“Soon Schultz was serving watered-down beer and bad whisky. Soon the numbers players had no chance at all.” FIRST DRAFT- Flossie

source: Mobster Times Magazine (August, 75 cents)

Soon Schultz was serving watered-down beer and bad whisky. Soon the numbers players had no chance at all. It was around this time of night that the flow of alcohol would slow, the mood would heighten and Schultz would wait patiently for the room to crack, its inhabitants like a drowsy monster under the waning influence of a powerful anaesthetic. A little water in every mug, a couple of splashes from the special whisky bottle – the one that sat open in a dusty shaft of sunlight in the muggy back room; it didn’t take much to turn his customers, a bunch of questionable characters to begin with. And turning them was the the main objective. They were better ripe.

“What is this, Schultz? Tastes like shit,” slurred a man in a darkened corner of the bar. His head lay cradled in the palm of one hand, the other hand wrapped around a glass with brown liquid in it. His face had a deeply etched five-o-clock shadow and his eyelids were dipping open and closed like two boats bouncing on the tide. He wasn’t alone at the table. Two men flanked his sides; one man was slowly sipping a stale beer; the same beer, Schultz noticed, ordered an hour ago when he first walked in. He sat angled obtusely in his chair, his legs stretched like two pool cues in front of him. Chin tucked into his chest, he was eyeing Schultz. The second man seemed less relaxed, fidgeting with his hands by swirling his whisky in the glass and drumming his fingers on the table.

“It’s what you always get Manny, and you should be happy for it.” Schultz balled up a dirty bar rag and hurled it at Manny’s face. Manny’s eyes opened wide and blinked a few times to register where he was. He sat up in his chair and slammed the rest of his drink down his throat. Muttered something as he shifted in his seat, but it was inaudible.

“When’s this gonna happen, Schultz? I didn’t come here to sit around all night.” The man swirling his whisky stopped drumming his fingers and finished his drink. They were getting restless.

“Joe, we do this every month and every month you give me guff. Why don’t you just take your game elsewhere and leave me the hell alone already?” Schultz got a clean bar rag and used it to wipe down the bar. Anything to look busy. Let them get riled. He knew Joe wouldn’t ever go anywhere but here for the numbers, but he liked to push him anyway. Joe was a pain in the ass. Always complaining about something. Tommy wasn’t so bad about it, but that worried Schultz more. Too quiet. Never really drank anything, just got the beer to hold it. Like if he didn’t hold something, his hands might find themselves wrapped around something else. This kind of game, someone gets too quiet, it’s not a good sign.

Schultz looked at the clock ticking too loudly on the wall: 10:30pm. With no glass front and brown streaks running down its face, it looked like someone started a fight by throwing drinks around. He was amazed it still worked. He look around his bar at the men sitting quietly in their chairs. He tried not to look at their faces; I hate their faces, he thought, as he polished the metal of the beer tap. There was only one TV in the whole place and most of the men stared at it vacantly, as if they were watching something they’d already seen a hundred times. No sound, no color. Just a broken TV playing the news, the picture wavy, mutilating the faces of the newscasters. One pool table sat lonely in the corner of the bar; there were no balls or sticks to accompany it. They had all broken or gone… missing. None of the chairs matched the tables, none of the tables matched each other. Everything had been found on the street; other people’s garbage. It even smelled that way, musty and damp like the rolled up sock he used to keep the water pipe from soaking the floor and rotting the wood. Such a deadbeat bar, Schultz thought, how did I wind up in such a deadbeat bar? But he knew how. It was the game. This deal he made with the men and the devil that twitched inside him. Had to play the game. Even if he never made the money, which he rarely did. Last time he made any money, he bought a TV. A black and white number that eventually went mute.

It had started out well enough. His mother had died, leaving him a little cash. Not much, but enough. The place wasn’t especially clean; there was no furniture; the entrance was below street level. It didn’t even have windows. All it had was a bar with shelving and beer taps, and a tiny apartment above it. All he needed, really. He figured it must have been a speakeasy at some point, Shave and a Haircut and all that. Except for moving in the used furniture and the pool table, he hadn’t changed much about it. People still knocked to get in, and even then, you had to know the right knock.

“Schultz, seriously, where is this guy? Kid don’t usually deliver this late.” A man in the far back pushed his seat out and stood up, stretching his arms out above him. He was tall and thin and Schultz could see the sharp ridge of his lower rib cage as it peeked from beneath his shirt, two sizes too small. Jim. Junky Jim. Everytime he left the bar, Schultz thought he’d never see him again. But he always came back, itching, red eyed, licking his lips. The money was too easy.

“Jim, come on now. I can’t predict this shit.” Schultz poured a glass of whisky from the bad bottle and slid it down the bar to Jim, who moved over the tables like a spider to grab it. “He comes when he comes; gimme a fucking break, all of you, all right?” Schultz slammed a glass down and quickly filled it with good whisky – a glass for himself. As he finished topping it off, a knock came at the door. All the heads in the bar turned to look. The first knock was followed by four quick knocks, a long pause, then one last knock that sounded like a flat palm had slapped the door. The heads turned back to their former positions as one guy got up to unlock the door.

