Killing
A Novel By Victor Fortezza -- Contributing Author

WARNING: Killing takes place in a very real world where people are flawed and may contain material of a harsh nature. While the Cynic Online Magazine does not feel that the novel promotes racism, the novel acknowledges that racism exists in the real world and therefore acknowlegedges the possibility in its characters. If you are offended by content of this nature, please navigate to another feature within the magazine.

"We are much beholden to Machiavel and others, that write what men do, and not what they ought to do" - Francis Bacon

1

The mid-sized sedan cruised into the entrance lane of the highway, slowed to allow a car to pass, then accelerated into the flow of traffic, which was sparse at this early hour. In the opposite direction, Manhattan-bound, vehicles were bumper to bumper, inching along.

"Geez, look at dat," said Dante Gentile, the driver, who was darkly-complected, in his early forties. Although he'd shaved only 30 minutes ago, he had a five-o'clock shadow. "Musta been an axadint. I bet Sandy an' dem'a cursin'. I hope it cleahs up by the time I staht back."

"Take the day awf fuh once," said the passenger, a young man who bore a strong resemblance to the driver. He was in military uniform, cap in his lap. "Yer entitled."

Dante shrugged. "I wouldn't feel right. Besides, what would I do home?"

"Ya awways find somethin'."

Suddenly Dante sat up and tilted his head, as if listening. "Heah dat?" he said, miffed. "An' she's only two yeahs old. What's the sense'a gettin' a new car any maw when dey don' make 'em right? I'm buyin' Jap nex' time, I mean it."

"Dat'd be the day. I tol' ya what to get. Ya wouttn't listen. De'ah the only mid-sizes we'ah makin' now dat kin compeah to deahs."

"When I was a kid everybody wannid a Chevy."

"Dose days'a gone. We'ah catchin' up, though. De'ah startin' to wise up. Dey ain't takin' the customahs fuh granted no maw. De'ah finely puttin' deah foot down to the uneyins. It was eitha dat aw go unda."

"It's about time. Dey been puttin' lemins out too lawng. I hate to see uneyin guys get hurt, though."

"Dey were gettin' away wit' murda."

Dante smirked. "Whatta you know? Ya neva worked a day in ya life."

"Whattaya talkin' about? Footbawl practice wasn't work? The papah route wasn't work? An' what about Basic?"

"I mean havin' to scrape to put food on the table an' a roof ova ya fam'ly's head. You'll see."

"Oh."

They were quiet a while. The radio, tuned to an all-news station, was barely audible. At the mention of Saddam Hussein, Dante leaned forward and raised the volume. He listened intently until the item was completed, then again turned down the volume.

"See? What'd I tell ya? Dis giuche ain't backin' down. He's trouble, I know it."

"Don' worry, Da. Bush won' let 'im get away wit' nothin'. You'll see."

"I'm only worried 'cause'a you. I know dis sfacheem's gotta be squashed like the cockaroach he is. He's just anotha gangsta, dat's all. Only instead'a hijackin' trucks, he's hijackin' a whole country."

"He kin shake down the whole world now dat he's got his mitts on awl dat oil."

"Dat's why we gotta go in. Deah's no way around it. I jus' wish ya hitch was up."

His son looked at him. "Why? You went."

Dante shrugged. "Cawl me a hypacrite, but dat's hah I feel. Now I know what gran'ma musta went through, me bein' 'er one an' only. I guess it's true - 'what goes aroun' comes aroun'.' God don' fuhget nothin'. It's my turn to suffah now."

"Whattaya talkin' about? I bet ya a millyin bucks the mammaluke pulls out as soon as we staht movin' in. He's crazy if he don't. He made the smaht move try'na swipe the oil, hopin' we wouttn't do nothin'. Now he'll go back home. I hope he don't, though. I wanna know what it's like."

There was a sparkle in his brown eyes. His father's stomach contracted.

"Dat's what ya think now, Junya, but it gets old feahst. It's worse den anything ya could eva amagine, an' deah ain't nothin' ya kin reahly do to get ready fer it. Boot camp'll seem like it was a picnic. I jus hope it don' drag on like 'nam did. Dat'll bring out the Jane Fondas an' put ah boys even maw unda the gun. Yous don' need dat. God knows hah many'a ah boys dose bastids helped kill."

"Easy," said Junior, chuckling. "Use'ly, I like to see ya get worked up, but not when ya drivin'."

Emotion had Dante tightening his hands on the steering wheel and increasing pressure on the accelerator. More than 20 years had passed since his return from Vietnam, and the anger and humiliation he'd suffered still plagued him occasionally. And it wasn't only the psychological scars of battle that affected him, deep as they were - it was the treatment he'd received from demonstrators who picketted the gates of the base, it was the absence of support from a large portion of the populace, friends and relatives included. He'd answered his country's call, and found that many believed it'd been wrong to have done so. For more than a year he'd faced death constantly, seen buddies and civilians killed, many in unspeakable ways, and yet that suffering had not been enough. There was more to be endured at home. And he hadn't expected it at all. His mother and Deanna had kept him in the dark so that he would not lose focus. He walked into the turmoil blind, and found that a military uniform, long esteemed, suddenly invited derision. And there wasn't anything he could do about it. As much as he would have liked to turn a machine gun on the protestors, as he had on the enemy, it was forbidden, as the Constitution guaranteed the right of free speech of even fools and traitors. It was one of the things that made the country great, the envy of the world, an ideal for which many had left the comfort and safety of home to defend, and for which many had made the ultimate sacrifice. He hadn't donned his uniform since the day of his discharge. He hadn't attended a single reunion or joined a veteran's association, although he still loved his country passionately. He was ashamed of having lost the war, of not having done enough to turn the tide, of not having re-enlisted until it was won. Others had re-enlisted, some more than once - why hadn't he? No, he'd reasoned that he'd done his part, that it was time for someone else to do his fair share.

