Yes, Mama

Crime Fiction by London Baker

His name was Big Tony and as for me, I was called Al Greco.

Big Tony was sort of the boss, you see? He was a big deal back then, though I guess he still is now. But now isn’t that important. Back then is what matters. Back then I was his shadow, the one who watched the world from over his broad shoulders.

From 1969 to 1981 we ran the small city of Steuben, Michigan. We ran it, Big Tony and me. Big Tony was the brains of the operation, the one with the plans. The one who got us stashes of drugs, booze, prostitutes and whatever else it was that we needed to make a little pocket change. I was the fists, the one out there each day giving Steuben hell. Big Tony the brains, me the fists.

All-in-all, it worked.

“It got on my damn shoes,” Tony spat, kicking his leg out and sending a few droplets of blood onto the cement.

“We’ll get them shined tomorrow,” I replied, stooping down over the body.

At our feet lay Mike Kay. Once a lawyer, now merely a pile of blood and intestines with a Juris Doctor.

“Fine,” Tony said as he walked back towards our station wagon, “just clean that up and let’s get the hell outta here.”

I gazed down, calculating my options. Mike had been a buddy of mine. Of all of us actually. He’d helped Big Tony on the legal side of things, made sure no judge ever sentenced one of Tony’s boys. That was until last week when Mike lost his first case.

Mike had lost a case, a guy by the name of Jett Stevens lost his freedom to five years in federal, and so good ol’ Mike Kay lost his life. That’s the way our world worked. Love it or leave it.

I reached down and grabbed Mike by the legs, dragging him off towards the station wagon. He left a long streak of blood on the sidewalk and I swore to myself. My job was to make the whole situation look like it had never happened, and Mike wasn’t making it any easier on me.

I wrapped my arms around his chest and hauled Mike up, draping him haphazardly into the trunk of the station wagon. From here, it was off to Sanguine Fields. That’s what Big Tony called his ten acre property. Sanguine Fields. There were more bodies buried around that place than I could count on my hands and toes.

Slamming the trunk down, I felt a few drops of rain. I wasn’t a religious man, but I said a quick prayer of thanks because Mother Nature would be cleaning off the alleyway’s sidewalk tonight, not me.

I hopped into the driver’s seat as Tony was flicking a lighter, breathing in so the cigarette clenched between his front teeth caught. He took a long, slow drag. The acrid smoke clung to the interior of the car. Tony exhaled, the smoke jetting out in a thin stream. I slammed my door and slid the key into the ignition.

“Anywhere you need to stop before Sanguine?” I asked, shifting the car into drive.

Tony didn’t reply right away, choosing instead to blow out another puff of smoke. Finally, he turned to me, “Let’s stop by Towles place. You can bury two bodies in one night, can’t ya?”

Two things. One, I’d buried two bodies in a single night before. Buried as many as five in one night, actually. Two, I couldn’t say no to Big Tony if I wanted to see tomorrow morning. And I wanted to see tomorrow morning.

“Yeah, sure,” I obliged him, turning the car and easing out onto Main Street. The headlights were off and I drove slow, checking the rearview mirror every minute or so to make sure no one was tailing us.

“Turn here,” Big Tony said, pointing towards a road with the name of Cidre Ln.

I turned, the car easing into the dingy subdivision. The houses lining the street were worn, sagging from years of little maintenance. Shingles lay in front lawns, trash bins were toppled over, mailboxes jutted out crooked into the road.

“Third one up, left side,” Tony took another drag.

I silently counted the houses and pulled up one door down from Towels’s, easing my foot onto the break so as to not let them squeak. Shifting the car into park I turned the key and let the engine putter to silence.

Big Tony clicked his seatbelt and opened the door, tossing the butt of his cigarette to the ground and grinding it into ash with the heel of his leather dress shoe. He stepped out, bending down to peer back into the car, “Stay.”

“Are you sure?” I ask.

“Certain,” Big Tony smiles, pulling aside his suit jacket to reveal a .357 strapped to his waist.

I smile back, “Holler if you need me.”

Big Tony walked up towards the two story house, traversing across the front yard. He kicked aside a rusted tricycle as he pulled out a second cigarette, lighting it up as he stood on the front porch. Tony reached out, fist balled, and pounded on the door.

