The Life and Times of Innis E. Coxman (17 page)

He
looked up from the deadbeat and snickered, two feet of green water hose curved
downward from his right hand cascading water into the tub, thinning the
concrete with every drop.

“Aw
c’mon, Innis, I was bored just waiting around. I was only fuckin’ with the guy.
We’re right here, man. It’s not like he’s gonna get away or anyth-”

A
flash of screaming flannel barreled passed me into the great deluge.

The
deadbeat left wet clumps of Quikrete in his wake. I had no choice but to pull
my piece and let one fly, shooting him in the back to put him down. He crashed
on his face next to the driver’s side of my car. The Hydro-Shock ripped into
his left lung and he was still kicking with life. Soaking and pissed, I ran to
him and put one behind his right ear before he could try to get up. His
problems were over.

Asshole
should’ve known he wasn’t going to get far with his arms tied to his waist,
especially in a hurricane. What’s more, I don’t like shooting people in the
back if I can help it, but that idiot Sal had forced my hand. If you think
about it, though, I did the guy a favor:

Drowning
or getting a quick shot to the head. What would
you
choose?

Sal’s
bullshit stopped all conversation. We silently worked around each other the
rest of the night, dragging that dead bastard back inside and tying him to
cinder blocks with link chains. I grabbed some bolt cutters and cut off his
fingers (something we didn’t normally do because concrete didn’t give
fingerprints a chance to resurface). The next day after the storm had blown
over, we sailed a few miles into the Gulf and threw him over the side of the boat.

Fuck it,
I thought. If by some chance he came loose from
his cocoon of chains and cinder blocks, hopefully the fish would do me a favor
with his face before he reached the surface, if the sharks didn’t see to him
first.

I
brought it up to Marco that afternoon, thinking he would do something with Sal
because that shit couldn’t happen again. His reaction was less than
satisfactory.

“So
what? The guy was having a little fun. What’s the deal, Innis? Big, bad Coxman
can kill a man but can’t handle some jokes to kill
time?
Hahaha!”

I
was told to forget it. Not to worry about it. Outside the bar that served as
Marco’s office, one of the boys took me aside, dropping a bug that Marco had
always been lax in disciplining rule breakers. It was nothing new. The Don had
tolerated it for years because Marco was who he was. Said that when problems
arose within the crew, we were expected to handle it amongst ourselves.

***

Noted.

***

Sal
and I later had a come-to-Jesus in one of the Don’s empty warehouses where my
baton extracted an apology from that silly clown.

I
wish I could tell you that things got better. I’d love to say that the Don sat
Marco down and he began taking his duties more seriously. I can’t, though,
because that would mean I was still with the Outfit and you and I would’ve
never met (and that would suck for you). Instead, Marco upped the ante when he
began sabotaging his own men.

***

Case
in point: there was a hitman in the crew named Asston who’d had a long,
intimate relationship with the family. For as long as anyone could remember,
he’d been schtooping Fellationa, the Don’s well-endowed and orally fixated
daughter. It was supposed to be one of those “hush-hush” type of things, which
meant that everyone from the city treasurer to the paperboy knew about it. Of
course, the Don was aware, but turned a blind eye to their trysts. Ballasacko
had known Asston and his family for years. He and Fellationa had been high
school sweethearts before time pulled them apart like so many young couples. As
they reached adulthood, they realized their love for one another still burned
like a fresh STD from Vegas. Asston was married, but the Don’s silence condoned
their arrangement.

And
whatever Don Balls said—or didn’t say—was law.

Poliona
threw down the bullshit card. He didn’t like someone in his crew boning his
sister, not even Asston. Despite the fact that they were old flames; despite
the fact that his and Asston’s friendship went all the way back to high school
football. Marco strayed from the rules of family, friendship, and the mafia
itself.

He
fed his friend to the cops.

Through
a convoluted plan that Ray Charles should’ve seen, that Benedict Arnold framed
Asston for a string of break-ins that’d been occurring at a sperm bank in
Metairie, a city just west of New Orleans.

Marco
tore his sister’s heart out.

And
Asston is doing twenty years for burglary and theft (stealing the juice of life
can put you down for a while, apparently).

Any
respect I’d had for the Don’s son vanished like Hyper Colors. I couldn’t stay
in the family anymore, knowing that he was free to conduct himself in whatever
manner he saw fit, casting the needs of his people to the wayside, sending
good, innocent guys to jail to suit a need for control (or however good and
innocent a killer can be, but you get my drift). It made me think of what would
happen should he ever decide to turn on
me
.

