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.

4

He was almost relieved when the ground war finally began. In the desert, March was coming in like a lion, the roar of the allied war machine furious. For days he'd anticipated the start, as it was apparent Saddam, despite a relentless reign of terror from the sky, was not yet willing to yield. He feared it might have been begun too late, allowing the enemy to entrench. Each time he heard the phrase "Elite Republican Guard," or encountered it in print, his innards quaked. He was confident the allies would prevail, but was afraid the battle, even were it to be brief, would be bloody. Command expected a casualty rate of ten percent, approximately 40,000. That was more than half as many as had been lost in Southeast Asia. He was skeptical about the commander of the allied forces, a Vietnam veteran. He did not doubt the man's credentials, but feared success just wasn't in the cards for any veteran of that war.

Saddam Hussein was an enigma. Dante didn't know whether the man was stupid, mad, or simply evil, leading not only his army but a vast number of his citizens to destruction, as Hitler had. Was there an ace up his sleeve, perhaps a new strain of chemical weaponry that would cripple his enemies, prolong the conflict, which would give him time, see American public opinion turn against the war? How boldly he spoke. Dante shuddered at the overtones of religious fanaticism in statements such as: "The mother of all battles" and "The desert will run red with the blood of the infidels." These brought to mind the psychological tactics of the Viet Cong, the blood curdling screams in the night, often in broken English. These new cries again had him doubting himself, wondering if the endeavor was right, if there were an Iraqi point of view he did not understand, one that proved America wrong. And then there was Saddam's promise that the war in the desert would be another Vietnam. There was not a more effective button to push in the American psyche.

Information was sketchy. It was no secret where the Marines would be, however - in the thick of the fray. Each night since the beginning of the war, Dante had Sandy drop him off at St. Dominic's, where he lit a candle and stuffed a bill into the poor box. He'd been religious only briefly in his life, when the combat he'd experienced was at its most intense and he'd been certain he would be killed. Now, facing the possibility of the loss of his son, he found himself constantly beseeching God, as he had during the lulls in the fiercest fighting. He was aware of his hypocrisy, yet unable to curb it.

"Whattaya make'a dis guy, Benny?" he said at work one day.

He was seated on the floor of the convention center, back to the wall. Ben was beside him, reading the New York Times. As it was lunchtime, the place was quiet. Others were scattered about the spacious interior. Many had gone outside, as the late winter day was pleasant. Dante peeled back cellophane from a sandwich and pulled at the melted parmesan cheese that clung to the foil. Ben, wiry, graying, removed his glasses and looked at Dante.

"I wish I knew what to tell you. I can imagine what you're goin' through. I'd be goin' nuts. There's nothin' we can do but wait and see, I'm afraid."

"Lemme tell ya - dis sucks. I keahn't say it's as bad as bein' on the line, 'cause deah's nothin' worse den dat, but it's bad."

"Because you're powerless to help him."

"I don' mean to botha ya. I know hah much ya love to read the paypah. It's jus' dat ya smarta den anybody else aroun' heah, even Petey, who went'a college, too - an' I keahn't figyah dis stroonz out."

"First of all, you're not botherin' me. I like conversation as much as the next guy. It's just that it seems none of the guys like me."

"Neva mind dem. De'ah jus' jealiss ya smarta den us."

Ben stared. "I thought it was because I'm a Jew."

Dante didn't know what to say, as he knew race was also involved. He sensed Ben saw right through him. He was relieved when Ben continued without further comment on the subject.

"I really don't know that I'm that smart. I certainly can't answer your question. I have a degree; I read a lot; but here I am a carpenter like you guys."

"Times'a tough. A lotta guys like you 're atta work aw doin' derdy work. At leas' you ain't like the wusses who go cryin' on TV an' in the paypah hah deah edjacashin went'a waste an' hah dey keahn't get a good job." He broke into a mock sob. "I hate 'em. Wheah's it say ya gonna get what ya want in life? Deah ain't no guarantees. Ya do what ya gotta do an' keep ya mout' shut. Too many people think de'ah owed somethin' dese days."

"Can I whine on the inside?"

Dante begrudged a smile. "People'a awways raggin' me about hah excited I get about some things. Ya know, you should be a teacha. You'd be great."

"I don't have the patience. Besides, I love workin' with my hands. My father was always sayin' that everybody has a gift. I think that's mine."

"You are good." He reflected a moment. "Hah come ya waited so lawng to get married, if ya don' mind my askin'? Wa you a hippie?"