“Hey fellas – I see I didn’t miss anything,” Phil said as he sidestepped the man at the door and came inside. He patted the guy on the back and took off his coat, throwing it casually over his arm.

“How you doin’ Philly,” Schultz sighed. His heart started beating again; he almost hadn’t noticed it stopped. It always stopped when someone came to the door. He poured Phil a glass of the good stuff and passed it over the bar. Phil sat at the bar, the only one to ever sit at the bar. He looked at Schultz as he took the glass, keeping his gaze as he tipped it down his throat. Phil was a good looking guy, clear blue jewel eyes under a mountain of thick, black hair.  The first time Schultz met him he liked him immediately, although he didn’t trust him. He was almost too good looking, too sweet with his tongue, too together. But he liked him, nonetheless. Phil helped set up the game; he knew more about the numbers than Schultz did, had experience in Chicago from years ago. Back then they picked the numbers with roulette tables or by taking the last three digits of the National Debt at midnight. Phil helped Schultz with that demon in his gut, customizing the game so that it was his show. Schultz fed his demon and Phil made a little money – it always worked out. They got along the way two crocodiles might get along, snapping their jaws at each other, living in the same river, sharing the fish. Eyes always above water, watching.

“I’m good Shooly, I’m good. They gettin’ antsy?” Phil jerked a thumb behind him, indicating the guys in the bar. A couple of the men straightened up and looked at each other, as if Phil could see them through the back of his head. Junky Jim started shivering and stamped his feet as if he could shake out the tremor that way.

“Course they’re antsy – what’s new?” Schultz came around the bar and sat down next to Phil. Phil spun his stool around theatrically and faced the room.

“You guys got a problem waiting, huh?” He got up and cantered over to Manny, who was by now fully awake. Manny looked like he was trying to swallow something that wouldn’t go down.

“You want to run numbers tonight, Manny?” Phil lowered his head down to Manny’s level and looked him in the eyes, his hands resting on his thighs.

“N-no Phil, guy’s gonna come for that.” Manny picked up his empty glass and looked into it. He backed his chair out and stalked over to the bar, placing his glass by Schultz. Schultz leaned over the bar and grabbed the bad bottle, filled the glass. Phil was still leaning over, as if Manny had never moved.

“Ok then, everybody’s happy!” Phil said as he rose up and stretched his hands into the air, triumphant. Just then, the door knocked. All heads turned. Shave and a Haircut. Phil took long steps to the door and put his ear against it, smiling. He waited about a minute before- Shave and a Haircut. The knock again. Schultz pulled out a glass and set it on the bar. Phil balled his hand into a fist and suspended it motionless in front of the door. Shave and a Haircut. Three times now. Phil knocked his response, Two bits, and unlocking the door, opened it slowly. The men in the bar sat up in their chairs, leaned toward the door.

“Well, hello friend! Come in, come in, please come in.” Phil stepped aside and stretched his arm out, showing the way in. A short man with a long brown coat and fedora stepped inside. He took off his hat as Phil closed the door and, with one hand at the little man’s back, Phil ushered him to the bar. Schultz’s heart began to pound heavily and he could feel a tingling sensation stretch out from his stomach to his fingers and toes. The demon was waking up.

“What’ll you have?” Schultz asked as the man took a seat at the bar. Phil couldn’t contain his smile as he sat down on a stool three seats away from him.

“Oh, I dunno, I guess… ” The man fidgeted with his hat, turning it in circles, his fingers feeling the brim like a blind man. “…I guess a beer is good. Any beer.” The man had small, winking eyes, maybe he needs glasses, Schultz thought, and a face that dropped off at the chin, sloping inward like the neck of a turtle.

“What brings you here?” Schultz asked as he placed the beer in front of him. The little man looked at the perspiring glass, then looked down the length of the bar. He wants a cocktail napkin for his beer, Schultz thought. In a place like this, he’s looking for a goddamned napkin. He looked at Phil, who could only watch and smile. The bar was deathly quiet. Schultz jerked his head towards the men as the little man closed his eyes and took a sip of his beer. Phil got off his stool and turned to a couple of guys sitting at a table a few feet away. He started talking loudly to them, the sound of his voice echoing in the room. Most of the men had their eyes on the back of the little man at the bar, but the sound of Phil’s voice broke through whatever spell the little man cast, and they all began talking to one another in easy, conversational tones. The bar was suddenly alive. 

“I… I don’t know. There was a boy two blocks down. Asked me… well, he told me… said there was a game?” The little man looked up at Schultz, his tiny eyes like pin pricks in his face, winking. Schultz could feel the blood rising in his body. His fingers twitched on the bar and he tightened his grip on the wood, his knuckles turning bone white.

“You ever play numbers?”

“No, I… I mean, I’ve heard… I know you can make some good money, and I thought…” The little man stumbled over his words as if they were falling out too fast and he needed to gobble them back up. He took a long draft from the beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Schultz could see Phil smiling over the little man’s head, his eyes locked on their conversation.

