Johnny Guts

Mafalda, owner of the R & M Service Station, was showing Johnny Guts how to find the leak in a radiator when the police car pulled up. The green-and-white Ford did not stop at the pumps but parked with its motor running at the edge of Mafalda's corner property.

One of the cops was summoning Curtis Jefferson with a wagging pink finger. Jefferson, pumping gas into Fifty Cents Frank's 1975 Eldorado, jammed the nozzle into hole and walked loose-limbed toward the prowl car. "They new," he said to Fifty Cents Frank.

Frank, the local policy banker and loan shark, did not look at the police. They were from out of the precinct, not on his payroll, and of no concern to him.

From the repair bay, Mafalda and Johnny Guts could see Jefferson taking to the police. Jefferson nodded his ebony head, grinned like a clown, walked back to the garage.

"What they want?" Mafalda asked.

"They wants you Mr. Mafalda. They say you on the Christmas list."

Mafalda's lumpy, stained face looked like a rotten potato--ridged, marked with black blotches, the skin a dirty gray brown. He was struggling to remove the radiator from a 1973 Riviera that had boiled over. Snot dribbled from Mafalda's squashed nose. Johnny Guts had heard that Mafalda had been a welterweight who quit before his brains had gotten mashed. His wife's money (her father had made a fortune collecting waste oil from filling stations) had set him up.

"Kid, you go tell 'em I'm sick."

"But they'll see you're working, Mr. Mafalda," Johnny Guts said.

"Fuck do I care? You got a mouthpiece. I heard you and Jefferson talking all that movies-and-television shit. Go on."

"But I only been on the job three days."

"You be out on yer ass you don't go out. Tell 'em I gave Easter, for the captain's birthday party and Saint Patrick's fucking Day. I fill the captain's Chevy free. I service all the sergeants' cars. I'm through payin'. Tell 'em."

Johnny Guts followed Jefferson into the icy gray air. On the four-lane street, trucks and cars sped by. It was a busy intersection.

Fifty Cents Frank was leaning on his horn. "Fucksamatter you guys? What's happenin'?"

"Scuse it, boss, heah ah comes," Jefferson said. He winked at Johnny. "Make like you stupid."

Lean, round-shouldered, hands deep in his blue coveralls, his blond, bony head low, Johnny Guts approached the police car.

There were two sergeants inside. The cop at the window, who had wiggled his finger, had a clipboard with a long yellow pad on his lap.

"We want Mafalda," he said.

"He don't feel good. He ast me to ast you what you want."

The sergeants smiled at each other--flat, hard widenings of their mouths. They did not smile the way ordinary people did.

Fifty Cents Frank tipped Curtis Jefferson a dollar and blasted off the service island.

"Tell Mafalda he's on the Christmas list for forty bucks," the cop with the clipboard said.

"He says it's too early for Christmas," Johnny Guts said. "Bein' it's still November. And he also said he give already for Easter, the captain's birthday and fucking Saint Patrick's Day----"

A huge red hand left the clipboard and grabbed the boy's collar. The cop dragged Johnny to the window. Johnny's eyes were covered with an unterrified gray film. He read the listings on the clipboard. Wallach's Dry Cleaner: $25. Vitali's Bar & Grill: $50. Kahn's Hardware: $20. The list ran to the bottom of the yellow sheet.

"Who are you, asshole?"

"John P. Guzzo, sir. I come to work three days ago. I don't know nothin', officer." He smiled. "They call me Johnny Guts. From when I went to Mary Our Mother."

"Loogan, you hear that?" The cop pulled the boy's face close.

"I hear it, Healey, but I don't believe it."

"Johnny Guts, huh?"

"From when I played free safety for Mary Our Mother. My coach was Beans Gagliardi. The famous NYU star."

"Listen, Guzzo," Officer Healey said. "You aren't no safety man, no Johnny Guts, no graduate of Mary Our Mother. Know what you are?"

"I'm a gas-pump jockey for Ralph Mafalda, sir."

"You ain't even that. You're a scumbag."

"Yes, sir."

The sergeant at the wheel leaned across the seat. "He ain't even that, Healey. He's a little scumbag. Mafalda is the big scumbag."

"You understand that, Guzzo?" He was twisting Johnny's collar.

"I certny do, officer."

"Now," Healey said, shifting the clipboard, "you tell big scumbag Mafalda that he's on the Christmas list for forty bucks and we want it in three days."

"He'll understand," Loogan said gently. "Be a good kid, John. Smarten up."

"It ain't me, sir," Johnny Guts said. "If it was up to me, I'd certny want to contribute. But, like you said, officer, I'm just a gas jockey. I'll tell Mr. Mafalda."

Sergeant Healey shoved him away. "You're fuckin' A you will. We'll break his chops if he don't contribute."

"Yes, sir."

The patrol car blasted away.

Curtis Jefferson spoke to Johnny Guts. "They got this sergeants' club, see? They send pigs from another precinck, so's to confuse the issue. Boss better cough up."

Johnny reported the conversation to Mafalda, who was soldering a pin-point hole in the radiator.

"They were sore, Mr. Mafalda."

"They don't scare me. I'm a friend of State Senator Mermelstein. I'm seein' him tonight."

"Maybe you should just give them the forty bucks. They said they'd break your chops if you don't."

