undated, but the font and paper make me think it's from Fair Lawn circa 1972

Small pieces of glass covered the back seat of the car as Fred Wells dove to the floor. Something was running down his face. He tenderly picked a sliver of glass from his cheek and hugged the floor as another bullet struck the car.

“Keep going!" he shouted to Steve Arnold, who had slid down in the driver’s seat in an attempt to keep his head from being blown off. Steve could just see over the hood but he had the Chevy floored in a desperate attempt to escape the gunfire.

"See if they're still behind us," he commanded. 

"Screw you, pal," Fred replied. "Get off this main drag. Make some turns before we get killed."

Another bullet passed through the rear window and several more hit the car. Fred lay on the floor with his jacket over his head and wondered how the hell he got into this mess.

The day had started well enough. It was raining when Frank awoke. Thank God, he thought as he dragged himself to the bathroom, I am going to need a rest.

His head throbbed and ached when it moved. If he could get it in the right position, it wouldn't hurt so much. He washed and dressed, somehow managing to avoid excessive head movements, then slowly descended the stairs to the kitchen. Annie had breakfast ready as usual; the sausage and eggs looked good, but Fred knew if he got them down, they'd never stay. He lit a cigarette and sipped some black coffee. One can!! Why the hell didn't he save at least one? That's what he needed now. A beer would straighten him right out.

No words were exchanged between Fred and his wife. She prepared his lunch as usual although the radio said it would rain all day. Fred knew Annie’d be as glad to be rid of him as he was to get away.

The drive to work was uneventful. Fred wouldn't be fully awake for another half-hour, but fortunately the old Rambler knew the way and there wasn't much traffic at six in the morning. Fred parked the car, then slowly, reluctantly slopped through the rain to the shop. He hoped there was a seat open at the card table.

Fred opened the door to the incredibly filthy room. Cigarette butts almost covered the floor. Empty coffee containers and half eaten food lay on the other tables and on the floor. The walls were covered with the remains of smashed flies. The toilet door was open and the stench from the unventilated room was unbearable. No one seemed bothered. Fred saw no empty seats at the table, crossed the room, and slammed the toilet door closed. His stomach couldn't take much of that.

“What's the matter honey, got an upset tum-tum?” asked Steve Arnold mockingly.

Fred gestured with his finger, then sat in a dirty, straight-backed chair, leaned against the wall, and lit a cigarette. 

Black Willie, the shop’s token Negro, was chatting away, but no one seemed to be listening. Fred was glad he had arrived after the conversation started, since he didn't like to be rude and ignore anyone, but Willie did have the habit of going on and on. With a big head, that was all Fred needed. Willie finally realized no one was listening and fell silent.

“Anybody got any beer in their car?" Fred asked.

Laughter, shouts, and derogatory remarks came from the men. Fred took it in stride since he had busted enough guys himself.

“Why don’t you come to an AA meeting tonight?" offered Howie, a short, balding man around forty who possessed a high-pitched, almost feminine voice that had earned him more than his share of abuse. "I'll sponsor you. You definitely need help."

Howie was the resident alcoholic. He'd been in every alcoholic ward and treatment center in the area and had been dried out so many times, he should have looked like a prune. He had been dry for almost three weeks and as long as Fred knew him, Howie could never get by that mark. He was due soon.

"Shut up and lose your money," Fred said. “I want your seat.”

"Not today," Howie replied, holding up a set of rosary beads. "These will bring me luck."

Fred laughed although it hurt his head. Howie always had something for luck––coins, medals, rings––but this was about the best.

"Come on Howie, it's your deal, faggot,” shouted Steve Arnold. “Leave that nitwit alone, will you, Fred?"

"Losing again, huh, animal?" Fred inquired. Steve nodded his head and motioned toward the small pile of bills before him.

Steve wasn't a bad looking guy. About six feet, dark curly hair, and in pretty good shape for forty-five. The only thing the marred his looks was a missing front tooth. This was actually a blessing in disguise because of Steve's habit of biting ears, cheeks, noses, and just about anything whenever he fought. He certainly deserved the nickname "animal." If he had that front tooth, he'd probably have bitten a few noses and ears off completely.

The game continued. It was amusing to watch as Steve leaned back in his chair and tried to look at the cards of the men on either side of him.

"Here's a hot seat for you, Fred," Fat Louie said finally.

