USK | Prose | Laidlaw | Cabbage Stew

Cabbage Stew

I tried to set a tone of respect, that's all I did. Just like I would with anyone, like Dago, the head of the Latin Kings, when I was running a bar in Chicago. Or the alderman who hinted around that I should donate to his fairy-tale charity. Or some biker who's feeling me out before selling me some crystal meth. Or my girlfriend who I happen to love for the moment but I still have to command it from. For me, it's all about a tone of respect...

*	That is why I didn't feel too bad about flinging the booze-laden table at the Sheraton Hotel's lounge over everyone within 15 feet of the place where it had originally stood. The table had been surrounded on three sides by, in order of importance, an idiot, a musician and an ex-poet.

"Well you ain't doin' a very good job of takin' care of Dana while she's studyin' for them boards," the Idiot mustered, coming close to a low blow.

"Yeah, well you ain't doin a very good job of collecting the rent for your mama either," I threw back at him like a molotov cocktail.

This pissed him off. No one's gonna even mention my mama in passing and get away with it, I could read on his face, as clear as a sunny day in Santa Monica with the Santa Ana winds chasing out the smog, so to try to prevent having to kick his ass right there in the lounge, I said real quiet-like, in a murderous whisper,

"You better be one bad motherfucker under that broken down old geezer disguise or I'm gonna smack you around like a bitch and make you suck my dick!"

The Idiot pushed back his chair, but I beat him to it; I had the table upside down and the heavy pewter pole with the plus-symbol legs now stood where seconds before the drinks and the ashtrays had been. The Idiot was pinned under the table-top and I had my left boot hard on his neck and began to crush him out like a cigarette,

"Hel-, he-"

"Help?" I finished for him. "You want help now? Well, O.K., all you had to do was ask."

I removed my left boot from his throat and used the right one to kick him in the head. It offered no resistance. It felt like kicking a cabbage. I didn't realize how hard my steel-toed boots were and how soft the Idiot's head was. I picked up my hat and put it back on, found my smokes and Zippo and paused for a second to see if I had any heroes to deal with. Nope. Not one set of balls among all them suits. I grabbed the Musician by the arm and led him out; we ducked into the bathroom and I peeked out the door. When I saw the clowns from hotel security run by towards the lounge like a squad of fuckin' Keystone cops, I strolled out the front lobby like a gentleman with the Musician in tow.

Out in the street, I lit up a smoke. I took my sweet time, letting the glare from the Zippo's flame light the Musician's face for a moment. The kid was scared; he looked like a first-time sneak-thief caught in the act.

"Relax, will ya? I just gotta keep you with me 'til I can be sure you're not a cheese-eater."

"A, a, wh-, what?" he stammered.

"Never mind, I'll do the talking, and you? You just keep walkin' like we're strolling through the Public Gardens high on that shit you smoke."

The Idiot had been, before his untimely demise, my landlady's 40-something son. Dana was a soon-to-be rich-bitch I was shacking up with because she gave good head and she did everything I told her to do without hesitation. And the Musician, he was a just nice guy whose music I happened to like who was unfortunate enough to have been playing a bar mitzvah the Idiot and me had crashed at the hotel. Me, I'm Tommy Ray Lester, a 36-year old grifter, ex-poet, ex-stick-up artist, and a fugitive from some small-time Irish mob fucks in Chicago, whose money I had taken with me when that crusading, crooked alderman had shut down the joint I was running for the Micks.

So, the Idiot had come pounding on the door around 3:00 that afternoon and had awakened me from a cat-nap, demanding the rent. The son-of-a-bitch scared the hell out of me; I had thought for a split-second that he was one of Shaunassy's goons until the Idiot had opened his mouth to say something in that ugly fucking Boston accent of his. I had opened the door and explained to the cocksucker that Dana's check was really and truly in the mail. He had apologized, and invited me to take him out for a drink, claiming it was his birthday; since the check was in the mail, he had no money to skim from his dear old mama. I had decided to take him up on his offer for me to buy him a few drinks, figuring to get him drunk and teach him a little something about respect. We had ended up, after the bar mitzvah for the Feldman boy, in the lounge, and the luckless Musician had accepted a drink from us, and here we were.

