Joey-O
a novel in progress by Earl Coleman

Chapter 5

Joe slipped into his uniform and he was ready for Zweig and the scam he’d worked now half a dozen times. He checked his new watch, which told you date and everything. He walked outside to where the summer morning looked some wonderful. Streets were empty, Sunday, everyone in church. And here came Zweig, sharpshooter, angler. Hot shot in his brand new Mercury. Without a radio? Who knew what fishy business.

“Joe!”

“Hi, Mr. Zweig.”

“You get the radio?”

“Sure. I said.”

“Let’s see it, man.”

Went back to his locker. Brought the Blaupunkt to the front, still in the box.

“Hey, beautiful. The price that we agreed?”

“I said.”

“How long to put it in?”

“Not long. Go grab some breakfast in that corner coffee shop. Good Danish. You come back I’m done. The keys are in the car? Go have your breakfast. Go.”

“You’re saving me a bundle, kid, but you know that. Glad it was you worked on my car. If I’m back in half an hour?”

“Sure.”

He drove the car in to Bay Four. Installed the Blaupunkt 1,2,3. What did it take? Switched on. Well it was beautiful -- already got a full-size one for Beth. Fucking Germans, anti-Semites, all of them. Made it easy to remember that you were a Jew, celebrate the holidays or not. The bastards sure knew how to make machinery. Cold-blooded killers, prices that they got! But he had Binky. Cost a tiny fraction of the sticker. When he was finished, stashed the carton, wrappings, everything inside the trunk of his T-bird.

Now he jacked up the Mercury and removed the front left tire. Braced it on the stand. Then took the ice pick from the drawer and rammed it through the rubber, one hole only, wiggled back and forth to make the puncture large enough. He always kept the nail inside the drawer, the tire blue chalk-marked against the wall. He got it, rolled it over, propped it up against the stand in readiness. He waited Mr. Zweig got finished, back for his surprise.

He heard him coming. Shook his head as Zweig approached. “I’m glad I checked it for you, sir. Look here what you picked up these fucking streets.” His fingers held a rusty cockeye six-inch nail. “Did a number on your tire. Don’t know how you drove it here, unless you picked this up real close.”

“Holy shit.” Zweig gawked at the ugliness of the hole. “Brand new! Now what the fuck. Can you patch it? Is it usable?”

How to talk to Zweig he knew. He’d always known. The difference; talk to Kingsley. That he’d learned. Difference in the voice, the words. “I’ll tell you, Mr. Zweig. A Mercury, a car like this, I’d hate to take a chance. I tell you what. I’ll sell you this one here. I bought it for myself, about to take it home. You can have it for my purchase price. You pay me cash for this and for the radio so I don’t have to wait the check to clear. Deal?”

“Well, shit on this bad luck. Now where could I have picked this fucker up?” He snatched the nail and glared at it. “Yeah. Put the new one on.”

When Joe was done he fished in his overall pocket for his unnumbered invoice pad. Did his calculations. “$163.00 Mr. Zweig. Tire, radio, labor, everything.”

“$163!!” Zweig was visibly agitated as though everything had gone too fast. Shook his head. “Well -- fuck it, glad you spotted it. I could have driven half a mile and wound up riding on the rim. You’re OK, Joe. I send some friends to you.”

“Call on me any time.” He’d adopted it from Kingsley. Real good line.

When Zweig had left Joe put the money in his wallet, already stuffed. Shouldn’t carry so much cash. Beth might see and wonder. Make a deposit Monday. Already close to two grand. But a hundred, two hundred at a time was just not fast enough. Had to find a way to modify the Plan, get bigger faster. He made a note in his new notebook , half-filled with lists already, to get a replacement tire from Binky. Thought about a new idea he’d had before Zweig showed. Lots of guys like Zweig around, ready to buy muscle cars no questions asked. He’d talk to Binky. In his mind the start-up of a scam. It could be big! Consulted his watch. Liked it that it told the date. Cleaned up around his station for anything that showed him there. He thought ahead. He had to stop to get some flowers on the way to Beth. By the time he got to Riverdale Beth and her mom would be back from church. Glad it hadn’t rained. They had two tickets for the Yanks. Binky knew a guy.

*

Heshy got there maybe nine in the morning in his beat-up Chrysler New Yorker, 1955. What a night. Tad’s Steak House for some ribs. Then Roseland, jammed as usual. And then the Skyline until two. He was on top of everything. Not even thoughts of Joe could get him down, his mind still back with Edie underneath the sheets. He was a lucky man. Where would you find another girl insisted they go Dutch? Half on everything, even the motel. She was his friend, his partner. If only he could get things back the way they used to be with Joe.