Ben's unshaven face brightened with amusement. "No, I've always been conservative, at least in action. I guess in philosophy as well. I just wasn't sure of myself for the longest time. I wouldn't allow myself to vote until I was in my mid thirties. I had to get my head straight first. Besides, is thirty old?"

Dante pursed his lips, tilted his head, then nodded, conceding the point. "Not dese days. Wheah were ya when 'nam was goin' on?"

"It was over by the time I graduated."

"Wa you a protesta?"

Ben shook his head. "I was against the war, but I never demonstrated. I felt I didn't know enough about anything back then to have an opinion. Sometimes I wonder if that wasn't worse than protestin'."

"Hah could dat be worse?"

"At least the protestors took a stand, same as you did on the opposite side. Of course, their lives weren't at stake like yours was, at least not immediately, but at least they were in the game. I was on the sidelines. I guess that sums up why I haven't been a success. It takes me so long to figure things out, to come to a conclusion. It drives my wife nuts. She's a real go-getter. Sometimes I never act at all, and to be successful in this life you have to be decisive. Even if you're wrong occasionally you gain in the time you save."

"You ain't doin' so bad."

"No, but I'm an also-ran in the game of life. It's somethin' you start thinkin' about when you're pushin' forty."

"Tell me about it."

"Maybe my kids'll do better. Hopefully my son won't have to go through what yours is goin' through right now, or my daughter, for that matter."

Dante scoffed. "De'ah neva gonna let women fight. It's bad enough dat poor girl from Jersey got killed flyin' relief. Who wants'a see dat?"

His eyes glazed as he recalled the woman's sweet face. He did not understand why she wasn't home with children, how the Army allowed such things. He offered a brief, silent prayer on her behalf. He resisted the urge to make the sign of the cross, fearful it would offend Ben.

"It's just a matter of time, I think. Maybe the next war."

"I hope I ain't alive to see it."

"Me too. A lot of 'em want it, though. They've fought in other countries. It wouldn't be unprecedented. Some of 'em wanna kill to prove themselves the equal of men. Look at the dogfight over abortion. Killing isn't the sole province of men in the grand scheme any more. Once, women who killed were gross aberrations."

"But we got enough men in dis country to do it. We don' need 'em in our ahmies. We need 'em takin' care of ah fam'lies."

"We don't need 'em poundin' beats, either, but they're there. The country's changin'. Time'll tell if it's for the better, although it certainly doesn't look like it right now. Maybe someday we'll look back and wonder what all the fuss about women and gays was about. We might be so used to the new order it'll seem like it was always that way. A lot of black kids don't even know who Jackie Robinson was. Look at abortion - thirty years ago it was an absolute abomination, the dirtiest thing anybody could ever do. Now it's widely accepted. Things change. Maybe we're just two dinosaurs who deserve to become extinct."

Dante's sandwich was nearly intact. He hadn't regained his appetite. Even when famished, a single bite would fill him. He had to force himself to eat more.

"I keahn't fuh the life'a me undastan' why a woman'd wanna kill. Dey give life. Hah could dey wanna take it away?"

"'Want' is not the right word. 'Willing' to kill is more accurate." Ben drew his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. "Say you were out alone one night and some dirt bag broke into your house - wouldn't you want your wife to kill him to protect herself and your kids?"

"Shaw, if she had no choice. Dat's why I keep a gun aroun'. But dat ain't the same as joinin' up lookin' to kill - willin' to kill." He cringed as he recalled his son's desire for combat, his own desire many years ago.

"Why not? Isn't a man's country the extension of his family? When a country's attacked, aren't all its children in jeopardy? Why shouldn't women be able to kill to preserve that?"

"Even if deah're enough guys aroun'?"

"Some women have masculine characteristics, just as some men have feminine characteristics. I'm sure you must've run across gays in the service."

"I woulda neva knew dey was gay if somebody didn' tell me. Dey kept it quiet back then, not like now. Anyways, whattaya sayin' - we gotta let dykes fight if dey want?"

Ben chuckled. "They wouldn't necessarily be dykes. Each of us has a degree of the opposite sex in us, but ninety-eight percent of us are straight."

"I don' keah. I still hate it."

"So do I, even though I can think of more reasons why they should be allowed to fight than shouldn't, especially if they're physically capable."

"Only if de'ah capable."

"A small percentage of women definitely are. Look at what they do in the Olympics."

Dante smirked. "Maybe we should give 'em awl steroids."

Ben guffawed.