The sound echoed, loud as a gunshot in the quiet stillness of the subdivision. I glanced around, my heart beginning to drum. I couldn’t help it, not even after all of these years. I still got nervous whenever things got interesting. I suppose I always would.

The front door opened and I could just make out James Towles, his thinning gray hair sticking straight up. He wore boxers and a white shirt. Tony must have woken him up. He’d had time to put his glasses on, though. The horn rim types some writers wear. Towles had tried once to be a writer, but he never sold anything. He’d picked the next best thing and now taught English at a local college.

I reached over and rolled down the passenger window. I wanted to hear what was being said.

James spoke first, “T-Tony, how are you?”

“We never had problems before, Jamie,” Big Tony said. He was halfway through the second cigarette. “I don’t understand why we gotta start having problems now.”

“The college was late with pay this week and I promise—”

“Lemme guess. You promise that it’s coming, that you’re gonna get it to me, right?”

“Y-yeah, exactly,” James shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

I watched as Tony placed his hands on his hips, “Did you tell the office you needed the money? That somethin’ real bad was going to happen if you didn’t get it?”

James tried to reply, “I mean I—”

“Did you waltz in there,” Big Tony spat, “and demand that they pay you?”

“No, no I couldn’t.”

“And why not?” Tony asked. “You knew exactly what it would cost you if you didn’t pay me. So why didn’t you ask for your money? Coulda told ‘em it was an emergency, right?”

“Maybe, but they don’t know…”

Tony laughed as James’s voice trailed off. He threw the second cigarette onto the porch and rubbed it with his heel, “They don’t know what, Jamie? That you smoke crack?”

James didn’t reply. Big Tony took a step forward and jammed one of his sausage fingers into James’s sternum, “So answer the question.”

With each word he poked James, “Where—is—my—damn—money?”

“I don’t have it,” James said, his voice quiet.

“You don’t have it,” Big Tony repeated.

“I don’t have it.”

James’s head hung low and, for just a moment, I almost pitied the guy. That feeling passed by fast, though. Why borrow if you can’t pay back? Big Tony had stuck his neck out for James, helping him get the best stuff around. It would only be fair if James repaid him.

I watched as Big Tony pulled aside his suit jacket, exposing his .357 to James. From where I was sitting, it looked like the professor had started to cry, “Please Tony, please. I’ve got a wife and kid, please. Tony, please.”

Big Tony whipped the .357 out, leveling it with James’s head. James was most definitely crying now.

“Tony, please…”

The gunshot echoed through the neighborhood, seeming to rattle the windows of every house down the block. I clenched my jaw, looking around to make sure no nosy neighbors poked their head out of doors or stepped out into their front lawns. More onlookers meant more bodies I’d end up having to haul away.

Big Tony turned and walked back down the front lawn. He sidestepped the tricycle. Throwing open the passenger door he slid into his seat as he lit his third cigarette, “You’re up, Al.”

Silently I opened my door, stepping out and pulling my jacket tight around my thin frame. Rain still fell lightly creating a fine, almost misty residue in the air. My breath was visible as I exhaled. It had been a particularly cold fall so far.

I followed the same path Tony had, walking directly across the lawn. Pausing a moment, I stared intently at the tricycle. The handlebars had tufts of pink and purple, the seat was patterned with flowers. A little foam stuck out from the cushion and one of the tires seemed a little flat, but aside from that and a sprinkling of rust it was in good condition.

James lay sprawled out on the front porch, the door to the house still open behind him. Blood had splattered onto the rug of the foyer. I reached over the corpse and tugged at the rug, pulling it outside. After rolling it up, I walked down to the car and jammed it into the backseat. There were three duffles back there too. One with cash and then two with the usual assortment of bennies, goofballs, crack and weed. 

Tromping back up the front lawn, I clambered back onto the porch. Grabbing James around the shoulder, I pulled him down the stairs. His body thudded heavily, head bouncing off the steps. I saw Tony step out of the station wagon and pop open the trunk. I could see from here that Mike had bled all over the damn place and I was going to have an awful time cleaning things up.

James was heavier than the lawyer had been, all those years stuck behind a desk left a thick layer of padding over his skeleton. I felt it with each tug. Despite the cool air of a Michigan fall I felt sweat begin to form small beads on my forehead, falling in little droplets onto the grass and sometimes onto James’s body.

“Is there room?” I asked.

“Sure hope so,” Big Tony replied, stepping back into the station wagon. He pulled out cigarette four.

