BAD, LIKE JESSE JAMES
A Novel Based on a True Story
Jim Yoakum
Bad, Like Jesse James
By Jim Yoakum
Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2012 by Jim Yoakum
Smashwords edition
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
ISBN 978-1-4660-1625-5
ISBN 978-1-4699-5010-5 (pbk)
AUTHOR’S NOTE
However strange or fantastical some of the following incidents may appear to be and, while I do use – in the service of the narrative - the dramatic literary devices of the novelist to re-create some conversations (although some are verbatim) and events of almost forty years ago, the core story is derived mostly from official ATF records, reports and journals; U.S. Federal court documents; search warrants; Michigan State Police surveillance reports; transcript statements; newspaper articles; historical records - as well as interviews with individuals who were directly involved in the case. Even the specific weather events described are taken from official weather data records. That said, names and some locations have been altered to protect privacy and the innocent.
BAD, LIKE JESSE JAMES
PART ONE: THE SNITCH
PART TWO: THE BRINKS JOB
PART THREE: THE FALL
For my dad, who lived it.
PART ONE: THE SNITCH
“When small-timers get into crime,
it ruins it for everyone.”
- John Dillinger
The room was approximately 18x20-foot and barren except for a long wooden table in the center and some hard wooden chairs scattered around it. They looked uncomfortable, but then they were meant to be. The floor was cement, as were the walls, although they had been covered with drywall and were painted two-tone: beige from the top to the center, and then a bilious industrial green from the center to the floor.
There were no windows. A lone florescent light fixture hung from the acoustic ceiling directly over the table and emitted a steady 60-cycle drone. It gave everyone a sickly, jaundiced appearance. The room looked like the sort of place where autopsies would be performed, or where police would sweat information out of a criminal suspect - which is what it was. Four dour-looking men were taking their seats in the wooden chairs, and, except for the sound of their chairs scrapping the floor, and the whir of the portable fan that did little to cool the stuffy room, all was silent.
A sweating man wearing faded bell-bottom blue jeans and a short-sleeved black cotton shirt was already sitting slouched in a chair and nervously puffing on a Pall Mall cigarette. He was in his early-thirties with a pockmarked, unshaven face and blue eyes that were so deep-set that they sometimes appeared to be black. At the moment they were swollen from too-little sleep, and red-rimmed from the joint that he’d smoked a half-hour earlier. He wore his dark brown hair on the longish side, not Hippie long, but past his ears and touching his collar, as was the custom. It was hand-combed and streaked with sweat. The sweating man was of slight build – his body somehow looked too frail to support his skull – and on the shy side of six-foot, and he twisted and twitched in his seat as if he were constantly receiving a mild electrical shock. His name was Jack Assante. He nervously darted his eyes around the room like a nervous bunny, and then took a greedy gulp from his water glass as the four dour-looking men took their seats. Then he smiled, looking for all the world like the cat that ate the canary.
Sitting next to Assante was a middle-aged, dull-looking man, overweight and not doing much of anything about it. To cover up for his utter lack of personality he wore his white hair in a sculpted cut and had a pencil-thin moustache. He was dressed in a blue seersucker suit with a yellow pocket-handkerchief and he wore a yellow polka-dot bowtie that was twisted into a perfect kink around the collar of his starched, blindingly white shirt. This was Carl Manson, Jack Assante’s attorney. Mr. Manson set his briefcase on the floor, positioning it just under the table, and then he idly fanned his face with some papers as he browsed through a thick manila folder labeled ASSANTE, JACK.
Sitting directly across Assante was a tall, clean-cut, and boyish-looking man in his mid-thirties. He wore a well-tailored black suit, a crisp white shirt with a light gray pin-stripe pattern, and a thin black tie that was held to the placket with a silver clip in the shape of an American eagle. His hair was thick and jet-black and was cut stylishly short and neat around the ears, with a perfectly straight part on the left side. Except for a stray lock that insisted on flopping across his forehead, it looked like the sort haircut you might see on barbershop poster advertising a particular hairstyle. This was Special Agent Alan Burke of the U.S. Drug Enforcement Agency.
On Burke’s left sat a short, stocky man of about forty. He wore an off-the-rack navy blue suit made out of a cheap poly-cotton blend, a custard-yellow shirt and a solid blood-red tie. Oval wire-rim glasses framed his face. His once brown hair was now flecked with specks of gray and was receding - a fact that he tried to hide by combing what wisps that remained over the bald patch and plastering them down with Brylcreme. This was U.S. Special Attorney Barry Loeb.
On Burke’s right side sat an athletically built man with ginger-brown hair cut in a severe military buzz and made stiff with Butch Wax. He wore a light gray two-button suit by Hart Schaffner & Marx with a matching six-button vest, a sky blue shirt and a wide red and white striped tie. He looked like an American flag. He had removed his jacket before he sat down - either due to the heat, or else to intimidate Assante by showing off his muscular build - and had it slung over the back of his chair. He was in his late thirties, but he appeared to be much older. His face - with its chiseled jaw, hawk-like nose and hooded eyebrows - looked like it should grace the front of a Roman coin. Even the intense vertical lines between his eyes looked like hairline cuts. At the moment those eyes were laser-locked on Jack Assante. He was making it his job to never take them off of him; his intention was to make Assante - who was already a jangled bundle of nerves - even uneasier. This was Peter Lipskey of the U.S. Justice Department.
There was a small reel-to-reel tape recorder sitting on the table, a microphone on a small stand, a glass ashtray, a pitcher of ice water and five glasses. After a few moments Agent Burke picked up the microphone, cleared his throat and then spoke into it in a low and even voice:
“Today is Monday, August 12th, 1974. The time is… 8:42 a.m. My name is Alan Burke, I’m a Special Agent assigned to the United States Drug Enforcement Agency in Detroit. Michigan. Also present at this meeting today, on behalf of the Federal Government, are Special Attorney Barry T. Loeb, and Agent Peter Lipskey of the U.S. Department of Justice. Representing Mr. Jack Assante, who called this meeting, is his attorney Carl Manson of Troutman, Manson and McNabb, P.C.
“A few days ago Mr. Manson contacted me at my office to say that his client, Mr. Assante, wanted to give the Federal Government information about a matter in the hopes that it would help him when he appeared in court a few weeks from now.”