The trunk was loaded down with surplus paint, paid from his pocket. It didn’t cost a lot. A new street broom with heavy bristles, 31-inch squeegee, paintbrush, cat litter, old shoes bottom of his closet, rags. When he made this outfit spick and span McCullough would be proud. Bright summer Sunday, lots of time, a date with Edie later on. He unlocked the heavy overhead and drove his car in. Parked Bay Four. Went back. Pulled down the door. Ready for the day.

Before he started he went to Joey’s locker and stared at it. Locked of course. He’d give a C to have that master key that Joey’d got from Binky. The thought gave him a shock. Could Joe still have that key? What mischief could he do? He went through possibilities but couldn’t dope it out. He knew the quiet just before Joe figured out a heist. They’d sit together at the kitchen table sometimes even drawing maps of alleys and a getaway. But then he thought, nah, what for he’d need to get a key to here? But still.

He checked McCullough’s office. Seemed OK. Looked around Bay Four. Looked in drawers of every work bench. Nothing there that shouldn’t be or missing he would know it right away. What had he expected? Something? What? He pursed his lips and shook his head. Began the day by putting on his uniform to keep his fresh shirt clean.

He spread the litter in the pit to soak up all the oil. Worked fast with rags, the broom, the hose, the squeegee. Down the drain. He dried it, ready for the paint. He’d bought the battleship gray from Modell’s, a buck a gallon. Finished in less than an hour and painted the last lick from the steps. He hadn’t even sweated yet. When he climbed out the pit looked great. Dry tomorrow morning, before they opened up. Beautiful.

He started on Bay Three. Checked around the station. Who knew? There was nothing that he had in mind particular, just something. He was about to put the paintbrush in the open can he heard a noise. He moved behind his car and crouched.

Footsteps were going toward McCullough’s office. He heard the squeaky door, the file drawers opening and closing. McCullough? No! He thought he knew! Maneuvered toward the office to catch red-handed, but intercepted Joe, he hadn’t wanted to, Joe heading for the row of lockers. “What are you doing here?” Hesh challenged, words came husky, slurred, all shaky with the feeling that he had.

Joe nodded pleasantly, face impassive, as if this was a weekday, time for work. “I came to get my new shoes from my locker. I forgot them when I changed on Friday. What are you doing here?”

“Never mind that. How did you get in?”

“The door was open, Hesh. You’re getting careless. Anyone could push it, walk right in.”

“I never touched that door. Drove straight in here.”

Joe stared at him intently. “OK, Hesh. Then how did I get in?”

Wanted. How he wanted. Joey staring at him like he’d bore his eyes right through his brain. He couldn’t say he realized now he’d made a copy of the key before he gave it back. He couldn’t. Shit. “What were you doing in McCullough’s office?”

“What kind of office, Hesh? I came here to my locker. What is it with the questions, Hesh?”

“We’re closed on Sunday, Joe. You know we’re closed on Sunday. Why did you shlep here when you know we’re closed?”

“Hey. I took a chance. I’m lucky, turned out right. Who are you, Eliot Ness?”

Oh shit. He should have stayed hidden behind the car. Waited for whatever. Went too damn fast and spoke too slow. Could he be sure? And if he said, then what, there was no way to pull it back, to cancel, maybe ruin what he had in mind the two of them, the possibility. “Give me a hand with this?” he asked, gesturing toward the paint and brush.

Joe took a shoebox from the top shelf of his locker. “What for I do that, Hesh?” he said.

*

Mr. McCullough came to Hesh, Bay One. Squinted down at him. “How’s it going, Herschel?” Lately he came out on the floor less and less, like he was ashamed he had to use a cane. What did he have to be ashamed about? His age? So he was up there. So? Good man to run this place so long. Something must be cooking. Joe again? McCullough’s limp was more pronounced than ever, even with the rubber-tipped metal walking stick. Hesh, working on a 1952 Chrysler convertible. “Good, Mr. McCullough, Good.”

“Are you free to take some lunch with me?”

His throat clogged up as if already words were blocking it. “Yes, Mr. McCullough.”

“I’ll wait for you. The place we’re going to gets filled up fast. Clancy’s taking much too long as usual and might be all day. Get Joe to supervise. We’ll be a while.”

“Sure thing.”

