Perdition on the Susquehanna

Just outside Owego, New York where the interstate turns south, and the terrain of the Southern Tier pushes the horizon ever higher, an offshoot of the Susquehanna cuts into a shallow valley between oak-speckled hills.  Through remote country does the creek wind, ever waning as it meanders northward, unnoticed by the infrequent passerby, save the glassy-eyed thousand-yard stare of a disengaged passenger traveling westward on 86 to Elmira, and Corning, and beyond.  To the creek’s bank side no regular visitors come – no fishermen fish, no hikers hike. For it is not a destination, but rather a landmark of little consequence, a mile marker for the road weary, silently declaring that one is truly in the middle of nowhere.

But for its profound obscurity, and near inaccessibility, it is possible for a sojourner to reach the virgin stream side by way of old dirt roads and rusting bridges, long since abandoned after the construction of the interstate.  It was just below such a dilapidated iron overpass that presently sat two men on either side of the creek.  They faced one another, lying stretched out upon the grass, neither seemingly paying any mind to the man across the stream.  On the west bank lay a young man, barely a year over twenty.  He wore a pair of gray slacks, black glossy loafers, and a white tank top.  Just below his slick cobalt hair he cast a forearm, his unblinking eyes cast upward at a blue, midday sky.  Opposite him lay a man dressed in a similar style, though nearly twice his size and twice his age.  He, too, donned grey dress pants and Italian shoes, but he wore a button-up silk shirt that was hardly buttoned up.  His hands were folded upon his bare chest, which rose and fell with the tempo of a man not far from sleep.  He gnawed gently on a blade of grass, the end of which drooped just below his chin.  Eyes peaceably shut.  Legs crossed. He was a living, breathing homage to Huck Finn, should the latter have come from Queens.

“What a day, huh Tommy?” mused the elder aloud, his eyes yet closed, the blade of grass bouncing with the flap of his jaw.  “A guy could get used to jobs like this.”

There was a beat of silence.  An early summer breeze swept across the vale, rustling the grass about them.  Upon an updraft of warmth, a hawk called out regularly, as if to voice its own praise of such a perfect afternoon.  And on the occasion when a breath of air blew just right, the muffled hush of a traveling car upon the far-off freeway could be heard. 

“Yeah it’s pretty good,” responded Tommy.

“Pretty good?!” called out his senior, who, though clearly unimpressed with his partner’s response, still made no effort to stir from his repose.  “Right now you’d be stockin’ Band-Aids and cock pills at your pop’s store, if it weren’t for me.  But instead you’re out here in nature’s bounty, soakin’ up some rays, breathin’ in this beeaautiful air.  Jesus, Tommy, this was your idea in the first place!”

“Nah, I get it Ricky, it’s nice and all,” mustered the younger man.  “It’s just that…”

“It’s just what?!”

“It’s just that I was supposed to see Debbie tonight, ya know.  We had big plans to catch that new flick at the Triplex and then grab a slice at Tony’s.”

Presently, Ricky hoisted his torso up to lean against his elbows.  His expression was a mixed cocktail of perturbation and disbelief.  “Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me Tommy?” His head bobbed with every other word.  “This is your third job for Mr. C.  You don’t fuck this up, and you’re in.  Simple as that.  And you mean to tell me that you’re sweatin’ a little go around with some broad?”

“I know. I know.  Sorry, Ricky,” said Tommy, who remained on his back.  “That was stupid.  Not sure what I was thinkin’.”

“You weren’t thinkin’.  That’s your problem, kid.”  Ricky rest his head back down in the grass, and returned to his tranquil pose, hands folded over his heart like a corpse at a viewing.  “And as I recall, you were runnin’ with some Maria chick.”

“Yeah there’s her too,” stated Tommy indifferently.

“You’re a real saint, Tommy,” said Ricky with a chuckle.  “All worked up over missing a date with a broad your cheatin’ on your girl with.  That’s some dirty shit, kid.”

“We ain’t married or nothin’.”

“Once a cheater, always a cheater, Tommy.  Don’t think it’ll stop once you put a ring on your finger.”