Burke placed the microphone back on the stand and pushed it close to Jack Assante. He looked first over to Lipskey and then to Loeb. They both nodded that they were ready. Burke then turned his attention to Manson, who had his head down reading a document, and then finally to Jack Assante, who was pouring himself another glass of water from the pitcher that sat on the table. Burke smiled at him. It was a nice, toothy smile - friendly even - but it was really a mask that he wore to make people feel more at ease; his thinking being that, if they felt more relaxed with him then they might give up more information. Assante glanced over and caught Burke’s smile, but it didn’t make him feel any more at ease; if anything, Burke’s smile creeped him out and made him even more nervous. He took a long pull at his water and looked away.
“First of all gentlemen,” Burke began, “I’d like to apologize for the heat and for the accommodations. We generally use this room for interrogations - not that this is an interrogation, it’s simply the only room we had available on such short notice. The heat, I can’t help, as they are working on the AC.” The others emitted some grumbling and murmuring noises. Burke gave his full attention to Jack Assante. “Now, as I understand it Mr. Assante, you sought this meeting. Am I correct in saying this?”
Assante muttered something inaudible.
“I'm sorry, I didn't catch that," said Burke. “You sought this meeting, is that correct?”
“That's right, yeah,” Assante replied brusquely.
“Okay. And I want it further understood that you're here on a voluntary basis, and that you’re accompanied here today by your attorney, Mr. Carl Manson. Is that also correct?”
Assante nodded and lit a fresh cigarette with the fag end of the one in his hand.
“Again, I'm sorry Mr. Assante, but you have to use words. The tape recorder can't detect physical reactions.”
“Yes,” Assante said somewhat impatiently. Manson cleared his throat and gave Assante a rebuking glance. Assante sighed. “Yes, that is correct.”
“Am I also correct in understanding that you've discussed this with your attorney, Mr. Manson?”
Assante let out an exasperated sigh. He was hot and tired and there were too many questions. Mr. Manson quickly stepped in to answer for his client. “I can attest to this Agent Burke,” he replied.
Agent Burke adjusted the microphone, moving it a little bit closer to Assante. “Thank you Mr. Manson,” he said. “Now, you also understand, Mr. Assante, that I cannot make you any promises regarding what the court may, or may not, do in the case pending against you. I can only promise that I will inform the U.S. Attorney's Office, and to the court, of any worthwhile information you may give to the Federal Government here today. Obviously, if you give little, then don't expect too much.”
Assante puffed worriedly on cigarette. His hands were trembling. “I understand,” he replied tersely. “Look, can we just get on with this?”
Burke allowed himself a long pause and then said: “You further understand --” Assante rolled his eyes and sighed heavily – “that we're currently in possession of evidence relating to the conspiracy charges against you, and that any information you may give could hurt you.”
“Yeah yeah, I understand,” Assante replied. He ran the back of his hand across his damp forehead and wiped the sweat on his jeans.
“And both you and Mr. Manson have decided on the wisdom of this meeting?”
“I have advised Mr. Assante that the statement that he makes here today is being made to Federal officers which, under statute, makes him liable to perjury if he makes any false statements,” said Mr. Manson.
“Very well,” said Burke. He turned to Assante. “Now that all the particulars are out of the way - what do you know that might be helpful to the United States Federal Government?”
There was a pause. Assante looked around the room, unsure if he was finally going to be allowed to talk. “My turn?”
“Your turn, Mr. Assante.”
It was the moment that he’d been waiting on for months, and the words came tumbling rapidly out of his mouth like candy from a piñata. “Okay, well first, I want to get this off my chest; set the record straight… I'm being made the patsy here, and that ain't right. Thanks to that Fed – Danielson - my life's not worth a fucking dime right now. And God knows I won't last six seconds in the joint. If Pat Danielson doesn’t get me then Gomez's people will get me or --” He stopped himself short of saying too much and lapped instead at his glass of water.
Burked turned to Lipskey and then to Loeb - it was more for effect than anything else - then he turned slowly back to Jack Assante. “‘Or’? ‘Or’ what?”
“‘Or’ nothing. I overshot the runway.”
“What does that mean?”
“It doesn’t mean anything. Can we continue?”
“I see. Well… Okay, why don’t you tell us what you’ve got to say and we'll see if we can help you out, Jack.” His smile broadened, if that was possible.
“Oh no, I want some assurances first.”
Agent Burke ignored this and plowed ahead: “You say that this Pat Danielson is a Federal agent - are there any other law enforcement officers that you dealt with during this time, either Federal, state of local?”
Manson tapped Assante on the arm. He leaned over and Manson whispered in his ear. Assante nodded and turned to Burke: “I'm not willing to say at this time.”
Agent Burke's phony smile instantly disappeared. He shook his head slowly back and forth and made a note on a pad of paper. “Gee, that's not very helpful Jack,” he said. “I thought you wanted to get this off your chest.”
“I do, but --”
Lipskey had had enough. “Let’s get one clear right now,” he bellowed, “you're the guy who wanted this meeting so either you tell us what you know or the meeting is over.”
Assante stabbed out his cigarette and ran his fingers fretfully through his greasy hair. “Look, you don't understand… the way that bust just went down in Tijuana - my life’s worth nothing. I need some assurances.”
“Assurances?” Lipskey chuckled. “Look Mr. Assante, you tell us all that you know, and who you know, and you tell us now or I can assure you that --”
“Gentlemen, please,” said Loeb, “if we could have a little less editorial here and try to stay on track?”
The room was silent for a few moments. “I’d like to remind everyone here that one of our ground rules was that Mr. Assante doesn’t have to answer any question that he doesn’t want to answer,” said Manson. “He is here voluntarily.”
The three Feds huddled together and conversed for a few moments in hushed whispers. Loeb said something that Lipskey didn't particularly like and he made a pained expression, then they broke.
“Jack, the best we can do is assure you that your cooperation in this matter will be
brought to the attention of the court,” said Burke. “You have a case coming up, right?”
“Yeah. A weapons violation. I’ve had a couple of postponements but, as it stands, I'm staring down some hard time.”
“Okay, well that’s the best we can offer.”
