Desert Gravesite

Tony scuttled around the boulder, desperate for the shade on the eastern side. He breathed a lungful of hot desert air that he convinced himself was slightly cooler than the air on the western side. He slumped against the rock and scooched under it like a scorpion with its tail curled around its delicately armored body.

He heard the shouts of the man pursuing him, far, then closer. As his heartbeat slowed from a bass drum beat to a tom-tom, he heard what he was saying, “It was you who dunnit, it was you Tony…it was YOU!” The words were spoken under the man’s breath, as if he knew he were closing in on his prey.

Tony held his revolver in his hand. A soot black Smith and Wesson .38, an eight shot.

***

Ten years earlier…

Tony, at fourteen, had been invited to his dad’s club. He’d suspected what the place was like…in reality, it blew his mind.

It was dark and smokey. Half dressed women circulated through the tables and groups of people---some with trays laden with shiny glasses full of colorful elixirs, some with empty trays, looking for empty-handed people. There were even cigarette girls with floofy pink feathers in their little caps and fishnet hose were everywhere.

Tony was agog with wonder…and admiration he’d never felt before for his father. He wanted to be just like him and understood that all of this was to be his someday…and more.

At first, his father put him to work running errands. Delivering paper bags full of blocky things and leather satchels full of heavier things. He had him help around the bar, cleaning up spills and vomit, bussing tables clear of glasses and buckets of melted ice. He was making good bread. He was earning respect amongst his peers. He was elated to be a part of his father’s life at last. He felt it was his calling.

***

At sixteen he worked the bar, earning great tips and wages. He looked nineteen, with a six-foot frame chiseled into hard slabs by the past two years of hard work. He attired himself in a classy style, after his father’s image: silk shirts under pinstriped waistcoats. Some of his father’s employees took the Italian heritage thing a bit far and dressed way too fancy for his taste, he thought they looked like buffoons. He was smart enough to keep that to himself, for one thing they all had in common was a flinty, hardened look in the eye and a way of smiling like wolves. Smiles holding perhaps amusement in them…or perhaps the urge to kill.

He’d bought a fancy new 1920 Ford model T and could afford to paint it red. It was parked outside the bar when the cops came. They came with city officials, Jackals in slick coats, and announced that alcohol was now forbidden in all the states.

Tony’s dad was furious. Ranting and raving and cussing out the government. Tony sat by his side and listened and when his dad had quieted, he said, “Hey pops…the people still wanna drink. We have great stores of liquor, how bout we lay low for…say, six months, then open on the sly? Convert the storeroom downstairs into, like, a secret club?”

Sitting at his ornate black desk, Artie Zorelto, tapped a long thick finger against his chin, his lower lip pouged out, Tony knew that look. His father was thinking ‘maybe so.’ He was staring at the picture of his late wife on his desk as if seeking advice in her beautiful eyes. He said, “We charge double. Beef up security. Jimmy, have Markahan come see me pronto.”

Elanor Zorelto had not been Italian. She’d been of Swedish descent. Their marriage had been a never-ending cornucopia of assaults from both their parents: his because she wasn’t Italian, hers because to dis Sweden into inferiority of Italy was a mortal sin. Whispers amongst Don Artie’s crew remained wisely hushed. After Anthony was born, the grandparents silenced into a truce as cold as the surface of a frozen over lake in winter, and just as brittle. Artie and Elanor’s new dilemma had been keeping the grandparents from outdoing each other with favors and gifts bestowed upon the boy. He was destined to follow in his father’s steps; a spoiled child would be soft and unruly and rash in decision making.

Jimmy the Neck, who resembled an emu in a suit: very tall, very bald, scrawny but for a big pot belly, said, “Right away Boss.” And strode out the door in his cocky rooster gait.

Markahan was the cop in Artie’s pocket. After The Neck took off, Artie invited Tony to brainstorm with him on the conversion of the storeroom, and publicity on the downlow. Markahan sauntered into Artie’s office an hour later, his round face florid and sweating, and his neck stuffed into the collar of his uniform like a tire in a vise. The man was a walking cardiac arrest.

Jimmy the Neck followed him in, stood squarely behind him, and crossed his left hand over his right, both hands were the size of 2lb bone-in roast beefs. Tony knew from experience that they were strong as iron bear traps as well. It had been The Neck who’d trained Tony in hand-to-hand combat.

One day, when Tony was fifteen, The Neck had taken him out into the desert. Tony had heard rumors of The Desert most of his life: often as a small invisible boy in the darkened hallway outside his father’s office…but stories also circulated through the halls of his private school, and though he didn’t understand half of what was said, he did understand his classmates were frightened of him and gave him a wide berth in those halls. He had friends. Boys whose fathers were associated with his father. They always seemed to want something from him but were too afraid to come out and say what exactly that was.

That day, sitting next to The Neck in his silver Duesenberg, on their way out into The Desert, Jimmy said, “Member that prick Lucky Dick?”