"I wish I could laugh. I'm serious. I see some'a dese girl cops an' it brings my head right down. Dey couttn't bust nobody."

"Killing's always been one of man's most effective tools, and maybe it was inevitable that women'd eventually want in on it. We all believe in it to a certain degree, from puttin' food on the table to capital punishment to abortion, and probably a lot more than most of us'd care to admit. I always wondered how many people would kill to advance themselves if they were guaranteed to get away with it."

"Don' abawshin prove hah many?"

"There's always that debate about when life actually begins."

"It stahts when ya know ya pregnint. Hah could it be anything else?"

"That would defintiely make things clearer, but it wouldn't go over too big. I hate that first trimester-second trimester debate. Anyway, I was thinkin' about killin' somebody you'd have to look at, maybe right in the eye. Look how many take the risk as it is."

"Dat's why we need the deat' penalty back."

"Killing to stop killing? Then again, why should that surprise me? Even terrorists and serial killers think they're makin' the world better. Some people think terrorists are heroes. Female judges pass some of those sentences, you know. A female guard might pull the switch. Is that any different than havin' them in combat? Seems like life is a constant state of battle."

Dante laughed weakly, shoulders heaving slightly. "Dat's what you think." He fell silent, absorbing what had been said, failing to note Ben's gaze, which was trained on him. "But what type'a world's it gonna be if women'a like men?"

Ben shrugged. "Maybe a better one. My guess is it wouldn't be much different. Circumstances would force women to do things the same way men do. Look at some of the stuff women politicians pull. They're just as susceptible to corruption as men. I doubt they'd be above it. Power has a strange effect on people. What I'm afraid of is that too much of a feminization of our national character would weaken us. We need our super-predators, the hard-nosed businessmen who ruthlessly pursue wealth and in the process create jobs and opportunities for the rest of us. I heard a guy on TV the other night say that three-percent of the people in the world create the wealth and the rest of us live off it. It was pretty humbling."

"But what's to stop a kid on the line from poppin' a bone thinkin' about the chick nex' to 'im when he should be payin' attenshin to what he's doin'? I hate to think what'd go on on ships afta lights out."

"There'll be problems for sure. The brass'll have to figure out how to solve them."

"It's against naycha. I keahn't see it - I keahn't. Women keahn't make the Ahmy strong, not the way dey jus' let any of 'em in. An' deah ain't enough strawng ones to go aroun'. It's gonna cost a lotta lives if deah's a reahl waw. An' hah kin the world get betta wit' dem killin' too - hah can it? I kin almos' see 'em takin' jobs away from guys, even though it's a pain in the ass 'cause ya awways gotta watch what ya say an' do aroun' 'em. But nobody kin get reahly hurt in mos' jobs, no matta hah a chick might screw up. An she's helpin' build things up. But when a kid comes home lookin' fer a hug or a guy crawls inta bed at night lookin' to hang on to 'is wife 'cause life's got 'im down, is it gonna be the same knowin' dey been fightin' it out in the jungle too?"

"Well, the divorce rate is fifty-percent, but that may scale back in time as we all adjust to the new order."

Dante's shoulders sagged. Ben looked him in the eye and held the gaze.

"I don't know if you killed in the war, and I'd never ask, but I know you've hugged your kids. Why should it be any different for a woman?"

"It just is. Nobody loves deah kids more'n me, but sometimes I don' feel right huggin' 'em. It's like I'm skeahed I'm gonna kintaminate 'em. Women'a better'n us. De'ah purer. Maybe dat's stupit, but dat's hah I want it to be. I got a hundred times maw sins on my head den my wife, an' not jus' from the waw. It's jus' the way life is, the things ya gotta do sometimes to get by. Why would women want in on dat?"

"They don't want that. They want the opportunities, the apparent freedom men have. Who knows, maybe they will do it better than us. We won't know until they try. We'll be dead long before the final evaluation comes in, anyway."

"Maybe dey won' need us no maw. To me, a motha or a wife's like a church ya go home to, ya worship." He despaired, recalling his marital woes, longing for a return of that lost love.

"Joan of Arc, a warrior, is a saint. Why shouldn't a kid be hugged by a woman who has the conviction to kill for her country or the wiles to get elected to public office or to succeed in the urban jungle? Maybe...."

A familiar voice echoed in the distance, interrupting the conversation. Sandy approached, a hop in his step.

"Ya missed it, Dan. I toldja ya shoulda come. The protestahs came marchin' right to'rd us, carryin' signs, yellin', puttin' down the waw. We ran in a deli, bought a buncha eggs, an' let 'em have it. It was great. I hit one right in the temple."