I had no idea what to do with the Musician; I was just putting distance between us and old Cabbage Head. I really didn't need this shit; how was I supposed to know his head would crush so easy? Murder 2 or maybe manslaughter, I was thinking, but maybe I could - no, they would get my prints from the goddamned bar glass I had been holding and up would pop my rap sheet. Then there would be a picture and, Boston being such a pussy-ass town, they would make a big deal out of it and actually look for me. I wasn't looking forward to it, but I had to get rid of the Musician; no sense proving their case for them with an iron-clad eye-witness in the off-chance that I did eventually get caught. We were approaching a T station and, like a fortune teller with a crystal ball, it all became clear to me.

"You want a smoke, Jimmy?" I asked the Musician as I shook one out for him. "Go ahead, take one - it won't kill ya."

His face turned as green as the Chicago River on St. Patty's Day.

"Sorry, kid, bad choice of words," I said, and I meant it; he had talent even with the shitty song list he had had to play that night, you couldn't help but admire his guitar work.

"Sure, Tom." he said, and then added, "I mean, I forget your name, man, I can't remember shit, ya know? All I do is smoke weed and play, man. I can't even remember if had a gig tonight or not, man so, you know, you don't have to worry about me or anything man," he rambled, pleadingly.

"Hey I know that kid, I can trust you and I want us to be friends. Maybe you can write a song about tonight and just change the location and names and when you hit big, don't forget who your friends are," I lied.

I studied his face. He seemed to be buying it for now; funny how you can fool yourself when the alternative is unbearable.

"This is all I'm gonna ask from you kiddo: I'll need to swap clothes with you, if you don't mind and since I can't go home I'll need your gig money." Again, I studied his face.

He was sold now. He had signed on the dotted line, and the farm was about to be his.

"No problemo, dude, you are welcome to the tux and I wish I had more to give you, man, but my end was only a hundred tonight, cheap fucking Jews you know?" This was a statement, not a question, so I let the slur slide even though it made what I had to do easier.

He reached for his wallet.

"Not yet. Let's do it down in the subway's john when we're switching clothes, then I'll watch you catch the Red line and I'll be on my merry way." I flipped my butt into the street as we crossed over to the T station.

The tux didn't fit too badly; a little snug, but it would do. I hated to part with my Perry Ellis, but, C'est la vie, as the frogs say. It was just after midnight and the platform was deserted. While we waited for the Musician's final train, it was small talk,

"Shit, man, I gotta get my ax, dude, fuck!" he said, stupidly.

"Yeah, well, you'll have plenty of time for that when they get done with you down at the cop shop. They're gonna grill ya, kid, but remember, you don't know me from the man on the moon and you can refuse a lie detector; they don't mean shit anyway. That way you stay outta trouble," I assured him.

His head jerked in the direction of the oncoming subway train before I heard it, but now the roar was deafening as I put my hand on his shoulder and said,

"Good luck, kid." I gave him a little shove. I strolled back up the stairs out onto the street, but not before I saw the Musician and my Perry Ellis get mangled under the train beyond any possible repair.

So that was that, the Musician's song in this world had played itself out and my troubles were just beginning. I took his hundred out of his wallet and put it in my pocket with the rest of Dana's money (about another $250.00). I dropped his and my wallets off the Longfellow Bridge and mentally said good-bye: to Dana; to the Musician; and to my former landlady's good-for-nothin' son.

It had been one hell of a night. I thought about the Feldman boy and how he would probably turn out to be a shyster who I might be able to use sometime if I could stay anonymous long enough; I thought about Dana and hoped she would make it as a doctor; I thought about how I used to hate the boiled cabbage stew my grandmother was always cooking when I was a kid; and then I thought about setting up my next grift in New York, or maybe LA, or even Miami... who knows?

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