"Mind your business, kid." Mafalda tested the hole to see that it was sealed. The woman owning the Riviera was sitting in a diner around the corner, waiting for the repairs. Returning from the airport, her radiator had boiled over. Mafalda had towed the car in, showed her the hole ("Pissin' hot water, lady") and had promised to repair it in a half hour for $15.

"I know how to put it back in," Johnny Guts said. "Two clamps and two bolts."

"Put it back in?" Mafalda asked. "It ain't ready. Get the black spray can."

He gave Mafalda the can. In seconds, the radiator was a shiny slick black. "Like brand-new," Mafalda said. "Now put it back in, then get the broad. Always spray first."

Johnny Guts found the woman smoking and sipping a third cup of coffee. He escorted her the half block to the R & M Service Station. Mafalda gave her a bill for $85.42.

"So much?" she cried. She was stout, Jewish and frightened. She wore a fancy checked coat with a fur collar.

"We hadda buy a rebuilt radiator and replace the old one," Mafalda said.

"You told me it was just a small hole and it would cost fifteen dollars." Her voice shivered. "All you had to do was solder it, to stop the leak."

"Lady, it was rotten allaway through. Yer lucky I was able to find a rebuilt radiator for a Riviera. Johnny, show her."

Johnny Guzzo opened the hood. The newly sprayed black radiator gleamed amid the dusty oil-stained engine.

"She won't leak again," Mafalda said.

"Why didn't you call me? I was just around the corner, having coffee."

"You wuz?" Mafalda asked. "I didn't know. You shoulda told us."

"But I told him." She pointed at Johnny Guts. "Didn't I, young man?"

Mafalda's eyes vanished into the lumps of his face. "She tole you?"

Outside, Curtis Jefferson was giggling and shaking his head. Johnny Guts, sheeet. Little honkie would learn.

"Lady, you never told me where you went," Johnny Guts said. "We woulda ast you if it was OK."

"Young man, that is not very nice," she said. "That is untrue." She was shaking. Her fat behind was trembling inside the expensive coat and the fancy suit. She was over 50, Johnny Guts thought. He was sorry for her, but he had to impress Mafalda.

"Lady, go ask anyone what a rebuilt radiator for a Riviera costs," Mafalda said. "You're lucky, believe me. You got credit cards?"

The lady's gloved hand went into her bag. "Just a minute," she said. "If that's a new radiator, where is my old one?"

"They took it in trade," Johnny Guts said. "That's how it works, lady."

Mafalda squinted at him: Learning fast. "That's right, lady." He reached into his greasy overalls and brought out a fake bill of sale. "Here's the proof. I paid fifty-seven dollars, tax included, from Apex Spare Parts. I had to send the kid special for it. The rest is for labor and taxes and hardware. You got off easy."

Frightened, the woman gave Mafalda her Master Charge card. Johnny Guts slammed the hood on the black radiator.

•••

Later in the afternoon, when they were pumping gas, Curtis Jefferson grinned across the hoses at Johnny Guts. "Where (continued on page 80) Johnny Guts (continued from page 72) you get that free-safety shit? I been watching high school football games a long time, I never seen you on Mary Our Mother, man."

Johnny shrugged. "So what? I tell the cops crap like that alla time. They think yer an all-American boy."

"Look out Mafalda don't get on yo' ass. You too fast with that lady with the radiator."

"Too fast?"

"He like to work his own con. He got angles you never dream of. Let him work it and do what he say."

Toward evening, there was a call for the tow truck. Mafalda sent Johnny Guts out with it. The tow truck was ancient and in need of brakes, a muffler and directionals. Mafalda's license to tow had expired four months ago. Johnny found the stranded car--a '73 Olds with a cursing doctor behind the wheel--off the main highway, about a mile away. As he was attaching the hook to the front bumper, a police car pulled alongside. The cops were different from the sergeants who had come for the Christmas gift.

"You from R & M?"

"Yes, officer."

"Let's see your towing license."

Johnny Guts rummaged through the glove compartment, looked under the seats, smiled stupidly. "I'm just onna job two days. It must be back at the station."

"You're in violation."

"I don't know nothing, officer. Mr. Mafalda----"

"Mr. Mafalda, yer ass. You're getting a violation." He began to write on a pad. "Tell him if he keeps towing, he'll be subject to a two-thousand-dollar fine and a jail sentence. Unhook the car. You ain't licensed."

The doctor was pacing angrily. "Can't we do this later? My car won't go into gear and I'm late for a consultation. Can't we let this man tow me, then you can handle it?"

"Hold your water, doc. Scumbag, I said stop hooking him up."

Johnny Guts was attaching the hook to the bumper, maneuvering the nose of the Olds against the old tire. The doctor was handing something to the policemen.

"Just this once," the policeman warned Johnny Guts. "Because the doctor needs his car. Tell Mafalda this is the last job for that shit wagon."

Johnny Guts reported to Mafalda, who phoned State Senator Sid Mermelstein's office. The senator was out. In the repair bay, Mafalda got under the doctor's Oldsmobile. He saw immediately that the linkage rod to the transmission was bent and was preventing the car from going into second or third. A rock must have jumped off the roadbed and twisted the metal rod. He edged out of the pit, wiping his hands on a gas rag.