Tony had jumped, his mind had been recalling the stories from his childhood. He looked over at The Neck who was smirking at him. Apparently, he’d seen him jump. He wouldn’t give the big oaf the satisfaction of rubbing the gooseflesh on his arms. He had concealed his uneasiness as he said, “Sort of.”

“Yeah…I figure you was about eight or nine when ole Dicky was around. Average lookin’ guy---greasy black hair, beady eyes. Er - shifty eyes. Wore bright silk shirts---”

“Yeah, yeah…I remember him now.”

“We may see his ghost out here.” Jimmy pointed a Bavarian-sausage-finger out towards a sandstone formation, tall and elegant yet foreboding for his words. Jimmy guffawed like a humping bull. He was slowing the car. Tony had not wanted to stop there; that area was the graveyard he’d heard the stories about. Uncannily reading the boy’s mind, Jimmy had said, “The little prick went behind my back. To win favor with Don Artie---yer pops. I lettim know he’d won my unfavor. You see, son, Dicky’d been like a son to me and that hurt.” He had switched off the engine and gotten out of the car, Tony silently following his lead.

Jimmy had taken off his grey pinstriped jacket and draped it over the driver’s seat. In his shoulder holster, nestled his eight-inch-barreled Colt revolver. The bright nickel-plating nearly blinded Tony as the big man turned towards not-so-Lucky Dick’s gravesite monument just sixty yards or so from them. Tony was relieved of the distraction. He had been wondering if his mother’s ghost might be out there as well.

Jimmy said, “Hey kid. Open the glove box.”

Inside was a .38 special. Smith and Wesson. An eight shot with a six-inch barrel. Jimmy said, “That’s yours kid. I picked it out ‘special-like, just for you.”

Tony’s apprehension had wiffled away in the hot breeze, he couldn’t stop the grin that spread across his face, lighting up his dark eyes like luminescent obsidian. “Wow. Thanks Jimmy.”

“I like you kid. Why not call me Uncle Jimmy?”

The two had fired away at tin cans the rest of the afternoon. Uncle Jimmy had told him he was a natural.

***

Artie said, “Tony, why don’tchoo get started on clearing out the storeroom?” He wasn’t asking Markahan’s opinion then…he was informing him of his plans.

Tony was more than happy to depart the office. It seemed the overweight cop was sucking in all the unused oxygen in the place. He avoided the cop’s eyes as he departed. He didn’t look into Jimmy the Neck’s either as he strode out, the man’s smirk always made him want to punch those full, somewhat feminine lips. He didn’t know why, but there was something about Uncle Jimmy he just didn’t trust.

Down in the basement storeroom, Tony’s shoulders slumped as he looked around. No-one ever came down here. Crates of booze were stacked neatly beneath the windows which were high in the walls. Outside, they faced the street at ground level, two on each side of the small porch’s stairs. The crates were the only thing neat about the large rectangular room. The bare bulbs hanging from the ceiling emitted sickly yellowy light, only two of the six were not burnt out. Boxes and trunks and crates filled with old empty bottles sat in haphazard piles everywhere. Tony sneezed. The place smelled of rat turds and musty rotten linens. Tony snickered and thought, ‘I thought they called it ‘organized’ crime.’

He moved the crates of booze to a large closet under the stairs, making a note on his list of supplies to add a padlock. It was very dark by the time he’d taken out the empty bottles, saving the straw-bottomed Chiantis to use for candle holders.

As he surveyed once more before calling it a day, he sighed. It looked like he’d not put a dent in the clean-up.

Three days later, the future speak easy had six working lights on black chains with orange and red silk lantern globes that softened the harshness of the bulbs. The windows were covered with framed oriental satin fabric that matched the lanterns. Incense had devoured the stench, and the concrete floor was smooth and shiny under the layers of turds and dust and cobwebs. The only pile of crap left was at the far end of the room. Stacks of old newspapers and magazines sat in four-foot piles. Behind them, a dark wool blanket covered a pile of junk a foot taller than he was.

As he moved the stacks of newspapers away from the junk pile one fell off the stack and spread on the floor. A headline caught his eye: “Mob Boss Meltdown…Where is Elanor?”

Chills tickled his skin in sharp contrast to the hot room…a room that suddenly shifted under his feet like a ship on the ocean. He sat on a stack and read the article. He’d been only three when it was written. He didn’t remember her disappearance well---only that she was just gone one day. Without hard evidence, Detective Markahan could only suppose that Elanor had witnessed something she shouldn’t have. Don Artie Zorelto had had a meltdown. Instead of firing members of his crew said to be involved, they also…disappeared. Tony realized Markahan must have been demoted back to beat cop after a no doubt long stint at a desk position.

Tony sifted through the magazines. They had obviously been hers. Vogue, Harper’s Bazaar, The Cosmopolitan…and here was one dedicated to brides. Tears stung his eyes. With equally renewed passion and dread, he pulled the blanket from the pile.