He had inwardly rejoiced at the killings at Kent State and Jackson State, which occurred just weeks before his discharge. It was a small measure of revenge, however. Young men were dying by the thousands in defense of democracy and, in his mind, whether the war was wise or not, the undermining of it at home merely gave heart to the enemy and, consequently, contributed to casualties. Someone had to pay for that. He would have liked to put a bullet through the head of Jane Fonda and her ilk. He now prayed her sons would one day go to war against her wishes. She deserved that suffering as much as anyone who had ever lived. They probably would not go, however. No doubt they'd been brainwashed by their parents, who also had the power of wealth and celebrity to shield them, as had their mother, who might have been executed for treason had she lived in any other country. He had faith, however, that God would one day catch up with her.

Glancing at a little statuette of the madonna that stood magnetized on the dashboard, he offered a brief, silent prayer in his son's behalf. He was interrupted by a siren sounding behind him in the distance. Soon a muffled, amplified voice called out.

"Me?" said Dante, perplexed, pressing an index finger to his chest, gazing at the reflection of a police car in the rearview mirror..

"Who d'ya think?" said Junior, amused. "I told ya to take it easy."

"Hah feahst was I goin'?"

"Seventy."

He gazed at the speedometer. Even after having decelerated, he was still in excess of the speed limit, which was 50. He pulled to the side of the road and rolled down the window, and was immediately assailed by the heat and humidity. Perspiration broke out on his brow. To think he hadn't accelerated until the very area of the speed trap - what were the odds of that? He was reminded of the war, of how enemy fire found some and missed others. Timing meant so much, sometimes everything, and one often had no control of it. He hoped his son would increase his chances of survival by conducting himself prudently.

Suddenly the ticket was meaningless. It was further proof that he was alive, that his life wasn't a dream conjured as he lay dying in the jungle. He was lucky. He also knew that in a matter of time, perhaps seconds, he might be feeling low, guilty about having survived. The war was all things to him. He did not understand it.

"License and registration," said the officer, an imposing figure who had to bend severely to peer into the car. His eyes spread as they found the passenger. "Whatta we got here - a Marine?"

Dante beamed. "Private Dante Gentile the third, third generayshin ahmed fawces. The Ahmy wasn't good enough for 'im, but. He's on 'is way to the dezitt."

"He gonna miss his flight?"

Dante shook his head. "Nah. I'm so worried about 'im putzin' aroun' ova deah dat I'm havin' a hahd time payin' attention to what I'm doin'. Half the time I dunno wheah I'm at, awl 'cause dat gihdrool wouttn't stay wheah he belawngs."

The officer stared silently. "I can understand that. I was just thinkin' about how worried my mom got when my big brother was in 'nam. She was prayin' all the time. It didn't help, though."

Dante's eyes glazed. His throat tightened as he tried to speak. "I know hah ya feel, kid. Lotta great guys neva made it back."

"Funny that I was thinkin' about it. Maybe war is in the air." He closed the ticket booklet. "Let's forget this one. Givin' you a ticket now'd be what my ol' man'd call an infamia. I don't need any bad luck. You take care, Junior."

"Thanks, big guy, I will."

"Thanks, kid," Dante choked. "Tell ya motha I'll be lightin' a candill fuh ya brotha tanight."

He sat silent as the officer walked away, entered his car, and drove off. He looked to his son, who coiled, uncomfortable with his father's emotions.

"C'meah," said Dante, tugging at the uniform, pulling Junior into an embrace. "Ya know I love ya, right?" He kissed the top of his son's closely-cropped head, then looked him in the eye. "I don' wantcha goin' ova deah wit'out knowin' dat."

"I know, Da," said Junior, pulling away. "C'mon. When d'ya get so sawft?"

"Ah," he grumbled. "Maybe someday yi'll know what it's like. I hope not, but ya know what dey say...."

"I know, I know. But I'd want my kid to serve, like we awl did."

"Every kid should. Too bad dey keahn't awl come back, though. Den it wouttn't be what it is, I guess."

"I'm comin' back, don' worry."

How many times had he heard words to that effect in Vietnam? Confidence, bravado didn't count for much in combat's lottery. War did not care who it killed.

"Maybe we won' even get into it," he said without conviction. "Maybe the sfacheem'll wise up an' back awf."

"I hope not. I wanna fight."

Dante's eyes flared with anger momentarily. He put the reins on it, lest he taint what might be his final moments with his son.

"Dat ain't right, Junny." His tone was grave. "Waw ain't fuh you pers'nilly. I know wheah ya comin' from, though. I was the same way, so I keahn't get too mad at ya. Jus' rememba, the otha side ain't gonna be bad shots like in 'Rambo.' Some'a ya buddies'a gonna get blown to pieces. An' ya might end up doin' some reahly bad things yaself, things yi'd neva amagine in ya worse nightmeahs, things dat'll haunt ya the resta ya life. Ya gonna see women an' kids, maybe even babies, torn to bits, burnt to a crisp. It might even happen from ya own guns - yaw own gun. But don' let it bring ya down to wheah ya don' keah 'bout nothin' no maw."

"Like the guy in 'The Deah Huntah'?"

Dante hadn't seen it.

"I seen it happen to guys. It was almos' like dey laid down an' died. I could feel it pullin' at me too. Ya gotta fight it. It's jus' the way waw is an' deah ain't nothin' nobody kin do to change it. God knows awl dis. He made the world. He knows what goes on down heah. Don' let it get ya down to wheah ya ain't thinkin' straight. An' don' let some know-it-all wit' a microphone aw a pen make ya feel guilty. Dey don' know what dat kinda pressha's like. Dey jus' wanna get famiss. Dey don' keah about you. An' don' be ashamed if ya cry or feel like prayin'. I seen big tough hillbillies an' black kids from the worse neighbahoods cry, so don' think yaw too big to. Nobody knows hah lawng dis's gonna leahst, but the longa it does the uglier it'll get, ya kin bet on dat. Everybody's afraid it's gonna be anotha 'nam, but we keahn't let dat stop us from doin' the right thing."

The swirl of traffic was all that penetrated the ensuing silence.

"Tryin' to skeah me?" said Junior quietly, apparently suffering doubt.

"Only a psycho wouttn't be skeahed. It don' reahly matta what I say, though. Nothin' could eva get ya ready fuh what ya gonna see. It's jus' somethin' ya gotta live t'rough to understan'. Jus' promise me one thing - don' be a wildman like ya was on the kick-awfs aw leadin' wit' ya head on awl dose tackles, givin' me a hahtattack. Be smaht like a quartaback."