It took some slogging, but eventually I managed to jam James next to Mike, their bodies folded together like two snakes. I slammed the trunk and went to wipe my brow, pausing when I noticed the dark stains on my hands. I used my forearm instead, brushing the sweat out of my eyes.

“To Sanguine?” I asked, sliding into the driver’s seat and starting the station wagon.

“Not yet,” Tony took a long drag and blew the smoke in a long arc. “Two more stops.”

I looked at him, “I don’t think we have room for any more bodies back there, not unless we plan on calling Sammy or Leo in.”

Sammy and Leo were two more of Tony’s boys. Not as important to things going well as I was, but still not just an average soldato. Tony took another puff, “No more bodies. Next we’re dropping off those.”

He gestured to the duffle bags in the backseat and then went on, “We gotta deliver those to Wilcock’s and then make one more stop after that.”

“What is it?” I asked.

“What’s what?” Tony replied.

“You said ‘one more stop.’”

“One thing at a time.”

And that was that. I wouldn’t argue with Big Tony, wouldn’t press him about it. You didn’t make Tony do anything. I liked my job and hell, I liked my life. I slept with pretty broads and got paid in cash. It doesn’t get better than that. Plus, I liked being alive. Trying to make Tony do something was suicide.

“So off to Wilcock’s?” I asked.

“Off to Wilcock’s.”

For what felt like the billionth time that night I jammed the keys into the station wagon and turned them, letting the engine roar to life. I shifted it into reverse and backed away from the curb, shifting the car into drive and speeding off through the neighborhood.

I ignored the stop sign, turning onto the main road and gunning the engine. Wilcock owned Willy’s Diner, a 24/7 joint that doubled as our drop spot. We’d leave bags of drugs in a back closet for various local dealers, they’d pick them up and leave cash in its place. It was a good system if people were honest, and when working with Tony most people tried their damndest to be honest.

The drive was uneventful and soon I could make out the neon lights of Wilcock’s sign reflecting off puddles in the road, issuing brightly from the diner that lay nestled on Krek Street and Main.

“Park here,” Tony instructed, gesturing towards the side of the road. We were a block from the diner.

I parked the car and grabbed two of the duffles from the back seat. Tony waited, lighting what had to be his fifth cigarette of the evening. I walked along in the darkness, one bag in each hand. Outside of the diner, a shadowed form greeted me.

“That you, Al?”

I let out a grunt, “Yep, it’s me.”

“How’s the selection this week?” Richie Wilcock asked.

Richie was the brother of William, the owner of the diner. Willy dealt with the eggs and bacon, Richie dealt with pills and cash flow.

“Mediocre,” I said, handing him the bags.

“Well I’ll take what I can get.”

Richie handed me a duffle, “Here’s for the last two weeks. Tell Tony thank you for me.”

“You got it.”

Richie pulled open the diner’s back door and stepped through, “See you around.”

“See you.”

I walked back to the car and threw Richie’s bag in with the other. Tony turned around to look at me as I counted the cash inside. “How did it go?”

“Richie sends his best.”

“That Richie, eh? I like the guy.”

If Tony liked you then you were safe, at least for a while.

I closed the door of the station wagon, “Where to next?”

“Mercy’s.”

“The hospital?”

“Yes.”

I asked no questions, opting instead to drive quickly. We needed to get to Sanguine as soon as we could. If any cops pulled us over and searched the car that’d be it. We’d be locked up for life.

“Park there,” Tony said, pointing to a section of the lot left unilluminated by the flood light poles.

I obliged him and shifted the car into park, “What are we here for?”

“There’s someone I need to see.”

Tony unbuckled his seatbelt and stood. I waited, seatbelt still on. He began to walk, then glanced over his shoulder, “Coming?”

I guess I’m coming along I thought, darting out of the car and running to catch up.

The inside of the hospital was stereotypically sterile. It was a headache in building form, the smell of bleach and death wafting through every hallway, seeping into every brick in the foundation. Nurses scurried around pretending to be busy and doctors convened, whispering harshly about things they pretended to know.

Tony walked in and no one looked up. No one said a word. No one acknowledged he was there. Like I said, we owned Steuben. Big Tony went where he wanted when he wanted. I felt eyes stabbing our backs as we walked by.

“Who are we here to see?” I asked.

No answer.