“You thought you could make a little extra cash, bring it home to the wife?” Schultz leaned against the back of the bar and folded his arms over his stomach. He could feel his heart pounding in his gut, wondered if it was like an echo chamber: everyone could hear.

“Oh no, no, my wife… she doesn’t like this kind of thing. I only thought… I went to the race track, lost some money. I only thought…”

“You could make it back?” Phil couldn’t help but chime in. Schultz shot him a dirty look as the little man turned around to see who spoke. The smile on Phil’s face wavered slightly; he didn’t like to see Schultz upset. No one did.

“I was hoping I could, yes. Make some back.” The little man squinted at Phil, then turned back to Schultz. “If I could make a little back, she might not be so mad.” Schultz imagined his wife at home, a short, fat woman with rollers and a house dress. Probably screeches like a banshee, makes the food and bitches about doing it, and the food isn’t even good. Probably just like Mother; stupid, fat and lazy, and always moaning about something, the kind of woman who would either drive you away or make you crazy, or worse yet make you so mad you-

“What is it I have to do? Is it 3, 4 numbers? I’ve always wanted to bet my mother’s birthday: January 5, 1923.” The little man, having finished his beer, pulled out his wallet and placed a ten dollar bill on the bar. His wallet was fat with bills, and he carefully folded it and placed it back into his pocket.  Schultz took the ten without looking at it, without looking at the little man, and crumpling it in his fist, dropped it in the sudsy beer glass. The game had begun. He wasn’t there anymore.

“Your mother’s birthday, huh?” Schultz walked to one end of the bar, bent over, picked something up from the ground. “Everyone wants to play their mother’s birthday. Everyone.” He looked to Phil, who was already getting up from his chair. A couple of men, Junky Jim and Tommy included, got up too and stood behind Phil, waiting. The other men simply fell silent and stared at the tables in front of them, as if they were the background tableau of some theatrical scene.

The little man stepped off the bar stool and picked up his hat. Like a rabbit, bird, any small creature, he sensed a shift in the room, in Schultz. Something turned over, the ears pricked up, the nose twitched, the hind legs tensed; he was a small animal who, in the search for food, didn’t realize the cave he had entered, it’s inhabitants. Fear entered his body, his legs shaking so badly Schultz could hear the rustle of his pants as the fabric rubbed against itself.

“What is this? What’s going on?” The little man backed away from Schultz, who had rounded the bar and was now leaning against it, one arm behind his back. The backed right up into Phil, who grabbed his arms from behind and held him tight.

“What’s going on?” Schultz said, in a high-pitched, mocking tone. He wasn’t there anymore. Schultz was somewhere else, polishing the glasses behind the bar, griping at his impatient customers. He was shutting off the lights at night, walking slowly to his upstairs apartment, kneeling and praying before the picture of his mother that hung over his bed. Schultz was stewing tomatoes for a good pasta sauce, just like Mother did. Spritzing the flowers with a bottle so as not to harm the petals. Opening the curtains in the morning to watch the dust as it fled the sun. Schultz was mopping the floor after she died. Calmly calling an ambulance. Picking up teeth.

“You wanted to play some numbers, right?” Schultz was standing in front of the little man. Just as he began to scream, Phil clamped a dirty rag over his mouth. He struggled like a caught pig, his little legs kicking the air. Phil lifted him up easily. Schultz let his hand drop. Something slim and silver flashed like lightning in his hand.

“What was it, January 5, 1923?” Schultz said as he slid up to the little man. “Phil, do we have that?” Phil laughed, nodding his head.

“We have guesses at January, so men who placed the month win a quarter of the pot,” Phil said, and nodded to Manny, who went to the bar and removed a box with a tin top. He opened it and began removing bills, counting them. The little man’s eyes went wide as he realized what was happening.

“That’s not enough winners,” Schultz whispered. He looked the little man in the face; sweat was dripping over his forehead, into his eyes, which blinked rapidly like the shutter of a nickelodeon. Schultz’s right hand came up and shot forward, retracting quickly. The little man screamed in agony as his shirt turned red and blood began to drip down his legs, off his shoes.  Schultz felt a warmth growing in his belly, spreading outward; his mind was awake; he licked his lips and made little bouncing steps with his feet, a smile spreading over his face.

“The wallet,” he whispered, and Junky Jim stepped forward, his hands quivering slightly. He reached into the little man’s back pocket, removed the fat wallet. The man had begun to shake uncontrollably, moaning into the dirty cloth over his mouth. Schultz opened the wallet, looked at the bills. He removed something, then tossed the wallet over to Manny at the bar. Manny scrambled to catch it, then resumed his counting.

“Well gentlemen, we have our winning numbers for tonight,” Schultz said as he looked at the card in his left hand. He tapped the bloodied knife in his right hand against his pants with an even rhythm. The little man felt his head being pulled back under Phil’s hand.

“March 8, 1957. 3, 8, 5, 7.” Schultz lifted his right hand and made a clean swipe across the little man’s neck. His body stuttered and hiccuped as Phil loosened his grip, letting him fall to the ground.

“Any winners?”

 

 

-fl0ssie