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Ninety Days Inside The Empire: A Novel by William Appleman Williams

The Dream and The Reality of Violence

Page 102

"If you and Mr. Hank go to Burton on your own, then you're going as losers asking for a favor."

"Shit, I get it. Dumb me."

"Maybe you need a little nip after all."

"No. Get on with it."

"But if Clay takes you and Mr. Hank, then you are doing Burton a favor. He gets a tab with Crown and you get a tab with Burton. Plus you got a witness to the conversation. Always have a witness, Mitch. Finally, the word gets out that Clay can get things done."

"You are one devious genius. No wonder they call you The Judge. The only thing is that Richie gets off. I don't like...."

"Vengeance is Mine, saith the Lord."

"Yes, and we can play word games till midnight."

"You do need a nip."

"I guess you're right. Getting too sober like you said."

"You see, Mitch, Mr. Richie ain't going to get off. The second time he goes after a Mexican woman in Brownsville he will meet his maker. Count on it."

"Come on, Marsh. I'm not talking about killing him!"

"Neither am I. You got a decent person's limited imagination, Mitch. Something like this will happen. One way or another they will set him up and catch him with his pecker up and his pants down. While they're tying his hands behind his back, they'll massage his balls and cock with some Red Hot, or some concoction of their own, and tie a string about the bottom of his cock to trap the blood...."

Mitch reached over for the bottle. He knew about Red Hot from having used it on muscle spasms after hauling a PB-Y around for ten or twelve hours. It worked, but he soon learned to take a soak in a tub.

"...Then they'll tie a yellow ribbon around his cock and dump him off someplace downtown. Not very neighborly, as they say, and certainly not legal. But very effective. Even Mr. Richie will get the message.

And the story will get back up here and he will never bother us -or them- again."

Mitch sighed. "Mean old world."

"Just some mean people who's got to be dealt with. Now get on your way so I can get this meeting arranged for tomorrow."

That was the way it was handled. Barry Clay took Mr. Hank and Mitch to a lunch with Burton and Crown. They had a friendly discussion illustrated with pictures. Burton was grateful. Crown was grateful; at the end he even took Mr. Hank aside for a few minutes.

Driving Mr. Hank home, Mitch asked about that. "You get a special apology?"

"I suppose you could call it that. Asked me how I liked the Navy and if I was interested in making what he called 'real money' heading up his main garage."

"Well..."

"I kind of believed him because of what I've heard about his troubles with his trucks."

"And?"

"Well, Maggie and I been talking about it some nights. If I sign over I'm sure to get transferred someplace else and we put most of my sea pay into the house, and all that's going on here makes us kind of want to stay. But I wouldn't work for that man even if he gave me a car."

"He probably would, or the same thing, and maybe even a pickup as well as a regular car."

"Maybe so, he don't strike me as the kind who chicken-shits around. But if we decide to get out it won't be to go under his fist."

Ralph George Crown was indeed not the kind to chicken-shit around. About the time on Sunday that the Taylors, Wyes and Blakes were settling themselves in church, a Dodge coupe pulled into the driveway below Richie's apartment above the garage. The two men who emerged were not particularly large or intimidating, but they moved with the confidence and ease of men who knew and trusted their bodies. They were two of Crown's very best ranch hands. Today they were dressed in city slacks and white shirts.

They nodded politely -"Mornin' Ma'am"- to Richie's mother, who was turning back to the front door after getting the Sunday paper. Then they walked around the corner of the garage to the outside stairs that went up to Richie's apartment. He knew them, greeted them sleepily and offered some coffee.

"Thanks, Richie, but we're going to Brownsville. Now."

They helped him pack two smallish suitcases. They made sure there was no gun or knife. They allowed him to take a roll of bills and his check book. Then they walked him, one behind and one in front, down the stairs and placed him in the middle of the front seat.

The ranch hands knew their business and their man. It had taken fifteen, maybe eighteen, minutes. The parents, reading the paper on the patio, heard nothing. They had stopped listening years ago. Richie did not leave them a note. Somewhere down the road he remembered the blankets and the flashlight out in the barn. Those were all that was left of his dream about playing big brother to a nine-year-old for a weekend. Anyway, he was thinking Mex cunt.