Crazy Joe

Cameron DuBois pauses at the door of Knutson’s, one of New York City’s many nondescript late-night neighborhood bars.

He glances at the flashing sign above the door. The first and last three bulbs are blown out. The flashing sign now reads: “Nuts...”

“How appropriate,” he says to himself.

Running his tongue over his jagged front tooth, he closes his eyes, frozen in time.

Sabrina is sitting next to him in their new Audi, laughing about the result of her pregnancy test, her vibrant green eyes and engaging smile making him feel like he is the only man on earth.

Her window implodes, shooting jagged shards of glass throughout the car. The impact rips the steering wheel from its housing, propelling it at Cameron. It hits him in the mouth, shearing off half of his left front tooth. Cameron can feel warm blood coursing down his throat as he swallows it.

Sliding sideways, the Audi bounces off a telephone pole. Cameron’s air bag deploys, engulfing him.

The Audi slowly ambles forward, rolling to a halt.

Cameron looks over at Sabrina. Her face is obscured by the airbag. Her head sags against her chest, blood issuing from her mouth.

Cameron staggers out of the car, rushing to Sabrina’s side of the car. He can see that her skull is smashed, and her silky brunette hair is cleaved from her head as if she had been scalped.

He turns to look at the car that has destroyed his life. Pushed all the way back to the windshield, the hood of the sports car looks like an open tin of sardines, making it impossible to see the driver. The car limps away, trailing anti-freeze.

Cameron’s scream matches the high-pitched wail of the oncoming police siren.

Shaking off the memory, Cameron enters the bar.

Kurt Knutson, the bartender, greets Cameron with a nod. At 6’ 2” with a shaved head, faded tattoos and a wiry build, the ex-marine’s threatening appearance belies his fatherly personality.

Knutson eyes Cameron’s expensive jacket and shirt. “Well, a man with class. Are you sure you’re in the right place?”

“You know I am.”

Cameron scans the bar.

“He’s in the can,” Knutson says. “I swear, he’s got the kidneys of a toddler.”

His heart racing, Cameron runs his tongue along the jagged edge of his tooth.

Giuseppe Grimaldi rumbles out of the bathroom. An intimidating 6’ 4” with greasy black hair and a perpetual five o’clock shadow on his pinched, porky features, Grimaldi’s once muscular body now scales far north of 350 pounds. He wheezes as he walks, pulling up his sweatpants. Waddling up to the bar, he draws a bead on Cameron.

Grimaldi leans down, shifting his meaty features so his pockmarked face is inches away from Cameron’s. Cameron can smell his fetid breath.

“How about you buyin’ me a drink, fresh meat?” Grimaldi asks forcefully.

“Yeah, sure.”

Knutson pours Grimaldi a whiskey.

“What’s this, Knutson? A lousy shot? I ain’t no boy scout. Gimme it in a waterglass. And make sure it’s the good stuff, not that paint thinner you usually serve.”

Knutson smiles passively. Reaching for a bottle of Jameson, he shows it to Grimaldi for his approval.

“That’s more like it. My new buddy…”

“Cameron.”

“Yeah, Cam’ll have one too.”

Grimaldi slaps Cameron on the back. Cameron’s features crinkle from the pain.

“Enjoy, paysan. Name’s Giuseppe Grimaldi. Everybody calls me Joe. Just one thing – don’t call me Crazy Joe. Nobody calls me Crazy Joe and lives.”

“Got it. I’m Cameron DuBois.”

“Fancy name. What’s your game?”

“My game?”

“Whatcha do to make your scratch, your money?” Grimaldi asks.

“I’m an engineer.”

“You drive a train?”

“No. I’m a mechanical engineer.”

Grimaldi looks confused but moves on. “You got a wife? Kids?”

“My wife was killed in car accident.”

“Is that how you got that busted tooth?”

“Yes.”

“A guy with your kinda green should be able to get that fixed easy.”

“It’s a reminder,” Cameron replies.

“Of the accident? Why would ya want to remember that?”

“It was a hit and run. I never want to forget that Sabrina and the baby we were going to have were torn away from me and the guy who did it never paid for it.”

Grimaldi pounds down half his glass, grunting.

