The Fixer(Nathaniel R.) Every time there was a failure on his part, Marcone would always say “I’m just not as good as I was that day.” It was his catch-all phrase, the one with all the blame and all the failure implied. And when Vincent Marcone admitted fault or blame, that was something. Hell, the man would blame the clocks for being wrong before he’d admit he was late. Which is why when he calls me, on the rare occasion that he catches me at home, whatever the case may be, it means I have to fix something big.

I don’t know why Marcone always calls me to fix things, but I seem to be his number-one. Whenever a shipment is a day late, I check on the stills. Whenever the police get a little too close, I slip them a twenty or so to make up some fiction. Whenever a new client wants a piece of the action, I arrange the meeting, get the background on the guy, even talk to the Yankees for a bit while Marcone looks over the deal. Even in our little black-and-white world, Marcone still likes things not only to go smooth, but he wants them to go his kind of smooth. That’s probably why Salvitore wants to give Marcone a bigger slice of the Upper East Side. Assuming everything goes well, he’s gonna have a place big enough for his ego.

Which is why, when he calls me at nine in the morning, I just know we’re in the shit.

“Tommy, I need you to go pick up Joey and meet me at the Diner on 28th. McKinnon is late on his payments.”

“Alright boss, see you in ten.”

I hung the phone back up and grabbed my coat, checking to make sure my .38 was still in it. I made sure to check on the address for Angus McKinnon in the phonebook as well. As I stepped out into the morning sun, I reached into the bush and pulled out the newspaper. At least the kid kept it out of the birdbath this time. I got into the Packard and felt around on the floor for a pencil before I started the engine.

Joey lived in a nice little place just down the road, in a house that was too big for him now. It used to belong to him and Sally until about a year ago. Joey always says that he’d kill the bastard she ran off with, even though he doesn’t know his name, his face, or anything. He just says he’ll know what that drugstore cowboy would look like, and then he’ll kill that bastard. I’ve given up trying to tell him otherwise; that’s just how Joey works. I knock on the door and after three minutes and three more knocks, Joey shows up, his black hair slicked back and the stench of whiskey heavy in the air. Upon seeing me, he already knew what was up.

“I’m guessing Marcone screwed up again?”

“McKinnon place, but we’re going to the Diner on 28th first.”

With that, Joey yawned and let me into the house. I walked around the broken bottles and dust, stubbing my toe on a broken picture frame before finding a place to sit down. I looked over the mantle and saw Joey’s glass medal case, cleaned and full of bright decorations and photos of the Somme. Now that was the battle that Joey always talked about, always talking about “Driving the Kraut line all the way back to Hell”. It’s always interesting to hear him talk about it; I mean, I was there, but I don’t remember it like he does. I guess that’s why he won the medals. I guess that’s why he got Sally too.

Ten minutes later, we were at the Diner on 28th, and I was enjoying my coffee. It was pretty much the only enjoyable thing in this dump. Of course, I ordered eggs and toast, but that was just a courtesy. The waitress kept coming by, topping me off and asking if my eggs were okay. The eggs were rubber, but I couldn’t tell her that. Fortunately, Marcone walked in before I had to.

Marcone looked more like your grandfather than the person collecting protection, but that was just part of the magic. Even walking into a place like this, he commanded attention, and it wasn’t because we worked around here. That was just how Marcone was. He always used to tell stories about his time in the Rough Riders to anybody who would listen. We knew he never told it the same way twice, but we didn’t care. The joes in the diner seemed to like it, and if they knew that Marcone said he was in Las Guasimas one week and Kettle Hill the next, nobody was going to talk. He walked over to us, tipping his fedora to the waitress with a little grin as he went.

“How’s the coffee today, Tommy?”

I shrugged. He always asked that, and I always told him the same thing. “Step above mud, but it’s hot.”

Marcone gave his usual boisterous laugh and waved the waitress over. She put the mug down on the table and Marcone handed her a nickel. “You know what? Get me a slice of cherry pie too.” The waitress smiled and disappeared back into the kitchen.

“So,” Marcone turned to us, speaking quietly. “Lemme give you the rundown. Old Man McKinnon seems to think he doesn’t need us and can get better service from the Morello family. We’re gonna pay a little visit to his shop and remind him why he needs us.”

