Face-Heel-Turn: Ch. 1
Jun. 22nd, 2011 08:55 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roh_ficsChapter 1
Cairo, Illinois
July 1938
There is hay everywhere; in his hair, between his teeth, on his eyelashes. He can't really see through the thin veil of blood across his right eye trickling down from the gash on his head. His knees buckle and he hits the floor hard, air rushing out of his lungs as his ribs make contact with the ground. He thinks this is the end and he feels only relief that he'll never have to get up again.
Then he hears the voice, thin and plaintive. It's his mother, sobbing, begging, like always. This time it's not for herself, but for him. He tries to get up, but his hands slide off the ground, and he lands flat on his face. He can hear raspy male laughter, mocking his effort and his mother's fears. He wills himself to get up, to fight back. At first, he can only manage a crawl, a pathetic inching across the dirty barn floor. But then he hears the blow fall, and his mother crumples to the ground with a whimper. Anger propels him as he lurches forward on all fours. There's a two-by-four up ahead, and he reaches for it, fingers grabbing wildly and barely making contact. He can't get to his feet, but there's enough strength in his shoulders to heft the two-by-four. He sends up a silent prayer and swings.
He misses, and the two-by-four falls to the floor with a futile thud. He has nothing left, so he closes his eyes and tries to shut off his mind, bracing for the inevitable blow. But it never comes. Instead, there's silence punctuated only by his mother's breathy whisper. "It's alright, Jimmy. It's alright. I took care of it."
--
91st Evacuation Hospital, Pont L'Abbe, France
July 15, 1944
"Lieutenant? Lieutenant!" The nurse shakes Jim awake, her hand gentle, but her voice strident. "You were having a nightmare."
He tries to open his eyes, but the white of the walls is blinding and he covers his face with his arm, trying to banish the day. The cloying smell of disinfectant tells him where he is, but he can't really figure the rest out. Am I hurt? He opens one eye first, and then warily opens the other, checking his hands. He's relieved that he can still see and hear, and that he still has five fingers on each hand. He can feel his legs under the blanket, but when he tries to wriggle his feet out, pain lances up his thigh and he cries out.
The nurse clucks her tongue and fusses with his blankets. "Don't you be undoing all our work now! It took nearly three hours of meatball surgery to get all the darned shrapnel out of your leg! You need to rest, Lieutenant…" Her voice trails off, and he catches her flipping the chart off the end of his bead. "Lieutenant Sanders."
He shakes his head, ignoring the prick of memory that's begging for his attention. "No, no." His throat is dry though, and it takes effort to croak out even a few words. "Marshall…Ivy…4th ID. I'm—"
"Shh, shh. You need to rest. There'll be plenty of time for chit-chat tomorrow." She crosses her arms and stares him down. "Understand?"
He nods, too tired to even think of an explanation. The nurse sashays over to the next bed. He uses the opportunity to scoop his dogtags out of the bowl on the nightstand. He runs his fingers over the letters on the backside, meaningless bumps on a bit of metal, but familiar and warm with memory. He turns them over and frowns when the indentation doesn't magically form itself into his name. Sanders' name and serial number stare back at him.
Well, the Army fucked that one up. He's tempted to laugh, but he doesn't understand. His head pounds from the effort of being awake and makes it impossible to think straight. He sinks back onto the thin mattress and falls asleep, dogtags clutched tightly in his fist.
--
Cairo, Illinois
July 1938
They drag the body out of the barn, breath huffing with strain. Jim doesn't know how she did it, but his mother—ninety pounds and nothing, five-foot and nothing—swung hard and cracked open the man's skull. There are bright red splatter marks on her white apron, telltale signs of the force of her blow, and for just a moment, he lets himself be impressed with her courage.
But the feeling passes quickly, and in its place, Jim feels a knot of desperate fear in his stomach. She's killed—no, they've killed—a man in cold blood, but he's not just any man. He's her husband, Jim's tyrant of a stepfather, and everyone in town knows him.
"What are we gonna do, Ma?"
"You don't worry none about that. I'll take care of it." She wipes her hands on her apron, as if this is just another mess in her kitchen. "I took care of this, didn't I? Shoulda done it years ago."