Junior smirked. "Like Joey Books?"

Dante jerked his head. "Ya jus' jealiss he got a scholi'ship. He's a good kid."

"He's a jerg-awf. He won't last a week out deah, mahk my words."

"We'll see. Anyway, I didn' wanna tawk about any'a dis in fronna ya motha. Deah's no sense skeahrin' 'er right now. She's skeahed enough awready as it is."

"No booty fuh you fer a whahl."

Dante chuckled and slapped at his son. "Ya lucky I don' smack ya silly fuh sayin' somethin' like dat."

"Okay, Mistah Sawftee."

A van passed at such speed that the car shook.

"We betta get goin'," said Dante, gazing into the sideview mirror. "We'll miss ya flight. We don' want nobody thinkin' ya deserted."

He waited until there was an adequate opening, then pulled out. In the distance a siren wailed.

"He got one," said Junior, chuckling.

Dante, smiling, craned his neck. "I bet it was dat van. Serves 'im right too. He was goin' way fasta den I was."

"Ya neva tawk about 'nam."

Dante arched an eyebrow, surprised at the sudden turn in the conversation. "Dat's pers'nil. Some things ya keep locked up. I won't eahsk you when you come back." He died a little inside, fearful Junior wouldn't be back. "All waws'a the same, anyway. Ahs was diff'rent ova heah, not deah - 'cept we lawst."

"Ya neva even tawked to Ma about it?"

"I mighta if she asked. Why bring women into it, though? De'ah part'a what we fight to pratec'."

"Some of 'em want in."

Dante bristled but withheld comment. Junior chuckled as if his intention had been to get his father's goat.

"Ya so easy. Good thing y'ain't a chick."

Dante grinned and bore it.

"But hah could Ma not ask?" said Junior, beside himself.

"Maybe she didn' hafta. Maybe she could tell it jus' lookin' at me. It was on the news every night. I didn' even wanna get married when I got back. I felt so derdy, like such a losah, like I didn' deserve a girl like her. If we hadn'ta got engaged befaw I went ova, I prob'bly wouttn'ta. I couttn't go back on my word, though. Good thing, too. You an' ya sistah'a the bes' thing dat eva happened to me. I mighta been alone right now."

"I doubt it. Some dumb chick woulda felt sahry faw ya an' took ya in like a stray dawg."

Dante chuckled and dealt an affectionate bachhand to his son's arm. "Wise guy."

"Gran'pa tawks about his waw awl the time."

"He ain't a good igsample to fallah."

He despaired, recalling the day of his own departure. His father showed no emotion, barely said a word. He offered no encouragement, nothing in the idea of what to expect. All he said was: "Don' make me ashamed," and turned away without so much as a handshake or pat on the back. And the comment seemed so odd, as shame had not been something that had ever worried his father. It was the last time Dante had pined for his father's approval. At that moment he realized that nothing he would ever accomplish would please the man. It was as if they were competitors rather than kin.

"If I'da married somebody else my kids'd be a lot younga now. I mighta had girls instead. Dey wouttn't be facin' dis waw. I wanted ya to go to cahlidge."

"I hate school."

"Why? Ya awways did awright."

Irked, Junior looked away. "Jus' show up dese days an' ya make the honah roll. I woulda dropped out as soon as dey invaded Kuwait, anyway. I wanted to be a Marine since I was a kid."

"Ya still a kid."

"I'll go when I get out."

"Famiss las' words."

"I'll go at night."

"The way you chase girls? Ya gonna go to school afta workin' awl day? I'll believe it when I see it."

"Get me in the uneyin."

Dante made a face. "Ya kin do betta den dat."

"What's wrawng wit' bein' a cahpintah?"

"Nothin'. It's good, hones' work. Jesus was a capintah. It's jus' dat a fatha wants 'is son to be betta den him. Every genarayshin should be betta."

He realized he'd lied. His father, a retired nightwatchman, had frequently said: "Whattaya think - ya betta den me?"

"How could I be betta den you?" said Junior reverently. "Yaw the best - the best. Ya wa awways deah fuh me - awways."

Stunned, Dante felt tingling all the way through his arms and into his hands gripped on the steering wheel.

"Sometimes I wished ya wasn't, the way ya carried on like a nut at the games. Ya neva said 'no' to nothin'. I couttn't believe hah ya stood up to Ma when I said I was joinin' up."

"I'll prob'bly be sleepin' on the couch 'til ya get back."

"I know ya reahly didn' want me to go, but ya let me 'cause it was what I wanted to do."

He hoped he wouldn't be regretting it for the rest of his life.

"Ma was so weird awl the time I was home on leave. I neva seen 'er like dat. It was like she was awf someplace by 'erself."

Dante was surprised his son had noticed, especially considering how little time he'd spent in the house. He'd thought it was only obvious to himself.

"I think she's goin' through the change'a life," he said, grasping at straws. "And she's worried about you. When yous wa little 'er ol' man had an oparayshin, an' she was the same way." He failed to convince even himself. "I let ya join up 'cause I didn' want ya holdin' a grudge against us the resta ya life. Who knew dis gihdrool was gonna staht somethin'?"

"Ya wouttn't'a been able to stop me, anyway, so don' go kickin' yaself. I'da run away an' joined. The Gentiles'a fightahs. It's in ah blood. It's a tradishun. I'd want my kid to join up too."

"Only if the country reahly needed 'im, othawise he should go to cahlidge. Dat's the tradishin we should be stahtin'."

"Bozo'll go. She wants'a, ya know."

He shook his head. "It ain't the same."

"Why?"

"'cause yaw the one carryin' the fam'ly name. She's gonna be 'Mrs. Somebody Else' someday. Fuhget dat, anyway, an' listen to me. Don' let nobody tawk ya inta makin' a careah atta the service. You wa captain'a half the teams ya wa eva on. Some offisah's gonna notice ya an' try to tawk ya inta reuppin'. Don' do it. I wouttn't keah - it's a good life - 'cept dey'd be sendin' ya awl ova. We'd neva see ya."