The others laughed. Dante smirked.

"Ya only make it look like de'ah right when ya do dat, I tol' ya. Dat's what dey counted on when 'nam was on. It's like when Sharpton an' 'is crowd come marchin' t'rough the neighbahood. The best thing's to ignore 'em."

"Not me. I ain't lettin' no moolinyon get away wit' dat. I wish it was me who stabbed 'im. He wouttn't be botherin' nobody no maw, the...."

"Yous only play into deah han's when yous act up an' throw wahtamelins an' yell racial stuff. Dat's igzackly what dey want. Dey want the news guys to tape it so dey kin show everybody yer racis'. An' the protestahs wanna show dat only mooks sapport the waw."

"Ya kid's ova deah! What's wrawng wit' you?"

"Didn' ya learn nothin' from hah dey covid 'nam? Every night dey had pitchahs'a hah the country was fallin' apaht, people at each otha's t'roats. It made us weak. Ya want dat to happen again?"

"Dey want it, not me."

"Deah's awways gonna be some giuches runnin' aroun' cryin' about somethin'. Dey got nothin' betta to do. Ya gotta ignore 'em."

"The chicken-hahted bastids should awl be machine-gunned in the street."

Sandy raised his arms as if he were firing. Dante scrambled to his feet.

"What waw d'you fight in?"

"What's dat sapposta mean?"

The two came together. Sandy pushed at Dante. Others stepped between them, trying to force them apart, urging calm. The entire group swayed under the tugging. Epithets were flying.

"Ya kin take the train from now on, douche bag," Sandy shouted past a shoulder. "See hah ya like dat."

"Good! I won' choke on awl dat smoke."

A voice cried in the distance. "Oh!"

Pete and Tony broke from the pack.

"Oh!" cried the voice, drawing closer.

The circle expanded. Everyone froze, as a short, powerfully built man approached.

"What's dis?"

No one responded. Heads lowered as the boss looked them up and down.

"What the hell's dis?"

The silence continued.

"Whose san'wich is dat?"

Dante's eggplant parmesan had been crushed and smeared against the tile. His can of beer had been knocked over, the contents spilling, looking like urine.

"Clean dat up."

Everyone scrambled for utensils.

"Not you, Dan. You come wit' me. I got somethin' I want ya to do. You too, Petey."

They followed without a word. When they reached a far corner, Dante, repentant, said: "Sorry, Pete. I'm all wound up. I ain't myself."

"It's awright. I'd be the same way if dis gihdrool was ova deah."

He tossed his head in the direction of his son, who smirked and looked away.

"But we'ah stuck wit' 'im heah. Do me a favah, see what ya kin do wit' 'im."

He walked away briskly. Dante chuckled and shook his head. He looked at Junior.

"Don' let it get ya down, kid. Ya know he don' mean it. He's tough on ya 'cause he loves ya, an' 'cause he don' want nobody thinkin' he lets ya awf easy. Yer ol man's good people."

Junior was not appeased.

They toiled at the construction of a booth, one of many that would be used in a coming exhibition. Dante had no idea how many he'd erected over the years. As soon as they were completed, half the crew would be dismissed, Pete Jr. among them, until they would be needed for the next event. It was easy work and it paid well, even for the part-timers. The greatest difficulty was enduring the repititiveness. It had ceased being challenging to Dante soon after he'd landed the job.

They were approached by a young man with flowing hair.

"Ay, Cheech," said Dante, taking nails from his mouth, offering a handshake. "What's doin'?"

"I come to see this gotz," he said in a deep, bored tone.

Pete extracted a five from his wallet and exchanged it for a tiny yellow envelope. Dante frowned.

"Want some, Dan?" said Cheech. "It's dynamite stuff. It'll help ya relax."

Dante's eyes flashed with anger, eliciting a titter from Cheech.

"See what I mean? Ya neva change."

He failed to repress a smile. "Wise guy."

"I don' get it," said Cheech, beside himself, shrugging, hands together before him, a pose typical of the neighborhood. "Yaw the only Vietnam vet I know who don' smoke pot."

"You wouttn't'a smoked it, eitha, if ya had a C.O. like mine. He didn' wanna hear it. He said he'd shoot anybody who screwed up 'cause dey were high, an' I wasn't about to test 'im out."

Cheech and Pete, listening intently, chuckled. They had profound respect for his combat experience and occasionally questioned him about it. He'd told them almost nothing. To them it was just a story. They'd been toddlers at its height.