Assante whispered something in Manson's ear and Manson whispered something back in his. “Okay, deal,” said Assante, “so what exactly do you want to know?”
“That's what I like to hear, Jack.” Agent Burke’s million-dollar smile made a triumphant reappearance on his face. “Okay, well… maybe you can start by taking us back to your first meeting with this fellow Danielson.”
Assante rubbed his chin stubble and reflected for a moment. “Well, I probably first met Pat Danielson in July, or maybe August, back in ‘72. I was introduced to him by another fellow, a friend of mine, at his house.”
“Does this friend of yours have a name?” asked Burke.
“I prefer not to mention his name at this time.”
Burke clucked his tongue and shook his head again. “Uh-huh Jack, no deal. You tell us about your first meeting with Danielson - and give us the names of any other people who were there. That’s the way this works. There will be no holding back of any names if you know them.”
Assante swiped again at the perspiration on his neck as Manson whispered in his ear for a few seconds. Assante nodded. “Look, he’s really not important to the story,” said Assante, “but I can assure you that he’s not a policeman or a Federal agent, if that’s your concern.”
“Then what is he?” pressed Lipskey.
“He’s just a guy; a nobody. He’s a small-time crook… A junkie.”
“Sounds like a fine, upstanding young American.” Lipskey snorted.
“Is this sarcasm really necessary?” said Manson.
“Mr. Lipskey, please?” sighed Loeb. “As I said, let us try and keep editorial comment at a minimum.”
Lipskey looked duly chastised and shifted his weight in his chair.
“Jack, we really need a name…” Burke said in a parental tone.
“Look, I promise, there’s nothing sinister in my not revealing his name. As I said, he’s just a guy I know, and I’d really rather not get him involved in this unless he has to be. Besides, he told me he’d come to court if it was necessary.”
“Let me suggest this,” offered Manson, “let’s go forward for now. We can always come back to this matter.”
Loeb conferred with Lipskey and Burke.
“Okay,” said Burke. “We’ll move on for now.”
Assante continued: “Okay, so anyway, I met Danielson through… this unnamed guy… It was July or August, sometime back in the summer of '72.”
“What makes you so certain that it was in the summer of 1972?”
“Because I was sweating.” Assante chuckled and fished another cigarette out of the pack and lit it.
“You seem to do a lot of that,” Lipskey muttered, pointedly ignoring Loeb’s reproaching look.
Assante turned toward Agent Lipskey. “You don’t like me very much, do you Agent Lipskey?” He blew a cloud of smoke in Lipskey’s direction.
“I honestly have no personal opinion of you one way or the other,” Lipskey replied, waving the cloud away.
“I’m not under arrest you know.”
“How’s that?”
“I came here voluntarily. I don’t have to give you this information; I don’t have to be attacked. I’m free to leave at any time.”
“You came here hoping that, by snitching on your friends, the courts might give you a lighter sentence on your weapons violation.”
“Yeah - but so what? That doesn’t make what I say any less true.”
Lipskey had no ready reply to that, so he sort of harrumphed and looked away.
“If I may,” Manson interjected wearily, “I would first like to make clear that there’s nothing wrong or illegal in Mr. Assante giving evidence in return for favor. And I’d like to remind everyone once again - especially Agent Lipskey - that my client does not have to answer any questions that he does not want to answer. So, if this is going to be a hostile environment then --”
“It’s not a hostile environment, Mr. Manson,” Burke said quickly, “and I apologize if that’s the impression you’ve received. Can we please continue?”
Manson paused and the whispered something to Jack Assante. He nodded and whispered something back to Manson. “Okay, I’ll go on,” Assante said, giving Lipskey a sharp look. “As I was saying, I know it was summer because we were drinking some beers and watching the game on TV.”
“What sort of game, Jack?” asked Agent Burke.
“Tigers/Rangers.”
“What is that, baseball?”
Assante looked at Burke, amused. “Yeah, that's right. Baseball.”
Burke wrote this down on his pad of paper. “I’m sorry, I don't really follow sports, Jack.”
“You don't say.”
********************
The guy who Jack Assante refused to finger was named Paul Valenti. Valenti was in his early-thirties. He was a hard-looking, craggy-faced man with a sallow complexion and a mean streak a mile wide and three-feet deep. He was rail-thin and small of frame and had long, greasy blond hair that was lazily parted in the middle and went well past his shoulders. He currently had it pulled back in a ponytail that was held together with a twist-tie from a loaf of bread.
He wore faded Levi jeans, a John Deere cap and a muscle T-shirt that showed off his tattoos: ‘Born To Lose’ on his left bicep and ‘Keep On Truckin’’ on his right. He had a house over on Fenton Street, over in the Detroit suburb of Dearborn Heights – not one of the better ones. At one time it was probably a nice house, but that was a long time ago. The roof needed new shingling, the exterior needed painting, the gutters were rusty and falling down, the yard needed mowing and the shrubs needed trimming.
A hornet’s nest hung like an apple from the limbs of a dying oak tree. There was an old gray Volvo parked in the driveway - which itself was cracked, with green shoots of weeds poking up through gaps in the concrete. It was the type of house that parents warned their children to stay away from. If a wayward soccer ball was ever accidentally kicked into its yard it was invariably left to sit and rot.
Paul Valenti and Jack Assante were sitting in the rec room. Rock ‘n’ roll posters papered the walls - the usual suspects: Stones, Zeppelin, Floyd. On the shelves there were dozens of paperback books ranging in topic from UFO’s and ghosts to novels, poetry, politics, philosophy, biography and popular culture.
Scattered on the floor were dozens of old magazines and an odd assortment of LP’s ranging from jazz to hard rock. Valenti and Assante were sitting on a dilapidated, food-stained Tartan-plaid couch that boasted threadbare arms and that sagged in the middle from having hosted one too many asses over the years. They were drinking beers and watching the Detroit Tigers baseball game on a portable black and white TV. The TV was old and the sound was off and rock music was playing on the stereo. Assante was rolling a joint on a Deep Purple LP cover.
“Man, that Lolich's throwing heat today,” said Valenti as he accepted the spit-dampened joint from Assante and ignited it with a Zippo. “The guy is pitching like a fucking machine today.”
