I was walking down the street one evening just as it was getting dark when up ahead of me, I spied a shiny, black Cadillac parked by the curb. The windows were tinted, almost black. I loved shiny cars. I walked up behind the car and dragged my finger along the enamelled surface from the rear tail fin, along the back door until I got to the passenger door. She was smooth and hot and shiny. My finger was big and distorted in the mirrored, convex surface and my arm looked five feet long. The detached, distant speck at the end of my arm was my head. Beyond this distorted reality, I noticed the passenger window was down and on the seat just inside was a closed briefcase. I pulled my finger back and retreated one step, jamming my hands in my pockets. It was my casual look. Relaxed. The moment just before the moment of decision. I surveyed the street. There was no one around and no one heading for the car. The two of us were alone, just me and the Caddy. It was a come-on, an open invite. I stepped forward, reached in and grabbed the case.
+++++I felt the fingers of my left hand curl around its handle when a hairy paw shot forward between the seatback and the door. It seized my upper arm in a gorilla vice grip and yanked me hard against the doorframe. My head bounced off its edge. Above the ringing in my ears, a distant, muffled voice on the other end of the hairy paw asked me a question.
+++++“Wha’ d’ya think your doin’, pal?”
+++++Tinted windows, I thought, never liked them. I pulled my right hand from my pocket, flicked open the switchblade and plunged it into his wrist just at the back of his hand. It took about two seconds. His hand opened in a spasm and I jerked my arm and the briefcase through the window. The gorilla hadn’t made a sound. Not a good sign. He was a tough guy. I back-pedaled away from the car then stopped. The briefcase dangled from my left hand. I’d pocketed the knife in case I had to run. I waited. The back door of the Caddy blew open. I took two steps further back. A guy who looked like Joe Pesci stepped out.
+++++Dark, narrow sunglasses wrapped around his skull and hid his eyes. His hair was slicked back on the top of his head and his right hand was wrapped in a bloody, white handkerchief. The open car door blocked my view of his left. He watched me. I watched him.
+++++“Wha’ cha doin’ kid?”
+++++I was relieved. I thought he’d be mad about his hand.
+++++“Nice suit.” It was all I could think of saying. He tugged at his suit jacket.
+++++“Armani.” He looked off to his left like he was deciding something. When he decided, he swung his head back and faced me.
+++++“You know wha’ chure doin’ kid?”
+++++“Stealing your briefcase?” He smiled and shook his head. He looked at the ground, gathering his thoughts like they were lodged down there somewhere in the gutter. I took two more small steps further back giving him some space to recover from the levity of the moment. He raised his head.
+++++“I don’ tink so,” he said. The smile had gone. He stepped out away from the car. He held a gun in his left hand down next to his Armani-clad leg. With the slicked back hair, the sunglasses and the Armani suit, the gun was more than a fashion statement. I recognized the look. I took off.
+++++I didn’t run up the sidewalk. Instead, I cut between the next two cars in front of the Caddy hoping to block his shot. It didn’t stop him from popping a cap into the rear window of a late model Olds I’d just passed. All I could think of was Alan Arkin. Serpentine! Serpentine! I ran along the street on the outside of several parked cars before I cut in between two and looked back to see if he was following me. He was still in the same place. You can’t run well in Italian loafers. The gun was up and pointing in my direction. He shot again, but it was wild. The bullet smashed into a car I’d already passed. Maybe the pain in his bloodied hand distracted him. I cut back between the next set of cars and ran full tilt up the street. There was an alley on my right. I cut over suddenly and sprinted into its open end. This was my turf. I knew every smell, every sign, every shop and the dark twist of every alley. With briefcase in hand, I looked like a guy running home to the hot wife at the end of a long day. Honey, I’m home!
+++++Fifty feet from the end of the alley that emptied out onto a busy street, I reduced my speed. I stopped at the corner and peered up and down the street searching for the black Cadillac. He’d been hidden behind the tinted windows in the back seat. He was a passenger. The driver had been somewhere else. He had to wait for the driver. I figured I was safe from Mr Armani for the time being. I stepped out on the street and turned right toward my flat. I had to get rid of the briefcase. It was like a beacon. Mr Mohammed’s shop was just down the block. I turned into the shop. He was seated behind the counter.
+++++“Mr Brass, so nice to see you.” He spoke English with the cadence and accent of a displaced resident of Mumbai.
+++++“Nice to see you too, Mr Mohammed.” I was a polite thief. “I’m looking of a knapsack.”
+++++“We have some,” he said and led me to the back of the store where knapsacks of various sizes and colours hung from a rack. I chose one in dark blue.
+++++“Good choice.” He smiled through the whole transaction and handed me the knapsack.