"I ain't makin' it a careah. I joined up hopin' deah'd be a war, but I wasn't gonna wait my whole life fuh one."

"It ain't a game, Junny," said Dante, discouraged. "Killin' should only be a man's las' resawt. Deah's gonna be kids jus' like you on the otha side. De'ah jus' stuck wit' a sfacheem fuh Presadint." He paused, frustrated. "Ah! What's the sense'a tawkin'? Yer a kid. Ya think ya know everything, jus' like I did."

He followed the path to the Van Wyck Expressway, which led to the airport. Silence fell between them.

"Good thing dat cop was a paisan," said Junior.

Dante smiled. "You ain't kiddin'. I got enough points on my license. Meanwhahl, see the size'a him? Minc!" He raised his hands from the steering wheel and spread them to an exxaggerated width. "What a mook. It's good to see a cop who's in shape for a change, not like dat tubby kid who's awways scoffin' pizza neah the stayshin." He smirked. "Who's he gonna catch?"

"He still ain't as bad as the lady cops. Dey'd'a neva passed the ol' physicals. Dey hafta lowah the standids in the service too. I'm glad we don' hafta put up wit' 'em. I'm glad I'll be out soon. De'ah gonna be in combat in the nex' war. I feel sahry for...."

Dante did not hear this. His mind had fixed on the death of the officer's brother. How, when, had he bought it? How many days had he been from the end of his tour? Dante had known someone struck down just weeks shy of his release. The memory set off a familiar, deep pang within him.

"It's funny. I wasn't even gonna try to tawk 'im at' of it."

Junior looked at him askance. Dante realized he had fallen behind the conversation.

"The ticket, I mean. I had no case."

"You wa so, in a sly way. Soon as ya saw 'is name, ya called Saddam a 'gihdrool.' Ya went the gumbah route."

He stared at his son. "Ya too smaht fuh yer own good, wise guy."

"Ya laid it on a little thick, though. I thought ya blew it."

"Whattaya tawkin' about?"

"Lightin' a candill - when's the las' time you wenta church?"

He had a feeling he would be spending a lot of time there. "Ya should be studyin' psycholedgy."

Junior smirked. "The people who go to shrinks don' know what reahl problems ah."

"Jus' 'cause ya hate school don' mean it ain't good fuh ya. Some days I hate goin' to work, but I go 'cause I gotta. A man's gotta do a lotta things he don' wanna."

"Now ya soun' like an ol' movie. Deah should be violins playin'." He feigned the playing of one.

"I keahn't wait to laugh at ya when Joey Books's a big shot an' yaw a workin' stiff."

"We'll see."

"By the way, smaht guy, I hope ya gonna have sense enough to use condims ova deah. God knows what AIDS's like deah. It's bad enough heah. Some'a dose girls might be fanatics. Dey might be glad to infect every one'a ya. Be smaht - don' screw aroun' at awl."

Junior laughed ironically. "No, we'll do what the Greek ahmies did."

Dante laughed genuinely. "Wise guy."

2

The ground floor of the two story house, whose exterior had been modernized in brick and wood, was dark except for the light emanating from a large television screen situated in the modest living room. Although it was February, the Christmas decorations had yet to be taken down.

"Danny?" a woman called, entering the front door, which led, through a small foyer, to the living room. "Why're you sittin' in the dark?"

She switched on a lamp. The interior had been modernized beautifully. Dante, slumped on a couch, squinted.

"The waw jus' stahted," he said somberly, staring at the screen.

Tension rose to his wife's thin face as she poised herself against the recliner, eyes focused on the newscaster. Dressed conservatively, dark hair cut short, she imparted a maturity and seriousness that contrasted with the youthfulness of her features. No one ever guessed she was 41, which was both a source of pride and pain to her husband, who, although by no means obese, had the thickness of middle age and receding hairline to match.

"Does your mother know yet?" she said.

"I doubt it. My fatha don' watch the news no maw. He says the repawtahs're a buncha lib'ral sfacheem."

She pursed her lips, apparently stifling a response. "I'll go up and tell her."

"Let 'em eat firs'. Why roon deah dinna?"

She looked at him. He kept his eyes on the screen, reluctant to meet an accusing gaze.

"Where's Jo Jo?"

He shrugged lifelessly. "She wasn't heah when I came in."

"I'll make you some soup. You can't fast the whole war." She took a step toward the kitchen, which was at the rear, and paused. "I hope you're satisfied."

He hadn't the resolve to respond. Besides, what might he say - that someone's children had to stand up to the thugs of the world? This was no time for arguing. He was as distressed as she. He would rather have Junior home, too, despite the fact that his country needed him. For the first time, his son had been apart from the family at Christmas. Now they feared he would never again be home for the holidays.

The kitchen door swung open. Rays of light cut into the living room. Eyes covered, he looked toward the silhouette of his wife in the doorway.

"When're you gonna take down the decorations?" she said, annoyed. "You always have them down the day after the Epiphany. People must think we're giamoaks."

He'd been wondering when she would mention it. She was not one to let anything, however trivial, slide. Apparently her thoughts had been elsewhere.

"I ain't takin' 'em down 'til Junya comes home."

She turned away. Light left the doorway. He realized he'd left the decorations up to test her as well.

His thoughts were interrupted by hurried footsteps pounding the porch. The door burst open.

"Daddy..." said a teenage girl breathlessly.

"We know, mommy," he said, patting the space beside him.

She flopped onto the sofa and leaned against him heavily. As he put his arm around her, he smelled tobacco. He hadn't the will to scold her. He hoped it was her friends and not she who indulged. He'd been a smoker himself. He'd begun in Vietnam and eventually passed the habit on to his wife, who'd only recently quit herself. His daughter was now 18. It was time she made her own decisions, even foolish ones. He would mention it another time. At present it was trivial in light of what his son was facing.

"Deah ain't nothin' to worry about yet," he said, kissing her forehead. "Looks like we'ah gonna bomb 'em roun' the clock hopin' dey'll wise up an' get lawst."

"You were right all along."

"I wish I wasn't. He gave us no choice, though. Now he's gotta be squashed befaw he gets even maw dangeriss."