Grease under fingernails could never soap away although he scrubbed. Hair wet and combed. He went to Joe. “McCullough says put you in charge till we get back. I worry always Joe, that you do something bad. Anything goes wrong, you hear me, anything, your ass is grass.”

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck me? Fuck you, you asshole. Anything goes wrong I hand your fucking head to you.”

“You said it, Mister boss-man. The place will still be here when you get back.” He smiled the smile.

“So OK.” Walked out with a heavy heart knowing it should sing, McCullough having lunch with him.

McCullough drove him to a restaurant near Breezy Point and parked. “Do you like Italian food? You’ve never had it till you’ve eaten here. The friendly competition takes me here to lunch. The pasta fazool is the best I’ve ever had. Their breads are all home-baked. You’ll like it, Hesh.” He put his arm around Heshy’s shoulders, showed him in.

Hesh let him order, let him pour from the carafe of wine, but didn’t touch. Something big. The boss and him together, having lunch. He sat to listen even though his face seemed not to change. His heart beat faster than it used to when he pulled a job.

Over the soup, McCullough with minestrone, Hesh with escarole in brodo, McCullough put thick hands on his. “Something is puzzling me Hesh, and I could use your opinion. You have a level head. We’re losing men. Three just this year, and it isn’t even October yet. What do you think is happening?”

His opinion? The words. Talk slow. Think fast. “How three? Garvey and Maldonado? Right?”

“Smitty gave me notice on his break this morning. That’s three.”

He finished off the soup. Smitty? Should have known! Hard to keep his mind on top of it. So worried Joe would fuck it up took all his concentration, all of it. “I should have seen it coming, Mr. McCullough.”

“It’s not your fault, Hesh, nor your responsibility. It’s mine. How could either of us know, so many of these men just save enough to take off on some spree. They’re not serious about their jobs like you. What I do know is that all of them turn to you for anything they can’t figure out. I’m not too old to take advice. Maybe you can help me the same way you help them, tell me what it is that I’m not seeing here.”

He thought it through. Let soak into him the feeling he was sitting with his boss, half the diners Italian, speaking to the waiters, the owner coming round to check up everything all right. “Com’ esta?” the head man asked.

McCullough smiled and put his hand on Hesh’s. Showing off. “Va bene. Bene.”

But Hesh was thinking, thinking hard. Waited till the owner walked away. “First off, Mr. McCullough, I don’t think we’re doing nothing wrong. We pay OK. They get two breaks a day. We give them overtime if they want, which no one takes. You treat them good. So we’re not doing nothing wrong.”

“It’s good to hear you say that, Hesh. Perspective from a worker’s point of view. My fear is always things will get away from me, that they’ve already got away from me. Times change. There’s plenty changing now, automation, new machinery. I know that I’m not keeping up. So it’s good to hear you say that it’s not me. What then -- three men? Here, try these breadsticks. You’ll like them.”

Not the same as finding missing lugs, checking holes in valves. Get into someone else’s head? The other guys? Who understood? It came to him. “Well, ask yourself, Mr. McCullough, would you want any of them back -- Smitty, Maldonado, Garvey? Are those the guys you want? To work for you?”

“Hesh! That’s good. I didn’t think of it that way. But that doesn’t solve my problem, does it, even though I see my answer’s no? I still need men to fill my bays. Yes, I’d like a dozen men like you, but even if I knew where to look I don’t think I’d find a lot of them. Not even your twin, your brother Joe. Not cut from the same cloth as you. Then what’s my answer?”

And it came to him again. “Maybe steal them, Mr. McCullough. Steal them. You know every shop in Brooklyn. You know who the good men are. Offer them more money, come to you.” Steal them. Men. Safer stealing men than knocking over candy stores.

McCullough squinted at him through his glasses, put his hands on Hesh’s arm. “I’m impressed with you, m’boy, as usual. That’s what comes from having a fresh head to look at things. You’re right. That’s it of course. But how can I do that -- I know my competition personally, most of them for years and years. How can I steal their men? We break bread together, go to the same auto shows together. What will they say to me if I steal their men?”

His response was immediate, words flowing now. “Don’t do it, Mr. McCullough. I will. Nights. Give me some names and places. I’ll drop by. I’ll talk.” Edie would understand. “I tell them how good you treat us. Talk more money. No one can blame you if their men leave and come to you. Two you’re sure of, Joe and me. Only need one more. Unless you don’t like Clancy. Me, I don’t think much of him. Then you’ll need two.”