Fred quickly moved in and pulled some bills from his pocket. "How much did you go for?" Fred asked.

“About seventy-five,” Louie replied. He stood watching for a few minutes, then turned and slowly walked out.

Fred sat, still needing a drink. He won a few and, whenever he changed a ten or twenty, buried it in his shirt pocket. They had been playing about an hour when Big Al walked in with a large bag under his arm.

"Drink up boys, I won seven hundred at the track last night," he announced as he pulled out two six-packs.

“Seven hundred!! You should bring the scotch," someone said. The others joined in the banter but Fred remained silent. He despised Big Al and would love to shove the twelve cans, one by one, down his throat. Fred took a can––he was in such bad shape, he'd take one from the devil. It felt so good going down.

"That'll help straighten you out, Fred," Steve commented.

"You ain't kiddin’, brother," Fred replied as he quickly emptied the can and reached for another.

Someone else got up and Big Al sat in. The game continued as all card games do, the winners laughing, the losers saying "shut up and deal."

Steve made a comeback, Howie was losing, and Big Al didn't win a hand. 

"Deal me out," he said finally, “I'll get some more beer." He got up and left.

Throughout the game, everyone was encouraging Howie to have a beer. He was adamant in his refusal. The men were relentless. They questioned his manliness, his willpower, and constantly harassed him.

Howie held out until Big Al returned and placed a bottle of sparkling Burgundy in front of him. Howie had already begun to weaken and seemed to miss being able to join in the fun the others were seeming to have. He stared at the bottle.

"Just for you baby, nice and cold too. I even stole a glass," Big Al said as he placed a beer glass on the table.

In a few minutes, Howie was into it and the card players congratulated themselves on reclaiming another lost soul.

Finally, only Big Al, Fred, Steve, and Howie remained.

"What time is it?" Steve asked.

“One-thirty," Big Al answered. 

"I've got enough," said Steve.

“Me too," added Fred.

“I’m losing,” Howie added plaintively. “Over a hundred fifty dollars.”

"Get a new set of rosary beads," Fred advised. 

“Let's go downtown," Big Al suggested.

"Where's the broads at? I got the money, honey, if they got the time,” Fred commented.

“Let’s go to New York," Steve suggested.

"You live there, you go there," Big Al said.

"I'm not living there this week," Steve answered.

"Blackie's, let's go there,” Howie offered.

"Okay, we'll take our own cars," Fred agreed. They all pulled away together with Steve laughing maniacally as he cut Howie off just at the driveway. Fred lay back and let the idiots go ahead.

Man, I'll get hell tonight, or tomorrow, Fred thought as he pressed down on the gas and sped down the lightly trafficked highway. The radio was blaring and he was high. If only he could stay that way. Man, nothing bothered him. 

They all reached Blackie’s about the same time. The bartender's eyes rolled heavenward as they walked in and threw their money on the bar. He wondered if the large amount they spent was worth all the trouble they caused. They sang, they shouted, and they played the jukebox, demanding that the bartender turned it louder, although it probably could be heard three blocks away. 

They danced slowly beneath the ‘no dancing’ signs, brought all the girls a drink, and soon each of them had singled out one girl for special attention, all except Big Al. He stopped by the corner of the bar where they had gathered.

"I'm going! It's 5:30. I think I’ll hit the track again tonight,” Big Al said. "Anybody need any bread?”

The three of them declined his offer, knowing it was just a show for the broads.

"I'll see you tomorrow," he said, then slightly staggered through the side door.

“Punk,” Fred said. “I guess his old lady told him to be home by six.”

Steve signaled Fred with a nod of his head. They moved to the corner near the jukebox. 

"Let's get out of here," Steve said. "These broads are stiffs. Let's go to the city."

"I don't know Steve, not yet, it's too early."

Howie was bombed and was shouting over in the corner. Fred went to quiet him down. He sat down next to the redhead he had chosen and watched her drink scotch and water as if it were Coke. He thought about the city and knew he shouldn't go, in fact, he should have been home a long time ago. He knew what his drinking was doing to his wife, but wondered how it would affect his kids. The hell with it! This was no time to be morbid. He ordered another beer and rested his hand on the girl’s knee. She moved her leg away. Fred had passed the stage where he felt like giving some broad a big line, telling all the lies he could tell so well. He wanted sex, but didn't feel like working for it. He looked at the redhead. If he stayed with her, she’d drink up enough money to pay for five like her.