The family, Dante's parents included, sat huddled around the television late into the evening. The women were the first to retire, leaving father and son alone.

"Let's see if dey botch dis up like dey did yaw waw," said the elder, cane poised between his knees.

"We won't. If anything, it'll make us try harda to get it right dis time." Did he really believe that or was he trying to fool himself? he wondered. "Bush's been deah. He knows what it's like. He won' tie the gen'ril's han's."

"We'll see. Ya keahn't trust politicians. De'ah awways up to no good, sittin' nice an' cozy in Washin'tin whahl the little guys'a dyin'. Rosavelt let the Japs bomb Pearl Hahba to get us atta the depresshin. 'New Deahl,' my ass, socialis' bastid."

Dante made a face. "Dat's crazy, Pa. No president'd let awl dose people get killed jus' to get the country goin'. Dis ain't Russia. Now ya soun' like awl the conspiracy nuts ya hate so much. An' wheah would you be wit'out Social Securidy an' Medikeah, which the lib'rals got ya?"

"I'da had maw money to put in the bank."

Dante was about to say the money would have been squandered on broads and booze. He restrained himself. After all, this was his father. "It wouldn'ta been enough. Ya comin' out way ahead."

"Shows ya what saps dey are. Why should the little guy work hahd aw save? Den again, dey don' reahly keah 'bout the little guy. It's jus' deah way'a buyin' votes."

To Dante, it did seem foolish of the government to bail out someone like his father. And he feared there were many like him. Should those who were really in need be deprived because of the bums, however? Trouble was, it seemed the government was making it too easy for too many citizens to be bums.

"Ya awways said ya were in favah of the waw, anyway."

"Shaw, I was, mawron. We shoulda hit firs', dat's all. Everybody an' 'is motha knew we wa gonna get it soonah or latah. We shoulda got in as soon as Hitler made 'is firs' move. The Japs wa up to no good awl alawng in China. An idiot coulda figyid out what was up. We let 'em get awf to a feahst staht an' it cost us big time."

"We don' hit firs'. Dat ain't what dis country's about."

"Dat's why it's in the shape it's in. We shoulda knocked the Russkies awl the way back to Mosco' too, aw t'reatened to nuke 'em if dey didn' get back to wheah dey belawnged. Dey saw what the bomb did to the Japs. Deah neva woulda been a cold war, no Korea aw Vietnam to make mistakes in."

"You see everything twenny-twenny."

"I kin still see dat dumb hick's face. He wasn't deah a week. I told 'im to put 'is pack in fronna the little slot in the bunkah. He wouttn't listen. Shaw enough a piece'a shrapnil got in an' got 'im. I was lucky a piece didn' get me too, the stupit bastid."

Dante grew cold with fear as he realized there wouldn't be many combat veterans on the scene to show his son the ropes, the little tidbits that increased the chances of survival. When had America last fought in a desert - World War II? He hoped there would be Israelis on hand to lend expertise. In Vietnam he'd been taken under the wing of a Californian whose parents had been raised in Brooklyn. The others in the unit, all seasoned, several into a second tour of duty, were cold to him at first, as they were to subsequent replacements, until he proved himself, "broke his cherry," as they said. Still, he would never forget the sense of panic he experienced the day his mentor's orders came through. He'd never felt such isolation. He adjusted quickly, however. He had no choice. He wondered what had happened to that guy.

"Dat kid an' thousands'a othahs'd still be alive if we'da hit firs'," said his father emotionlessly. "The waw woulda been ova way befaw den. It only had a few months to go as it was."

"Ya keahn't look at it like dat. Deah's awways gonna be mistakes. It ain't 'two an' two.'"

His father dismissed the comment with a wave. "Whatta you know? Yer a mawron. I'm goin' up to bed."

Dante chuckled, then recalled the gravity of the situation and regretted the levity, as if it were an affront to the war effort.

"Need help?" he said, noting his father's difficulty.

The elder's reply was a peevish grumble. Dante watched sadly as his father rocked and bounced until he'd created enough momentum to propel himself to his feet. Stooped by pain, he walked out through the mist of cigarette smoke he'd left. 70, he appeared much older than his years. He'd had to give up golf, which he'd learned late in life and loved, and which was perhaps the only thing he'd ever loved besides his sins. At breakfast one morning long ago, Dante heard a repeated whoosh coming from the backyard. His father was practicing, strengthening his swing, a weighted donut affixed to the shaft of his driver. It became a daily routine - until various ailments defeated him. He now rarely left the vicinity of the house. There had been times he went missing for days. He refused to attend family functions, which displeased no one. Although he suffered chest pains and fits of coughing, he wouldn't stop smoking. He'd been smoking unfiltered cigarettes since the age of twelve. He'd lived fast for many years and it'd caught up to him. His wife, on the other hand, 65, was spry and energetic. Unlike her husband, she always looked on the bright side. To Dante, it seemed she was being rewarded for her goodness and his father punished for his wickedness. What an odd couple they were. He feared others thought the same of Deanna and he. Once, he'd believed they were an ideal match.

He gazed forlornly at the framed photgraph of his wedding day, which was set upon a wall unit he'd built himself. How long ago that seemed. Curiously, his tour of duty, which had preceded his marriage, seemed to have ended only recently.

He returned from the kitchen with air freshener. He'd come to hate the odor of burning tobacco.

He fell asleep on the sofa, television running. His wife woke him in the morning. There were no new developements in the Gulf.

He kept vigil each night, around the clock, lying on the couch, dozing, eyes snapping open occasionally, garnering the latest information. He watched no other programming. In his mind, entertainment at this time was unpatriotic, base. It was the least he could sacrifice, besides donating blood, while young Americans were risking their lives on foreign soil, and he was in the comfort of his home.

One day he found five letters from his son in the mailbox. He suspected there wouldn't be any more for a while, as the ground war was imminent and secrecy was being observed. Although this added to his distress, it was as he preferred, as he believed silence would save lives. He despised those journalists who questioned military spokesmen about the specifics of strategy and estimates of casualties, and those who apologized for those who asked such questions, who claimed it was their duty to ask. To him, they were putting their reputations before the welfare of those doing the fighting. He would bet none had a son facing enemy fire. He hoped a bomb would fall on their headquarters.