"Well?" the doctor asked. He was tall and old and looked tired.

"Looks bad, doc. The second and third gears is busted. The teeth are off the sprockets. You musta hit something big, like a big rock."

"What does that mean? How soon can I get the car fixed?"

Mafalda shook his head. "You take it to them transmission places, they'll rob ya blind."

"What has to be done?"

"Gotta rebuild the transmission. Take off the plates, put in new gears. It's a two-day job, at least. I got to put one man on it full time."

"What will it cost?"

Mafalda spread his stained hands. "Hunnert and ninety-five dollars. That's parts, labor, taxes and a three-month gorontee."

The doctor, who had no idea what was inside a transmission or what it did, hesitated. "That's a lot of money."

"Cost ya a lot more at a transmission place," Johnny Guts volunteered. "They sell an old rebuilt job and make believe it was new. Mr. Mafalda installs brand-new parts."

"When can I have it?"

"I'll put the kid on it right away. Tomorra, four o'clock?"

"All right, all right."

When the doctor had left in search of a taxi, they raised the Oldsmobile on the grease rack. It took Mafalda 20 minutes to straighten out the rod so that the transmission would slide easily into all gears. Then he called Johnny Guts. "You see that transmission?"

"Yes, sir."

"Wipe it off with a gas rag so it looks new. Then----"

"Spray it with black paint."

Mafalda's lips curled. His teeth were browner than his mottled face. "No, wise guy. Silver paint. Black is for radiators. Silver is for transmissions. Then park it in the lot with the used cars."

When the physician returned the following day, he was delighted with his silvery "rebuilt" transmission and the ease with which the Olds shifted. He paid the $195 with a check and made a note to buy gas from the helpful people at R & M whenever he was in the neighborhood.

The "used cars" Mafalda referred to were not his to sell. He had no license to deal in used cars. But he had a reputation as a used-car "fixer." This meant he could remedy a rattle or hum or knock or defect in a car, so that a private owner, giving no guarantees, could sell it. Mafalda collected ten percent of the sale price, plus whatever the "fixing" cost him.

"Don't he ever get caught?" Johnny Guts asked Jefferson.

"Ain't nobody catch Mafalda. He too fuckin' smart. You watch how he work on that Dodge with the knock in the motor. Besides, it ain't him sellin' a bum car with a bad motor. It some other dude who payin' him to take the noise out."

Johnny Guts walked into the used-car parking lot at the side of the station. Mafalda had the hood of a '69 Dart open. He was shoving bananas into the oil hole in the cylinder head.

"Bananas, Mr. Mafalda?"

"Not so loud, kid. Bananas is for an engine rattle." His lumpy fingers daintily peeled another banana and shoved the meat into the motor.

"I don't get it."

"It takes the rattle out for a week. It muffles the noise, see? Guy sells it with a quiet motor. A week later, it's noisy again. Screw the guy who buys it."

Johnny nodded. He was astounded at Mafalda's knowledge.

"Heavy grease is OK, too," Mafalda said. "But bananas was on sale at the A&P. I ever send you for bananas, you buy the cheapest and the rottenest. Unnerstan'?" He shoved a sixth banana into the motor, then told Johnny Guts to race the engine. It sounded perfect.

Mafalda taught him how to eliminate the annoying hum and shimmy in the rear end of certain models by stuffing sawdust into the gears. Mafalda showed him how to remove a bolt from the rear end, then tamp sawdust in with a tire iron. When the sawdust thickened around the gears, the hum stopped for three or four days. Meanwhile, Mafalda's client could sell the car to an unsuspecting buyer. With no guarantees, he would be stuck with a vibrating rear end as soon as the sawdust worked its way out.

"Mr. Mafalda is a genius," Johnny Guts said to Curtis Jefferson.

"He no genius. He a crook."

On the four-lane street, two cars were waiting to make a left turn over the white line and drive into the station When the light at the corner flared red the cars turned left over the line.

"Busy day," Johnny Guts said. He walked to the first car. Jefferson walked to the second. Mafalda and his moronic cousin, Strunz Riffo, were in back of the lot, wrecking an old Ford, which they would abandon without identification and for which they would then collect in surance.

"Fill 'er?" Johnny Guts asked.

Before the customer could answer, a police motorcycle blasted into the station. The helmeted cop dismounted and began to talk to the motorist. "That was a violation. You crossed the white line."

The man was flustered. "Officer, 1 make that turn twice a week to buy gas here on my way back from the airport."

The cop did not answer. He was writing a ticket. The other driver started his engine. The motorcycle cop shouted at (continued on page 166) Johnny Guts (continued from page 80) him: "You, too, Jackie. I saw you cross the white line. You're getting a ticket also."

Mafalda, a sledge hammer in his hand, trusting his cousin to remove the tires, license plates and inspection tags from the Ford, hurried toward the pumps. "Fuck is goin' on?" he shouted.

"People are endangering life and property," the motorcycle policeman said. "No more left turns off the opposite lane. We'll be watching, Mafalda. That's a violation." He ripped off the tickets and gave them to the drivers.

"That's haffa my gas business," Mafalda wailed. "What is this? For fourteen years, people been makin' that left turn into my station."

"They won't anymore. I catch you taking any customers who make that turn, it'll be your fault for running an attractive nuisance."