“Well, don’t give upon that hate, Cam. People have probably told ya to move on, to get on with your life. Bull crap. Feed that animal. Let it drive you. My boy, Pasquale, he was in this very bar when some mook cracked him over the head with a bottle and killed him. Instead of killin’ the bastardo that done it, I hit him where it really hurts. I sued him and now I own this little piece of hell.”

Grimaldi crooks his thumb at Knutson. “And there’s the mook that killed my son. I kept him on so he could repay me every red cent. Seven mill.”

“How much you do you still owe?” Cameron asks Knutson.

Before Knutson can answer, Grimaldi replies, wheezing as he laughs. “He’s still around seven mill by my count.”

Grimaldi belches. “Yeah, it’s good to be the King.”

He turns to face the group of men seated throughout the bar.

“You see that jabroni in the Oriole hat?”

Cameron nods at the man in the hat. He weakly nods back.

“You wanna know how Louie ‘the Cyclops’ Navarrese lost his eye?”

“I have a feeling you’re itching to tell me.”

“I poked out Louie’s eye when he caught me with my gumade,” Grimaldi says.

“Your what?”

“My side girl. I was at her place humpin’ her when Louie busted in and saw us.”

“Louie’s a voyeur?”

“A voy what?”

“Someone who gets off watching other people rather than participating.”

“A perv? Nah,” Grimaldi responds. “It was his wife I was givin’ the old sausage to. Hey Cyclops? Watcha lookin’ at?”

Grimaldi turns his attention to another barfly. “See that scarecrow in the bad fittin’ blue suit? That’s my old buddy, Sean ‘Skinny’ O’Toole. Hey, Skinny, c’mere.”

Skinny reluctantly walks up to the bar.

Grimaldi puts his massive arm around the smaller man, squeezing him until he gasps for breath.

“Skinny and me went to school together with my wife, Teresa. They was high school sweethearts until she got a load of the captain of the football team. That’d be me if you’re followin’ along, Cam. After that sneaky Sean was history, or so I thought. Right, Skinny?”

Grimaldi squeezes Skinny tightly.

“Sure, Joe. But I’m sure this fella isn’t interested in ancient history.”

“Of course, he is. What’s that old sayin’ Cam? If you don’t listen to history then you’re likely to be history.”

Rather than correcting Grimaldi, Cameron takes a long sip of his drink.

“So, I was on the road, bein’ a bag man for my uncle, Sal. Meanwhile, this backdoor Johnny is romancin’ Teresa like they was still in high school.”

“You were already divorced, Joe,” Skinny offers meekly.

Grimaldi wraps his arm around Skinny’s throat, pulling him closer.

“What’s mine is mine! She still belonged to me.”

Knutson intervenes. “For Christ sakes Joe, leave him alone.”

Grimaldi glares at Knutson.

“Please.”

Grimaldi releases Skinny, who gulps for air, scampering back to his seat.

“A man’s property ain’t to be messed with. Ya know how I fixed them two? First, I grabbed up Teresa. I kept her with me for a week and taught her a few new tricks. Then I turned her out to do tricks. As for Skinny, he had a daughter, a cute girl of sweet sixteen.”

“I can guess the rest,” Cameron says.

“You’d be way off base. I wanted to turn her out too, but she got pregnant. That nearly made me Skinny’s son-in-law, so I didn’t spill his blood because we practically were blood. But every now and then I gotta remind him that he could still wind up in a ditch. That’s why Skinny’s always shakin’ like Barney Fife.”

Grimaldi slams down his drink, signaling for another.

Knutson places a new drink in front of Grimaldi. He greedily gulps down half of it.

Grimaldi turns, surveying the small crowd. “Ya shoulda seen this place back in the day. My Uncle Sal controlled this neighborhood. There were wise guys everywhere. Now I gotta deal with these cringin’ turds.”

“Sounds like you miss the old days, as well as your uncle.”

“You bet I do, Cam. Salvatore Grimaldi was a man’s man, a Capo for the Genovese family. He taught me everythin’ - not to take no crap, to take what ya want and scorch the earth in order to get it.”

Cameron seizes the opportunity to goad Grimaldi. “Shame the way he died.”