He shakes his head, frightened by the sight of the body, and even more by the wild look in her eyes. "But Ma, they'll—"
"You listen to me now, Jimmy, and you listen good. You're gettin' outta here. You take the first train up to Chicago in the morning and you go see cousin Eddie. He'll take care of you."
"What? No! I'm not leavin' you, Ma. You got nobody else to watch the farm and I—"
She raps him sharply upside the head. "When he doesn't show up today or tomorrow, they're gonna look for him. They're gonna know, Jimmy. They're gonna ask around. And I don't want them to find you. You understand?"
He nods, recognizing the finality in her voice. He's never crossed her, and he's not about to start now.
"Don't ever come back here. Ever."
"What about you?"
"I'll take care of it. I always do."
--
91st Evacuation Hospital, Pont L'Abbe, France
July 19, 1944
He's sitting out in the courtyard in a wheelchair, his legs covered with a blanket. He feels like an invalid, but the hospital is determined to keep him off his feet for as long as possible. It's a beautiful day, or it would have been, but the hospital is a hive of noise and activity.
A nurse walks by, in a hurry but flashing him a quick smile. He decides that's his opening and grabs her by the elbow. She stops, startled, a question on her face.
"Sorry about that." He lets her go, pleased that she lingers. "What's going on around here? Everyone looks so busy."
"Oh." She wipes her brow with the back of her hand, and wisps of blond hair leave her army-issue cap. He notices how pretty she is, but also the lines around her eyes and mouth. The war is long, and not just for the GIs.
"We're bugging out."
"Bugging out?"
"Yeah. This is an evac hospital. We move when the front does, and the front's moving south. Closer to Paris."
He wrinkles his brow, confused. "But what happens to the patients?"
"We take some of them, the ones that still need attention. The others get shipped to a different hospital. In Bristol." She registers his confusion, and adds, "in England."
"And what about me?"
"Well, lieutenant. If you can walk, you're going to England. And the officers there will decide what happens to you."
"I get to go back to my unit?"
"Maybe. Or maybe they decide you've done your part and they ship you States-side. Your war might be over, soldier."
He nods and falls silent, and she takes that as her cue, patting him gently on the shoulder as she leaves. Demobbed. He can't decide if he's done with the war already, and he has no idea how to convince the Army he's not really Dick Sanders.
--
Las Vegas, Nevada
September 1941
Jim takes a long drag on the cigarette, relaxed but on alert. He's had the night's watch at the casino, and it's almost time for the next shift. He rips his collar open with two fingers, loosening his tie and letting the cool of the desert night wash over him. It feels good, almost as good as a cold shower, and he hopes it will get rid of the dank smell of desperation, the sweat-soaked stain of fear that follows him like a grim shadow.
He shakes his head, chiding himself for being ungrateful. By most standards, he's had it pretty good, at least since that nervous night three years ago, hitching rides on farm trucks and hiding in cattle cars until he made it to Chicago. In the city though, there had been other troubles. For one, there had been no sign of Cousin Eddie anywhere, and after a few weeks of fruitless searching, he'd given up and looked for work instead.
Nobody on the South Side wanted anything to do with a farmboy, and an Irish one at that. But he'd managed to get a gig helping with rent collection, as his Italian friends—most of them gangsters anyway—had called it. He'd learned quickly, listened carefully, and kept his mouth shut, and in time, they'd promoted him to running the book for the Sox games. He'd played a small part in making sure America's favorite pastime—betting on baseball—was as profitable as ever.
But it didn't last. Frank Nitti, the boss in Chicago had gotten spooked and left most of the real business to his buddy Paul Ricca. Everyone Ricca liked stayed in Chicago. Everyone Ricca didn't like ended up dead. Jim had decided to cut his losses and move west, like Nitti himself, and that's how he'd wound up manning the till at one of the grubbiest little gambling joints in Vegas.
