Elmer Washington's Numbers Bank

            Leaning against the side of a white Lincoln Towncar, the three men waited patiently, watching jagged spikes of lightning dance across a Chicago skyline. The flashes of lightning created a moment of daylight, then let the alley slip back into darkness broken only by shrieks of laughter echoing between the buildings a block away, in front of Floyd Brown's Chicken Delight, or cluck n' fuck as they called it, a gaggle of street hookers were passing around a fifth of cheap Scotch.

            "…Bitches are havin’ a time tonight…" the tallest of the three men laughed, getting muffled grunts of agreement from his two companions.

            A quick burst of light preceded a metallic clang that echoed up and down the alley as a steel fire door slammed into the side of a brick building. Chuckling at some private

joke, a big man staggered out of the back door of Cheaters, a biker bar, and walked unevenly towards the slough that bordered the east side of the alley. He was barrel-chested and squat, almost bear-like in appearance with a huge head that sat

directly on his shoulders, long straight hair, and a bushy unkempt beard. He stopped at the concrete wall that carried the slough past the alley and watched the lightning flash. Lifting his head, he sniffed the air. "Gonna' rain…" he slurred, "yes sir, gonna' rain like hell...."  Tucking in the black Harley Davidson t-shirt, Randall Helms grabbed the waistband of his jeans with both hands and hitched them up under his massive belly. Standing at the concrete wall, he unzipped his pants and urinated on the face that reflected at him from the water. He stood for a moment, enjoying it. For some reason, he found it very entertaining that he'd just pissed on his own face. Turning abruptly to head back to the tavern, Helms staggered and nearly fell. "Whoa hoss," he laughed, regaining his balance. The laugh stopped abruptly as he noticed three figures walking towards him from the shadows. Helms squinted, the alley was dark, too many shapes and shadows and his eyes were playing tricks on him. He stood his ground, turning his head from side to side as the three formed an arc around him.

            A single figure, the tallest of the trio, walked directly towards Helms, screwing a cylindrical Carswell silencer onto the barrel of a Colt .22 Woodsman automatic pistol. He was raw-boned, mid-forties, at least a head taller than Helms, with dark hair graying on the sides, brushed straight back and stylishly trimmed. He was dressed in an expensive- looking, steel gray suit with a crisply starched white shirt, maroon tie and thin black leather gloves. He had a narrow, chiseled face and a cold set of hazel eyes. Stopping in front of Helms, he looked him up and down with a cynical smile, amused by the big man standing in front of him, struggling to zip up his pants.

            "Whatta' you lookin' at?…" Helms slurred, "You one of them faggots from that queer bar across the street? You wanna' see my pecker, or somethin’?…"

            The stranger didn't say anything, he just smiled, showing a row of perfect white teeth. 

           "Ya' know, you remine' me of a cupcake I used to fuck in prison,” Helms laughed.

            "We're going for a ride, fat boy," the tall stranger said.        

            "We?...  Whatta' you got a mouse in your pocket or somethin' ?" Helms roared, amused at his own wit.

            "Lower your voice, shitbag,”

             "Shitbag!" Helms snarled, balling his fists, and stepping forward, "No muthafu...."

            The tall stranger reacted to Helms' first step, pivoting to the right and karate kicking him in the head. Helms' legs buckled and he crumpled to a sitting position with a groan. The stranger stepped forward and snap-kicked Helms twice in the sternum, driving him into a fetal position. Helms, making gurgling sounds as he tried to catch his breath, clawed at the cobble stones that paved the alley, trying to get up. Almost casually, the stranger took Helms by the hair, yanked his head up and smashed the barrel of the silenced .22 down across the bridge of his nose, shattering the bone and sending a spray of blood down the front of Helms’ black t-shirt.

            " Jesus, Jackie, quit hittin' that fat son-of-a bitch in the face, ya' got blood flyin' all over the fuckin' place... some a' that shit got on my pants," the second figure groused. The second figure wore the same thin, black leather gloves and held a sawed-off, 12-gauge pump shotgun with one hand, the butt resting casually against his right hip. He was average size with wavy black hair and wore a dark, double-breasted suit, white shirt and a

paisley tie. He gave a terse laugh, lowered the shotgun, and nudged Helms with the muzzle. Helms whimpered, spitting up a big mouthful of foamy blood, and curled into a protective ball.

            The third figure was older, more rotund with gold- rimmed eyeglasses and meticulously trimmed silver hair. He wore an expensive-looking, dark gray Mano suit, heavily starched white shirt and a silver tie. He stood now, as he had since they entered the alley, with his hands in his pockets. Looking down at Helms trying to crawl away, he shook his head in disgust. "Tough guys... Jackie, get this piece of trash ready to travel. Harry, go get the car."