Without even looking at him, I knew what Joey was thinking. He had that grin on his face, the kind you can feel without looking at, the kind that scares you for things you were thinking about doing. I knew what he was going to say.

“How bad do you want him smacked around?”

Apparently, Marcone knew too.

“Not at all, stupido torpedo. His place is a prime gin joint, and the last thing we need is the bulls snooping around. Tommy, you’re the sensible one, talk some sense into the palooka. Joey, I don’t care if things get heavy, I want you to keep away from this guy.”

I nodded, sipped my coffee a bit more, and waited for Marcone’s pie. As we left, the waitress came up to me and I handed her another nickel; Marcone forgetting to pay was another job I covered. When we got into the car, Marcone handed me a piece of paper with the address, but I didn’t need it. Me and Joey both knew Marcone couldn’t write directions the same way twice. As I turned the key in the Packard and rounded the corner, Marcone stared out the window.

“Hey Tommy, you see those two spooks in the Hudson behind us?”

I kept my eyes on the road, glancing over at the storefronts. “You sure they’re spooks?”

Marcone stared at me in the rear-view. “It’s ten in the morning, there’s two of em, they’ve been following us for the last three blocks… Either they’re spooks or bagmen, and we haven’t done anything big yet. Take the turn onto 23rd towards the A&P, see if they keep coming.”

He was talking about 25th, but I didn’t tell him. I just made the turn and the Hudson kept going past. I had to admit, it worried me a bit, not because I thought Marcone was right, but because I hadn’t even noticed another car behind us. We took the street down another five blocks and parked in front of McKinnon’s grocery. It was a tiny place, the kind that sells potatoes and cabbage to the Micks in the neighborhood and wouldn’t even make a cop look twice at it. No wonder Marcone said this place was so perfect; I was staring at it and I still didn’t notice. I turned off the engine and popped the trunk as Joey and Marcone got out. Still smiling, Joey pulled out a baseball bat and slung it over his shoulder as he walked through the door. Marcone and I followed close behind, but we made sure not to interfere. Whatever things you want to say about Joey Montagna, he had a sense of show that would make Buster Keaton sit down and take notes. Joey simply walked into the store, picked up an apple and bit down into it. Before me or Marcone could say anything, Joey turned and smashed the apple stand with his bat. That got McKinnon’s attention. The fat red-haired Paddy raced out from the back room and, when he saw Marcone, stopped dead in his tracks.

“Oh Christ, what do ya want now?”

Marcone stepped forward, staring down the larger man. “I’m flattered, but it’s just Marcone. Captain Marcone, First Volunteer Cavalry, if you must.”

Joey snickered and put the baseball bat back on his shoulder, biting into the apple again. I just stood back, eyeing the place over as Marcone talked. This was how Marcone always operated; make some noise, remind folks that he was in the Rough Riders, then I get down to brass tacks.

Right on cue, I stepped in.

“We seem to be short some dues from you and yours. Now I don’t know how things work in Ireland, but in America, you pay your debts on time.”

Immediately, McKinnon regained some color in his face. “Sure, I’ll pay ye for services rendered… a fat stack of horse shite.”

The apple fell out of Joey’s hand. Marcone’s eyebrow raised. I slowly looked around for Morello bagmen. After a second of disbelief, Marcone broke the silence.

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I didn’t get a shipment this week. I’m hearin’ talk that your driver’s been canned. And if you can’t get me the stuff, then I’ll just go to the Morellos...”

That did it. Joey charged McKinnon, and brought his bat squarely down upon the fat man’s knee. The crack echoed throughout the store as he went down, cursing and screaming. I dashed over and grabbed Joey before he could wind up again. As I held him back, Marcone stepped forward, grabbing McKinnon by the collar.

“I didn’t hear anything about this. Are you sure you’re not lying?”

The Irishman screamed as Marcone put his foot on the broken knee. Marcone stared at him for what felt like forever before he let go.

“Alright, alright. We’re gonna get to the bottom of this, but you are not gonna screw us with the Morellos. I find out you’re talking to any of those vagabondi, I’ll have Joey give you a matching set, comprende?”