“Well he’d better slip a few gears,” said Assante, “I got a hundred bucks riding on this game.”
“You’re betting the Rangers against Detroit?” Valenti passed the joint back to Assante. He took it and inhaled deeply.
“No, I’m betting against Lolich. The rest of the team can do whatever the fuck they want to do just as long as Lolich is the losing pitcher.”
“Well, I don’t think that I like you coming into my house and bad-vibing my team,” said Valenti. “Hey, don’t Bogart that joint, man.”
Assante passed the weed back to Valenti. He took a massive hit and held it for about twenty seconds before he let it out slowly. A dense cloud of smoke enveloped his head like a crown. “Man this is some killer shit,” he grinned. “What is it?”
“It’s called Montezuma’s Revenge.”
Valenti laughed. “‘Montezuma’s Revenge’? That’s what they call it when you get the shits… Where’d you get it?”
“I know the chick who grows it down in Mexico,” Assante replied. “This shit only grows in this one particular spot on this one particular mountain down in Mexico, man.”
“Really? That’s far-out.”
There was the sound of a car crunching on the gravel in his driveway, and a moment later a car horn beeped-out “Shave and a Haircut, Two-Bits.” Valenti coughed on the smoke and then sprang off of the couch and went to the window. He bent back the Venetian blinds and peeped out. In the driveway was a gold 1972 Chevrolet Chevelle.
“Who is it man?” asked Assante with a touch of paranoia in his voice. He had grabbed the bag of weed, intending to flush it if necessary.
Behind the wheel of the Chevy sat a stocky, powerfully built, man in his early-forties. He stood at around five-foot ten and weighed in at about 280-pounds, most of which had once been muscle but was now mostly fat. His eyes were small and piggish and his nostrils flared a little, adding to his overall porcine look He wore his dark brown hair close-cropped and slightly oiled and he had comically bushy eyebrows; the type you would see on villains in the silent movies. He wore thin black cotton slacks, a short-sleeved white shirt with a white sleeveless t-shirt visible underneath it and a wide floral tie. He was sipping on a cold beer and trading jokes with a scraggly-looking Mexican man in his thirties who sat in the passenger’s seat. Valenti smiled and then looked at his watch. It was almost as if he had been expecting them.
“Who is it?” asked Assante again.
“Relax.” Valenti let blinds snap back into place. “Be right back.” He grabbed his beer and headed toward the door. “Pop yourself another brew.”
After Valenti left Assante waited about thirty seconds and then he rose off of the couch and peeped out of the window. He saw Valenti standing at the driver’s side door, shaking hands with the powerfully built man. They smiled and laughed. They obviously were friendly with each other. Valenti then reached across the powerfully built man in order to soul-shake hands with the Mexican.
While Assante couldn’t make out what they were saying, every once in a while one of them would laugh and slap their leg. For some reason he felt as if they were talking about him, laughing about him, and he didn’t like that. Sure enough, after a few more moments he saw Paul Valenti turn toward the house and point directly at the window where he was standing. He felt the urge to back away from the window, but for some reason he didn’t. Valenti then said a few unheard words to both men in the Chevy, and then the powerfully built man looked over to where Valenti was pointing. Valenti then said something else, obviously the punch line, as the powerfully built man then threw back his head and roared with laughter. This upset Assante.
Valenti then noticed – or gave the appearance of noticing - Assante standing at the window, and he waved an arm at him, inviting him to come out and join them. Assante hesitated for a moment. There was something about the big man that he didn’t like; even at this distance he seemed to broadcast bad vibes like an out-of-phase radio station. Valenti waved him over again, so Assante let the blinds snap back into place then he grabbed his beer and went out to join them.
Jack stepped off of the porch and strolled casually across the yard toward the Chevy, sipping on his beer and feigning cool nonchalance. “What’s happening?” he said once he got within shouting distance.
“Hey Jack, come here, I want you to meet a friend of mine,” said Valenti. “This is Pat Danielson.”
Assante wiped the beer sweat from his palm and then reached out and shook hands with the powerfully built man. “How do you do, Pat?” he said, forcing a smile.
Danielson grinned and took Assante’s hand, gripping it firmly. “Well, I do jus
fine, Jack,” he said. “Just fine…”
“Pat’s a Fed,” said Valenti.
Assante reacted as if Danielson’s hand had suddenly turned white-hot. He tried to draw it back but Danielson held firm, actually tightening his grip as he pulled Assante closer toward him, smiling all the while like a demented circus clown. “How do you do Jack?” he said. “Do you do okay?” Assante struggled to free his hand but Danielson’s grip was tight like a vice. He squeezed until Assante’s fingers turned white.
“Hey, let go man,” Assante squealed.
Danielson chuckled as Jack squirmed like a worm on a hook. It was apparently some sort of game of chicken, but Jack Assante didn’t know the rules.
“Hey relax Pat, Jack’s an okay guy,” said Valenti.
“He is? Oh. Okay then.” He suddenly let go of Assante's hand and he fell back, stumbled over his feet and then landed hard on his ass. His beer went flying across the yard. Everyone laughed. “You okay there, Jack?” Danielson sipped his beer and made no effort to help him to his feet. “What I mean is, are you an okay guy?”
“What the fuck, man?” Assante said as he struggled to his feet. He rubbed his sore ass with his sore hand.
“Hey now,” Danielson said in mock rebuke, “I don’t appreciate you using that kind of language in front of my dark friend here.” He jerked a thumb at the Mexican man. “He’s trying to learn English and I don’t want him picking up any bad linguistic habits.”
The Mexican man, who had been staring holes at Assante the entire time, muttered something in Spanish under his breath, causing Danielson to laugh. This pissed-off Assante and he turned to glare at the Mexican.
The Mexican man wore a black cowboy hat, a black Stetson with a rattlesnake hatband, neatly pressed black jeans, spotless black cowboy boots with silver tips and a black wife-beater t-shirt. He had what appeared to be dozens of knife cuts and burn marks across his shoulders and forearms. He didn’t look like the sort of guy any sane man would want to tangle with, but Assante was angry as both his pride and his ass were hurt.
“What did you say that was so funny?” he said to the Mexican.
Valenti let out a low groan, knowing what was coming next.