+++++“Mr Mohammed, do you have a toilet here?”
+++++“For you. Of course. Come.” I’d never stolen anything from his store. He always treated everyone with respect. I liked that. We arrived at a door marked ‘Toilet’.
+++++“Take some time. No problem,” he said.
+++++I went into the toilet, closed the door and locked it behind me. There was a small sink on one wall with a mirror above it. I laid the briefcase flat on top of the sink and flipped up the two latches on the case. I lifted the lid. Inside were banded banknotes. They were $100 bills, triple stacked, five across and three rows deep. I calculated quickly. It was almost half a million dollars. It was what we called ‘dead money’. If you kept it, you were dead.
+++++In a situation like this, there are two viable options. One, you take the money and disappear forever, and that means forever. You never show your face again. Two, you give it back and hope for the best. Viable has two meanings: workable and capable of living. I wanted to live. I wanted to work something out. Disappearing forever meant always looking over your shoulder. That option was not workable—and it was not living. I dumped the money in the knapsack and zipped it closed. I exited the toilet and handed Mr Mohammed the empty briefcase. It was a gift. He gave me a Yankees baseball cap in return. It said Gucci on the briefcase nameplate. When he saw the nameplate, he turned and pulled a Yankees sweatshirt from a rack behind him.
+++++“Maybe this help you, Mr Brass.” He was still smiling when he handed it to me.
+++++Disguised as Mickey Mantle, I exited the shop. I’d broken my own rule: never steal something just because it’s there. You break the rules, you pay the price.
+++++I was a notorious thief. The trouble with notoriety is it’s indiscriminate. You’re well known to your friends–your fellow travellers–as well as your enemies. I didn’t think it would take long for Mr Armani to find me. I was sure he was on my side of the notorious line and had his connections. I had mine too. I made a few calls.
+++++I discovered Mr Armani’s real name. It was DiPietro. I’d heard the name connected to loan sharking and numbers. Organized crime wasn’t my racket and I’d managed to steer clear of it in my line of work. I never liked working for anyone, let alone someone organized. I was disorganized, but I was my own boss and that suited me.
+++++I got the address of a social club where Mr DiPietro ‘socialised’. It was in a part of town I didn’t frequent. I wasn’t the social type, at least not that social type. At first I thought maybe some backup would be a good idea. I knew some guys I could depend on, but the more I thought about it, the more it lost its appeal. This had been my doing and now it had to be my undoing–alone. I’d broken my own rule and now it was my own responsibility to make it right. There was no room for compromise, and anyway, at no time during our brief introduction did Mr DiPietro seem to be the compromising type. He’d been calm and even reflective, as calm as a guy could be with a bloodied hand, a gun and a half a million dollars to lose. Maybe he was a guy who weighed the options and only acted when and if necessary. I was counting on appealing to that side of his nature, if that side existed. I wanted to make it right as soon as possible so I headed for Mr. DiPietro’s social club.
+++++During my cab ride across town, a light shower passed over the city. At one point the cabby had to put on the wipers, but it was over by the time we arrived at the address I’d memorized. I had the cab drop me off at the opposite corner. I strode up a wet sidewalk, slick with refracted neon light. I stopped. A small green and red neon sign was suspended over the adjacent sidewalk. It just said, Social Club in white letters. There were two plate glass windows on either side of door. Slatted blinds covered the windows. Two young guys dressed in suits were standing outside the door smoking. I crossed the street with the knapsack over my shoulder. A passing car ripped rainwater from the pavement like tape from a fresh wound. I watched the spray drift away in its wake. I knew with the Yankee cap and sweatshirt, I looked like a geek college kid. No threat. I approached the two guys in front of the door.
+++++“Hi. Is Mr DiPietro in?” They looked me up and down like I was from another planet, maybe the idiot planet. The taller of the two spoke, the alpha male.
+++++“Don’t know a Mr DiPietro.” I expected him to say that. He was young, but he was the protection, the first line of defense.
+++++“I was told this is his club.” He took a long drag on his cigarette.
+++++“Maybe you was told wrong.” In a somewhat reflective mood, I looked down and scuffed the toe of my sneaker on the sidewalk. Just like a geek.
+++++“Yeah. Maybe you’re right. Reliable information is hard to come by.” I figured I’d put the ball in their court. “I have something for Mr DiPietro, but if this isn’t his club, then I guess I was wrong. Tell him I was here with the package.” I started to walk off. I took two steps away.
+++++“Hey!” I stopped. “State your business.” I turned back toward the two junior executives. They weren’t sure, so they had to make sure. I counted on that.
+++++“Just tell him I really like his black Cadillac.” The tall guy stared at me for about half a minute while he casually lit another cigarette, then he spoke to his partner.