He hated the job, hated the desperate men who came to drink and waste their lives, hated the man he worked for. Nitti was distant, sometimes cruel, often absent. But Nitti's man in the casinos, Handsome Johnny, was different. He was a character and he drew people to him. Nobody was immune to his charm, not even Jim. More importantly, Johnny knew all the right people, and through him, Jim had started to live a different life, out of another world of Hollywood starlets and studio honchos. He couldn't really say, even now, if it was all right, something to be proud of. But he liked it, and for now, that was enough.
A noise in the alley puts him on alert. Jim flattens his back to the wall and puts a calm hand to his holster, ready for a potential attack. But it's just a false alarm, a car turning into the alley. He recognizes the plates and relaxes, stubbing his cigarette out with his wingtip before waving at the car.
A well-dressed man with a cigar dangling off a jeweled hand gets out, announcing himself loudly. His arm is casually wrapped around a tall blonde who might have been Lana Turner if she'd been ten years older. The man bellows in his direction and waves him over, the end of his cigar glowing violently in the darkness.
"Well, if it ain't Jackknife Jimmy!"
Jim curses under his breath. "Nobody calls me that, Mickey. Except you."
"Don't they? Well, they should!" He jostles the girl and she slides away from him a little, embarrassed. "You should see this guy with a shiv. It's a work of art."
The girl gives him an awkward smile. "Is that right?"
Jim shrugs. "Nah. Mickey just likes to talk. You know how it is."
Silence stretches out for several moments before Mickey claps him hard on the back. "Come inside. Have a drink. You look like you need one."
Jim hesitates, but he catches a look of interest, maybe even invitation, on the girl's face, and his resolve melts away. He nods and lets himself be led back into the casino, shutting his mind to the smell and the lights so he can focus on the girl.
Mickey led them to a smoky table in the back, well away from the craps tables, but close enough to the back door that they can get out discretely if they needed to. Jim leans back, letting Mickey do all the talking. He keeps his eye on the girl and her glass topped up. She seems willing already, but it never hurts to help the process along a bit. She giggles, and Jim's about to chat her up, when something Mickey says catches his attention. The man is drunk, and with his speech slurred, it's hard to be sure Jim's hearing right. He gapes at a now-silent Mickey.
"What?"
Mickey repeats himself. "I'm enlisting."
Jim can't hide his surprise quickly enough. "What? No!"
"There's a war on, kid. Didn't you know?" Mickey gives him an indulgent smile, the sort a man gives to a relative who's a bit soft in the head.
"Yeah, over in Europe. Doesn't mean anything here."
"You crazy? Everything that happens over there means something here. And we can't stay out of it forever. We'll be in the war in a year. Less, I'd say. If I were a betting man, that is."
He leans over conspiratorially. "And you know what? It's not like they can find you over there. Uncle Sam's not gonna kick a man outta the army because he might be a gangster. You know? Best place to hide in the whole world."
The girl giggles, and then grows quiet. "Isn't the war bad for…er, business?"
"Nah. Wars are great for business, just great. There's money to be made in war. It's almost legal."
"Almost," Jim adds with a smirk at Mickey. "So you're going to enlist. For real?"
"Yeah. Gotta do my part, don't I?" Mickey fidgets as he speaks, a sure sign he's getting annoyed.
"When did you get to be such a patriot anyway?" Jim regrets the words as soon as they are out of his mouth, and Mickey's eyes, as narrow as slits in his florid face, warn he's stepped over the line.
"So because I'm a gangster, I can't be a patriot?" Mickey's voice is low and cold, all the boisterous cheer gone. "You think you're better than me?"
Jim holds his hands up. "Now, Mickey, c'mon. I didn't say that. You know I—"
He is cut off by the sound of shattering glass. Mickey's smashed the end of his bourbon bottle on the table and he's waving the jagged glass at them, menacing and insistent. "Where do you get off, you little pissant? You were nothing before I found you, and you'll be nothing again just as soon.