The man nodded and tried to stand, steadying himself on the counter. Marcone gave us a nod, and we left. Joey called back at McKinnon as he walked out the door. “And go get yourself some real apples. Christ, it’s like you painted potatoes red.”

“You think we’ve got a rat?” Marcone had his head leaned back in the Packard as I drove.

“Looks like it. All of our stuff is outside city limits, hidden so well that dogs can’t even track it. I hope it’s a snitch, otherwise we’re getting lazy.” I turned my head around, looking twice at every Hudson that passed us.

“Better than him screwing with us.” Joey cracked his knuckles. “Lousy potato-digging sack of crap.”

“Big talk from a farmboy from Podunk, Nowhere.”

Joey tensed up, “What did you say?”

“Zitto, both of you. Now this isn’t a problem. We’re gonna fix this, and Salvitore is gonna see just how good we are. Makes it all the sweeter when he hands this place over.”

Joey took a deep breath and stared at Marcone through the rear-view. “Boss, isn’t it strange that this kind of thing happens so close to you getting made? You don’t think somebody’s trying to screw you?”

Marcone shook his head. “Not gonna happen. We all want the same thing here. It’s gotta be some bull who got lucky, and a C note says he’s six feet under already. Either way, I’m headed down to Rayham tomorrow to check on our guys, make sure everything else is good. I don’t care what happens, I am still in control here.”

After I had dropped everyone off, I stepped into my house and hung my coat up. I grabbed a half-empty bottle off of the counter and sat down. It had gone flat. I drank it anyway; I had more important things to worry about. Marcone may say what he wants to Salvitore, but I was the go-to guy for the Rayham still. I made damn sure that every shopkeep, every fed and every two-bit sheriff was either getting paid to shut up or keep others shut up in that town. Could it have been a snitch? Doubt it. In a town like that, they’d lynch the poor son of a bitch if he even thought about ratting the rest of them out. I’d have to make some calls tomorrow, look for loose ends or stories that didn’t pass mustard. Even if it didn’t lead back to us, I wanted to know what happened, and I wasn’t going to trust Marcone’s word on it. He can be a made man, but I’m the brains of this crew, and I want a real victory once in a while. I looked down at my watch; two hours had already passed and the bottle was empty.

When I woke up the next morning, it was a welcome relief. I dreamt about the Somme again. To hear Joey talk about it, it must have seemed like our finest hour, putting down three German divisions. Of course, it’s easy to say that behind a Lewis gun; I got to see everything down rifle sights in a stinking mud hole, and trust me, it looks a lot different down there. It’s the faces that always get me, the faces in the mud, the faces I don’t remember as I dash past to the next trench. Their faces would weigh too heavy on Joey’s medals anyway.

But that was a long time ago. I had things to fix. I didn’t want to drive out to Rayham without knowing what I had to take care of. First I called our guy inside the sheriff’s office to make sure McKinnon wasn’t screwing with us. Turns out he wasn’t; the whole still got busted three days ago by G-men. Fortunately, the town remembered who signed their checks, so nobody talked about where the hooch was going. Next, I checked on our other runners, and none of them had heard or seen anything about more busts. I trusted these guys; we don’t just stick paroled fish with flivvers onto a big operation like Rayham. I pulled out all of my files on recent sales from a box in the cellar; even Marcone gave me an earful about these records, but I liked the insurance; running retail in Brooklyn teaches somebody to take good notes. I made sure to write down everything when we sold, changed suppliers, even the weather on the day of the sale. It was all peaches. I checked over three years worth of receipts, and it all pointed to some cop getting lucky. Somebody had an in into our operation, and it steamed me that I didn’t know how.

I checked my watch; three hours had passed. It would be a bit of a drive to Rayham, but I was going anyway; Marcone was a good leader, but I don’t think he was actually going to go and check on anything. While Marcone was scouting me out when I got back stateside, I was scouting him as well. Everything added up about him, even if he’d never tell you the same battle twice. Only thing he leaves out was a tidbit I got from an old buddy of his from the Rough Riders. Apparently, Marcone led a bad charge into a Spanish gun that almost wrecked his career. It must have been bad, because apparently, he’s been forgetting things ever since. Even still, I work for him, and I still don’t know why; guess it gives me things to fix.