"Sergeants' club, right?" Mafalda shouted. "Tell Healey and Loogan fuck off."

The motorcycle belched and blasted away.

Later, a prowl car came by, circled the block and wrote four more tickets for customers who had turned left across the white line.

"I told you, Mr. Mafalda," Johnny Guts said. "Those guys will break your chops. Maybe you should just give them the Christmas present."

"Butt out, kid. State Senator Sid Mermelstein's gonna fix it for me. You give 'em the Christmas present in November, they're back two weeks before Christmas for a bigger one."

When it turned dark and business was slow, Mafalda sent Johnny Guts and Curtis out to get rid of the old Ford. Mafalda's cousin Riffo had bought it six months ago, insured it and removed all the usable parts. Then he and Mafalda had wrecked it.

Johnny Guts was to leave it on a deserted street corner and tag it with an official Sanitation Department sticker. Mafalda bought the stickers for ten dollars each from a nephew in the department. Once tagged, the unidentifiable ruinous Ford, worthless to anyone, would be towed to a city dump. In three days, Riffo would report the theft to the police. He would get a formal statement of theft. Then he would call the insurance company and wait for his check.

"How much does he think he'll get?" Johnny Guts asked.

"Riffo never settle for less than six hundred."

"Six hundred? That piece of junk isn't worth fifty bucks."

"That why insurance premiums go up, man. Riffo and Mafalda work this all the time. Buy an ole heap, insure it, wreck it, nobody ever find it."

Returning to the station, they came across a Puerto Rican couple in a stalled Chrysler with the hood up. They were frantic. The woman kept screaming about a baby she had left somewhere. The man asked Johnny Guts to help them.

Johnny Guts looked at the dashboard. The man was trying to start the car in drive. Then he looked at the engine, jiggled a few hoses, belts and connections and inspected the battery and the oil.

"Looks bad, pal," he said. "Maybe the generator's out."

"Please, you tow me?"

"Sure."

A patrol car whipped out of a side street. It was dark and very cold. A finger summoned Johnny Guts.

"Got a license to tow, kid? A medallion?"

"Sure, officer."

"Yer a fuckin' liar and so is Mafalda. Also, you got no directionals. Your front left headlight is out. You got no flasher. You ain't even got no towing license. I don't see no medallion onna hood. Untie that shit wagon and go back to Mafalda. I'm writin' up the violations. Take these papers back to Mafalda. Some scumbags never learn their lesson."

Johnny Guts and Jefferson unhooked the Chrysler and left the sobbing Puerto Rican couple. Before leaving, Johnny Guts walked over and moved the gearshift from drive to park. "Try it now," he said. "You can't start in drive."

"You too kindhearted," Jefferson said. "You want to be like Mafalda, you get that spick come in tomorra and sell him a new generator."

"I ain't Mafalda."

"Not yet you ain't."

Deprived of his towing service, Mafalda got State Senator Sid Mermelstein on the phone. A few days later, R & M Service Station boasted a new sign: Official State Inspection.

"Man, that good for twenty grand a year in repairs," Jefferson laughed. He and Johnny were at the pumps. There was a hint of snow in the air.

"How does he do it?" Johnny Guts asked.

"He got connections. Got him a rabbi."

Mafalda came by with a generator from a '64 Cadillac in his hands. He took Johnny Guts away from the pumps and showed it to him. "Know what this is? I want you should rebuild it later."

"A generator. They don't use them no more. Not for maybe eight years."

"Know how to rebuild one?"

"We didn't go that far in tech training."

"Fuck tech training. You tell the customer you're gonna rebuild a generator. So you put in three new brushes, see? Then you wipe the whole thing with a gas rag, then----"

"Spray it with black paint."

"Charge is twenty-five dollars for labor and parts. This afternoon, do it and put it back in the Cad."

Back pumping gas, Johnny asked Jefferson, "What do generator brushes cost?"

"Fifteen cents each, man. You put in forty-five cents' repairs on a gen'rator, charge the man twenty-five bucks. That is called inflation."

They both laughed. A black Nova pulled into the bay. A young man in a pale-blue windbreaker got out. "Brake inspection?" he asked. "This an official station?"

Johnny Guts could see Mafalda taking the man into a corner, then accepting money from him. He went into the glassed-in office to get the inspection tag. As he was gluing the tag to the windshield, the man took out his badge.

"City police."

A prowl car pulled in. Two uniformed men got out.

"Violation of state ordinance twenty-three slash fifteen A, subparagraph twelve," the plainclothesman said. "Soliciting of bribes from a police officer, failure to enforce inspection rules."

The cops were smiling. One of them had a clipboard under his arm.

Mafalda said, "I ain't payin' no Christmas gifts until it's Christmas. Besides, you guys ain't even from this precinct."

Johnny Guts shook his head. "Curtis, they're breakin' his chops."

Curtis opened a hood and reached for the oil dipstick. "Yeah, but he break everyone else. So it all even up."

• • •

Mafalda pleaded but could not get the inspection license back. State Senator Sid Mermelstein could not help him. Nor did a towing medallion ever arrive. Mafalda began to drink and wander off afternoons to his girlfriend's apartment over the Blue Paradise Bar & Grill. She was a barmaid.