It became obvious, at least in the early days of the effort, that the press was being frustrated - and he loved it. He believed it would help the allies attain victory or, at least, a decisive advantage, more quickly. His bitterness at what he believed had been the partisanship of the media coverage of Vietnam was suddenly fresh in mind. He now had hope that this war would be different. He was at once fascinated and appalled by the presentation of the event, which gave it the air of what pundits called a "miniseries." He was impressed by the sophistication of modern military technology, of how far it had advanced in the 20 years since Vietnam. It reinforced his belief in a strong national defense. He regretted not having voted for Ronald Reagan. He was enthralled by the terminology: "Smart Bombs," "Apache," "Humvee," "SCUD," "Collateral Damage."

3

He was nodding off on the passenger side of the front seat of the big car, head tilting toward the window.

"Oh!" the driver cried, slapping at him. "Wake up. I'm tawkin' to ya. If only my wife'd fawl asleep when we'ah drivin'. She neva stops yakkin' - 'bapa-bapa-bapa.'" He used his hand to illustrate a mouth.

Dante blinked as if unsure of his whereabouts. "Sorry, San'," he said softly. "I been stayin' up late every night watchin' the news, waitin' fuh the groun' waw to staht."

"Thank God fuh cable. At least I kin watch the Rangiz an' the moolinyon Knicks."

Dante rubbed at his face.

"Don' worry," said Sandy. "It'll be ova in a week, mahk my words."

"Dat's what dey awways say , an' it's awways the ones who were neva in a waw dat say it."

Sandy, who had light, bushy, thinning hair and a handlebar mustache, appeared offended. "What's dat sapposta mean?" he said quietly. "I woulda went if I got drafted. We neva even decleahed waw. It coulda ended any minute. Hah'd I know it was gonna drag out? I wasn't gonna join up an' get stuck fuh two yeahs doin' nothin'."

"I wasn't tawkin' about you," said Dante, annoyed. "Ya lucky yer kids're a coupla yeahs younga den Junya. De'ah still in school. You don' know what it's like, what it does to ya head. Ya keahn't think about nothin' else."

Why was he explaining himself? he wondered. He had more important things to worry about than whether Sandy had been offended by the implication he was a coward. Overnight, the Iraqis had staged a surprise raid on the Saudi Arabian coastal town of Khafji. Marines were involved in its defense. The fighting was characterized as "intense." He feared his son was there.

Sandy crushed a cigarette out in an ashtray crammed with butts and immediately lit another.

"Take it easy," said Dante.

"Wha'? It gets me goin' in the mawnin'."

"Goin' to an early grave."

Sandy shrugged. "I'll sue, sayin' the nicatine hooked me. If you get it, ya kin say ya got it from the secon'han' smoke."

"You'll be dead, ya mammaluke. What good would the money do ya?"

"Whatta you keah, anyway?"

"My taxes gotta pay fuh yaw healt' keah, dat's what."

"Too bad." He stopped at a traffic light. "Look at dis gihdrool," he said contemptuously, nodding toward a young man standing at the opposite corner, who took a last drag on a cigarette he then crushed under foot. "Cahlidge kid workin' wit' us, jus' like Benny Judotz."

"Leave 'im alone. Times'a tough. He's a good kid. He pulls 'is weight. He works harda den you."

"Get-at. Wheah would he be if his fatha wasn't fawman? Wheah'd dat faw yeahs get 'im? He's a mammaluke."

"It don' hurt to get an edjacashin, no matta what ya do afta. Ya sapposta go to cahlidge to learn, not to make money."

"To learn hah to steahl wit'out gettin' caught, ya mean, like awl the suits."

"Not awluv'em went to cahlidge. Some of 'em worked deah way up. Ya jus' jealiss 'cause de'ah betta den you."

"Nobody's betta den me - nobody."

"Yeah, right. You kin dunk on Michael Jawdin."

Sandy shot him an icy look.

The third man, short and wiry, seemed to know he'd been discussed. He climbed into the back seat with a long face.

"When'a ya gonna take out dat stupit eahring?" said Sandy, smoke coming from his mouth in a short burst at each syllable. He pulled the car away from the curb.

"Will you stop it with that already," the young man returned, throwing a hand aloft. "Every mornin' it's the same thing. I'm sick of it." He shook his head. "When'm I gonna wise up an' start takin' the train so I don't hafta hear you?"

"I bet yer ol' man don' like it."

"What's the difference if he does or doesn't? It's my ear."

"Ya look like a finauk, 'specially since ya hahdly got a beahd."

"I don't care what people think."

"A lotta guys have 'em now," Dante interjected, "a lotta wise guys."

"I got news for you," said the young man, whose rich, dark hair was heavily moussed, short up top, long in back. "Your boy's gettin' one too."

"Neva."

"Dat's what ya said about tattoos too. Don' pay attenshin to 'im, Petey. He's jus' jealiss 'cause ya fifteen yeahs younga den him - an' single."

"An' I bet I still bang maw broads den he does. Which remin's me - ya know dat hot bitch on my block - Vivian, the one wit' the big tits an' tight ass?" He paused for effect. "She's dead. Her husban' put a bullet t'rough 'er head."

"Get atta heah," said Dante softly, with disbelief.

Sandy released a hand from the steering wheel and held it aloft. "I sweah to my motha." He seemed delighted, excited.

"I know who you mean," said Pete, leaning forward, resting against the back of the front seat. "What happened?"

"Whattaya think? 'er husban' went home sick from work the otha day, an' she had a guy wit' 'er - in 'er own house! Believe dat? Hah stupit could ya be? She deserved it jus' fuh the stupididdy alone. Awl she had'a do was meet 'im at a motel. Anyway, Sal came home an heard 'em soon as he opened the daw."

"Hah d'you know?" said Dante. "You weren't deah."

Irked, Sandy made a face. "His brotha tol' me. Anyway, he took 'is huntin' rifle awf the rack, loaded it up nice an' calm, an' went up an' blew 'er brains out. She was ridin' in the guy's lap." Sandy rolled his hips as if he were riding. "Den he cawled the cops on 'imself."