“Shot down like dog by his own men while havin’ his expresso! Ya know what that taught me, Cam? Trust no one.”

Grimaldi finishes his drink. Knutson quickly refreshes it.

“There were these two second story guys, Pee Wee Pagano and Owney ‘the Owl’ Saperstein, who did little jobs for me, you know stealin’ necklaces and rings. I thought they was my friends, even after my uncle took one look at that wall-eyed Jew the Owl and said he looked like some kinda halfwit. Well, the boys decided I wasn’t payin’ them enough, so they broke in here and emptied the till and the safe, which had a two-carat ring I was gonna give to my wife. But the idiots forgot we got cameras. I let ‘em spend the money – most of it they spent on drinks in here, so it was just like they borrowed it. But when Pee Wee pawned the ring, well that was it.”

“Did they end up as ground chuck?” Cameron asks.

“Nah. Somethin’ better. They screwed me. So, I screwed them. I was experimentin’ back then, doin’ any kinda sex I could dream up. I experimented with them for five days. You shoulda seen how wall-eyed the Owl was after that! They broke in my front door, so I broke in their back doors.”

Cameron stifles his gag reflex by taking a long sip of his drink.

“I shoulda killed them two mooks. Instead, I put ‘em on a train to Philly. Thought they’d have the common sense to stay there. But they snuck back to New York and paid some of my uncle’s crew to betray him. They shot Uncle Sal in the crotch as a message to me. I heard it was the Owl who fired the kill shot.”

“I take it you didn’t let them get away a second time,” Cameron says.

“I tore them apart like a bum demolishin’ a Sunday chicken.”

“You weren’t afraid that the police would figure out who killed them?” Cameron asks.

“They had to find ‘em first. Besides, I put two black cops on the payroll to help me distribute what was left of ‘em.”

“Must have gone a long way in improving race relations.”

Grimaldi gives Cameron a beady-eyed glare that tells him he has crossed the line.

“Them two proved to be good soldiers. They was more loyal to me than my own kind. When questions started getting’ asked about where Pee Wee and the Owl might be, it was them two who pointed the finger at one of my enemies. When they left the force, I made sure both of ‘em enjoyed their retirement.”

Grimaldi empties his glass. Closing his eyes, he momentarily staggers from its effect, letting out a long belch.

“You know what I liked best, Cam?”

“Kicking the crap out of someone?”

“Nah, well, yeah. Boostin’ cars, now that was fun. Like my women they ran fast, were in my hands for a few hot minutes and were disposable.”

Grimaldi belly laughs until he coughs, gasping for air.

“This old biddy, Gladys O’Hare, had a brand-new Caddy that she loved more than her communion wine stealin’ son. She was waitin’ at a stop light one day, and I got to thinkin’ how good I’d look behind the wheel of that car. You shoulda seen her mug when I pulled her out of her seat and dropped her fat butt on the street.”

Knutson grimaces. “She had a stroke. Died a few days later.”

“It’s not my fault she fought back. She shoulda just let me have the car.”

“The cops do encourage people being robbed not to fight back,” Cameron notes.

“See, Knutson? Snaggle tooth gets it. It was just free enterprise.”

“You ever get caught?” Cameron asks.

“Nah. The closest was not too long ago when my partner, Byrd, rest his thieving heart, jacked a brand-new Buick and I got me a Shelby. Couldn’t believe somebody was stupid enough to park a rare car like that in this neighborhood. We were both drunk as the Lord, actin’ like kids, racin’ down this very street. I wanted to beat Byrd bad, so I blew through a red light. I slammed into a car at the corner. Somebody told me later a chick in the car died.”

Bartender surveys Cameron, who reacts coolly. “How did that make you feel?”

“Feel? Sheat. That Shelby could barely move, so I was happy to get away. I was sorry I wrecked that car, though. Ya know how much I coulda got for that Shelby?”

A teenaged brunette enters the bar, her hoop earrings swaying, the plethora of bracelets on her wrist clanking together in rhythm as she walks. Dressed in a stylish short shirt, a silk blouse, and pricey high heels, she is a cultured contrast to the soiled crowd of broken men. Smiling, she bends to place a caring kiss on Skinny’s cheek.