He came back from her pad one day in December when the weather had turned biting cold. It was below 25 degrees by evening. Mafalda ordered Jefferson and Johnny Guts to start pushing dry gas.

"Buck anna half a pint can," he told them. "Tell 'em it's goronteed to start up the engine, no matter how cold."

"Does it help?" Johnny Guts asked Curtis. Johnny brought out a case of pint cans and set it up on the island.

"It don't he'p nothing but Mafalda's profits."

In an hour, they had sold two cases of dry gas. Johnny went into the garage and discovered they had run out. He returned to the trash cans and retrieved the empty cans and the press-on caps. Then he rearranged them in the case and poured regular gasoline into each can. His hands shivering from the cold, he pressed the caps back on.

Mafalda saw him selling dry gas again. He came out of the garage, where he had been cracking a water pump so that a customer would need a repair job in a week. "Fuck are you doing?" he asked. "I thought we was out of dry gas."

Johnny Guts held a freezing hand to his mouth. His breath formed icy clouds. "I'm sellin' white gasoline. Costs us six cents a pint. We're gettin' a buck fifty for it."

"Who said you could?"

"Why not? Curtis says the dry gas don't do nothin'. They want dry gas, might as well give them gasoline, right, boss? It can't hurt."

Mafalda ran a scabbed hand across his chin. He was not too sure about the skinny blond kid with the long nose. Only Mafalda was supposed to invent hustles. But since losing the tow truck, and since the state had canceled his inspection license, he needed every buck. His wife, who had moved to Waltham, Massachusetts, after finding him screwing his girlfriend in the back of their new Monte Carlo, was sending threatening letters and talking to a lawyer.

"OK," Mafalda said. "But stay outa sight when you refill the cans."

"Yes, sir," Johnny Guts said. He spun around to welcome a new customer and held up a can. "Dry gas, sir? Really keeps the engine runnin' in cold weather. Only a buck anna half."

•••

Business got worse, in spite of all the hustles. Mafalda started leaving earlier, letting Johnny Guts or Strunz Riffo manage the station overnight.

"No fuckin' around with the receipts, either," Mafalda warned Johnny Guts. "I got eyes inna backa my head. Gas sales are registered on each pump. The first thing I do inna morning is check them against receipts. I'm gonna count every canna oil and grease every time and it'll be your ass you try to steal on me."

"Mr. Mafalda, I'd never do that. You gimme my first job."

"That goes for the coon, too."

"Curtis? He's honest."

The first night they were alone at the station, Johnny Guts inspected the glass plates on the gas pumps. They could be detached with a screwdriver. Business was slow. Riffo had left to bet the trotters with Fifty Cents Frank.

"What you doin', man?" Curtis asked.

"I ain't sure. There must be some way we can screw Mafalda."

Johnny Guts studied the row of figures that recorded the day's sale on the pump. They were at the bottom of the white metal sheet, much smaller than the figures that showed the price of gas, the amount pumped for each sale and the sale price. He took a small screwdriver from the leather sheath on his belt and started to work on two screws that held the total sale figure in place. The digits came off neatly in one black strip. They could be easily refastened.

"Johnny Guts, you too much for me," Curtis said. Some teenage kids in a beat-up Rambler had pulled in.

"It's easy, Curtis," Johnny Guts said. "We take the numbers off. Then we pump, say, forty bucks' worth, twenty bucks for each of us. Then we put the numbers back on. I put the glass back on. Who knows the difference?"

"Man, you move too fast."

"Mafalda checks the cash and the credit slips against the numbers on the pump tomorra morning, right? They hafta check out. But you and me pumped forty bucks' wortha gas for cash and it never registered."

"Yeah." Jefferson was servicing the jalopy. "Except maybe he stick the tank someday."

Johnny Guts and Jefferson began to steal $40 every night by removing the numbers for an hour or so. After a week, Mafalda became suspicious during a visit from the gasoline truck. The main tank took somewhat more than his totals indicated it should. As Jefferson had predicted, he began to stick the tank every morning. "I can't figure it out," Mafalda said. "I'm down a coupla hundred gallons more than I should be." He glared at Johnny Guts, went back to the office and laboriously checked his books. Everything was in order, down to the last 50 cents. But the tanks were short.

"Know what I think, Mr. Mafalda?" Johnny Guts asked.

"No one asked you."

"I'm tryin'a be a help. I think you got a leak under that there tank."

Mafalda's face seemed to sprout a new lump. "Jesus, that must be it. A leak. It'll cost me a fortune to open 'em up." He was in trouble, Johnny Guts knew. The reduction in highway business because of the cops, the loss of the medallion and the inspection station.

"Maybe it'll seal itself," Johnny Guts said. That night, he and Curtis pocketed another $20 each before screwing the numbers back on.

•••

"They're bustin' my hump," Mafalda was saying to Fifty Cents Frank. He was changing a tire for the policy banker. Johnny Guts could overhear the conversation. He was pouring cheap drum oil into name-brand cans. When a customer requested a popular oil, Johnny Guts would hide the rack with his back and ram the oil spout into the already opened can filled with cheap oil. They could sell 20 cents' worth of oil for $1.75.

"You shoulda paid the cops off," Fifty Cents Frank said hoarsely. "So what? A lousy Christmas present?"