As I stepped out the door and reached for my keys, another Hudson caught my eye, but I didn’t pay any more attention to it than that. I had to fix the shipment and keep my eyes peeled for anything suspicious. On top of all that, I didn’t much care for anything outside of the city. In the city, everything is blocked off; everyone knows where one building ends and another one begins. Out here in the country, everyone was too close together; yards overlapped, fences didn’t fence anything in, and dogs wandered wherever they pleased. I think the guys who came up with the American Dream should have stuck with the cities. At least there you know where you start and where you end.

When I finally did get into Rayham, it was late. I knew I’d have to be making some house calls, but that was okay with me; just slip the boys some extra green and get on with business. I already knew where my first stop would be, so I turned into a local gas station and rang the bell. While the gas jockey pumped the Packard, I went inside and got Marcone on the line.

“What is it?”

“Hey boss, I’m in Rayham right now, and I think I’ve got a solution to the McKinnon problem.”

Marcone sounded overjoyed. “Wonderful! I was planning on coming up there tomorrow, but good initiative Tommy boy.”

I knew he was lying, but I didn’t call him on it. “If you can get me a crew to dispense the stuff, I’ll have it out tomorrow afternoon.”

“Sure thing. I’ll get Joey and some guys out to our normal place.”

“Bella. I’ll be there.”

“Tommy, you’re one stand-up guy, you know that? When they make me, I’ll be sure you’re next.”

This was something I had heard many times before. It was always later, and never now. It was just one of those phrases that I appreciated for the idea, not the promise. Besides, I liked where I was now; there were plenty of things to fix.

“Alright boss, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

As soon as I hung up the phone, I knew where I was going next, and that was out to Eli Statham’s farm. Everyone in the Falcone Family liked Eli, because he was a forgetful sort of person. Every harvest, he would “forget” about a couple of bushels of corn and wheat, just leaving them out in sacks by the road for us. Funny thing about Eli, the more he “forgot” for us, the bigger his house got, the nicer his clothes looked, and the larger his farm became. I knocked on the door and Eli’s wife opened up; not his first wife, but rather the moving-pictures knockout who took a fancy to a farmer after he forgot his way into getting her a diamond ring.

“Can I help you?”

I tipped my hat, “Evening ma’am, just came by to see Mr. Statham.”

She nodded, “And who shall I say it is?”

“A very valued customer, if you please.”

Before she could even shut the door, Eli was standing in the landing in his shirtsleeves. He had a shallow smile, one that didn’t seem to fit a bald-headed old farmer so much as a shrewd businessman, but it didn’t matter to me; I didn’t care what he thought, I was just here for business. He stuck out his wrinkled hand and I shook it, surprised at the strength of his grip. It wasn’t a strength like Joey’s hands, but a quiet strength, a strength someone has to abide work, not to brag about how much work he could do. He nodded to his wife, and she disappeared back into the house. He stepped out onto the porch, and I saw for the first time that he was limping; I’d known the man for three years and I never once noticed that. As if to wake me up, Eli started talking.

“I don’t think you’d wake up an old man just to chat. What does Marcone need?”

That was why I liked this guy, he was focused. “We need to dip into the reserves.” I had gone out of my way to make sure Eli “forgot” about a couple of crates, just in case this sort of thing happened.

“Because of that still that got busted up?”

I nodded, “You knew about it?”

“Shit, son. When the Feds show up anywhere in this town, we all know about it.”

Focused and practical. I knew I’d picked a good supplier.

“How much do we have left?”

Eli shook his head, “Not enough to cover the Johnson still, but enough to buy us some time.”

I smiled. Eli Statham was a good guy to be working with. He’s a guy I could trust, maybe someone I’d get a drink with even if we weren’t working together. He knew what was going on, a trait I had before the Somme, but haven’t been able to find since. We started walking to the barn and I saw the pain on Eli’s face.

“Hey, are you all right?”

Eli scoffed, “I’m old, this is just a part of it. You either deal with it or you die.”

I smiled; that’s just the kind of response I expected from him.

