Don't punch in the wrong selection at the bar's jukebox.
In The Gutter, it could leave a permanent ring in your ears.
In The Gutter, it could leave a permanent ring in your ears.
The Love Song of Big Rodge Prunty by Tim P. Walker
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The young
guys were likely trying to rattle Boyle, who kept spanking them at eight ball to
the tune of twenty per game. After a while, they were just doing it to amuse
themselves, taking turns pumping dollars into the TouchTunes jukebox, picking
the worst songs from the past quarter century. Ten insufferable minutes with
Celine Dion led to five minutes in hell with Michael Bolton. That mambo song
led to the Macarena, which led to that
dance song with the guy who’s, “Blue da-ba-dee-da-ba-da.”
There used
to be a remote that controlled the volume on the jukebox. Damned if Frankie
knew where it went. He also used to keep ice picks behind the bar. Two would’ve
done nicely. One in each ear. But he hadn’t kept ice picks in the joint since
the time the next song they picked was popular. On The Wings of Love. The Jeffrey Osborne tune from ‘82. Two hundred
and forty seconds of buttermilk balladry so flaccid that humming it alone buys
another two minutes in the sack without blowing your wad. Works better than
picturing nude grannies or Ortiz striking out on foul tips. Naturally, it was
popular at weddings. Even Big Rodge danced to it at his own.
Shit.
There he was
himself – Big Rodge – sitting right at the bar, thumb and middle finger jammed
so far into his eye sockets, the tears poured down his forearm.
Frankie felt
his guts kick, as if to boot the rest of his parts to nearest exit, because there
those young guys were, nearly knocking each other’s fedoras off as they doubled
over, not bothering to snicker silently enough.
The older
man stood leaning against the pool table, staring lasers through the back of
Rodge’s head, pool cue slung across his shoulders.
“Holy shit, chief,”
one of the young guys whispered way too loudly. “You were right. He’s bawling.”
“Turn that
shit off already,” Frankie barked.
“It’s your
jukebox, boss,” the other young guy said.
“Leave it!” Big
Rodge bellowed, fingers still jammed in his sockets. He pointed to an empty spot
on the bar in front of him. “Shot!”
“All right
there, Rodge. I gotcha,” Frankie answered sheepishly. He fumbled for a shot
glass and the bottle of Jameson, spilling several drops as he poured.
Rodge waited
out the last of “Wings” before slugging the whiskey back and slamming the shot
glass on the bar so hard the shards seemed to vaporize, leaving nothing but a
powdery burn mark smeared across the lacquered top. Everybody’s assholes seemed
to pucker at once.
“Why’s that
song on there?” Rodge snarled.
“I don’t
know how it got on there,” Frankie told him. “It’s computerized. Everything’s
computerized these days. I don’t know how these things work,” he trailed off, wandering
to the far side of the bar as he caught Boyle in the corner of his eye standing
upright, taking practice swings with the pool cue.
“Whatsamatta,
Prunty? Don’t like the tune?” Boyle said.
Rodge, eyes swollen,
caught the reflection of the man in the Ray-Bans and sparkly cowboy shirt in
the mirror behind the bar. “Tell me something, Boyle,” he said with a grin. “It’s
been twenty-five fuckin’ years. Was it you killed Carol?”
“Those were
your bullets, you rat,” he answered coolly. “And wasn’t that a company van?
That broad wasn’t supposed to be behind the wheel of no company property. You
knew that.”
Rodge
slammed his fist into the bar. “Well she didn’t know!” he growled. Then he
quickly spun around on his stool and drew from under his khaki work jacket a dusty
snub-nosed .38 that looked like it’d been hiding out with Frankie’s old ice
picks. He fired off three rounds. Two of them hit the jukebox, which pissed
sparks and spewed smoke. The other one hit Boyle in the tit.
“Not the
fuckin’ jukebox!” Frankie whined, biting his knuckles.
Rodge hopped
off his stool and approached Boyle. “Twenty-five years, motherfucker,” he spat,
throat full of phlegm and grit. “It ain’t getting any fuckin’ easier.”
Boyle leaned
back against the pool table, blood-tinted smirk on his face. “Prunty, you cunt,”
he gurgled, his voice soggy. He tried to lift the cue, but it slipped from his
grip and rolled under the table. “Pons shouldn’ta called off that hit on you,
you rat.”
“Enough!” Rodge
screamed. “I didn’t rat on no-fucking-body!” Rodge screamed again, and the .38
screamed. When they were done, Boyle was laid out across the pool table, blood
soaking into the green felt. Rodge pitched the cashed piece at Boyle. It
bounced off his chest and landed underneath the table next to Boyle’s cue. He
turned and made for the exit, eyes redder still.
“Goddamn it,
Boyle,” Frankie groaned when the big man left. “Don’t die on my fucking table!”
But Boyle didn’t budge.
The two young guys stood with their backs glued to the wall. Their pale complexions told Frankie they were too frightened themselves to budge. Even the tattoos covering their arms were looking milky.
The two young guys stood with their backs glued to the wall. Their pale complexions told Frankie they were too frightened themselves to budge. Even the tattoos covering their arms were looking milky.
Frankie sized
the two of them up. “Do I even have to tell you not to say shit to anyone?”
They shook
their heads vigorously.
“All right,
fuck off then,” he told them.
They bolted
for the door before any of them could think a second thought.
The second
thought came to Frankie shortly after they split. “Shit. Nobody paid their
tabs.” He turned to Boyle’s corpse and said, “Hope you ain’t bleeding all over
your money, too, kid.”
Frankie whistled that “Wings” tune as he prodded Boyle’s
pants pockets, pondering his next move. Shame that song didn’t buy that kind of
time.