"It was a matter of principle. Those assholes wouldn't stop. Them and their fuckin' sergeants' club." He pried the old tire off the rim. "Could you put in a word for me?"

Fifty Cents Frank flicked ashes from his dollar Havana into the trash bin. "Sorry, Mafalda. There's cops and there's us. I can't shit in my own kitchen, know what I mean? But maybe you could help me, so both of us come out ahead."

Johnny Guts made it his business to walk by. He filled dry-gas cans with gasoline, poured cheap antifreeze into Prestone containers. Fifty Cents Frank was offering Mafalda the chance to take policy bets for him. It was an unusual side line for a gas station, but Mafalda was in trouble.

"I'm a runner?" Mafalda asked hesitantly.

"All you gotta do is take bets. Send one of the kids over with it every day. You get a quarter onna dollar. It adds up. But don't try holdin' the money yourself."

The R & M Service Station became a popular gathering place for policy players. Blacks and Puerto Ricans began dropping by to place bets. Johnny Guts and Curtis Jefferson were trained to write slips and to ask each customer politely, "You want the Brooklyn number or the Harlem number?"

Gas sales were still down. Customers were harassed by the police. A few people began to complain about shoddy repair-work. A man who had asked for a new oil filter discovered that Mafalda had wiped off the old one and shoved it back in. The motorist recognized the original filter because of a rust stain. He came back raging and threatened to call the Better Business Bureau. Mafalda put the blame on Johnny Guts.

"It's this dumb kid," Mafalda explained. "I tole him not to do that no more. Give the gennulman a new filter."

Luckily, the policy business prospered. But as gas sales dropped, Mafalda began, in spite of Fifty Cents Frank's warning, to keep half the cash, banking the bets himself.

A week into the new year, a Puerto Rican grocer named Vasquez hit the Brooklyn number on a two-dollar bet. This meant that he had won $1000. It was one of the policy slips Mafalda had banked himself. When Vasquez showed up drunk, shuffling through the snow doing a merengue, Mafalda had to make excuses.

"The main bank is closed," Mafalda said. "I'll get it next week."

"When nex wik?"

"Thursday, Friday."

"Man, you jerkin' me off? You s'pose to pay ri' away. Where my grand?"

Johnny Guts and Curtis Jefferson watched the Puerto Rican leave.

"Boss up to his ass in trouble," Curtis said. "That spick ain't takin' no for a answer."

"Mafalda don't have no grand layin' around. The last two cars we wrecked, he didn't even get his cut yet. And we're outa them abandoned-car tags."

Vasquez returned every night, cursing, crying, demanding his $1000. One night, Mafalda threatened him with a tire iron. The Puerto Rican pulled a switchblade. They faced each other, snarling, until Johnny Guts intervened.

"Hey, Mr. Vasquez, Mr. Mafalda is good for it. He's gonna see the big guy tonight. What good will it do if you cut him? You'll never get your money."

Vasquez shrieked, "He is jerkin' me off. Nobody jerk off Carlos Vasquez. Not here, not in San Juan."

"Sure, sure." Johnny Guts put an arm around him and led him, bawling, to the street.

The next afternoon, Johnny Guts, muffling his voice, called Vasquez' grocery store. "Vasquez? This is a friend. Mafalda banked that bet himself. He's fuckin' the policy banker. He's just a runner. You'll never see that dough." Then he hung up.

At dusk, with a light snow swirling and making the greasy concrete slippery, Vasquez appeared across the street. He was waiting for the light to change. He carried a brown-paper bundle.

"Call the cops," Mafalda said to Johnny Guts.

Johnny ran to the office phone and dialed the precinct. Vasquez was crossing the street. He was hatless, coatless, walking like a man under hypnosis.

"Police? You gotta come quick. Mafalda's place. The R & M Service Station. There's some spick here is gonna lean on the boss."

"Where'd you say?"

"Jesus, officer," Johnny Guts pleaded. "The R & M station. Two blocks away. There's a spick here looking for trouble."

"Didn't quite get the name. Bad connection."

"I said the R & M station. Ralph Mafalda's place."

"Repeat that, please? Ralph who?"

"You know. He gave to the captain's birthday party!"

Vasquez was strolling through the thickening snow, past Curtis, who averted his head and busied himself with a snow-caked windshield. Mafalda picked up his tire iron.

"Please, officer," Johnny Guts begged on the phone.

The policeman was shouting to someone. "You know anything about the captain's birthday party? A guy named Mafalda?"

"Officer----"

Vasquez was removing the paper bag from a sawed-off shotgun. Mafalda, stubborn, stupidly courageous, raised the tire iron.

"What's your name, Jackie?" the policeman asked.

"John Guzzo. They call me Johnny Guts. Oh, Jesus."

The blast lifted Mafalda off his feet, slammed him backward into the island against the premium pump. He crumpled slowly onto the hose, his ass resting in the rubber cradle, his head falling between his knees. Vasquez returned the shotgun to the bag. Without looking back, he crossed the street.

•••

Mafalda's wife, Mildred, came down from Waltham. After paying Riffo $50 to beat up her husband's girlfriend and warning her not to come to the hospital, she visited the heavily leaded gas-station owner.

The doctors told her that Mafalda would live but would be in a wheelchair all his life, if not flat on his back. He could never work again and he would be returning to the hospital for several years to have lead pellets removed from his groin, legs and feet.