He swings sharply in Jim's direction, the glass nearly catching Jim in the face. The girl screams, but she's rooted to the spot, paralyzed by fear. Jim pushes her towards the door and tries to disarm Mickey. A couple of wild swings later, a sharp edge catches Jim near the collar, and he feels the familiar warmth trickle down his chest. Mickey steps away for a second, distracted by the wound, and Jim sees his chance. He tries to knock the bottle out of Mickey’s hand as he wrestles the other man to the floor. They struggle for a bit, getting up to their feet and scrambling around the slick wood floor. The squeaking of their wingtips is now the only noise in the place, but Jim can barely hear it over the rush of blood in his ears. He’s certain this is the end of the line, that his life is about to end, but there’s a determined voice in his brain that won’t let him go down without a fight. Alright, Ma. Have it your way…
It happens in a matter of seconds. Mickey’s bigger than Jim is, and after a few minutes of struggling, Jim finds himself pinned to the floor, the jagged edges of the bottle just an inch from his face. He closes his eyes, trying to remember how to pray, wondering if it’s too late. There’s a woosh of air around him, and suddenly, instead of glass, his face is filled with Mickey’s faltering breath as the bigger man slumps onto him. Jim cries out from the shock and opens his eyes, only to see a gun—still smoking—at the end of a black-gloved hand.
Someone pulls Mickey off him and helps to his feet, and someone else shoves him out the door, warning him to stay away from the place. He reels into the desert night, and in confusion and relief, collapses into the girl’s arms.
--
After she has taken him home and cleaned him up a little, there’s a coupling of sorts, a hurried exchange of fear and desperation that seems as inevitable as it is useless. They lie together in awkward silence, not sharing the noise in their heads. He’s relieved when she offers him a cigarette and he takes a few puffs before he realizes she’s watching him.
He raises an eyebrow at her, and she responds in kind for a moment before speaking. “So what’re you gonna do?”
He shrugs and lets out a long puff of smoke, waiting until its ghostly trail is gone. “You can’t stay here. They’ll come after you. Say you’ve seen stuff.”
She laughs, hollow and mirthless. “I’ve already seen stuff. And I’m leaving, don’t you worry about me. I have a sister down in Arizona. She’ll take me in. I can just sorta disappear, I guess.”
He nods, suddenly envious of her life. “I wish I could do that. Just disappear.”
She runs a hand over his forehead, pushing hair out of his face. “You can always disappear. Go somewhere else, be someone else, start over. It’s not hard.”
The next day, he gets on a bus to Los Angeles and enlists in the Army.
--
Cairo, Illinois
July 1938
There is hay everywhere; in his hair, between his teeth, on his eyelashes. He can't really see through the thin veil of blood across his right eye trickling down from the gash on his head. His knees buckle and he hits the floor hard, air rushing out of his lungs as his ribs make contact with the ground. He thinks this is the end and he feels only relief that he'll never have to get up again.
Then he hears the voice, thin and plaintive. It's his mother, sobbing, begging, like always. This time it's not for herself, but for him. He tries to get up, but his hands slide off the ground, and he lands flat on his face. He can hear raspy male laughter, mocking his effort and his mother's fears. He wills himself to get up, to fight back. At first, he can only manage a crawl, a pathetic inching across the dirty barn floor. But then he hears the blow fall, and his mother crumples to the ground with a whimper. Anger propels him as he lurches forward on all fours. There's a two-by-four up ahead, and he reaches for it, fingers grabbing wildly and barely making contact. He can't get to his feet, but there's enough strength in his shoulders to heft the two-by-four. He sends up a silent prayer and swings.
He misses, and the two-by-four falls to the floor with a futile thud. He has nothing left, so he closes his eyes and tries to shut off his mind, bracing for the inevitable blow. But it never comes. Instead, there's silence punctuated only by his mother's breathy whisper. "It's alright, Jimmy. It's alright. I took care of it."
--
91st Evacuation Hospital, Pont L'Abbe, France
July 15, 1944
"Lieutenant? Lieutenant!" The nurse shakes Jim awake, her hand gentle, but her voice strident. "You were having a nightmare."
He tries to open his eyes, but the white of the walls is blinding and he covers his face with his arm, trying to banish the day. The cloying smell of disinfectant tells him where he is, but he can't really figure the rest out. Am I hurt? He opens one eye first, and then warily opens the other, checking his hands. He's relieved that he can still see and hear, and that he still has five fingers on each hand. He can feel his legs under the blanket, but when he tries to wriggle his feet out, pain lances up his thigh and he cries out.