“Surprised to see a woman in here.” Cameron says. “Especially a cute one.”

“Keep it in your pants, Cam. That’s my little girl.”

“O’Toole’s granddaughter?”

With emphasis, Grimaldi relies, “My granddaughter.”

Grimaldi stands upright, stretching out his beefy arms. “Hey, Gina. You gonna lay one on your Granddad?”

Gina gives Grimaldi a burning, incredulous look.

“You? You fat pig. Sean is my real grandfather. He took me in. He raised me. You were just the sperm donor!”

“Easy, Gina.,” Skinny implores.

“We’re blood Gina,” Grimaldi reminds her.

Gina displays her wrists. Even though he’s on the opposite side of the room, Cameron

can see her wrists are scarred. “And I tried to cut your blood out of me, twice!”

Cameron glances at Knutson, who mouths “suicide.”

“Giuseppe Grimaldi. Murderer. Car thief. A piece of trash who scares old women, rapes teenagers and men. Some fine grandpa you are, Crazy Joe!”

“Nobody calls me Crazy Joe and lives!” Grimaldi snaps.

Turning to Skinny, Gina says, “I’ve had enough of this fat degenerate. You coming home Grandpa?”

“I should stay a little longer.”

“For what, to get insulted? Buggered? You lay one hand on my grandpa, Crazy Joe, and I swear I’ll follow the tracks of your hooves and blow what little brains you have out of that fat melon you call a head.”

Grimaldi’s lips move, but no retort follows. He watches Gina cross the floor, a wounded expression momentarily crossing his piggish features.

Standing in the doorway, Gina glares at Grimaldi, spitting on the ground.

“…Nobody calls me Crazy Joe and lives…” Grimaldi mutters quietly to himself.

Leaning into Cameron, Knutson quietly whispers, “Looks like someone finally did.”

Turning back toward the bar, Grimaldi hastily finishes his drink.

Checking his watch, Cameron says, “It’s late. I think it’s time for me to be heading home.”

“Yeah, see ya around, Cam. Gotta hit the head. Remember what I said. Trust no one.”

Wheezing heavily, Grimaldi manages to stagger and sway toward the bathroom.

Knutson leans across the bar. “Don’t lose your nerve now, Cameron. You’ve come this far.”

Cameron tilts back his glass, winching as the whiskey burns a path to his stomach.

“You saw how he reacted to being rejected. He’s still a human being, like you and me.”

“Have you been listening? He’s not at all like you and me. When you first came here, I thought you were pathetic, still feeling sorry for yourself. But you made all of us realize that we’re the ones who’ve been pathetic. He’s a bully, a parasite, and a sadist who lives to see other people in pain. Remember that as you get in your car.”

Pulling up his pants, Grimaldi waddles across the floor, wheezing louder with each step.

The other men follow him to the door.

Grimaldi suddenly turns, glaring at them. “Come to see me off, losers?”

He staggers out of the door and into the street.

“How the hell is he still standing?” Skinny asks Knutson.

“It’s all that fat. I slipped him enough downers to stop to make a racehorse drop dead in mid-stride. He’s worse than Rasputin.”

The group of men shadow Grimaldi, watching him as he lurches through the crosswalk.

A defiant voice yells out, “Screw you, Crazy Joe!”

Wheezing heavily, Grimaldi faces the cowering crowd.

“Who said that? Skinny? Cyclops? Nobody calls me Crazy Joe and lives!”

Grimaldi laughs at the crowd. “Losers! Gutless Cowards!”

Hearing the roar of an accelerating engine, Grimaldi turns in time to see a pair of headlights bearing down on him.

Grimaldi continues to cackle as the car runs him over. Backing up, the car runs over his mountainous corpse again, then speeds off.

Half a dozen people are still standing over Grimaldi’s mangled corpse when Officer Marlon Kennedy arrives at the scene. A black rookie cop still getting used to the neighborhood, he makes a mental note to himself that the men seem to be celebrating.

Officer Kennedy recognizes them as the broken lushes that inhabit Knutson’s dive bar.

“Did any of you see anything” Kennedy asks.

They answer as one: “No.”

“Who is it?”

“Nobody.”