"He kill the guy too?"

Sandy shook his head. "No. Dat's the funniest thing. He only put one in 'is knee. Hah d'ya figure dat?"

Dante shrugged. "I dunno. I'da killed him befaw I killed my wife. Den again, maybe not."

"I'da killed 'em both. Ya gonna get away wit' it, anyway, so why not go awl out? He was in the right. No jury'd eva convict 'im."

"Maybe in the ol' days. I dunno 'bout now. Whattaya think, Petey?"

Pete had a faraway look in his eyes. "I think he did it right. It was her that betrayed him, not the guy. Any guy'd wanna nail a chick like that. It's only natural."

"I wanted to," said Dante. "What a show she put on dat time at ya block pahty, dancin' close to dat guitah playah, rubbin' against 'im. The kid had a hahd-on out to heah." He moved a hand a foot from his crotch. "I had one too."

"I got one now," said Sandy, to the delight of the others. "I get one every time I think about 'er."

"If my wife aw daughta pulled somethin' like dat I'd drag 'em to the house by the heah," said Dante.

"It was up to her to say 'no,'" said Pete. "I don't care how hard the guy came on to her. Maybe that's what her husband was thinkin'. Meantime, he didn't want the guy to walk away free, so he put one in his knee, which's probably shot for life and'll always remind him of the wrong he did."

"But don' dat show he knew what he was doin'? Hah kin he cop a plea afta dat?"

Pete shrugged. "I guess he is goin' down, then."

"He shoulda killed 'em both," said Sandy emphatically, "made it nice an' clean. He was awways a mawron, though. Still, dey gotta let 'im off. A guy keahn't let 'is wife get away wit' somethin' like dat right unda 'is nose. I'd do the same thing if I caught my wife like dat, 'though I dunno who'd want a pig like her. I pray she does do it jus' so I could get rid'a her."

Pete howled. Dante was not amused.

"Maybe Sal was jus' waitin' fer an igscuse too," said Sandy. "I bet dat wasn't the only guy she eva did. Now he ain't gotta worry about it no maw."

"Sappose ya wife caught you?" said Dante.

"Neva happen. I got more sense den to do it anywheahs neah my house. I awways hit an' split, anyway. Dat's the bes' way. Who wants'a deal wit' dese broads? De'ah idiots. One's enough - one's too many. I keahn't wait to tell Cheech about Vivian. He tried to nail 'er for yeahs, awways givin' 'er the eye. She didn' want no paht of 'im, though. It pissed 'im awf so much." He shook a hand for emphasis. "Ya shoulda heard 'im cry about it."

Dante and Pete laughed.

"Once," said Sandy quietly, as if his wife might be spying; "she asked me to help 'er fix somethin' in 'er house."

"An' ya didn' go!" said Pete, twisting with longing.

"It almos' killed me, but I didn' wanna take the cheahnce. Good thing, too, even though I been eatin' my haht out eva since. Sal woulda put one in my head, too, not my knee, me livin' nex' daw to 'im awl dese yeahs. Once'd neva be enough wit' a fox like dat, though."

"You're not kiddin'," said Pete.

"She shoulda been in pornos. Now dat I think of it, I'da killed him an' tawchid her fuh the rest of 'er life."

"What'd be the sense?" said Dante. "Ya could neva be happy like dat."

"I ain't happy now, 'cept when I'm atta the house."

"My guess is he knew he'd neva be able to stan' the sight of 'er again the secon' he heard 'em gettin' it on. 'til then, anything she mighta done was only in 'is head. He coulda told 'imself he was jus' imaginin' it. Maybe he did the only thing ya could do in a situashin like dat. Hah could he eva look at 'er again wit'out thinkin' about it?"

"He's not the first guy who found his wife with another guy," said Pete. "He coulda got a divorce."

"Den he woulda got it up the wazoo from the cawts," said Sandy. "He did what he hadda do."

Dante experienced a pang. For the first time, he was convinced that his wife was having an affair, that his imagination hadn't been running away with him. He didn't know how he knew, he just did. The only evidence he had was the frequency with which Deanna was working late. To his utter dismay, he found himself willing to accept it, as long as he wasn't confronted with it visually, as Sal had been. He'd lost interest in sex, more so since his son had departed. He hadn't made love to his wife in more than a month and, in that instance and others as far back as he was able to recall, it'd been a matter of going through the motions. He was not being a good husband, he knew. Deanna loved sex, and he was neglecting her needs. Had he the right to condemn her for seeking fulfillment elsewhere? He prayed that he wouldn't have to face it, that the problem would resolve itself in time, that her lover, like all male philanders, would tire of her and move on to someone else. Although their love was at ebb, he didn't want to lose her. They'd been married more than 20 years. Their relationship had grown stale. However, he believed that the tide would one day turn in his favor again, although that day was nowhere on the horizon. He had to believe, otherwise he saw no reason to go on living. She was the mother of his children, whom he loved passionately.

Although he'd never had an affair himself, he'd been unfaithful several times in the first year of their marriage, picking up a girl in a bar or bowling alley for a quickie. In each instance he felt good only briefly, during the act itself. As soon as the elation of orgasm ebbed, guilt and, subsequently, a sense of foolishness surfaced. He didn't even know why he was doing it. None of his conquests compared to his wife by any measure. The sex was meaningless and, curiously, that very fact chased the guilt. He also had a convenient rationale - the war. What finally stopped him was the realization that he was imitating his father. Why it had taken so many infidelities for this to sink in, he could not say. Fortunately, he was certain Deanna never suspected him. Unlike his father, no woman had ever phoned the house asking for him. The last thing in the world he wanted was to hurt Deanna. She was goodness itself. Or, at least, she had been.

He shuddered at the thought of what it would do to him to find her in the clutches of a lover. He sensed he too would kill. Fortunately, Deanna was too intelligent to do something so foolish under her own roof. And even if she weren't - by the time he stepped around the bed and unlocked the cabinet and withdrew the gun....

"Look at dis fat bastid," said Sandy, chuckling as they rolled toward a bus stop, where an unshaven middle-age man was waiting, unlit cigar clenched between his teeth. "I shoulda waited to tell the stawry."