            "Here," Harry said, shifting the shotgun to his other hand, reaching in the side pocket of his suitcoat and handing the tall one they'd called Jackie, a roll of eighteen gauge wire, a pair of electrician's pliers and a roll of gray duct tape.                     

Jackie uncoiled four or five feet of wire and clipped it with the pliers. With his right foot, he stepped on Helms' back, grabbed both of his arms and yanked them up behind him. Helms began screaming as the wire cut into his wrists. Several quick rounds of duct tape silenced Helms' screams and covered his eyes.

            Backup lights lit the alley as the white Lincoln with the rental sticker on

the bumper, backed up and stopped beside Helms' prone form. Harry, the shorter of the trio, climbed out of the car, walked around, and opened the trunk.

             "Get your fat ass up, " Jackie said, prodding Helms in the ribs with the brass toe plate of a cowboy boot. When Helms didn't move, he reached down, shoved his hand between Helms' legs, grabbed him by the testicles and twisted. Helms struggled to his feet, his howling and pleading only muffled squeaks through the tape. Jackie guided Helms to the back of the car, reached down, grabbed both of his ankles, and pulled, sending him tumbling into the trunk where a canvas tarp was thrown over him and the trunk slammed shut.

            Glancing at Harry, still looking at the left leg of his pants and muttering, the older man chuckled, "for Christ’s sake, Harry, go through the fat boy's pockets and get enough to pay the cleaning bill, but quit screwing around and get moving."   

            Doubled up in the trunk of the car, his chest heaving as he tried to breath through his broken nose, Helms had lost all feeling in his hands, but the wire around his wrists sent a painful jolt up his arms with each pulse beat. His heart was racing and the faster it pumped, the more blood ran down his throat. Caught by panic, sure he'd choke, Helms saw bursts of light and color just before he passed out.

            Helms awoke as the tarp was yanked off. He felt a leather glove brush his face and the duct tape was ripped off his eyes and mouth, taking most of his eyebrows and big chunks of his beard. The swelling from the broken bone in the side of his face had closed his right eye and the only taste he had was the blood from his broken nose as it ran down his throat. He lay there gasping, sucking in deep breaths, trying to get his left eye to focus.

                 A voice he'd come to recognize as Jackie, the tall one, snapped, "Get the fuck out of there!" as he was grabbed by the hair and dragged face first from the trunk. Looking around, he saw nothing but trees. They'd parked the car in a small clearing just off a dirt trail. The older guy was standing alongside the Lincoln, smoking, Helms could see the glowing tip of a cigar.

             Jackie reached in the trunk and got a shovel as Helms was started towards a grove of trees, with a shove.  

            Stumbling along through the muggy night air, his head still spinning, hacking, and spitting up blood, Helms hoped it would start pouring, just rain like hell. They wouldn't want to get those fancy suits wet and maybe if it rained hard enough, they'd let him go.

            They entered a clearing in the grove of trees and Harry said, "Stop” Helms sensed movement behind him and heard a metallic snap. The wire around his wrists had been cut, but it didn't really matter, he couldn't feel his hands.

            Jackie walked in front of Helms, bounced the shovel off his shins and said, "dig."

             "Whaaat...Whatta' ya' want me to...dig wha....?" Helms bawled through a spray of foamy blood…

            The muzzle of the shotgun was slammed into his left ear and twisted. "Dig!" Harry commanded.

               Two hours later, drenched with sweat, his chest heaving, Randall Helms stood in a trench that was over his head.

              "Hand me the shovel and sit down," a voice commanded. Helms gingerly tossed the shovel out of the trench and slumped exhausted to the soft, damp earth.

            Helms looked up. All three of them were standing over him.                 

            Jackie calmly announced, "we're going to ask you some questions. Every time I think you're lying, I'm going to fill in part of the hole, understand?"

              " Please!... I didn't do nothin' to you guys!... " Helms whimpered and

then began howling, "Jesus!....no!...Jesus!...don't!...."  as a shovel full of dirt came raining down on his head.

            "Big, bad-assed motorcycle puke," Jackie laughed, kicking a foot full of dirt at Helms, "Ain't it amazing how these tough guys always expect Jesus to get their ass out of a jam?...  Well, Jesus ain't in the bottom of the hole, fatboy, you are."

               The tip of the cigar glowed, and the older man spoke for the first time. "My name is Donatello Angellini, do you know me?"