Johnny Guts put up a sign (closed because of personal tragedy in family) and went to see Fifty Cents Frank in his office in back of a candy store.

"That cocksucker is lucky the Porto got to him first," Fifty Cents Frank said. "Keepin' receipts, tryin' to be the banker. I'da done worster to him than a load of shot in the balls. He'd be fucking floating in the river."

"I know, Mr. Filardi," Johnny Guts said. "If it's OK with you, we won't be able to run policy no more. I don't know what's gonna happen to the station."

"It's a good business," Fifty Cents Frank said. "I hate to see a legitimate business go to waste."

"So do I. It's what makes our country strong."

Was this skinny blond kid trying some hustle? The banker knew about the fake repairs--the spray paint on the transmissions, the padded bills, the 15-cent brushes in the generators, the bananas stuffed down motors.

"Whaddya want?"

"I need a stake. I wanna buy the R & M."

"A stake? You know the troubles I got raising risk capital?" He leaned across the desk, over his stacks of ledgers, folders and files. "The spicks and niggers are ruinin' my business. Inna old days, there was jurisdiction. I worked so mucha the city. Angie Fotch worked another. Fat Nunzi worked another. We knew where we belonged. But these spicks and niggers are animals. They sell policy anywhere, they buy anywhere, they roam around the city like wild men. Who can run policy that way?"

"That's why people respect you," Johnny Guts said. "You always observed the rules. That's what got Mr. Mafalda in trouble. He broke the rules. He banked bets himself. Before that, he refused to grease the cops. Look what it got him."

Fifty Cents Frank patted his yellow forehead with a green-silk handkerchief. His shadowed eyes were full of sorrow. "I dunno. Nothin's good no more. It's the new element. Look at what I used to do for the zips off the boat from Naples and Genoa. You wanna work? You keep a loan. I give 'em two-fifty to start, they pay me fifty bucks a week. So long as they keep the loan and pay the vig, they work. Not today. You know what's ruinin' me today?"

"No, sir."

"Greeks. Fuckin' ship jumpers. You think they'd come to a reliable person like me to find a job? Nah. Their Greek goombahs put 'em on. Dishwashers, fruit stores, bootblacks. What do they know about keepin' a loan so they can work and make real money?"

"I see your problems, Mr. Filardi."

Fifty Cents Frank's eyes were glinting black rocks. "So you wanna buy Mafalda's gas station? It useta be a gold mine. Is it for sale?"

"I spoke to his wife's lawyer. Mafalda left her broke. It's what they call a distress sale."

"What does she want?"

"They're askin' ninety-five thousand, but the lawyer says he'll come down. I figure I can get it for sixty thousand if I sneak him a fast grand."

"But you don't have a pot to piss in. You're a kid who pumps gas. Where you gonna get that kinda dough?"

"I talked to Mrs. Mafalda. Mildred. She's real nice. I tole her she could keep a third interest, twenty grand. Then you could buy a third interest, pay her twenty thousand. It's worth more, Mr. Filardi, like you said, a gold mine. Then I'd put up the last twenty thou and there'd be three owners."

"Where you gonna get twenny grand?"

"I'll get a loan from you. It's like you're investing in your own success. You and Mrs. Mafalda and me split the profits three ways and share expenses. I do alla work, alla thinking. I got some good angles on used cars and rentals. All you gotta do is sit back and get your check every month."

"Listen, kid, you know what I charge? Six on five. For every five hundred bucks you borrow, you pay back six. So the vigorish on twenny grand is four grand."

"A month?"

"A week."

Johnny Guts's pale eyes widened. He ran a finger along his hooked nose. "Four grand a week, wow." In its best years, before Mafalda ruined things, R & M had grossed close to $200,000. But it would mean that every dollar he earned would go to pay the vig. There'd be nothing left for himself, for Mrs. Mafalda, for Fifty Cents Frank's share of the earnings.

He spoke in his most appealing manner. "But Mr. Filardi, this is different. You're a partner in a legitimate business. It's like you're cutting in on your own profits if you charge me so much vig. I mean, in a year or so, I can make that place pay big. And you're a part owner."

"Rules are rules. The vig is always six for five."

"But not when you lend money to yourself."

Fifty Cents Frank scowled at Johnny Guts. "You tryin'a jerk me off?"

"No. sir. All I want is a chance. Look, it's better for you if I pay the vig off. I got more profits--for you. We can grow together. There's land in back of the place we could buy. We could put up a cut-rate tire-and-spare-parts place, a whole block. The markup on that stuff is terrific. We could name it for you. Filardi's Tire Town."

The loan shark's horrid face tried to stifle a smile. The purple lips cracked. "So? Whaddya want? Special treatment?"

"Cut the vig to one third."

"You crazy? I don't even talk to guys with ideas like that. Vig is six on five."

"But Mr. Filardi, it's your own money. It's your own fortune. It's like we're stockholders in a big corporation that gotta grow. Lemme pay you one third the vig, one thousand, three hundred and thirty-three a week. I'll have to bust my hump to make any money the first five, six years, but I know I can do it."

"Fifteen hundred a week."

Johnny Guts hesitated. He would be paying $78,000 in vigorish alone, but if he could stay open 24 hours a day, buy and sell used cars, hire Curtis Jefferson's nephews at nonunion rates, he might swing it.