I
needed to go see the Don.

***

I’d
always heard that the only way out of the mob was to be killed, even if you
were just an associate. Jesus, I hoped that was a rumor.
When I went to the massage parlor, I wasn’t sure whether I was going to
leave on my feet or stretched out in a plastic bag.

The
Don was seated at a white card table when I entered his office, conferring with
his consigliere over some business matter, flanked by two massive soldiers
whose brutality dwarfed their biceps. My fear was underscored by the memory of
their last interrogation, a bloody Q & A of a snitch that ended with
fingers on the floor and ball peins to his teeth.

There
was no need to preamble. I gave the Don a respectful greeting, then told him
straight away I needed out.

And
why.

“Innis,”
he said in his
froggy
voice from behind a rocks glass,
“Marco is my son and I love him very much. I’ve tried to teach him the meaning
of respect. What it means to be a leader. To be honorable, to listen to the
problems of your men, to try and help whenever you can. After all, a happy crew
is a loyal crew, no?”
Sigh.
“But it never took. The
piccolo bastardo
could
never understand that. He always had to be pigheaded. Always had to be the big
shot. I’ve dealt with his irresponsible ways for years. Cleaning up his
mistakes, hoping he would change. But this deal with Asston”—circling his free
hand at the ceiling—“I see now what has to be done with him.” He lightly
slapped a knee. “
Questa e la vita,
eh?”  

He
put his drink down and stood, the silent soldier on his right immediately
stepping back to give way. When he’d waddled around the table and reached me,
he cupped my face in his hands. They were huge and rough and enveloped my
entire mug.

He
didn’t need soldiers.

Even
at his age, he could’ve crushed my head like a graham cracker.

“Yes,
my boy, you can leave. You’ve always done a good job for us, Innis, and I hate
to see you go. But you’re free. May you have a long life filled with peace and
prosperity.
” He dropped his hands, smiling like a predator
who’d cornered its quarry.

“I
ask only one small favor of you in return.....”

***

Fred
and I left the Crescent City that night. We had our belongings all packed and
ready to bounce after I did the deed. He was so happy when I walked through the
door that he spat out the old bra he’d been chewing on and tackled me.

***

My
previous dealings in the underbelly had instilled in me a criminal code of
ethics; a form of street conduct adhered to even by pimps, junkies, and purse
snatchers. But my time with the Ballasacko Family—being around men who lived
and died by the gun, watching how they interacted with one another, the
exchange of respect that was required to make the Family operate at its prime—
that
ingrained the definition of loyalty for me deeper than
Old Yeller
ever
could.

I’ll
never forget Don Balls, New Orleans, or the lessons I took away from that life,
although there is one memory of the urban swamp I’d love to expel that still
sends me screaming into my pillow:

The
goddamn sickening sound of Marco’s webbed left foot sloshing in concrete.

I’ve spent the last few days on the internet researching old
classmates from junior high all the way to high school.
Not for the
purpose of a heartfelt reunion, mind you, but to see how my life has unfolded
in contrast to theirs.

Call
it self-torture.

I’ve
found that many of my old school chums have gone on to stake successful claims
in the fields of finance, medicine, science, and law. Some have lucrative
careers in the world of sports. A handful have achieved the American dream of
owning their own businesses.

Once
I saw the good fortune of some of my peers, my self-worth belly-flopped like
the dark and hairy nipples of a fat, aging whore.

Then
I saw a bunch of them whose image pics looked like death warmed over as they
took
another
mugshot for crack possession, forgery, arson, murder,
prostitution, and passing bad checks.

I
didn’t even know there were websites for showcasing that shit.

I
instantly
felt better about myself.

“Hello, Officer.
Didn’t see you there behind all
that thinly veiled evil.....

“Nothing,
sir. This scantily clad lady just needed a ride to church to put money in the
collection box.....  

“Red
streaks on the floorboard? I was repainting a fire hydrant next to the
orphanage.....

“Cocaine?
I find that to be a slanderous accusation, sir. If you possessed any knowledge
of human biology, you would know that the tip of the nose is susceptible to
moisture and may occasionally require a dash of baby powder.....

“What
is your name, my good man? I wish to lodge a formal complaint with your
captain. I will require your precinct number, badge number, and banking
information.....”

***

As
many times as I’ve had this exchange with the exact same cop, you’d think he’d
get tired of the paperwork and just let me ride.