Danielson gave Assante a mischievous grin. “How’s that again, pardner?” He put a hand to his ear, as if he were hard of hearing.
“I want to know what he said that was so Goddamn funny.”
“Leave it Jack,” Valenti said, placing a hand on Assante’s shoulder. Assante shrugged it off.
“Well there you go using bad words again,” said Danielson. “I told you, I don’t want him learning a lot of bad habits.”
“I don’t give a shit, I don’t like being laughed at. I want to know what he said.”
Danielson took his time in answering, relishing the situation. “Exactly who are you talking about, slick?” he said. “Him?” He jerked his thumb at the Mexican man again.
“Yeah, Jose there,” said Assante.
Danielson chuckled. “Jose? You got the wrong fellow. His name’s not Jose. This is my partner, Eddie: ‘Eddie the Mean Mexican.’ Say ‘hi’ to the man Eddie.”
“Cinga tu madre,” Eddie spat. His eyes were fixed on Assante like a tomcat’s on a mouse.
“What did he say?” said Assante, his temper rising.
“He said ‘cinga tu madre,’” Danielson replied evenly.
“Well what the fuck’s ‘chinky tomorrow’ supposed to mean?”
“Damned if I know what it means - but he says it all the Goddamn time.”
“That sounds like a lot of bullshit to me.”
Danielson chuckled and then killed his beer. He glowered at Assante as he crushed the can vertically, with one hand, and then tossed the flattened empty on Valenti’s lawn. “Yeah? Well I don’t know as if I’m all that concerned with what you think, friend.” He unbuckled his seat belt and made as if to get out of the car. Assante instinctively backed away.
“Pat, please,” Valenti said hissed, “not here. I got neighbors.”
Danielson shifted his gaze over to Valenti. He cocked his head to one side and shrugged his massive shoulders. A smile parted his heavy lips. “Okay Paul. Not a problem,” he said, “I understand about neighbors. Hell, all I wanted was to just drop by and give you a shout. Eddie and me, we got to go see a man about something anyway.”
He buckled his seatbelt and cranked the engine. “Nice to see you again Paul,” he said, and then turning to Assante he added: “and Jack, you keep it in the road, okay?” He and Eddie laughed, apparently it was some sort of in-joke, and then he put the car in gear and backed the Chevy slowly out of the drive, almost at a creep, with Eddie dead-eyeing Assante the entire time and muttering Mexican curses under his breath. Once the car was in the road Danielson stopped, shifted the transmission into drive, and then screeched away at high speed, leaving black skid marks on the street, like a dog leaving his mark.
Assante watched as the Chevy accelerated dangerously down a slope and then disappeared in a skid around a curve. “What the fuck is that guy’s problem?” he said.
“How do you mean?”
“What do you mean ‘how do I mean?’ Who the hell was that asshole?”
“Pat? An asshole? Aww, Pat's an okay guy Jack,” Valenti said. “You just got to get to know him better, that’s all. C'mon, let's go watch the rest of the game.”
********************
Jack Assante sipped at his glass of water and then set it down on the table, careful to place it back in exactly the same spot where it had been sitting, and folded his hands neatly in his lap. Apparently he was finished. After a few seconds Agent Lipskey said: “What, that's it?”
“Yeah,” Assante said quietly, “no more to it.”
Lipskey sighed in exasperation.
“…What?”
“So... Who's Eddie? Eddie who?” Burke asked. He irritably pushed his straying forelock back into place with the long, thin fingers of his left hand. They were the hands of a pianist although, much to his mother’s disappointment, he did not know how to play.
“No idea,” said Assante. “‘Eddie the Mean Mexican’ is all I ever knew.”
Burke glanced over at Lipskey. His frustration was palpable; his face was flushing red with annoyance. Burke looked back at Jack Assante. “Well, I have to be honest Jack, you're really not giving us much to work with here.”
“‘Not much?’” barked Lipskey, “how about ‘not anything.’ In fact, that’s the biggest load of nothing I’ve ever heard in my life… Do you really expect us to give you some sort of consideration for that steaming pile of --”
“Hey, what, you want me to make stuff up?” Assante turned to Lipskey and half-rose up from his chair.
“Sit down, Jack,” Manson said calmly but firmly. Jack slowly resumed his seat, although his anger did not abate.
“Look,” Assante said in a consciously calmer and controlled voice, “you asked me about the first meeting and I told you. I’m not going to make-up stuff just to make it more interesting.” Manson placed a quieting finger on Assante’s arm. He sighed. “Okay okay… I’m sorry. I got a problem with authority.”
“That’s okay Jack,” Burke said soothingly. “I’m not too wild about my boss sometimes either.” He smiled, but Assante looked down at his hands. “Did you see Pat Danielson again?”
“Well yeah. I didn’t mean that was the end of the story… I saw Danielson probably a month or so later. Me and the other fellow, my friend, the guy who had introduced me to Danielson, were over at some night club on Willis and Third.”
********************
The club was called The Willis Street Showbar, and back in the 1940’s and 1950’s it had been a somewhat stylish and up-scale supper club that featured top-flight international singing talent. Johnnie Ray had once performed there, as had Jack Scott, Hank Ballard and the Midnighters and many other noted (and, more often than not, footnoted) entertainers of the day, including novelty acts such as Eddie Gajec and the Belle Airs, an all-girl orchestra noted for their ‘sweet-swing intermixed with bright jump tunes and brilliant rhumba selections.’
People came to The Willis dressed in their best and ready to dine and dance the night away, sip on fancy cocktails and drink imported beers. But times, and tastes, changed and, by the mid-1970’s, the once opulent entertainment showcase had deteriorated and turned into a mostly forgotten dive, a place where old strippers came to die. These days it was a place where grizzled autoworkers, horny college kids and out-of-work mechanics came to guzzle cheap booze, ogle the ‘exotic dancers’ and pick-up the prostitutes cum hostesses who padded around the bar in skimpy outfits looking for ‘a date.’