We turned down a hallway that dead-ended on a room with a shut door. Tony’s eyes were trained forward. I guessed that that was our destination.

“Wait outside,” Tony said, pushing the door open, stepping through, and shutting it behind him.

For a few moments I stood there, hands at my sides, obliging him. Soon, though, I began to fidget. I tugged on my sleeves, picked lint off of my jacket, examined my shoes. Finally I could no longer resist and grabbed the clipboard from off of the wall by the door.

It read Lisa Ruso – – Female – – April 19, 1903.

Slowly I pushed open the door, stepping into the dimly lit hospital room. There was just one bed, nestled in the far back. All of the lights were off. Tony had pulled a chair up, his broad shoulders appearing to encapsulate the seemingly empty bed.

But no, it wasn’t empty. At least not entirely. A woman—if you could call her that—rested propped on the pillows. Her skin was tight, stretched over her body and likely thinning by the day. What little hair she had left was merely wisps. Her face was grizzled and the hospital gown she wore had swallowed her fragile bones up.

Big Tony spoke to her softly. He didn’t know I was there watching. He didn’t know I could hear him. Opening my mouth as if to say something, I shut it again. Whatever was happening wasn’t for me, yet I was here anyways. The least I could do was leave it alone.

And then the realization hit me. Big Tony was crying softly, his body shaking with each inhale. With my hand on the door I paused, craning my ears to listen.

“They takin’ care of you, Mama?” Tony asked.

Lisa Ruso, Big Tony’s mother. There was no response to Tony’s question.

“They been treating you okay?”

No response.

“The doc says the cancer is—”

His voice broke off and sobs raked his body.

A rasp came from the bed, hardly a voice at all, “Tony.”

“I’m right here, Mama.”

“Tony…”

“Yes, Mama. I’m here.”

Big Tony leaned in close and I could hardly hear what she said. I craned my head as much as I could as Lisa Ruso rasped, “You being good?”

“Yes, Mama.”

“No trouble?”

Big Tony continued to sob, “Yes, Mama.”

“Going to church?”

“Yes, Mama,” Tony cried.

I knew he wasn’t going to church. I knew he wasn’t being good. He was lying to her, but maybe the lies were the one thing keeping her sane. If she was dying there was no need for him to make those final moments any harder.

“I think I’ll die soon.”

Tony was quiet save for the steady sobbing.

“Did…did you hear me, Tony? I’m dying.”

Sobs filled the room and Lisa reached her hand out, cupping her son’s face, “S’okay Tony…s’all okay.”

“Yes, Mama.”

“You’ll be good?”

“Yes, Mama.”

“Visit me soon?”

I hurried out of the room and gently shut the door behind me. I knew already what he was going to say to her. I knew how he’d reply. It would be the same chorus he’d echoed the whole time I’d listened in. He would say “Yes, Mama.”

A minute later the door opened and Tony stepped into the hall. Aside from a slight redness around his eyes he seemed normal.

“Everything okay?” I asked, feigning ignorance.

“Yes, let’s go.”

We walked down the hallway shoulder-to-shoulder. Inside I felt guilty. I felt guilty I’d seen what I’d seen and I felt guilty for the lies Lisa believed. In her eyes her son was innocent, a churchgoer. He probably pretended to be some businessman. She would never know anything else, never know the real version of her son.

“Sanguine next?” I asked.

“Yes,” Big Tony replied. “To Sanguine.”

I started the station wagon and pulled the car out of the hospital parking lot. Later I would bury two bodies while Tony went inside to pour himself a scotch. All night I would feel guilty and I would go to bed and wake up and forget all about Lisa.

Years later I would leave Steuben and Tony behind and I would move out to Maine. I’d work in a diner, a real diner instead of a drop spot. And sometimes when I was living in Maine I would think about Tony and Lisa and that night many years before. I would remember her then.

But for now I was driving the station wagon to Sanguine. That’s all that mattered in the moment. Tony lit another cigarette. I rolled the windows down and felt the breeze on my skin.

---

Bio: When not scribbling away at his next yarn, London Baker can be found wandering the woods of northern Michigan or wading waist deep in a river searching for trout. Black coffee and a deep love of Hemingway and Huxley fuel the dozens of tales London has penned.London is the bestselling author of the novella “Pull of the Tide,” as well as numerous short stories and articles. Connect with London on Instagram at @londonthewriter”

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