            "You're fuckin' Donnie Angels?" Helms wheezed, " you're Capo de Regime... I seen ya' around."

            "You're getting smarter," Donnie Angels laughed.

            "I jus'..."

            "Let's get a couple of things straight, my friend. You and two of your shitbag motorcycle people took something that didn't belong to you..."

              "I dunno nothin' about that deal..." Helms whined and then shrieked, "Jesus!...  no-o-o-o-o!... please!..."  as the dirt started raining down.

            "And what deal is that?… The deal you wouldn't know anything about?" Donnie Angels laughed softly.

            "Nothin' involvin' you guys," Helms howled, spraying blood as he talked.

             "Eh," Harry sneered, his voice raspy with a thick Cicero-Berwyn accent, "It's a sin to die with a lie on your lips, fatboy."

            "Fuck an a', man!... Please... don't kill me!... Please!.... I didn' do nuthin' to you guys!...." Helms now beginning to shiver, looked up at the sky and mumbled.

"Please…."

            "The truth," Donnie Angels said.

            "All I know is I got paid to drive the van and sit look-out, while a couple a' guys knocked over a nigger liquor store out on West Roosevelt, Friday night....honest..." Helms pleaded, then began howling as dirt started raining down.

            "And you had no idea the liquor store was one of our numbers banks, right?" Donnie Angels asked calmly, almost pleasantly.

            "Man... I'm bein' straight... please...." Helms howled as another shovelful of dirt came raining down.

             "Elmer Washington got both his legs broken with a crowbar because he wouldn't give up the bank."

            "I never went inside, man, I swear,” Helms coughed.

            "And you didn't watch and laugh while they broke his wife's fingers one at a time, either?" Donnie Angels asked through a puff of cigar smoke.

            "No man!  I'm bein' straight......no! " Helms howled as dirt started raining down.

            "Who went inside?" Donnie Angels asked.

            "I don't know the dudes....really...." Helms wheezed, looking up.              

            "Maybelle and Elmer Washington have been running that bank for us for over twenty years. They've never been short a dime, their books balance every day…"

            "Look, ya' gotta' believe...."

            "Elmer was a stand-up guy," Donnie Angels continued, his voice never raising. "Even after having a crowbar taken to his legs, Elmer wouldn't give up the bank. Then, they started breaking his wife's fingers and that was too much for him, so he gave up the money…”

            "I didn't know, man!... I didn't know!..." Helms babbled and then started shrieking again as dirt began raining down on him, "Jesus !... No !... Don't !.. McMurtry!....Ronnie McMurtry !... The tree guy!... They call him, Christo!... He did the heavy stuff!..."

            "Who was swinging the crowbar?" Donnie Angels asked.

            "McMurtry!... I swear, man!... He was laughing the whole time!... He gets off on that shit!..."

            "You mean McMurtry, he used to be biker? He owns a nursery out in Des Plaines?" Jackie asked.

             "Yeah, the tree guy," Helms coughed, spitting out a big mouthful of blood, " he's a stick-up guy... he's fuckin' psycho, man!..."

            Donnie Angels looked across at Jackie, with a raised eyebrow.

            Jackie nodded in agreement, " it'd fit...."

            "Where's our money?" Donnie Angels asked.

            "At the tree place!... Christo's got a big safe in the floor of the office!..."

            Donnie Angels looked at Jackie again.

            Jackie nodded, "he's a stick-up guy. He also deals a lot of crystal Meth... that nursery is a front." 

            "Who was the third guy?" Donnie Angels asked.

            Helms coughed and spit blood for moment, then said, "Alex Taylor...Christo's regular backup... he got 86'd out of the Outlaws... he wouldn't leave the Dummy Dust alone... ya' know, PCP?... he's a dust freak..."

            "Where does he hang out?" Donnie Angels asked.

            "He's always with Christo at the tree place," Helms coughed.

            The tip of the cigar glowed for a moment before Donnie Angels, speaking in the same flat monotone, said, "my friend, I see three problems here -- one, you stole 28K of our money and we need to set an example. Two, the old man and his wife took a hell of a beating --I need to make that right for them. And three... well, my fat-assed friend, that old man says it was you that broke his wife's fingers and you know something?...He ain't lied to me in twenty years."

               It was quiet for a moment. Helms, half covered with dirt, arms wrapped around himself, shaking uncontrollably, looked up and began to sob. Harry was standing over him, pointing the sawed-off pump shotgun directly at his face. The sound of the shotgun echoing through the trees sent swarms of birds into the night sky in a noisy rush.

A few minutes later it began to rain....