At around 7:30 p.m. on a Tuesday night, Paul Valenti and Jack Assante were sitting in the mostly empty lounge having drinks and dinner. Perhaps on account of their more ‘high-class surroundings’ they had substituted Jack ‘n’ Coke’s for their usual bottles of Stroh’s. A bevy of colored lights splashed haphazardly on a middle-aged topless dancer with a noticeable belly as she shuffled listlessly on the stage to the tune on the jukebox. Valenti was in the middle of discussing his favorite conspiracy theory with Assante.
“I tell you,” Valenti said, “the guy’s dead, and he’s been dead since 1966.”
“Oh man, not this shit again,” Assante moaned.
“What do you mean ‘shit’? It’s a proven fact.”
“No it’s not.”
“Okay, so maybe it’s not a proven fact, per se, but the clues are right there in front of your face. All you got to do it look at them.”
Assante snorted and took a bite from his baked potato. “You’re stone-cold tripping, man.”
“Look,” continued Valenti, “you take the cover of Abbey Road... McCartney’s the only guy on the cover barefoot. That’s the way they bury dead people in Wales.”
“McCartney’s not Welsh, he’s from Liverpool.”
“That’s not the point, it’s a clue. I’m telling you, the walrus was Paul, man,” he said knowingly.
“Yeah, what does that even mean?”
Valenti had no immediate answer for that, so he consulted with the whiskey in his glass instead and muttered: “Aww, you think you know everything...”
“Hey, sorry I'm late guys,” a voice called out. A second later the hulking body of Pat Danielson squeezed its way into the booth. He sat next to Valenti, who had to press himself hard against wall in order to accommodate the big man. Assante was surprised, and a little unhappy, to see Danielson there but Valenti, again, acted as if his appearance was expected.
“Pat, you remember Jack Assante, right?” Valenti said.
Danielson peered at Assante for a moment, acting as if he were trying to place the face, then a sly smile spread across his thick lips. “Sure, ‘the okay guy,’” he said warmly. “How are you doing Jack? You still doing okay?” He laughed and held out his hand.
“I’m fine,” Assante said, ignoring Danielson’s outstretched hand.
“Aww, you not still sore about last time are you? I was just having a little fun, that’s all.”
Before Assante could respond, the stage lights dimmed and a disembodied voice boomed over the loud speakers: “Ladies and gentlemen,” said the voice, “the Willis Street Revue is proud to bring you the vocal stylings of Miss Honey West!”
The house lights then dimmed and a red velvet curtain on stage parted, revealing a small jazz combo. They began to play “Is That All There Is?” in a slow and slinky way. A moment later a small blue spotlight hit the stage and a woman with dyed bottle-blonde hair cut in a long shag, like Jane Fonda in Klute, entered from the right side of the stage. She wore a floor-length gold lame gown and white gloves that went all the way up to her elbows. Honey gently pulled the microphone from its stand and caressed its length for a moment, in a slightly lascivious way, and then she parted her ruby lips and began to sing.
Miss Honey West was easily on the flip-side of fifty, but she prided herself on her appearance and on her trim figure - which was due in no small part to her day job as a calisthenics instructor/yoga teacher, and to her secret health regimen which consisted of regurgitating after every meal.
Miss West’s gentle, hip-swaying performance had completely captivated the attentions of both Valenti and Danielson - in fact, Pat threw her many air kisses which she ‘caught’ in mid-air. It was a gesture that might have been charming had it been performed by a young ingénue in her twenties, but it seemed vaguely sad and depressing when Honey did it.
Meanwhile Jack Assante looked nervously around the club and fidgeted with his drink. He didn’t much like the bar, or the woman’s performance - which he thought was like something you’d see in some roadside dive on the outskirts of Las Vegas - and he especially didn’t like the fact that Pat Danielson was sitting there.
There was something about the man that made him feel uneasy in an indefinable way. It was if he was a mechanical toy that was perfect in every way except that it was missing a small, but integral, gear needed to make it work properly. Some important element of humanness had been omitted from the recipe.
After a few minutes into her song, Danielson leaned over close to Assante, so close that Assante could smell the stench of the stale cigar on his breath, and spoke to him in a hoarse whisper from the side of his mouth. He never once took his eyes away from Miss West.
“She’s good, isn’t she Jack?”
Assante backed away slightly from the smell and the general closeness and cleared his throat. “Yes,” he said. “She’s very… glittery.”
“She can juggle too, although I told her that I didn’t think it really fit her act.”
Assante glanced at Danielson, thinking that maybe he was making some sort of absurd joke, but he looked completely serious.
“…Yes, well, I think… she’s good. I like her.” He sipped his drink and left it at that.
Danielson finally turned his head to look at Assante. “You like her? You want her? I can introduce you if you’d like.”
“…You mean do I ‘want to meet her, right?’”
“No, I mean do you want her. You know, fucky-fucky.” He gave a lopsided grin as he made a circle with the fingers of his left hand and then stabbed it with a crude in-and-out motion with his right forefinger.
Assante nearly choked on his Jack Daniels. “What are you talking about?” he managed to choke-out between cough spurts.
“What do you mean ‘what am I talking about?’ I mean do you want to sleep with her? It’s okay, I can fix it, she works for me. In fact, all the girls here work for me.” He took in the place with a sweeping gesture.
“What, you mean… you’re a pimp?”
Assante could tell the moment that the words left his lips that it was a mistake. A dark look came over Danielson’s face, as if the sun had gone behind the clouds.
“Hey, fuck you,” he said. “I try to be a nice guy and buy you a woman - and you call me a fucking pimp?”
Valenti caught the tone, if not the actual words, of Danielson’s voice and deduced at once that something had made Pat mad, which wasn’t good. “Guys,” he pleaded, “the lady’s performing.”
For some reason that seemed to register with Danielson and his temper abruptly altered. He returned his attention back to the stage and smiled at Honey like a lovesick puppy, completely forgetting the anger that he’d felt just a moment earlier. The man’s a psycho, Assante thought. He’s like a charging rhino; just step out of its line of vision and it completely forgets why it was running after you.
A few moments later the song ended and the small crowd applauded laconically. Danielson, however, jumped to his feet and clapped loudly and whistled like a teapot. He shouted out: “Bravo!” as if she had just nailed “Un Bel Di Vedremo” from Madam Butterfly.
“Let’s just say I get a small percentage of their... gratuities.” Danielson said to Assante as he clapped.