+++++“Joe, go give Frank the message. I’ll watch this guy.” Joe went inside. The tall guy finished his cigarette and without taking his eyes of me, flicked the butt into the street. I thought of doing a few Gene Kelly steps on the wet pavement but decided against it. It would have been wasted on him. Joe returned.
+++++“Frank says let him in.” I stepped past the tall guy into the bar. Joe politely held the door for me.
+++++“Hold it right there,” the tall guy said from behind me. “Drop the bag and lift your arms.” I did what he asked. He frisked me thoroughly. Then he opened the bag. Half a million dollars in banded $100 bills looks impressive, even in a geek knapsack. I have to give him credit. He didn’t flinch when he saw the money. He scooped it aside and checked for a weapon like he was supposed to. He had cool potential. “OK. Joe, take him back.”
+++++“Wait. You didn’t check under the hat.” I can be a smartass when I’m nervous. He smacked the back of my head and knocked off the cap. “OK. You’re not a Yankee fan,” I concluded, “Not everyone is.” I shrugged.
+++++“Get going.” He was losing patience with me. I left the cap and picked up the knapsack and followed Joe toward the back. The guys at the bar and the guys playing cards at the tables planted small targets on my back. I felt like a babe in the woods or a deer in the headlights. Whichever, I hoped they weren’t armed. We reached the back. Joe knocked three times on an unmarked door.
+++++“Yeah,” said a voice I recognized.
+++++Joe opened the door and I stepped into Mr DiPietro’s office. A smile lit his face when he saw me. Maybe this would work out. The trouble with these guys is that it’s either business or personal. The problem is who determines that.
+++++“You can go Joe,” said Mr DiPietro.
+++++“I’ll be right outside,” said Joe.
+++++“Joe, go outside with Carmen. That’s where yur s’posed ta be. OK? Go.” He waved with the back of his hand.
+++++“Yes sir,” replied Joe. He closed the door.
+++++I stood just inside the door. I hadn’t moved. Mr DiPietro sat hard in his cushioned chair behind a solid, blond oak desk. He leaned back in his chair, stared at the ceiling and steepled his fingers. His right hand had been properly bandaged.
+++++“Ya know, Mr Brass, I wasn’t sure I’d see ya so soon. I mean, I hoped I didn’t haf to send someone to your house.” He knew my name, who I was and where I lived just like I thought he would.
+++++“I thought it was better to clear the air and set things straight right away. Brass is my street name. I’m a thief. That’s what I do. I can steal anything, thus my nickname.” I didn’t intend to blow my own horn or wax eloquent, but I felt the situation called for a small explanation.
+++++“Yur reputation proceeds you,” he answered, trying vainly for a bit of eloquence himself.
+++++I picked up the knapsack and set it in front of him. I zipped it open and dumped the half million dollars on the top of his desk. It was a bravado move, dramatic but indisputable proof.
+++++“It’s all there. You can count it if you want.”
+++++“I don’t need ta coun’ it,” he answered. I felt better right away.
+++++“I have a rule, Mr DiPietro. Don’t steal something just because it’s there. A real thief plans. I broke that rule today. With great respect, I apologize.” I’d watched all three Godfather movies. Respect was a big deal then. I hoped it was still a big deal.
+++++“I know yur showing respect. That’s good. Making things right is important.” He leaned forward and pushed a button on his phone. “Frank. Get in here,” he said. The door opened a few seconds later and in walked Luca Brasi’s double. These guys always have an enforcer. He’s always big. When his dead eyes fall on you, they have a numbing effect like a shot of novocain to the jaw. “Frank, take all dis cash, pu’ it back ‘n the bag and give it to Carlo behine’ the bar. He’ll know wha’ to do wid it. Then come back.”
+++++“Sure, boss.” No questions. He scooped up the cash in his big hands, put it back in the bag and exited the office just like Mr DiPietro asked. That was one scary soldier. Mr DiPietro turned to me.
+++++“Sid down.” I sat. “I have a proposition. You come work fer me. Wha’ d’ya say?” I looked him in the eye. I wanted to please this guy, but I knew I couldn’t.
+++++“I never worked for anyone, Mr DiPietro. I appreciate your offer but I’m my own man.” He stared hard at me. He didn’t speak again until Frank came back into the office, then he smiled.