"Ya marry dat girl yet?" said Dante, eager to change the subject.

Cheech's expression changed from the arrogance that usually characterized it to annoyance. "I t'rew 'er out."

Pete howled, torso doubling over.

"T'rew 'er out?" said Dante. "What about the baby?"

"She'll take keah of it. She's still on welfeah. She betta take keah of it if she knows what's good fer 'er. I'll kill 'er."

Dante and Pete watched him walk away.

"He's such a giuche."

Dante smirked, shaking his head. "Whites on welfeah. What a disgrace. An' it's a scam too. He should be sappawtin' 'er."

"Most people on welfare are white, you know."

Dante gazed at Pete skeptically. "Get atta heah. You pullin' my leg too now?"

"It's true. Ask Benny."

Dante reflected a moment, then shrugged. "I don' keah. T'row 'em all awf, 'cept the cripples an' retodds."

"I go nuts when I see 'em in the supermarket with food stamps."

Dante rolled his eyes heavenward. "Thank God my wife does the shoppin'. I wouttn't be able to keep my mout' shut. You know me."

"Cheech's into that racket too. He buys 'em from junkies at half price an' sells 'em for three-quarters to somebody else, or somethin' like that. I'm not sure exactly how it goes."

Dante's face went blank. "I keahn't believe hah he turned out. He was awways a little nutty growin' up, but I thought he was a good kid deep down."

"He was always lookin' for shortcuts, lookin' to get over on you."

"Now he's a bum, a minah league wise guy. An' you sappawt 'im, Petey. You should be ashamed. Ya lucky I don' tell ya fatha. He betta not see dat stuff."

"It's only pot," said Pete, annoyed.

"But the money dey make awf it helps the otha pahts'a deah derdy business."

"In that case we should all quit our jobs. Who d'you think controls the union? Who's responsible for the racket we got here? How d'you think he got in in the first place? His uncle, that's how. Anybody who works here is guilty by association, I don't wanna hear it."

Defenseless against the logic, Dante fell silent. What a world it was, he thought. Here he only wanted to make an honest living to support his family, and he was indirectly consorting with gangsters.

"Ya think he'd kill fer 'is don?"

Pete smirked. "Over pot? C'mon."

"But hah'd he get set up? Maybe he owes somebody. I awways thought he had no bawls. I keahn't see 'im blowin' somebody away, kin you? Unless it's from behin' like a lotta the skifots do."

He wondered how wise guys would have fared in Vietnam. Then again, there had been a couple of repulsive men in his unit, and each had done his duty. He couldn't help but wonder at how strange life was sometimes.

"The other day we were in the record store," said Pete, hammer in hand; "and what d'you think he buys?"

"Sinatra."

"Jimmy Rosselli, Jerry Vale."

Dante's eyes spread with glee. "Yeah?"

Apparently Cheech had gone even further than was obligatory for the role. It seemed only yesterday he was backing his Cadillac out of the driveway, radio blaring disco into the night. He would beep the horn and wave indifferently to Dante, who would be seated on his porch, enjoying the summer night.

"What d'you think of the hairweave?" said Pete.

"It's a diff'rent cuhlah den 'is heah," Dante returned, reaching for a saw. "It's almos' red. Who's dat gonna fool? Mus' be a cheap one."

"I doubt it. You know how self conscious he is about it."

"I rememba when 'is ol' man firs' dyed 'is hair. It was almos' purple."

Pete laughed.

"Den again, I should tawk." He rolled his eyes upward. "I could use a weave myself." He wondered if a hairpiece would rekindle his wife's interest in him. "It'd hafta look way better'n dat befaw I got one, though."

Pete grimaced. "I couldn't stand 'em sewin' it into my scalp."

Dante stared, puzzled.

"That's how they do it."

He winced. "He musta whined liked a baby. I could pickcha him."

They laughed so hard they were unable to speak for a moment.

"Tell me," said Pete, "how d'you go from a fight one minute to laughin' the next?"

Dante shrugged. "I dunno. I awways been like dat. Even in 'nam I was laughin' afta the little bastids tried to do me. Stop laughin an' ya might as well be dead."

"I bet Sandy's still grumblin'."

"If he wasn't grumblin' about the fight, he'd be grumblin' about somethin' else. He's a mawron. He gives uneyin guys a bad name, him an' Cheech."

"A lotta guys do, just like in anything else. People'll always try to get away with whatever they can."

Suddenly Dante recalled his son, and all humor drained from him.

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