“Pat owns the place Jack,” said Valenti.
“Correction, technically I just have ‘an interest.’” He stopped applauding and resumed his seat. “Granted that interest is more than 90 percent.” He roared with laughter and nudged Valenti who chorused his chuckle, although he didn’t think that it was particularly funny. “So what do you say Jack, you want to meet my Miss Honey?” Without waiting for a reply Danielson threw up a hand and waved her over to the booth. A few moments later Miss West made her way through the hall and to their table.
“Hi Patsy,” she cooed. “Thanks a bunch for the flowers in my dressing room.” She giggled. “Hey, I made a joke. Bunch. Flowers. Get it?”
“I bet they hid their heads in shame when they saw your beauty,” Danielson smiled.
“Oh Patsy, you are a doll,” she tittered and fanned herself with her hand, as if the compliment had given her the vapors. It was a grotesque gesture coming from her.
“Honey, you were mesmerizing tonight,” Danielson said. He took her hand and kissed it.
“Thanks Patsy,” Honey said. “I got a bit of a cold, but I didn’t want to disappoint my audience.”
“Hi Honey,” said Valenti eagerly.
She glanced over at him, disinterestedly. “Hi, Paul.” Her voice was flat and had a slightly nasal tone.
“You were really sexy up there Honey,” Valenti continued. “You gave me a boner.”
“Thanks hon,” she turned her attention to Assante. “So who’s this swinging dick?”
“I was just about to introduce you two, doll face,” Danielson said. “Sit down, sit down - Jack, scrunch over and let the lady sit down, will you?”
Assante muttered something that sounded like ‘sorry’ and slid over so that Miss West could sit down. She slipped into the booth and immediately kicked off her high-heels and began to massage her left foot.
“These fucking heels should be illegal,” she said, “they should be a crime.”
“You want me to arrest them for you baby doll?” grinned Danielson.
“Shoot, the only reason we girls even wear ‘em is to please you no-good, dirty-minded horndogs. If it was up to me I’d be up there wearing my house slippers.”
Danielson cackled.
“I’m serious, Pat. You ever try to walk in these damn things?”
“Baby,” said Danielson, “the only time you need to take those things off is when you climb into bed.”
“With you? Fat chance.”
They both laughed.
“Well, then what about with my friend here?” Danielson pointed at Assante. Honey glanced at Assante, giving him the once-over a couple of times.
“Ain’t my type,” she said, then added to him: “No offence honey, but I don’t date people of the Jewish persuasion.”
“I’m not a --”
“You have a type?” quipped Danielson. “Shit, I thought your only requirement was that they have a heartbeat.” He guffawed, but Honey was not amused.
“You take that back Pat!” she said in a hurt tone. “That’s an awful thing to say to a lady. You make me sound... cheap.”
Danielson took a sip of Valenti’s drink and smiled. “Damn, at a hundred bucks an hour the one thing you ain’t is cheap, baby.”
“Well, of all the Goddamn nerve!” Honey picked up her heels and then stomped angrily away, her bare feet slapping the floor. Danielson roared. Assante was so embarrassed by the entire situation that he didn’t know what to do or where to look. He’d never met such an asshole in his life and he rued the day that Paul had introduced them.
“Gee Pat…” Valenti said, “that was a little rough, don’t you think?”
Danielson choked-off his laugh and turned to Valenti with fire in his eyes. “You shut your stupid fucking mouth you stupid fucking junkie,” he said in a quiet but menacing tone. “If I want your opinion I’ll beat it the fuck out of you.” Valenti shrunk back as far as he could, wishing that he could melt into the wall. After a moment Danielson grew bored of Valenti’s cowering and he turned his attention to Assante. “There’s something I been meaning to tell you Jack...” He sounded grave.
“What?” said Assante. His brain was spinning and he could not wait for this evening to end.
“You’re under arrest.” Danielson pulled a pair of handcuffs out of his jacket pocket and plopped them onto the table. He stared at Assante hard and unblinkingly. Assante swung his eyes to the cuffs and then opened and closed his mouth like a landed fish.
“…What? Arrest? …What for?” he eventually managed to stammer.
“Shit, a scumbag on parole like you, I'm sure I could find a dozen reasons in double-Dutch time,” said Danielson. “I can start with your consorting with a known felon.” He jerked a finger at Valenti. “And I bet if I look hard enough I can probably find a dope violation or two. So, how’s it going to be Jack? Are you going to come along peacefully, or am I going to have to use force?” He unholstered his weapon, a magnum .357, and laid it next to the cuffs. Assante stared at the cuffs, then at the gun, then back at Danielson. Perspiration began to form on his forehead.
“What the fuck...” he rasped. “Paul, what sort of shit did you get me into?”
“Me?” replied Valenti. “I don’t know what the fuck’s going on here. Pat, what the hell are you doing?”
“What’s it look like I’m doing, jackass?” Danielson snapped; his voice was as cold as walrus shit. “Am I having difficulty in making my intentions known around here or something? I’m taking our new friend Jack here into Federal custody.” Assante and Danielson locked eyes. Rivulets of sweat began to drip down Assante’s cheeks and onto his neck. “And if he sweats on my Goddamn table I’m going to fucking shoot him.”
“Good God …” Valenti gasped. “Pat, you can’t murder him in cold blood…”
“I’m a Federal agent, I can do whatever the fuck I want.”
Assante wiped off his sweat with a bar napkin and then ran through some quick scenarios in his mind. He thought for a minute about making a run for the door, but he knew that he didn’t stand a chance; Danielson would probably shoot him in the back before he got ten steps away. He briefly considered grabbing the revolver off the table and shooting Danielson in the face, but he knew that plan was out too: the way he was shaking he’d probably miss anyway.
Then, just as the tension was nearly at its breaking point… Danielson began to chuckle. And then Valenti began to chuckle. Assante was now both scared and confused. His eyes darted to Danielson and then to Valenti and then back again.
“He got you, man!” cried Valenti. “Oh man - haw, haw, haw - he so fucking got you.”
“Scared much, Jack?” Danielson wiped the tears of laughter from his eyes. “Man, I bet - har, har, har – that you were crapping your pants – har, har, har - you were so scared...”