***

A
civilized society needs police officers. They’re our saviors and protectors.
The foot soldiers who come to blast the unholy hell out of the guy trying to
get a cab by wagging his middle finger at the driver. Wherever evil is giving
good
a Dirty Sanchez, you’ll find the long arm of the law
yanking the wind out of its sails like the rug from under a blind person.

In
my opinion, every member of law enforcement is a messiah of truth with the most
capital of good intentions. A guardian whose sole purpose is to see that the
unjust rue the day they ever double-parked or bought a dimebag. They are the
buffers between our crazed sexual urges and that lady of the night who only
comes over at noon (false-advertising bitch). If it weren’t for the good men
and women of the Kevlar, we would swiftly fall prey to our hedonistic
tendencies. Caligula’s reign would rank just above a Mormon insurance seminar
compared to our ensuing debauchery. Police officers everywhere deserve our
trust and eternal devotion. To the death, if necessary.

***

Who
the fuck am I kidding, man?

Okay,
good people, I can’t keep up this charade any longer. It’s much too taxing. If
I attempted this sort of endurance with a woman my prostate would implode.

Those
of you who’ve never had the joy of getting probed with a nightstick should just
bypass this shit right now. I don’t think you’d understand my point of view.
Those of you who work in law enforcement in any capacity may want to skip over
this section, as well.

If
you’ve managed to read this far into your paperweight without setting it on
fire, you’ve extracted that portions of my long-ago behavior have landed me in
more trouble than I’d care to admit.

I’ve
broken the law once or twice. I did it a few times after that. The four
hundredth time was a lot easier than the first two. I lost count after batting
a thousand.

Thank
God and a shitload of luck I’m not in the clink ‘til Judgment Day.

There
was a period of my life when I swam through the justice system like an inept
goldfish, the turbulent waters full of violent offender sharks who stored
shanks in the most unlikely of body cavities. I don’t consider myself a
milquetoast by any means, but it’s fair to say I was scared out of my
gourd: 

I
had to handle restroom duties in a dorm full of bored, impulsive men.

On
the rare occasions I got a hard-on, I had to roll over and face the wall to
catch a nut—when I had the good fortune to land a bunk next to a wall.

And
inasmuch as I blamed other people for having to fight to preserve my precious
manginity, I can point the finger at no one but the guy in the mirror.

But
I’m not here to speak on the detestable state of our prison system.
Lockup
has done quite well with that imagery over the last few years so there’s no
need to expound on it. Besides, if you really want to know what it’s like to be
in jail, you can ask my cousin who was busted for stealing porn from the corner
newsstand (what an embarrassing reason to go to jail, dude). My purpose today
is to discuss the peacekeepers who brought me there. Or rather, those who maced
me in the elevator on the way up to holding.

***

In
my past life as a criminal, I was fortunate enough to exchange pleasantries
with all types of law enforcement personnel. Sometimes, fate went out of her
way to provide me with the civil servants whose lives shit on them with
explosive diarrhea—those who were bullied as children, beaten with the ugly
stick, or mistreated by a funny uncle. As those people grew—cramming all their
childhood suffering into white-hot balls of fury—they were given tasers,
firearms, and billy clubs to go forth and protect society from people-

Just.

Like.

Them.
 

History
has shown us that the human race is the most devious, uncontrollable, and
irrational form of life on the planet. How else do you explain the ancient
Romans throwing men into battle with lions for the sake of sport? What
conceivable reason could someone have for setting a homeless person ablaze as
they slept on a park bench? Who will rationalize as to why a first-world
government can swoop into a foreign country under the facade of salvation only
to ransack its natural resources? And what disjointed motive would a man have
behind stabbing the guy in the next apartment for bumping ‘N Sync at 1 AM?
(Nevermind.)

In
addition to opposable thumbs and our capacity for critical thought, nature has
also embedded us with more savagery than any animal you’d find in the jungle.
To my knowledge—and correct me if I’m wrong—we are the only organisms in the
world who kill each other over cell phones, clothing, fender benders, lottery
tickets, vehicles, religious beliefs, parking spaces, liquor, plane seats,
drugs, stereos, money, jobs, sports, heavy traffic, Christmas toys, facial
expressions, pride, just because we want to.....

Great
Jesus. The list goes on and on.

I
have grown. I have matured. I have greying pubic hair. So now I fully grasp the
necessity for law and order in our communities. Maybe in our lifetime the Earth
will do us all a favor and swallow humanity into its jowls to be digested into
a better plane. One devoid of hate and callousness. But for the time being, the
only things preventing most of us from throwing someone under a speeding
garbage truck are a collective sense of decency coupled with daily exercises in
restraint.  

And
a few overzealous cops.