Chapter 9
Hard Times
June 1981
Willie and Jason arrived penniless that night at the Raleigh-Durham airport and hitchhiked into a neighboring town where the Irishman spotted a nice-looking restaurant and they had dinner—out of the dumpster in the back alley.
"I learned as a wee lad that sometimes ya got to eat trash, but when ya do, make sure it's rich people's trash," he instructed sourly as they dined on half-chewed steak, baked potatoes and corn on the cob. "For one thing, they're very wasteful, especially in America."
At least he was talking again, but the smile in his voice and the twinkle in his eye were a thing of the past.
The pair hunkered down for the night in the open air alcove of a podiatrist's office. Willie sprawled out at one end, sweaty and exhausted. Jason sat on the entrance step, glaring in disbelief at the pooled light from a streetlamp on the sidewalk below.
"Mother of God," he muttered as Willie situated his duffle bag as a pillow, although it was clear he wasn't going to get much rest that night. "Where did I go wrong?"
"We made it out in one piece, didn't we? So, f'get about it; go to sleep."
"Deceivin', ungrateful whore."
"Aw, c'mon. Ya woulda done the same as her if ya had the chance."
"Not her—you."
Willie opened his eyes and looked with confusion at his partner's back. Jason wasn't drunk; the boy wasn't sure why he would say that.
"Whad I do now?"
"Nothin'; that's just it. It's nothin' but baggage you've been since the day we met. Jason, buy me things. Jason, I need an operation. All the times I looked after you, saved your life, and this is the thanks I get."
Willie sat up. He knew it was unwise to backtalk the old man when he was in such a foul mood, but spoke anyway. "Took care a' me? Ya mean when ya put me out to work on the streets when I was just a kid? 'Cause I still have nightmares about that."
"And it would've been worse had I not come along. Oh, you had it so rough? You have no idea what it's like to grow up destitute. You would have ended up like all runaways—eatin' out of rubbish bins and sleepin' in alleys."
The irony of the statement was not lost on Willie. "Not like now."
"Except for me, you would've been dead years ago."
Jason occasionally said things like that when he was sloshed. And, although he rarely lost his temper, the Irishman could have a sharp tongue when he was pissed about something and there was no one but his junior partner on which to vent his frustration. Right now, the boy figured, Ole Jason was pretty miserable, so he had to make sure everyone else was too.
Willie stared at the cement floor. "I think I woulda gone back home—maybe gone to high school, had a regular life," he said quietly, and regretted it almost immediately. He was too tired to get suckered into a fight, but too tough to think there was anything McGuire could say that might hurt him.
Rising from the steps, the Jason turned to the boy and viciously spat, "So, it's my fault, is it? Nobody wanted you, and you know it. Why do ya keep lyin' to yourself? You pathetic little shite, you were born with trouble written right across your forehead, and it's nothin' but trouble you've been. I've had it with you."
Willie cautiously rose as McGuire backed him up toward the stone wall with a threatening glare. The old man was obviously hurting so bad, he needed a hard sock to the jaw to make him forget about it, so Willie obliged. As Jason staggered back, the punk jumped his senior partner and the two tumbled down the steps to the sidewalk, knocking Dr. Lebovic's foot-shaped shingle into the street. Willie grappled and punched his partner, and Jason responded in kind. The larger man, however, got the upper hand. Fueled by anger, he pinned Willie to the ground and slammed him repeatedly, with his forehand, then his backhand, over and over, his face full of rage.
"Ja—Jason! Stop—stop! STOP!"
Jason stopped, his arm in midair. He brought it down to his own face and stared at the blood from Willie's nose and mouth dripping down his hand. The bantam brawler pushed him off and scrambled to his feet. Jason, emotionally crushed, crumbled onto the sidewalk.
"Fuckin' lunatic." Willie wiped his forearm across his face, smeared the red stain on his tee shirt, and checked for loose teeth. Then he ran down the street and disappeared into the darkness, convinced that, if he stayed, his good buddy would probably stab him in his sleep.
A few blocks away, Willie found a train station. He shyly approached a professional couple on their way home from a night on the town, explaining that he had just been mugged. Could they spare a few dollars to help him get home?