"Let's go to Paterson," he shouted to Steve.

"Let's go to New York," Steve insisted. “I can get broads for a fin. Nice ones too, young, pretty."

"If they're so nice, how come a fin?” Fred asked.

"They’re junkies. If you argue long enough, they'd probably go for a deuce.”

"I don't like to go out of my territory," Fred replied. "If I get in a jam in Paterson, I know those back alleys like the palm of my hand. But the City, I don't know.”

“We’ll go in my car," Steve said. "I have to come back here. That's my territory! Don't worry about anything."

“What about him?" Fred asked, pointing over his shoulder toward Howie.
Steve looked, then laughed. Fred turned. They didn't have to worry about Howie. He was passed out, head resting in an ashtray on the bar.

“Okay, Steve," Fred said. "Let's drag this clown out and put him in his car before one of these pigs robs him."

The two men carried Howie out, locked him in his car, and were soon on the way to New York City.

Steve had his radio full blast as he drove at tremendous speed, all the while singing and beating on the dashboard with one hand. Fred was glad he was drunk. Sober, he'd have been scared to death of Steve's wild driving. The closest Steve came to sensible driving was when they paid the toll at the bridge.

It was dark by the time they reached the South Bronx, where Steve confidently cruised the streets checking out the girls walking by or leaning against mailboxes, lampposts, and buildings. Some approached them openly and looked pretty good to Fred, but Steve was very selective. He finally chose a petite blonde not a day over nineteen and asked her if she could handle both. When she agreed and got in, he drove to a dark street in a deserted warehouse area.

Fred Wells relaxed in the backseat and listened with quiet amusement as Steve Arnold dickered with the small, slim prostitute over her fee. She wanted ten, but Steve knew she was a junkie and would settle for five. The girl knew it too, but whores like to haggle like Arab merchants. 

Suddenly the light in the car went on. Fred was immediately alert, as was Steve.

“Don’t move!" a man said, quietly pointing a gun on Steve.

But Steve moved. He quickly started the car and pushed the prostitute toward the gunman who had leaned through the door, revealing a mean black face. The girl grasped the man to keep from falling and he pulled her from the car as Steve sped away.

Fred saw the two entangled on the ground and laughed when he heard a growl from Steve.

“Another one," he said.

Steve hadn’t turned the lights on yet, but they could make out the figure of a man standing in the road holding up his hands.

“Run him over," Fred said quietly.

Steve didn't have to be told. He turned the car directly toward the man and just missed him.

“Attaway, Baby!” Fred yelled as he patted Steve on the shoulder. That was when the first shot shattered the rear window. The shooting had stopped, but Fred still lay on the floor, cursing his stupidity. He never should have listened to the animal.

“The cops!" shouted Steve.

Fred sat up. It was the cops, all rights. A patrol car was blocking the road. 

“I told you to turn down a side street, you ninny," Fred yelled.

But Steve was up to the task. He turned the wheel sharply and made a tight U turn, side swiping several parked cars on the left side of the street.

Another shot rang out, then the hiss of air and the unmistakable rumble of a flat tire as the car became almost impossible to control. It veered to the right and hit another parked car broadside. Steve tried to back up, but suddenly the area was swarming with patrol cars.

“Get out, you bastards, and keep them hands real high," a voice commanded.

Steve and Fred slowly obeyed, afraid any sudden move would bring a bullet in the chest. They stood spreadeagled against the car, were patted down, then handcuffed. An unmarked car pulled up slowly and two men and the prostitute got out. 

The taller of the two walked over and slowly put his face inches from Steve’s. "Was you drivin?” Steve stared at him. The man reached into his inside pocket, removed a billfold, and opened it, displaying a badge. Holy Christ! We almost ran over a cop, Fred thought.

The man approached Fred, who had suddenly sobered up.

"Was you drivin’?”

Fred, too, just stared.

"Hold this broad," he heard a voice say, then heard the footsteps of what he assumed to be the other plainclothesman.

His thoughts were interrupted by a hard right to the stomach. He quickly dropped to the ground and tried to cover his vital parts and head. He felt the first kick and heard Steve groan as he too was worked over. Fred was almost unconscious as he wondered what his old lady would say about this. Why the hell didn't he go to Paterson?