As we entered the shed and I opened up a crate, I sniffed the stuff to make sure it was on the level. The minute I sniffed it, I jumped backwards. Far from being the smell of juice, it was like sticking my nose in a gas pump. I quickly recomposed myself before Eli noticed. “Jesus, this stuff packs a wallop. You doing anything different?”

Eli pulled a bottle from the box and took a drink, downing it like water. “Had to stretch it a bit. I’d been meaning to talk to Marcone about it, but I guess since you’re here…”

“Talk about what?”

Eli looked down and started wringing his hands. “The increase on protection, it’s starting to hurt the product. We’re all working here, we can’t afford the new protection hikes...”

I took the bottle away from Eli and looked him square in the face, stopping him mid-sentence. “What are you talking about? We don’t take protection here at all.”

Eli stammered. “Just tell that to the big guy who shows up every week to the stills. He comes in, says he’s with the Falcone Family, and then collects from all of us. I guarantee he’s the one who got the Fed’s attention.”

Suddenly, a lot of things started making sense. I’d kept this place’s details a secret from everybody else in the Falcone Family. Except for one person…

“Did this guy have slicked-back black hair?”

Eli nodded, and my heart sank.

I turned to leave and slipped Eli a five. “I’ll send someone to run this stuff in the next few days. Don’t worry about protection anymore either.”

As soon as he was out of earshot, I threw the bottle to the ground.

As I drove back to New York, even though I was confused about the why, I knew what was going on. I had never thought Joey could be so stupid, but I guess that’s just how he works. But what would Joey get making the rest of us look stupid? He’s got as much to lose as the rest of us if the shipments go belly-up, so why was he doing this? I’d never heard him so much as think a disloyal thought to the Falcone Family, so what was he doing going behind our backs? Every thought made my head swirl deeper and deeper. When I managed to get home, I don’t remember hanging up my coat or grabbing a bottle of whiskey off of the shelf, or even getting into bed. All I remember again was the Somme, all that blood, all that confusion, all haunting my dreams. I thought I had left it behind, but now it was back. But I couldn’t think like that, this had to just be something I needed to fix. The only thing I remember is bolting up, sweating and still dressed. I turned to the window; it was still dark. My breath still smelled like whiskey, so I got up and poured myself a glass of water. Once I was composed again, I lied back down and thought about the situation. Normally, I could abide things like this, but abiding would get me killed, especially if Joey brought the Feds to the drop-off… No. I snapped out of it. Eli may be a good guy, but I trust Joey. I’ll just talk to him before we get there, no big deal. And that’s what I told myself as I laid back down and drifted off into sleep.

My alarm went off early the next morning, but I was already awake. I pushed Eli’s words into the back of my head as I dug the .38 out of my coat. I made sure to pop it open and check the bullets before I put it in my shoulder. As soon as I stepped out the door, I noticed the clouds. A storm was definitely coming, and I couldn’t tell where the buildings ended and the sky began in the swirl of grey clouds. I could swear I saw two Hudsons, but they didn’t register for long. I was more worried about what to say to Joey. As I pulled the car up into his drive, I noticed him standing on the porch, looking more determined than usual. Before I could turn the engine off, Joey was already in the passenger’s seat. I turned to him and nodded.

“Where’s the rest of the crew?”

Joey stared straight ahead and spoke in monotone. “They’re already on the way. I just needed to talk to you about something first.”

I kept my eyes on the road, “Then talk.”

Joey sat still for a long time before he finally responded. “What do you think about Marcone?”

I kept looking ahead, “What do you mean, what do I think?”

“You should know what I mean, you’re the one covering for him all the time.”

“Yeah, that’s why he’s got guys like us, so he can work on the big-picture stuff…”

Joey smashed his hand against the dash. “That is bullshit, and you know it. He’s getting soft in the head. It’s a miracle that he hasn’t gotten us all pinched.”

I was shaking at this point. I didn’t know what was going to come next. I wasn’t sure I wanted to either.

At that moment, Joey took a deep breath and pulled a snub-nose out from his coat pocket. I must have gone white.

“We’re gonna load the products into the trunk, and then we’re going to get rid of him.”

I slowly turned the car into an alleyway and looked over at Joey. As I turned the engine off and everything went silent, I finally spoke, my voice getting louder with each word.

“Have you lost your mind?”