The industrious delinquent worked hard throughout the early morning accumulating swag. He collected two or three wallets and a dozen donations. The following night they would be able to sleep in a motel, albeit a modest one.
Less than 24 hours ago, Willie had been dining on langostinos in truffle butter while watching I Dream of Jeannie in Panama, but it seemed like a month had gone by since then. He was too exhausted to be pissed at Jason anymore. What the hell. When you have only one friend in the whole world, you have to put up with their crap sometimes. Sure, they were going to fight; that's what friends do. And when they get upset—they say shit they don't really mean. Willie fervently wished the old man's foul mood would pass and things would go back to normal. A good laugh and a long sleep are the two best cures for anything, was an Irish proverb Jason liked to quote, but he didn't seem disposed to either suggestion.
The wallets didn't have much cash but held several impressive credit cards, including an American Express Gold. He used it in a convenience store to buy two coffees and donuts before heading back to the makeshift campsite.
Their luggage was stashed in the alcove as before, but Jason was nowhere to be seen. Shit, maybe he killed himself. Willie checked behind the shrubbery, but uncovered no crazy Irishmen—dead or alive. He sat on the steps and took a giant bite out of breakfast, coating his mouth with powdered sugar and his hand with oozing raspberry jelly as Jason appeared from around the corner. He had a black eye and a swollen lip. His partner pretended not to notice and focused on his coffee to mask a twinge of schadenfreude.
"I went 'round the back to relieve m'self; I'm not a complete bum." He said quietly, sitting next to the young man who, in turn, handed him a cardboard coffee cup.
"I dunno," Willie said with a full mouth. "We sure look like a coupla bums to me. Things are indeed hopeless—" he quoted his friend's saying.
"But they're not serious." Jason finished it for him, and sipped his coffee.
Willie got his partner situated in an economy hotel nearby where the morose man just lay there in bed. For days. He occasionally slept but would not eat. He stared at the ceiling or pushed random buttons on the television's remote control.
"We're gettin' low on cash," Willie eventually informed him. "If you don't wanna sell these credit cards, I'm gonna start usin' 'em, okay?" He spread the cards out on the floor and proceeded to practice writing the signatures as they appeared on the flip sides. "Which one should I be, huh? Antonio DeVito or Noah T. Rosenthal? This one says Walter Butz, but I don't wanna be somebody called Butz. Noah here's got a gold card; I like that one."
The Irishman did not respond.
"Jason, maybe we should ship out, go to Hong Kong again. There's always good jobs ready for able-bodied seamen like us, right? I'll go back to that sex club with you if you like; it wasn't really so bad. They got the most talented girls in the world, that's what you always say. Hey, I'm gonna take Noah's card here to a hardware store, and buy a hammer and a bunch of wood planks, then I'm gonna say, 'looks like rain, huh?' Do ya think that'd be funny?"
There was no answer.
"How 'bout Taiwan? You liked it there. We can sell those rhino horns again, if ya really want to. Ya know whad be even better, though? If we ground up some other shit, like rocks or somethin', and passed it off as rhino horn. Why didn't you think of that?"
Jason said nothing.
On the third day, Willie decided to cheer up his friend with some presents and took off with the borrowed credit cards to go shopping. He bought cigars and gourmet groceries, nice new shirts for Jason, gold cuff links and a matching money clip, and a bright green sweater for his pal to wear on St. Patty's Day.
Feeling confident that this would help pull his brooding buddy out of his funk, the young man made one last stop at the liquor store for a bottle of that really good Irish whiskey: Tullamore Dew. Give every man his due, as Jason would say.
But, it came to pass, on that trip, Willie's luck ran out. He was detained in the store office while the police were called.
The young man fought his natural instincts and did as he had always been taught: Don't run, don't resist arrest and keep your mouth shut at all costs. Willie was pressed against the police car, patted down and handcuffed, then placed in the back seat, just like in the beginning of the nightmare he had on a recurring basis. He was trembling uncontrollably when the officer riding shotgun looked over his shoulder at the young perpetrator.
"Jeb, I think that boy's gonna piss himself. Boy, don't you piss in my vehicle, y'hear?"
But, unlike the dream, these cops didn't hurt him. He was escorted to the station house, booked, and placed in a crowded holding cell. Willie sat on the floor in the corner, avoiding eye contact with his cellmates and trying not to appear vulnerable, but he was scared.