“You mean you never messed around on…”

“Never!” interrupted Ricky, propping himself up once more.  “Cheryl drives me up the fuckin’ wall six days a week and twice on Sunday.  She’s a vindictive bitch and the daughter of Satan himself.  But you don’t do that to a person.  You take some shit.  You give some shit.  And take a little more.  But you don’t step out.  It’s called loyalty, Tommy – somethin’ your generation could use a little more of.”  Satisfied with his lesson, he searched about for a suitable blade of grass to replace the one through which he had gnawed.  He plucked a long, flat leaf and lay back down.

The once clear blue sky began to give way to grey-white clouds, which brought both intermittent reprieve from the waxing heat, and the promise of a summer storm.  It was as a particularly robust cloud past between the sun and himself that Tommy ceased his hitherto unbroken gaze into the blue dome above.  He sat up, folded his arms about his knees, and plucked a dandelion blooming before his loafers.

“So you think I’ll like workin’ for Mr. C?” asked Tommy, examining his yellow flower.

“There are worse professions, my young apprentice,” replied Ricky.  He flicked away his blade of grass like a cigarette butt, and reached into his pocket for a real fix.  After a few clicks of the lighter and a long drag, he blew out a satisfying plume of smoke and continued with his momentarily delayed train of thought.  “It sure beats cleanin’ toilets.  The hours ain’t bad.  Free slices from Antonio’s when you’re on the job.  Respect, too, Tommy.  You can’t beat the feelin’ of walkin’ into any joint in Queens and knowin’ that everybody in there knows your name – knows that you’re one of Mr. C’s guys.  Struttin’ down Kissena Boulevard with Johnny Boy, Little Frankie, and Sticks like we own the place. Never gets old.”

Tommy spun the dandelion about by the stem.  He nodded his head in apparent agreement with his partner’s logic, but the tension in his cheeks spoke otherwise.  “But what about… you know…”

“Bout what?”

Tommy looked about the valley nervously, darting glances from the rusting bridge on his left, to the thin line of highway cutting across the hillside on his distant right. 

“You gonna tell me a racist joke, or ask me on a date, or what?  The hell’s your problem?” asked Ricky not unkindly. “Spit it out already.”

“What about… murder?” whispered Tommy to his flower.

“What now? We’re ten yards apart, and you’re tellin’ secrets to a goddam weed?  Ain’t nobody around for twenty miles.  Would you speak the fu…”

“Murder, Ricky!” shouted Tommy as he tossed the dandelion into the creek.  “Offin’ a guy. Whackin’ a guy.  Puttin’ em six feet under. Fucking murder, Ricky! Should I fuckin’ sign it out to you?!”

“Woah, alright, Tommy,” cut in Ricky.  With a touch of effort the soldier sat up to meet the young cugine eye to eye.  “I get it, I get it.  You’re a little nervous about your first hit.”

“Yeah, something like that,” said Tommy, yet frustrated.  “I just wonder sometimes… like, what if the guy doesn’t deserve to get popped?”

“Hey, bud, Mr. C doesn’t put a hit on nobody that don’t deserve it.  Take this schmuck that we’re payin’ a visit to today. Sal, right?”

“Goddammit,” mumbled Tommy.  “Yeah, Sal.”

“This piece of shit’s been dealin’ us dirty.  Workin’ for Mr. C, breakin’ bread with us like a brother.  The whole time, he’s been in bed with the Luciano family – tradin’ information for cash and smack. And now he’s holed up in Buffalo, hidin’ from Mr. C, like the vermin he is.  And that’s all he is – a rodent. He’s a rat, Tommy.  A fuckin’ rat!  Ain’t nothin’ in this business worse than a rat.  If you can’t trust a guy, he ain’t worth the shirt on his back.  He’s a Judas.  And you know what happened to Judas, don’t you, Tommy.”

“He hung himself.”

“That’s right.  But most of these rats don’t know have enough sense to pop their own lousy selves.  That’s where we come in.  We’re God’s righteous hands of justice.  Weedin’ out the filthy Judases of the world.”

“It’s just like that?”

“It’s just like that.”  Ricky paused for a moment.

“Havin’ a hard time with it is all,” sighed the youngster.  He bit his lower lip and wrinkled his brow.