The nurse clucks her tongue and fusses with his blankets. "Don't you be undoing all our work now! It took nearly three hours of meatball surgery to get all the darned shrapnel out of your leg! You need to rest, Lieutenant…" Her voice trails off, and he catches her flipping the chart off the end of his bead. "Lieutenant Sanders."
He shakes his head, ignoring the prick of memory that's begging for his attention. "No, no." His throat is dry though, and it takes effort to croak out even a few words. "Marshall…Ivy…4th ID. I'm—"
"Shh, shh. You need to rest. There'll be plenty of time for chit-chat tomorrow." She crosses her arms and stares him down. "Understand?"
He nods, too tired to even think of an explanation. The nurse sashays over to the next bed. He uses the opportunity to scoop his dogtags out of the bowl on the nightstand. He runs his fingers over the letters on the backside, meaningless bumps on a bit of metal, but familiar and warm with memory. He turns them over and frowns when the indentation doesn't magically form itself into his name. Sanders' name and serial number stare back at him.
Well, the Army fucked that one up. He's tempted to laugh, but he doesn't understand. His head pounds from the effort of being awake and makes it impossible to think straight. He sinks back onto the thin mattress and falls asleep, dogtags clutched tightly in his fist.
--
Cairo, Illinois
July 1938
They drag the body out of the barn, breath huffing with strain. Jim doesn't know how she did it, but his mother—ninety pounds and nothing, five-foot and nothing—swung hard and cracked open the man's skull. There are bright red splatter marks on her white apron, telltale signs of the force of her blow, and for just a moment, he lets himself be impressed with her courage.
But the feeling passes quickly, and in its place, Jim feels a knot of desperate fear in his stomach. She's killed—no, they've killed—a man in cold blood, but he's not just any man. He's her husband, Jim's tyrant of a stepfather, and everyone in town knows him.
"What are we gonna do, Ma?"
"You don't worry none about that. I'll take care of it." She wipes her hands on her apron, as if this is just another mess in her kitchen. "I took care of this, didn't I? Shoulda done it years ago."
He shakes his head, frightened by the sight of the body, and even more by the wild look in her eyes. "But Ma, they'll—"
"You listen to me now, Jimmy, and you listen good. You're gettin' outta here. You take the first train up to Chicago in the morning and you go see cousin Eddie. He'll take care of you."
"What? No! I'm not leavin' you, Ma. You got nobody else to watch the farm and I—"
She raps him sharply upside the head. "When he doesn't show up today or tomorrow, they're gonna look for him. They're gonna know, Jimmy. They're gonna ask around. And I don't want them to find you. You understand?"
He nods, recognizing the finality in her voice. He's never crossed her, and he's not about to start now.
"Don't ever come back here. Ever."
"What about you?"
"I'll take care of it. I always do."
--
91st Evacuation Hospital, Pont L'Abbe, France
July 19, 1944
He's sitting out in the courtyard in a wheelchair, his legs covered with a blanket. He feels like an invalid, but the hospital is determined to keep him off his feet for as long as possible. It's a beautiful day, or it would have been, but the hospital is a hive of noise and activity.
A nurse walks by, in a hurry but flashing him a quick smile. He decides that's his opening and grabs her by the elbow. She stops, startled, a question on her face.
"Sorry about that." He lets her go, pleased that she lingers. "What's going on around here? Everyone looks so busy."
"Oh." She wipes her brow with the back of her hand, and wisps of blond hair leave her army-issue cap. He notices how pretty she is, but also the lines around her eyes and mouth. The war is long, and not just for the GIs.
"We're bugging out."
"Bugging out?"
"Yeah. This is an evac hospital. We move when the front does, and the front's moving south. Closer to Paris."
He wrinkles his brow, confused. "But what happens to the patients?"
"We take some of them, the ones that still need attention. The others get shipped to a different hospital. In Bristol." She registers his confusion, and adds, "in England."
"And what about me?"
"Well, lieutenant. If you can walk, you're going to England. And the officers there will decide what happens to you."
"I get to go back to my unit?"
"Maybe. Or maybe they decide you've done your part and they ship you States-side. Your war might be over, soldier."