There was no money for bail, and Jason was in no condition to rescue him. Besides, he knew to make contact could implicate his partner. They had a plan to follow in the event of such an occurrence. There was a number to call—the answering service in Philadelphia—and a code to use: Hard time. But the prisoner wasn't permitted to telephone long distance unless he could pay for it, and there was no more than a small handful of change among his confiscated possessions.
What if there was a record of his fingerprints, and they discover that he shot a police officer five years ago? Or was it six? He couldn't remember in which city it occurred, but it was a coastal town, because he and Jason had shipped out from there. They hadn't stuck around long enough to learn if the cop lived or died.
The boy took a deep breath, determined to bullshit his way out of this situation—or, at least, to give nothing away.
Willie was brought into a starkly lit room and seated at a table. The sheriff, who had a beer belly and the face of a teddy bear, sat across from him. He was fingering through a plastic bin.
"You're a very curious young man," The sheriff with a friendly, almost jovial tone. "The intake officer said you gave her a name but no address, no next of kin and no social security number. Now why don't y'all want to cooperate?"
"I wanna lawyer." Willie forced his left leg to stop bouncing.
"Don't worry, you'll get one tomorrow at your arraignment. But today we're just having a friendly chat. Let's talk about what was in your pockets." He spread Willie's possessions across the table and picked up the driver's license. "First, there's this. Trash." He tossed it back in the bin. "Then—what's this? You do have a social security card. Only, we ran a check on that number, and it belongs to a Rose Marie Krajowski. Are you Rose?" Willie said nothing. He and the sheriff stared at each other.
"Never mind; let's move on." The officer spread out several more items on the table. "Now here's lots of identification but, sadly, none of them are yours. You're not Walter Butz, are you?" His attitude was unnerving. "We also have a fine switchblade, funny looking cigarettes," he opened the pack and sniffed, "And here's some coins: US of A, but mixed in there are these unusual ones in Español, and—what in hell is this?" He held up a 5-chiao from Taiwan. "With some kind of Japanese on it?"
The sheriff leaned across the table, his tone suddenly serious. "We're sure of one thing: y'all are not from around here, boy. You have no address, no next of kin, and you don't want to make a phone call. Now, come on, isn't somebody gonna be missin' you?"
Willie wrapped his arms around himself and, slumping down in the molded plastic chair, shook his head and refused to speak. He had the right to remain silent. The sheriff continued, "Oh, and—I really like this part—two keys: one to a fancy Hilton Hotel and one for the Econo-Lodge off the Interstate. Let's see, Room –"
"I found those," Willie blurted. "In a trash can—I been livin' on the streets for a while…that's why I got no one to call."
"Y'all are tellin' me that fancy stuff in those shopping bags was just for you? Why would a half pint like you would buy clothes in size Large?
Willie shrugged. "I dunno how to shop. I-I never done anything like this before."
"We'll let that go for now. Let's talk about the keys instead. Just what were you planning to use them for?"
"Nothin', honest," he replied defensively. "I thought somebody might give me a reward or somethin'—I was just lookin' for food." Willie's voice cracked and he looked up at the officer with big orphan eyes. "I-I was hungry."
The sheriff smiled with mock sympathy as he returned the criminal's things back into the bin. "Well, don't you fret, son, 'cause the state of North Carolina's gonna feed you for a while."
Willie got a hot meal, a hose down, a haircut and an orange jumpsuit. At his arraignment, he also got a loser lawyer in a bowtie whose advice was brief.
"Plead guilty. It'll save time and money and get you a lighter sentence, maybe a slap on the wrist." The bespectacled mouthpiece had gray in his mustache and alcohol on his breath.
"Guilty to what? They haven't even read the charges yet."
On his counselor's advice, the defendant pled guilty to credit card theft, identity theft, retail fraud, forgery and carrying a concealed weapon, but not guilty to vagrancy because there was no evidence, so that charge was dropped. Bail was set, and a date was given for a bench trial three weeks hence. Willie gave his attorney the phone number in Philadelphia and asked him please to call it for him and to leave a message. The man agreed, but he never saw or heard from that lawyer again, and his case was reassigned.
Meanwhile, Willie was sentenced to nine months in the state prison.