"Save it fuh lunch," said Dante, in no mood to hear it again.

"Good ideah."

Tony climbed into the back seat. "Good mawnin', girls," he said, leaning to a side, lifting a leg, and passing gas loudly. "Ahhhhhhh!"

The others groaned and fanned the air.

"I was savin' dat up awl fuh yous."

The others rolled down the windows, held their noses.

"Dizgrotsyod," said Sandy, laughing, gazing over his shoulder. "Fat giuche."

"Didn' like dat one? Wait a whahl, I got maw comin'. Maybe yi'll like dose betta. Pasta fazool las' night. Dis might be an awl day thing."

The others groaned.

"Hey," said Sandy excitedly - "heah 'bout the new Disney movie?"

The others awaited the punchline.

"'Honey, I SCUD the Yids.'"

Pete and Tony sniggered.

"What's wrawg wit' you?" said Dante. "Hah kin ya joke about somethin' like dat?"

"Wha'? Who gives a rat's ass about dem? We should nuke the whole place, wipe 'em awl out, an' take ova the oil."

"What good's contaminated oil gonna do us?" Pete shot back.

"We'll wait 'til the radiashin weahs awf."

"And in the meantime where're we gonna get the oil?"

"I'm wit' Sandy on dis one," said Tony. "De'ah awl useless ova deah. Dey jus' happen to be sittin' on a gol' mine. Dey wouttn't know what to do wit' it if it wasn't fer us. We shouttn't hafta be dependin' on dem, anyway. We should be usin' ah own earl."

"It isn't enough," said Pete. "We use it like water. And you know how expensive it'd be? As long as we're so dependent on it we gotta have a presence there."

"An' we jus' keahn't close ahselfs up in a box," said Dante. "The world might gang up on us. We gotta make frien's to keep peace."

"What frien's?" said Sandy, making a mastubatory gesture. "Dey awl wind up stabbin' us in the back, anyway."

Dante shook his head. "Unbelieveable," he muttered. He tuned out as Sandy flew into a tirade. For many years he'd believed Israel was as much a contributor to the turmoil in the middle east as the arab nations. He now felt foolish about that sentiment and wondered if it'd flowed from anti-semitism. The heroic restraint Israel was demonstrating in the face of the unprovoked missile attacks on its citizenry had changed his opinion. The Jewish state had proved itself a staunch ally and, in his view, was to be admired, respected, rewarded for its conduct. If Israel were to take Saddam's bait and retaliate, neutral arab nations might enter the fray, jeopardizing the unity of the allied coalition, prolonging the war. His son would be in even greater danger.

"Hah 'bout dis one?" said Sandy. "What'd the Pawta Rican who turned Jew change 'is name to?"

The others waited silently.

"Mahty Cohen."

Dante tittered. Pete rolled his eyes heavenward.

"I don' get it," said Tony, a puzzled look on his face.

Sandy repeated the punchline. Tony stared dumbly. Sandy repeated it several times more. Finally, he gave it an emphatic Spanish inflection: "Marticone!"

Tony flashed a knowing smile. "I get it, ya mammaluke. I jus' like to see ya get awl lit up."

Sandy looked past his shoulder to the back seat, chuckled and shook his head. "Fat bastid." Turning his attention back to the road, he jabbed at the horn, cursing. "See dat? Skifots. Eva notice hah people in Caddies neva signal?"

"Ya mean like you?" said Tony.

"I mean it. People in Caddies, Mercedes, BMW's neva signal. It's like de'ah too good. I'd love to ram 'em. I hate 'em."

"Ya jus' jealiss."

"Tell 'im, Toe," said Dante.

"Why - 'cause dey know hah to steal betta den me?"

"Rich guys keahn't earn an hones' livin'?" said Dante.

Sandy made a face. "Stop."

They turned past a large playground directly to the right and cruised toward the entrance to the Belt Parkway. Ahead, in the middle of the road, stood a squirrel, seemingly petrified of oncoming traffic. Sandy swerved in an effort to squash it. A horn blared directly behind them.

"Did I get it?" said Sandy, gazing in the rearview mirror.

"No, but ya almos' got us awl killed," said Dante, slapping at him. "Yer a sick bastid, I don' wanna hear it."

"You are," said Pete, irked.

"Wha'? It's just a rat wit' a nice tail. I hate the little stroonzes. De'ah awl ova my back yard. Besides, I need the practice fuh the huntin' season. Speakin'a which, I don' think I'm gonna be goin' wit' Sal no maw."

"You said he's gonna get off," said Pete.

"Shut up. Nobody's tawkin' to you."

"Sal who?" said Tony.

"The guy nex' daw to me."

"Wit' the bootahn wife? What happened to him?"

"I'll tell ya latah." He glanced at Dante. "Why don'cha come wit' me, Dan? I'll let ya use one'a my rifles. You'll love it."

Dante made a face and shook his head. "I could neva shoot an animal."

"It's gotta be the stupidest thing goin'," said Pete.

"Finauk," said Sandy.

They were now on the highway. Traffic was thick but moving.

"Hah 'bout you, fat boy?"

"You kiddin' - my daughta'd kill me. She's got awl kinds'a pets. She's wants to be a vet'."

"Screw you guys. Cheech'll go. What a buncha finauks yiz are."

"'cause we won' kill somethin' dat ain't got a chance?" said Dante. "We should all chip in an' send ya on a big game hunt in Africa, see if ya got the colyoans to stand up to an elephant or lion chahgin' at ya."

"I'd love it, you kiddin' me. You guys kill me. Yous eat up the venison I bring back like deah's no tamarra. Yous eat meat every day, scoff it down like gahvones. What's the diff'rence if I kill it aw somebody else does? Yous'a just as guilty as me, so stop the crap 'less yous turn vegetarian."

Suddenly the mood was somber.

"Maybe you should go back for that squirrel," said Pete, "scrape it up an' cook it."

Tony and Dante laughed. Sandy grumbled. And the tension lifted.

"Wait," said Tony, listening.

The others sat frozen, looking at him, then groaned as he lifted a leg and fouled the air. Satisfied, he grew serious and said: "Heah anything from Junya, Dan?"

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