+++++“I understand Mr Brass. I really do. You’ve made restitution. You’ve said enough Hail Mary’s and Our Father’s to last a long time. A half a million of them!” He laughed heartily at his own joke. I smiled. Then he got serious. “And, like the priest, I forgive you.” He pointed at me and made the sign of the cross with his bandaged hand. “But with every sin comes a punishment. Maybe penance is a better word?” This guy had suddenly become eloquent. He’d lost the street accent. I wasn’t certain what it meant, and I wasn’t sure I liked the new Father DiPietro. “You said you broke your own rule? Well, you also broke my rule: no one steals from me. It’s a hard and fast rule, Mr Brass, and no one—not even those that work for me—escape the consequences.” He pushed a button on his phone again. “Tell Carmen and Joe to get in here.” A few seconds later they arrived. The office was getting crowded. He continued his soliloquy. “I like you, Mr Brass. You got balls. You’re not dumb. You sized up the situation and you knew what you had to do. It takes balls to do what’s right. It took balls to come here. I don’t want you to think I don’t appreciate it.”
+++++“Thank you, Mr DiPietro.” I had to say something before all the saliva in my mouth turned to dust.
+++++“Don’t thank me yet, kid.” The smile dropped from his face. He was watching me. I held his gaze. “Frank is going to break all the fingers in your left hand. I know you’re right handed ‘cause the knife hit its mark clean,” he said, holding up his bandaged right hand, “So consider this a merciful gesture. I’ll have Carmen drive you to the hospital after. It’s the least I can do for the return of the money. It’s my show of respect.”
+++++His soldiers stood off to one side in shadow. In their dark suits and ties, with their hands folded in front of them, they looked like pallbearers at a funeral waiting for the signal to pick up the coffin. It wasn’t my coffin. I was grateful.
+++++I’d been tense sitting in the chair not knowing. Now I knew. I relaxed and sat back. The whole of life teeters on the edge of the need to know and the fear of knowing. Once that puzzle is solved, the rest is nothing. I accepted my fate. My eyes had never left his.
+++++“Can I have a shot of that whiskey?” He had a wet bar in the corner of the room. I nodded my head in that direction.
+++++“Joe. Pour Mr Brass a double.” He kept his eyes locked on mine. Joe went to the bar and poured my drink. “Give me a shot, too,” he added. Joe poured him a shot, brought Mr DiPietro his drink, then rounded the desk and handed me mine. It was a generous double.
+++++“Can I propose a toast?” I asked. Mr DiPietro lifted his glass in consent. I lifted mine. “To the understanding of mercy without which there can be no true repentance.”
+++++“Damn. I like you kid.” He smiled.
+++++We both tossed back our drinks. The smoky aroma of the whiskey filled my head. The liquid hit the bottom of my empty stomach and like a flaming arrow, the alcohol shot straight to my head. I counted on that shot.
+++++Joe and Carmen grabbed my shoulders and held me back in the chair. The empty glass dropped harmlessly from my right hand and fell silently onto the thickly carpeted floor. Frank stretched my left hand onto a white handkerchief on top of the oak desk. The surface was as solid as a rock. That was good. The hammer looked small in Frank’s hand, but Frank’s hand was big. Frank raised the hammer. At the last moment, Carmen covered my eyes. Mercy often comes from unexpected quarters.
+++++He only hit my fingers. Frank was not only a good soldier, but he had good aim. He didn’t break the small bones in the back of my hand like a sloppy apprentice. Frank was a professional. I was thankful for that. I wasn’t out for revenge. I wasn’t the toughest man I knew. I was out for repentance, and mercy stood at the edge of a darkness I embraced. I passed out.
+++++Just like Mr DiPietro promised, Carmen drove me to the hospital. They set the fingers, then mounted a cast on my hand. Painkillers were prescribed. I took three at the hospital and pocketed the rest for later. I told them the jack had slipped when I was changing a tire. The less elaborate my explanation, the more credible it was. They felt sorry for me. Hell, I felt sorry for me so that made at least two of us.
+++++The taxi ride to my flat took twenty minutes. By the time I arrived, I’d reviewed the day’s events. I’d broken more than one rule. I’d made restitution. I’d been punished, but I’d been shown mercy. How often does that happen? I’d been a thief and had stood outside any moral conviction. But when you stand on the brink, when you see beyond, who’s to say what you see? It took no special, spiritual vision to determine my choice of a future path.
+++++That was the day I gave up my bad boy image. I’d paid a small, merciful price for who I was. Father DiPietro had shown me the way, a priest among men. At that moment, the irredeemable gangster became my saviour, and I, his prodigal son returned home.

My left hand still aches when the weather turns cold and damp, a constant reminder of the gift of mercy and the ultimate price of redemption.

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James Shaffer

James Shaffer is an American living in Europe. He’s had stories published in online magazines including The Film of My Life, Bewildering Stories and The Razor’s Edge. When he’s not writing, he’s watching movies. He is convinced our perceptions of the images we see on film are a template for what we see inside our heads. He tries to create those images in the stories he writes.

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