The pair rolled against each other and hee-hawed with laughter like a couple of Mardi Gras drunks. Once he realized that this was all just an elaborate prank, a perverted game of Danielson’s - that he was not about to be arrested or killed - Assante felt his fear melt away. He gave out a relieved giggle that turned into a nervous chuckle and, before long, he was laughing unashamedly at himself right along with them.
********************
“I didn’t see Danielson again for a couple of weeks or so, then one day he walked into my office...”
The State Farm Insurance office was a simple brick front building on Michigan Avenue. This was where Jack Assante kept daytime business hours as the manager. His father owned the place. It was late summer, around mid-August, just another normal working day: the phones were ringing; people were bustling around filing papers or sitting at desks typing. Jack Assante stood near the front entrance going over the particulars of a client’s homeowner policy with Sarah Beth, a new agent. He was dressed in a conservative black business suit. His hair was neatly combed and his face was whisker-free.
“Then you can tell the client that with Consequential Coverage it’ll cover his off-premises losses,” he was saying.
“What’s off-premises losses?” asked Sarah Beth.
“Off-premises losses? Well things like utilities, spoilage from refrigeration… you know, stuff like --”
BOOM!
The front door flew open so hard that it whanged off of the doorstop and sailed back toward the jam, only to be stopped halfway through its arc by the looming figure of Pat Danielson. He stood there for a moment, like Clint Eastwood in Dirty Harry, and made a show out of whipping off his sunglasses and slowly scanning the room. All business came to a dead stop as everyone jerked their heads toward the door and gaped at the hulking giant standing in the doorway.
He flashed his shield and shouted: “Federal agent! Hands up! Nobody move!” Everyone automatically shot up their hands. “I’m here to see Mr. Jack Assante.” All eyes shifted to Jack. Like the others, he had been initially stunned by Danielson’s shock and awe entrance, but now that he saw that it was Pat Danielson playing one of his bullshit bully games he was pissed. He lowered his arms.
“That’s him - right there in front of you,” stammered one of the State Farm agents, helpfully pointing Assante out. Jack gave the agent a dirty look.
“Gee, thanks, Cliff,” he said.
“Playtime's over Assante!” Danielson bellowed, “I'm here to take you downtown.” He pocketed his shield and whipped out his handcuffs and dangled them. They jangled like sleigh bells. “Now, are you going to come along quietly or am I going to have to get rough?” Some of the agents gasped. Some of the girls began to cry.
“For Christ sake Pat, this isn’t funny,” Assante said. “This is my office.”
“Okay Assante, you want to play it hard then it’s going to get hard.” Danielson unholstered his firearm and then someone screamed. Assante turned to his co-workers and tried to calm them. “He’s just joking everybody. This is a friend of mine. Please, put your hands down, it’s just a gag...”
A wry smile flickered across Danielson’s lips, like a fluorescent light stuttering on, and he holstered his weapon. “He’s right folks, it’s just a gag; a little game Jack and I play. You can put your arms down now.”
There were sighs of relief as the agents put their arms down, but there then came the inevitable grumbled things like “I don’t think that’s very funny” and “I think somebody should call the cops” as they slowly went back to their work. Assante excused himself from Sarah Beth and went over to Danielson.
“Look, fun's fun Pat but --”
“Hey Jack, can you break away for a minute or two? Grab a cup of coffee?”
His gee-whiz manner, coming so soon as it did after his blustery Doomsday entrance, caught Assante off-guard. “Grab a coffee? For Christsake Pat, you blast in here like the Marines or something and scare everyone half to death, and now you --”
“Won't take more than a few minutes of your time, I promise. I noticed a coffee shop on the corner. It’s really important.”
Assante looked at Danielson in disbelief. He knew from past experience that the only way to get rid of a pest like Pat was to give in and give him what he wanted. He sighed heavily and rubbed his face in frustration. “...Okay, Pat. I guess I can spare a few minutes.”
Danielson grinned and butlered the door for Assante, and then he turned to the insurance agents on his way out and said: “Y’all have a nice day, okay?”
Once they were outside Danielson immediately donned a massive pair of sunglasses. The frames were so huge that they obscured half of his face, and the lenses were coalmine black. They looked like the type of glasses that the ophthalmologist might give you after you’ve had your eyes dilated, or the sort that blind people wore. They began to walk toward a coffee shop at the end of the block and, as they went, Assante noticed that Danielson rolled from side to side when he walked, like a bear.
“Beautiful day, isn’t it Jack?”
“Yeah, I suppose.” Assante was too pissed to engage in idle chitchat.
“What color do you call that sky?”
Assante glanced up at the heavens. It looked normal enough to him. “I dunno, ‘sky color?’”
“No no no, it has another name, I used to know it. ‘Assure… obscure…’ something like that.”
“Azure?”
“That’s it: azure! It’s an azure blue sky. Hey, how’d you know that?”
Assante shrugged his shoulders and lit a cigarette. He didn’t like being pandered-to. They walked on in silence for a few moments then Danielson said: “You know Jack, I've talked to the agency about you.”
Assante stopped and turned to Danielson, his eyes flashing with anger. “Pat, listen, that joke's just not funny anymore, okay? I mean, it’s bad enough you come to my – hey wait a minute, how did you know where I worked anyway?”
Danielson grinned. “Really, Jack… I’m a Fed; I have the resources of the entire United States Government at my fingertips. I can find out anything.” It was a good story, but in actuality Paul Valenti had told Danielson where Assante worked.
“Oh, okay. Well anyway, enough with the Billy Jack routine, okay? I’ll be lucky if I don’t get fired over this.”
“Look, I was serious, I've been checking you out, Jack.”
Assante tried to search Danielson’s eyes, to determine whether or not this was another sick joke, but they were obscured behind the dark lenses. “Checking me out? What for?”
“For instance, I know all about the liquor hijacking back in ’70 – one-hundred grand worth of J&B wasn’t it? I know that you were arrested for dealing pot back in ’68, that you did three years in state for aggravated assault and that you're currently facing a fifteen-year stretch in the Federal pen for a weapons violation: selling sawed-off shotguns, as I recall. Hell, I even know about your Goddamn jay-walking ticket last year…You're in a world of shit, Jack.” Danielson smiled, pleased with himself.