“Listen, Tommy.” Ricky’s tone took a turn to the paternal.  “You ain’t doin’ nothin’ wrong.  It’s just the way of the world.  And it ain’t like you’re Bill the Butcher neither.  It’s all business.  It’s quick.  In and out.  Two to the back of the head.  He won’t feel a thing. You gotta be a humanitarian.”

“Hardly the word I would choose, Ricky,” Tommy retorted, unamused.

“Eh, you know what I mean.” Ricky slung his cigarette butt, long since burned out, into the stream and presently became aware of his surroundings.  “Jesus Christ, where the hell’d the sun go.”  Indeed, the sky had grown overcast, as it is wont to do in Tioga County – a country known more for dreariness than pleasant summer afternoons. From the west, gusts of cool air ushered in a transformation; for the companions suddenly found themselves on the edge of an imminent storm. “Better get goin’, Tommy,” groaned the elder as he worked his way to his feet.  “It’s gonna be a long ride to Buffalo if we’re drivin’ through this shit the whole time.”

Tommy shuffled but made no concentrated effort at standing up.  “It might just pass us over, ya know?  Could hang out for just a little bit longer, Ricky.”

“Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me, kid?!” snapped Ricky.  “It’s about to rain buckets, and you wanna have a picnic?!  We still gotta get back to car before it opens up.”  He turned away from the youth, and began to march up the low incline of the eastern bank.  “Let’s get the hell outta here!” he called out from over his shoulder. 

Tommy smacked his hands to his forehead and rubbed his temples with the heel of his palms before running all ten fingers down the length of his scalp. By his side he espied another dandelion, at which he batted with the snap of his elbow.  The bud ripped from the stem and blew swiftly away in the ever strengthening winds.  For a moment he remained seated in the grass, staring intently at his mentor storming off towards the obscured ditch off the side of the road where they had left the Buick.  And in that moment, the wild thought crossed his mind to stay right where he was – to let the clouds roll over him, to let the deluge soak him to his bones, to let Ricky leave him there, maybe for good.  He could walk the five miles to town, get a hotel room on Lake Street, stay the weekend.  He could stay the next week, or get a job and stay a lifetime, and leave behind Queens and Maria and Mr. C and Ricky, and never touch a gun again and nobody would have to die.

But Tommy’s reverie was short-lived.  And as he watched Ricky slog off toward the car – unfettered corners of cheap silk billowing about him – the lessons of his mentor came bubbling back to the forefront of his consciousness.  It was only but a moment before he had hopped to his feet, and skimmed across the creek by way of a few dry river stones protruding from the surface. “Hey Ricky, wait up!” he called out to his mentor.

“It’s about fuckin’ time, kid,” snorted Ricky without breaking stride.  “Didn’t know if you was campin’ out or takin’ a shit or what the hell you were doin’.”

“Nah, nothin’ like that,” replied Tommy, matching his leader’s pace.

“Well you’ve certainly livened up,” said Ricky almost surprised; for it was the first time in their three hour expedition that Tommy’s voice bore no hint of melancholy, nor trepidation.  “You finally come to Jesus?”

“I guess you could say that,” answered the trailing man.  “I just got to thinkin’ is all.”

“Regale me, Confucius!”

“I was thinkin’ about what you were sayin’ about Judas.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I mean, he was bad, and all.”

“A real piece-a shit.”

“But what about Peter?”

“What about him?” Ricky halted his trek for the first time since he had left the creek side, and turned to face his protégé, his face twisted in confusion.  “He was a stand-up character. The first disciple.  Father of the Church.  What are you doin’ even puttin’ a douche bag like Judas into the same sentence as Saint Peter?!  Get your head outta your ass, Tommy.”  He turned round and rejoined his lumbering towards the car.

“I get it, Ricky,” began Tommy in pursuit, “but hear me out.  Judas sold out his whole crew, but only one time, and, might I add, right to their face – like a real man.  Peter, though, he denied his crew three times.  Behind their backs.  Like a pussy.  You tell me what’s worse, Ricky: a one-time rat, or a three-time liar?”

“You’re nuts, junior,” huffed Ricky.

“Maybe,” granted Tommy.  “Maybe not.”

The two were presently cresting the top of the gentle slope that hemmed in the valley.  Before them ran a dirt road, lined on the far side by a knoll of tall grass and a single oak.  It was in the shade of the tree where – at the behest of Tommy – they had abandoned their ride for the call of sun and peace and a moment’s rest.