“He’s been screwing up for too long, we have to stop him before he gets made.”

“Salvitore will kill both of us for this! Don’t you get it?”

“Tommy, it was Salvitore who gave me the go-ahead!”

I stopped. I just stared at Joey for a full minute in silence. This was a man I had known, had been on my side through Hell, and now he wanted to kill the man who brought us into the Falcone syndicate? I didn’t know how to express just how damned mad at him I was at that moment. Before I could, he finally spoke,
“After seeing how Marcone futzed up the shipment, the brass want him gotten rid of."

“And you volunteered to kill the man who brought you in?”

“It’s just business.”

“I guess you get to be the big hero again.”

Joey turned over to me, his jaw clenched. “What did you say?”

“You heard me. What are you trying to do, get another set of medals?”

“I’m warning you…”

“Do you think Sally will come back if you get more?”

All of a sudden, I felt a solid crack against my jaw. I looked back over at Joey, his fist still shaking. With his free hand, he steadied the gun, pointing it at me.

“Shut. Up.”

I stared at him. I saw his muscles shaking, I saw his eyes wide with fear. He wasn’t in control, no matter how much he wanted to be. Joey motioned with the gun.

“Drive us to the spot. And don’t do anything stupid.”

When we arrived at the spot, Marcone was already there, along with four or five other guys, all waiting for the driver to show up. Joey had stashed the gun inside his coat, and we both got out of the car. Marcone came up and embraced me.

“Tommy, my boy, you are one in a million. Salvitore’s gonna flip for this one.”

As he leaned back, he noticed my bruised jaw.

“What’s the matter son?”

Without hesitation, I lied, “Don’t worry, it was just some punk.” I even faked a smile. “He don’t look half as pretty as this though.”

Marcone laughed. “Bello! Way to teach em not to mess with the Falcone!”
It was convincing. Even I believed it for a moment.

We all waited around for a minute for the drivers. I could feel Joey’s gaze on me the whole time. As soon as the cars came in, we got to work loading the crates into separate cars. I worked quickly, keeping my eyes on Marcone the whole time.

As soon as the last car was loaded, Marcone walked over to the driver to hand him his cut. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Joey moving towards him, gun drawn. I couldn’t just abide this. I reached into my holster, but I couldn’t get there in time. All I could do was watch the gun. When I heard the shot, I looked over toward Marcone. He was still there, still alive, and staring at me. The bullet didn’t come from Joey. There were three Hudsons, parked on the corner, with six bulls pointing pistols at us. One of their guns was smoking. I looked at the wall behind me, and there was a chunk missing.

“This is the FBI! Put down your weapons or we will use lethal force!”

Joey turned his head towards the bulls, then to Marcone, then back at me. I expected to see fear. I expected to see Joey Montenaga, the giant bear of a man, the hero of the Somme, break down and surrender. However, when I got my wish, I didn’t know what to do. It was at that point that it all started to make sense. Joey didn’t know that he was being watched in Rayham. Joey didn’t know that he was the snitch. Joey thought he had it all figured out.

But he didn’t.

And I knew what was going to happen next.

Joey wheeled around and pointed his gun directly at the bulls. He might have screamed, I couldn’t hear him over the sound of the gunfire. I didn’t see him hit the ground. Next, Marcone reached for his old Colt, and I saw the bullet go through his stomach before the gun even cleared his coat. All around me, the others tried to fight, tried to defy fate, just like I had seen so many times in the Somme. When the smoke cleared, it was just me, standing there in another field of bodies. I could see their faces now, hear their screaming, and it was all burned into my mind. I was seeing reality for the first time since the Somme, and it hurt. I couldn’t deal with this anymore. I remember reaching into my coat before a bullet pierced me in the shoulder. I hit the ground, clutching my shoulder as I fell. As I hit, I saw Marcone’s face, his eyes closed, his body still. I saw Joey, and I swear I heard him calling out for Sally. He was writhing in pain. It was in that instant that I understood.

I wanted to ask Joey how he dealt with it. I’d always wanted to know how he abided the Somme. I always wanted to ask Marcone how he abided the Spanish gun.

In the end, I think I figured it out.

It’s a shame I couldn’t tell them in time.


By Nathaniel R.

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