re probably heading up to the interstate. We can catch ’em.” He leaves the gravel driveway and squeals the tires onto 7th.
“Oh man, am I glad you came along when you did, Curtis. I’m dead meat if I don’t get that car back.”
“How much is in there today?” Curtis asks, jerking the wheel to pull around a slow-moving milk truck.
“Over seventy thousand,” I answer. “I gotta get that money or Benno will kill me.”
“I wouldn’t worry about Benno,” Curtis says. “We’ll take care of this.”
We reach the interchange at 35E and Curtis automatically takes the northbound onramp.
“Are you sure they headed north?” I ask. “Maybe they kept going east up to 94.”
“No,” Curtis shakes his head, “they went this way. I saw them take this right.”
Thank God he can see what’s going on. My head is still ringing from the thumping Tattoo gave me. We scream up 35E and nearly reach the 694 interchange when we spot my Continental cruising north, just like Curtis said.
“There,” I say. “Hang back a little. Let’s follow them to where they’re going. I’m gonna fuck these guys up when we get there.” I reach for my gun and remember I don’t have it anymore. “Shit, they got my gun.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Curtis says reassuringly, “I got one with your name on it.” Heavy doesn’t say anything from the backseat, so I assume he’s just enjoying the ride, but I hope he’s ready to rumble when we get where we’re going, because I’m not just gonna get that money back, I’m gonna take a surcharge out of their hides.
We follow these clowns—who don’t seem to be in any big hurry—clear up past Forest Lake, where they finally pull off the interstate and head east to Lindström. Once through that dinky town, they go north on a narrow highway.
“They gotta know by now that we’re following them,” I say to Curtis, who is driving casually along now, unconcerned about tipping them off.
“Yeah,” he says, “but they’re not worried.”
“You think they’re planning to shoot it out?” I ask.
“Don’t know,” Curtis replies, as he turns off the narrow highway onto an even narrower gravel road, “hard to say what people will do to get their hands on that much money.”
That much money. I suddenly realize how odd it was that he asked me in the parking lot how much was in the car today—in all the months I’ve been stopping at the Gopher, I never mentioned what my day job is—and how I didn’t see him inside the bar but he appeared as soon as those jerks took my car. Now here I sit in the passenger seat, with this guy driving who I really don’t know that well, and Heavy in the seat behind me who I’ve never seen before, and I start to wonder. And my wonder turns to worry. I look at Curtis as he pulls the car off the gravel road into a tree-obscured lane with two wheel ruts, and I say, “No, no way.”