Two large leather-bound chests sat beneath a birdcage amidst at least a dozen large throw pillows. The brick wall at the back was nearly black in color, like the rest of the walls, but there was a lighter patch in the center. Some of the cement in a four-foot-wide radius was crumbling. Tony put his mother’s large vanity and mirror in front of it, and intending to turn the area into a poker nook.

The chests contained her clothes and shoes, old sepia-toned photos, and a collection of Victorian era silk fans. He threw away the papers and magazines. He donated the clothes to Goodwill. He cleaned and polished and repaired the rest and set it aside.

Artie, impressed by his son’s work in the basement, decided to up the opening of the secret club by two months. So, in the summer of 1920, the patrons who descended thirstily were greeted by a sumptuous free-spirited (though spirits weren’t free) atmosphere. Soft jazz filled the warmly lit space---a three-piece black ensemble with a stunning, curvy blonde crooning into a mic. Artie declared he was “gonna marry that one” and the patrons and crew slapped him on the back laughing…but not loudly. Markahan had told them all to “speak easy” and they obeyed honorably. Couches were laden with the throw pillows, the birdcage was filled with flowers and tiny lights, the oak bar along the wall gleamed softly in the lantern light. The fans adorned the walls. Tony looked at least twenty in his white shirt and tie behind the bar.

Monday through Thursday, the club was open 6 p.m. until midnight. Fridays and Saturdays, it stayed open until two a.m. Artie allowed gambling in the place on the condition that ten percent of the winnings went to charity. Markahan had found him this loophole---just in case---as he was an avid player himself. His mother was too.

Artie thought it a fine idea to have a ladies poker night and allotted them Thursday nights. Around the table before the vanity that stored the chips, lockbox, cards, and supplies sat Markahan’s mother, Mabel, and his fat wife Minnie. Also there one Thursday in August, was the blonde---her name was Tina, an old black lush named Sadie-May, and Jimmy the Neck’s mother, Fortuna.

At well past two a.m. only Tony remained behind the bar, polishing glasses and watching with amusement the ladies’ poker game. The bouncers had kicked everyone else out at two, half the overhead lights were off, the ladies were tipsy but masculine in their talk and swagger. It was an epic game of five card draw. Fortuna was winning, but close behind was Minnie, the rest along for the ride.

Tony refreshed their drinks and as he turned back towards the bar, the lights went out. Only the two Chianti bottles on the vanity holding candles provided weak light.

“What the?” slurred Sadie-May.

“Tony! You ain’t no lictrician after all, eh?” chortled Mabel.

Tony said, “Don’t worry, I’ll…”

“What Tony?” said Tina, “what you---”

Tony turned and saw Tina’s eyes were wide. She was frightened. The other ladies giggled…until they followed Tina’s gaze…to the vanity mirror.

A woman sat in the mirror. She was wearing a flowing white nightgown She grinned as she rose from her seat. It was too wide. Too sharklike and kept spreading…until her lips spread from ear to ear, her eyes narrowed to slits. She suddenly flew out from the mirror!

The women screamed.

Tony was petrified but not scared. It was his mother.

The ghost flew up and around Tony, blew him a kiss, then flew back into the mirror. The candles winked out in her wake. In pitch blackness, the women screamed again. Chairs scraped the floor and toppled over. Sobbing filled the room.

Then all the overhead lights came on. Too bright it was now, as the women ran for the door. Tina flew through the doorway first, the others following pell-mell.

All but one.

At the table, Jimmy’s mother lay face down on the table. Tony knew she was dead but had to check. He lifted her into a sitting position. Her face was ghastly. Eyes open too wide. Mouth an O of a silent scream, the skin white, tinged with grey. Tony closed her eyes. They flew open again as if not wanting to miss a single detail of her death. He tried twice more then gave up. He laid her on the bar and covered her upper body and face with his jacket. Her stiff feet stuck straight up in chunky-heeled emerald-green pumps. Tony felt badly for Jimmy, for him having to see his mother this way.

At seven a.m., Jimmy stood looking down at his mother. Artie and Tony stood by with heads bowed.

“We’ll have a fine wake for her right ere. A fine wake," said Artie.

Jimmy looked up at Tony, his face florid with anger. Tears drying on his cheeks, he said, “You. You did this.”

“What? Me? No---” he started to object then stopped when he saw the vanity mirror. His mother was sitting in it. A demur smile on her face. She nodded once then vanished. Tony understood everything then. Jimmy had killed her. She was buried in the wall. He felt dizzy. “I need to lay down. Been up all night.”

Jimmy started after him, but Artie put a hand to his chest. “Let him go.”

***

Out in the desert, Jimmy was closing in on Tony’s hiding spot. They were just twenty yards from the rock formation that marked the graveyard. Tony heard Jimmy’s footfalls on the other side of the rock and crept around the other way, keeping the rock between them. And then footsteps…receding?

Tony dared a peek. Jimmy was backing away, his eyes round, his face white as snow. He raised his revolver and Tony raised his, about to fire. Jimmy turned the gun on himself and blew his brains out.

“What the…?” Tony turned around, afraid of what he might see.

There was nothing there but Lucky Dick’s monument.