“I couldn’t let Clancy go, Hesh. He’s slow but he’s given me no reason to. Been with me four years, longer than any of them last.”

“OK. But maybe we should think of that -- in case he goes.” And then a thought occurred to him. “Another thing. The draft is pulling mechanics in. I know one at least from Lupicello’s and I’ve heard of more. Who knows they call our guys away. For new we’ll only hire married men. Besides, they’re married, so we got a better shot they’ll stay.”

Excited now. Takes Hesh’s hand. “You’ve solved the problem, Hesh, as surely as if you were diagnosing the inside of an engine. But wait a second. The next problem is how can I offer new men more money unless I pay more money to the men I have? We’ve got to think of that. How much more? And where’s the profit if I pay more for labor than the competition?”

Should have thought of that himself. Speak without first thinking through. Usually the opposite, lots of thinking, words too slow. But he was on a roll. Saw clearly. Put it into words. “Three men. Let’s say fifteen extra each. Cost you forty-five bucks a week. You got the customers in your pocket now. They line up just to get their cars in here. Raise your rates even a buck an hour and you make a profit on the deal. 120 hours. 120 bucks. Maybe we get better men we make it two bucks more instead of one. The customers won’t leave. We do good work.”

The waiter brought their dishes, offered cheese, poured wine, but McCullough was too excited with the numbers, possibilities.

He took Hesh’s hand. “Don’t think I don’t know you painted all the bays your day off and didn’t even come to me for money for the paint. I don’t know what to say, your offering to spend your nights recruiting men for me.

“But I can see my answer is in front of me. Don’t ask me why I haven’t seen it until now. I have to bring you closer in. Make you supervisor in name too, not just in fact, and give you pay to suit. That way your word will carry the same weight as mine. You’ll keep an eye on things I miss or just can't see. I’ll deal with the paperwork and money. We’ll have an operation where the men are run right like they ought to be. Good thing I asked you out to lunch, m’boy.” Leaned back and lit a Lucky. Problem solved.

Supervisor! Not even a year! Wait till he told Edie. They crammed his head, the ideas that he had, to shape the men up, hire new. A lot to learn, suppliers and the money part, but here it was, his shot. And then he thought of Joe and got a sour taste. The idea always was for Joe and him. So here they were, him and the boss, planning to do big, and there was Joe back in the shop with God knows what kind of mishugas inside his head. He pursed his lips. He had to find a way to make that work. How come that he could solve, could understand near everything? Except for Joe.

*

Look at all the smokestacks belching down the Turnpike South. Jersey! What a nothing state. Here’s his exit, Elvis on the Blaupunkt. Noon, the guy said, but he’d timed it half an hour late. Bug them first, then show that money talks.

He followed the directions carefully, a foreign country now. Clinton Street was a shit hole sure, but Rahway -- something else, especially the edges here. Ratty houses a good breath would blow away. The spics and schwartzes. It seem a place of violence and danger as he drove on through the sea of dark-skinned faces. They might be leaving Sunday church, but underneath he felt the anger of them coming to a boil. Maybe the draft was beginning to grab their asses. One war zone to another.

You couldn’t miss the junkyard, pyramids of wrecked cars climbing to the sky. Had to be five thousand totaled vehicles in there. A huge chain fence crowned with shards of glass and razor wire secured the lot. As he drove up it sounded like a dozen dogs had blown their tops. Outside the entry gate, he tapped his horn to shave and a haircut, two bits. Rub it in.

Nobody showed. He could see three straining, mangy, mixed-breed dogs, lunging viciously against their chains. He tapped the sequence on his horn again to give them something to go crazy for and jolt the guy in case he was fucking the dog inside. He sat relaxed and sunned-on while the dogs kept yelping in the Indian summer early afternoon.

A middle-aged, melon-bellied man appeared. He’d have seemed a derelict if he hadn’t been inside the lot, shirt and pants a dingy brown that might have dipped themselves in shit. The entrance to a shed framed the bulk of him and almost hid the crumpled fenders, twisted doors that littered everywhere. He hitched his shoulders, gimped over to the fence, threading through the oil slick puddles and debris. “Yeah?” he called to Joe, his tanned face merging with his clothes.

“You Wally?” Joe spoke flatly, just loud enough to reach him thirty feet away, loud enough to carry over snarling dogs.

“You Joe?” he called back.

“That’s me.” And waited, saying nothing, staring straight ahead. First piss them off. Rattled they don’t think too good.