He nods and falls silent, and she takes that as her cue, patting him gently on the shoulder as she leaves. Demobbed. He can't decide if he's done with the war already, and he has no idea how to convince the Army he's not really Dick Sanders.
--
Las Vegas, Nevada
September 1941
Jim takes a long drag on the cigarette, relaxed but on alert. He's had the night's watch at the casino, and it's almost time for the next shift. He rips his collar open with two fingers, loosening his tie and letting the cool of the desert night wash over him. It feels good, almost as good as a cold shower, and he hopes it will get rid of the dank smell of desperation, the sweat-soaked stain of fear that follows him like a grim shadow.
He shakes his head, chiding himself for being ungrateful. By most standards, he's had it pretty good, at least since that nervous night three years ago, hitching rides on farm trucks and hiding in cattle cars until he made it to Chicago. In the city though, there had been other troubles. For one, there had been no sign of Cousin Eddie anywhere, and after a few weeks of fruitless searching, he'd given up and looked for work instead.
Nobody on the South Side wanted anything to do with a farmboy, and an Irish one at that. But he'd managed to get a gig helping with rent collection, as his Italian friends—most of them gangsters anyway—had called it. He'd learned quickly, listened carefully, and kept his mouth shut, and in time, they'd promoted him to running the book for the Sox games. He'd played a small part in making sure America's favorite pastime—betting on baseball—was as profitable as ever.
But it didn't last. Frank Nitti, the boss in Chicago had gotten spooked and left most of the real business to his buddy Paul Ricca. Everyone Ricca liked stayed in Chicago. Everyone Ricca didn't like ended up dead. Jim had decided to cut his losses and move west, like Nitti himself, and that's how he'd wound up manning the till at one of the grubbiest little gambling joints in Vegas.
He hated the job, hated the desperate men who came to drink and waste their lives, hated the man he worked for. Nitti was distant, sometimes cruel, often absent. But Nitti's man in the casinos, Handsome Johnny, was different. He was a character and he drew people to him. Nobody was immune to his charm, not even Jim. More importantly, Johnny knew all the right people, and through him, Jim had started to live a different life, out of another world of Hollywood starlets and studio honchos. He couldn't really say, even now, if it was all right, something to be proud of. But he liked it, and for now, that was enough.
A noise in the alley puts him on alert. Jim flattens his back to the wall and puts a calm hand to his holster, ready for a potential attack. But it's just a false alarm, a car turning into the alley. He recognizes the plates and relaxes, stubbing his cigarette out with his wingtip before waving at the car.
A well-dressed man with a cigar dangling off a jeweled hand gets out, announcing himself loudly. His arm is casually wrapped around a tall blonde who might have been Lana Turner if she'd been ten years older. The man bellows in his direction and waves him over, the end of his cigar glowing violently in the darkness.
"Well, if it ain't Jackknife Jimmy!"
Jim curses under his breath. "Nobody calls me that, Mickey. Except you."
"Don't they? Well, they should!" He jostles the girl and she slides away from him a little, embarrassed. "You should see this guy with a shiv. It's a work of art."
The girl gives him an awkward smile. "Is that right?"
Jim shrugs. "Nah. Mickey just likes to talk. You know how it is."
Silence stretches out for several moments before Mickey claps him hard on the back. "Come inside. Have a drink. You look like you need one."
Jim hesitates, but he catches a look of interest, maybe even invitation, on the girl's face, and his resolve melts away. He nods and lets himself be led back into the casino, shutting his mind to the smell and the lights so he can focus on the girl.
Mickey led them to a smoky table in the back, well away from the craps tables, but close enough to the back door that they can get out discretely if they needed to. Jim leans back, letting Mickey do all the talking. He keeps his eye on the girl and her glass topped up. She seems willing already, but it never hurts to help the process along a bit. She giggles, and Jim's about to chat her up, when something Mickey says catches his attention. The man is drunk, and with his speech slurred, it's hard to be sure Jim's hearing right. He gapes at a now-silent Mickey.
"What?"
Mickey repeats himself. "I'm enlisting."
Jim can't hide his surprise quickly enough. "What? No!"