"You got a deal, Mr. Filardi. You'll never regret it. There's nothin' like a legitimate business."

They shook hands. Johnny Guts stared for a moment at the biggest pinkie ring in the world, then left to arrange with the lawyer for the reopening of the service station.

In a week's time, with business picking up, Johnny Guts got credit for the gunpoint capture of Vasquez, the gunman who had felled Mafalda. He got a tip from Curtis, in turn tipped the precinct and led the cops to Vasquez' hiding place in a bodega. Johnny Guts was personally congratulated by Captain James Hanratty and State Senator Sid Mermelstein.

After the TV cameras had left the police station, Johnny Guts invited himself to State Senator Sid Mermelstein's office, where he convinced the official that he deserved to have the towing medallion returned, as well as the license as an inspection station. Mermelstein was impressed with the sincere, courageous young man, so public-spirited and polite, so obviously concerned about the welfare of his old friend Ralph Mafalda, from whose groin two dozen more pellets had been removed that morning.

•••

In March, Sergeant Loogan and Sergeant Healey returned. Once again, Johnny Guts saw the finger beckoning. He was busy with an architect, discussing a new façade for the station. A gleaming red sign was going up over the garage: City line service. And in small letters: John P. Guzzo, Propr. Curtis Jefferson and his twin nephews, Morland and Oran, were pumping gas. A new mechanic, a genius named Manny, was at work constantly. Cars were backed up around the corner. Johnny Guts always had free prizes of some kind. Today he was giving away children's Little Golden Books, which he had bought for a penny a copy from a bankrupt jobber.

"Guzzo?" Loogan asked.

"Yes, sir."

"Healey, you see what I see? It is the scumbag."

"The little scumbag."

"Hi, Sergeant."

"I hear you're a big friend of Captain Hanratty's ever since they collared the spick who shot the big scumbag."

"The captain and I respect each other."

"Yeah," Loogan said, "but we represent the sergeants' association." He lifted the same clipboard Johnny Guts had seen in November, when they had come to ask Mafalda for a contribution.

"Captain Hanratty says----"

"Fuck Captain Hanratty. You're down for forty bucks, Guzzo. For the sergeants' Saint Patrick's Day party for orphans. You're lucky it ain't sixty."

"Forty bucks? That seems a lot."

Curtis Jefferson was shaking his head, thinking, ole Johnny Guts was smart, but the pigs would always win.

"Pay up, scumbag. You got a medallion for the tow truck? You got any fire violations?"

Johnny reached inside his starched blue overalls and took out a sheaf of pink cardboard tickets. "I got a great idea, Sergeant. You say my contribution is forty bucks?"

"Yeah."

"It so happens we're tendering a banquet in honor of our mutual friend Ralph Mafalda, on his release from the hospital next week. Lemme suggest that instead of me giving you forty bucks, I give you two free tickets to this lovely affair. They're twenny bucks each, so we're even."

Loogan's icy gray eyes read the elegant printing on the ticket:

March 7, 8:30 P.M. Ticket: $20

Testimonial banquet and dance

In Honor of Ralph G. Mafalda

"The Man Who Came Back from the Dead"

Sponsors:

The Amerigo Vespucci Association

Veterans of Foreign Wars

Local 561; Plasterers and Masons Union

Door Prizes!

Entertainment! Name Band!

Guest Speaker:

State Senator Sidney Mermelstein

"Take these," Loogan said, "and shove them up that nigger's ass, in small pieces." He tore the tickets to bits and tossed them in Johnny Guts's face. "We'll take forty dollars now or you'll end up like Mafalda, broke and without balls."

"Whatever you say, officer." Johnny took an enormous roll from his pocket. "Here y'are, officer." He gave Loogan two 20s.

"You're gettin' smart, scumbag."

Healey laughed. "Loogan, he ain't a scumbag anymore. He's one of the boys."

A shambling fat man in a gray topcoat and hat came out of the repair bay. He had been pretending to be a customer studying the motor in a Cougar. He carried a small camera. As he approached the police car, he flashed a silver badge. "Olsen. Special-investigations unit from the Chief Inspector's Office."

"Fuckin' shoofly," Loogan said.

"It's legit, Olsen," Healey said. "It's for the orphans."

"Tell the chief inspector. You're both under departmental arrest. Thanks, Guzzo. Any other cop tries to shake you down, call me."

"Thank you, sir."

Olsen climbed into the prowl car. "You're both suspended, pending a hearing. Don't say anything. It might be held against you."

The car sped off.

Curtis Jefferson waved at them. "Merry Christmas, motherfuckers."

•••

That night, Johnny Guzzo closed the station for six hours. The contractor who was refurbishing the garage put up a plywood fence. Manny, the mechanic, arrived with several elaborate sets of wrenches and gauges.

He, Johnny Guts and Curtis Jefferson began to dismantle the pumps.

"What this for, boss?" Curtis asked.

"A slight adjustment inna gears," Johnny Guts said. "From now on, we pump three fourths of a gallon for every gallon that registers. This way, I get Fifty Cents Frank off my back in four years instead of five. This is between us, Curtis."

"It between us." Curtis laughed. "You Johnny Guts, all right."