“There she is,” sighed Ricky, catching a glimpse of the metallic blue rooftop in the near distance.  He was sweating, aching, and interested in Tommy solely as a scapegoat for his current state of being.  “Ya had to stop. Had to ‘get away from civilization,’” he said mockingly.  “And then ya moped like a sad fuckin’ puppy the whole time.”

Tommy paused for a moment as the leader continued onward.  He bent over, pulled up his pant cuff, and effortlessly returned to within a yard of the plodding Ricky.  “Ya know, Ricky,” he spoke almost whimsically, “I was only playin’ with ya when I said I was hookin’ up with some Debbie broad.  Things are gettin’ pretty serious with Maria.”

“Good for you, kid.”

“Funny thing, too.  My Maria said she saw you the other night.”

“Good for her.”

“Yeah, she said she saw ya walkin’ into Barosa’s with a woman.  Some blonde babe, she said.  Didn’t know who it was, but it definitely wasn’t Cheryl, she said.”

“Then your little lady’s nutso,” replied Ricky, unfazed.  “I ain’t eaten at Barosa’s in ten years.  Tell her to get her eyes checked.”

“Alright, alright Ricky, forget about it,” said Tommy grinning.  “She probably just had you on the mind since I talk about you so much.  I’m always tellin’ her about you and the crew.  Love you guys – all of yous.  Like family, ya know?”

“How sentimental.”

“I’m not tryin’ to get all gooey on ya.  Just sayin’ how much all of you mean to me.  Johny Boy.  And Little Frankie.  Sticks.”

“Solid fellas.”

“Don’t I know it, Ricky!” exclaimed Tommy.  “Funny thing, though,” he started, scratching his head with his free hand.  “They say they ain’t seen you around in a good minute.  A hot minute.  And Antonio says you ain’t been by in a month.”

“That’s a bullshit lie!” barked Ricky without looking back. “I just had drinks with the guys at Donovan’s the other day.”

“Hey don’t shoot the messenger,” defended Tommy.  “Not for nothin’, but Frankie was just tellin’ me that you ain’t around like you used to be.  And even when you are, you ain’t really there, ya know what I mean? Aloof is what he said.”

“Frankie’s a regular thesaurus, as I recall” grumbled Ricky.  “A real poet.” 

“He ain’t bad,” conceded Tommy.  “But I’ll tell ya who can really turn a phrase.  Sal.  That’s one eloquent sonuvabitch.  Started callin’ him the Sicilian Shakespeare.”

“Now why would you bring up that fink?” shouted Ricky, his temper flaring, pulse pounding.  The two neared the dirt road just as the first sporadic drops of rain fell about them.

“Funny thing about Sal, rat as he may seem to be,” stated Tommy almost dramatically, “is that I’ve seen his ugly face around Antonio’s a helluva lot more often than I’ve seen yours.”

“That’s what rats do, dummy,” growled Ricky.  “They play both sides – lull you into a sense of camaraderie, before they stab you in the back.  Now, if you don’t mind I’d like to drop the topic of Sal, the dirty fuckin’ ra…

“Sure, sure, bud, ain’t no thing.  Just funny is all.”

“What the fuck is so goddam funny?!”

“It’s just funny that Mr. C personally explained to me that he had only ever told two people that you and I were goin’ to hit Sal.  Me of course…”

For the second and final time that day did Ricky cease his journey out of the valley.  He had reached the edge of the road, the car not fifteen yards from his feet.  His shirt clung to his body by a stew of perspiration and precipitation.  “Yeah?” he said licking the sweat from his lips.

“Me and Vincent Luciano.”

The wind had died to a light breeze.  All was still in the valley, save the steady patter of rain on grass, and leaves, and the puddles forming in the dirt-turned-mud road.  Ricky raised both hands slowly – from his sides, to his hips, and then to just above his head.  He bent to one knee, and with a grimace, bent the other knee to the ground.  He opened his mouth.  He considered explaining.  He considered reasoning. He considered pleading, bargaining, praying.  At last he spoke.  “Remember what I told ya, kid.”

Tommy nodded his head as he aimed.  “Be a humanitarian.”