"There's a war on, kid. Didn't you know?" Mickey gives him an indulgent smile, the sort a man gives to a relative who's a bit soft in the head.
"Yeah, over in Europe. Doesn't mean anything here."
"You crazy? Everything that happens over there means something here. And we can't stay out of it forever. We'll be in the war in a year. Less, I'd say. If I were a betting man, that is."
He leans over conspiratorially. "And you know what? It's not like they can find you over there. Uncle Sam's not gonna kick a man outta the army because he might be a gangster. You know? Best place to hide in the whole world."
The girl giggles, and then grows quiet. "Isn't the war bad for…er, business?"
"Nah. Wars are great for business, just great. There's money to be made in war. It's almost legal."
"Almost," Jim adds with a smirk at Mickey. "So you're going to enlist. For real?"
"Yeah. Gotta do my part, don't I?" Mickey fidgets as he speaks, a sure sign he's getting annoyed.
"When did you get to be such a patriot anyway?" Jim regrets the words as soon as they are out of his mouth, and Mickey's eyes, as narrow as slits in his florid face, warn he's stepped over the line.
"So because I'm a gangster, I can't be a patriot?" Mickey's voice is low and cold, all the boisterous cheer gone. "You think you're better than me?"
Jim holds his hands up. "Now, Mickey, c'mon. I didn't say that. You know I—"
He is cut off by the sound of shattering glass. Mickey's smashed the end of his bourbon bottle on the table and he's waving the jagged glass at them, menacing and insistent. "Where do you get off, you little pissant? You were nothing before I found you, and you'll be nothing again just as soon.
He swings sharply in Jim's direction, the glass nearly catching Jim in the face. The girl screams, but she's rooted to the spot, paralyzed by fear. Jim pushes her towards the door and tries to disarm Mickey. A couple of wild swings later, a sharp edge catches Jim near the collar, and he feels the familiar warmth trickle down his chest. Mickey steps away for a second, distracted by the wound, and Jim sees his chance. He tries to knock the bottle out of Mickey’s hand as he wrestles the other man to the floor. They struggle for a bit, getting up to their feet and scrambling around the slick wood floor. The squeaking of their wingtips is now the only noise in the place, but Jim can barely hear it over the rush of blood in his ears. He’s certain this is the end of the line, that his life is about to end, but there’s a determined voice in his brain that won’t let him go down without a fight. Alright, Ma. Have it your way…
It happens in a matter of seconds. Mickey’s bigger than Jim is, and after a few minutes of struggling, Jim finds himself pinned to the floor, the jagged edges of the bottle just an inch from his face. He closes his eyes, trying to remember how to pray, wondering if it’s too late. There’s a woosh of air around him, and suddenly, instead of glass, his face is filled with Mickey’s faltering breath as the bigger man slumps onto him. Jim cries out from the shock and opens his eyes, only to see a gun—still smoking—at the end of a black-gloved hand.
Someone pulls Mickey off him and helps to his feet, and someone else shoves him out the door, warning him to stay away from the place. He reels into the desert night, and in confusion and relief, collapses into the girl’s arms.
--
After she has taken him home and cleaned him up a little, there’s a coupling of sorts, a hurried exchange of fear and desperation that seems as inevitable as it is useless. They lie together in awkward silence, not sharing the noise in their heads. He’s relieved when she offers him a cigarette and he takes a few puffs before he realizes she’s watching him.
He raises an eyebrow at her, and she responds in kind for a moment before speaking. “So what’re you gonna do?”
He shrugs and lets out a long puff of smoke, waiting until its ghostly trail is gone. “You can’t stay here. They’ll come after you. Say you’ve seen stuff.”
She laughs, hollow and mirthless. “I’ve already seen stuff. And I’m leaving, don’t you worry about me. I have a sister down in Arizona. She’ll take me in. I can just sorta disappear, I guess.”
He nods, suddenly envious of her life. “I wish I could do that. Just disappear.”
She runs a hand over his forehead, pushing hair out of his face. “You can always disappear. Go somewhere else, be someone else, start over. It’s not hard.”
The next day, he gets on a bus to Los Angeles and enlists in the Army.
--