Wally took his time unwinding several cables of heavy steel link at the gate and limped his way across the rubbled ground. “Given up on you,” he muttered angrily as he approached the car. He sounded Brooklyn, maybe Greenpoint.“We said twelve.”

“You know how it is.” Joe examined the rear view as if expecting that he’d see somebody there.

Now Wally was abreast of him, faded blue wool hat in the heat of the day halfway down huge ears. Forehead beaded sweat. Smelled like he had pissed himself, after hoisting maybe half a dozen in his hut. “You gonna check the merchandise or what? Ain’t got all day.”

Joe turned deliberately to him, his white shirt open at the neck. Gold cufflinks Beth had given him flashed bright. “Yeah sure. You got those dogs chained tight? One thing that I hate, it’s dogs.”

“They never bother white men. Are you white?” The question must have been rhetorical because he turned immediately to where the sagging shed looked like the strong sun weighed it down.

Joe followed Wally, leaving the T-Bird where it was. The dogs growled throatily but were chained to a truck body a safe distance off. Wally led him into the shed, jammed solid with a thousand parts. A propped-up windshield was a window, caught the sun. A battery-operated light shone over the desk on laid-out VIN tags and their corresponding paperwork. Looked like twenty VIN tags -- maybe more. Joe pursed his lips. When you had a Plan not even snowballs rolled as smooth.

Wally faced him from behind the desk. “You told me Binky said. See, I don’t know you from a hole in the ground but Binky carries weight. I got Mustangs, Corvettes, Olds, and just one T-Bird. You take them all four hundred each. One only, set you back five C’s.”

“Forget it.” Joe turned and headed for the door.

“Hey, New York,” Wally hollered after him. “You think you got some Jersey sucker here? Some hick?”

Joe hesitated, one foot out the doorway, turned, went back. “No, Wally. Binky said you want to deal. I figure now you want to fuck around.”

“My daddy told me gotta watch you New York Jews. Don’t fuck with me. Been in this racket from before your parents caught the boat.”

Joe pursed his lips and hesitated for a beat, storing up this memory for when he’d make this shithead pay. “Five can’t happen, Wally. You gave what, a hundred, hundred fifty…”

“Two.”

“Let’s say it cost you two. I’ll do one at two fifty just to start us off. If I satisfy the other side I’m back for more. Lots more. Binky must have told you that.”

“Fuck you. The going price is what I said. Think you can Jew me down? Shop around. Even when you’re lucky enough to grab them out of city compounds, run you four, five hundred bucks. Me, I know to pick a muscle car, drill out the rivets of the VIN professional. You know the score. The price is what it is.”

“Then where’s my vig? Binky told me you’re a businessman. I treat you like a businessman. Two fifty. That’s my deal.”

“Bull shit. Four hundred. And that’s mine.”

Well he was getting into range. Joe shook his head as if to demonstrate that he had all the patience in the world. Thinned his lips. Looked into Wally’s eyes. “Wally. Let’s do business. Three hundred. High as I can go. We start off right I’m back for more.”

Wally fiddled with the tags, the muscles of his tanned face working, chewing on his thick, dark lip. At last he spat out, “You think it’s easy giving you the paperwork and matching tags so you can boost the cars you want? Three fifty. That’s my best,” a snake delivering its bite.

“Don’t make me walk away, an hour on the highway come up blank. Split it with me. Three and a quarter and I’ll swallow hard and make my dime.”

Wally scowled directly in his face. Appraised him with a sneer, about to speak and stopped. He shrugged. “You got a deal. Now, hot shot, where’s the green?”

Joe produced his wallet. Put six fifties, a twenty and a five on the desk. “I want the T-Bird, Wally.”

“Shit, my only one.” He scooped the money up in oily fingers, thrust it in the pocket of his shirt. His thick hands pawed the VIN tags looking for the one he’d just sold to Joe. Put tag and title papers into Joey’s waiting hand. “Never thought I’d be in business with a Jew. No hard feelings, man. Maybe you’re a white one. You know your way now. I got these.” He gestured toward the line of VIN tags and their papers. “I’ll have more.”

Joe didn’t let the “Jew” eat at his gut. Fuck him. Fuck all of them. They didn’t know who they were dealing with. Not yet. He held the precious metal tag a moment just to get the feel of it. His first this big. The time he’d wasted cause he didn’t have a Plan. Pitchkying around with two–bit heists. Now watch him go. He slipped the VIN tag in his pocket. Then while he checked the paperwork he asked, “What kind of deal you give me on transmissions, man?”

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