10.
Tony burned County, reuniting with Irma. He started the low-end riff. An experienced wheeler for hire. A flat rate, or a cut of the take. Sometimes both. The jobs were adding up. I provide the wheels, and a way out. Nice and simple. When I’m gone, I go like smoke signals in a teepee wind. You dig?
No one could foolproof screw-ups. But he could turn down anyone he felt could fuck things up. Loose canons turning the job haywire were off the map. He wanted to know everything about a job before he signed on. If the crew were reluctant, he’d walk. No chances, no bargaining. He wanted it straight up. All of it. Who, what, where, and when. Now wasn’t the time to bite the deal with some yahoo crew.
The time away distanced the old man too. Tony became hot.
In the absence, Leo also groomed new wheelers. Like a player dispatched to the bench, Scram would have to work his way back in.
The small safe in the bedroom, getting crowded. A grand or two, a pop. No more federal time for Tony Scram. Calls patched in, promising high numbers. Too risky. He had the hots for Florida.
Buy Irma a house on the beach. Their own bungalow, somewhere near Cape Canaveral.
Tony decided he’d waited long enough, and the two of them would take a vacation. They’d fly into Orlando, and rent a car.
Zigzag the state. See what they could swing, and if Tony had to get a job, even part-time, he’d do it. Anything to get her, and him, out of the life's gravity belt. The work started coming in.
Mainly home invasions up in the rich sections. Out of town crews, looking to tap a gold mine, and skip town. Pro’s, and old school.
No guns, no blood. Bing, bang, boom. Up and down. In and out.
Tony made his last score for now. Steve was up in Fishkill doing a two-year bit. Tony polished up the prep work for the Florida trip when Irma’s bird-like body stroked. Tony kept vigil, and on the second night, Irma passed in her sleep.
The wake was pretty small, and quiet. Irma’s friends and relatives. Tony’s friends, guys he knew from the neighborhood, like Whitey, and his wife. They passed their regards, and Tony, numb, only gestured. The only disruption came when a white van pulled up in front of the parlor.
Steve, in blue jumpsuit, and handcuffs, spilled out. The commotion passed the huddled smokers, and entered the home.
All eyes were on the disjointed study. Even adjoining rooms with mourning strangers stopped to get a looksie. Sheriff’s deputies reached Irma’s entrance. They stopped, took a breath, and made an announcement, that turned the place quiet.
"This is the New York State Department of Corrections. We ask that all mourners step at least twelve feet away from the casket, so the mourner in custody may pay his respects." The shock resounded, and the mourners fanned out to let the entourage through.
A surreal scene, bent even further. Steve stepped up to the casket. The chains stayed, and draped, as Steve stood over his mother. Head down, eyes closed. He looked up, ready to step back, he turned to find his father.
They made eye contact. Tony stepped forward. Steve’s shoulders slumped, as a deputy stepped in, shielding the prisoner.
The lead deputy made an exit announcement, pretty much the same, a few different words. The tone remained. So did the tension, even after they left.
In the weird, jarring silence, Whitey moved up to Tony. "I’m sorry, pal," as Whitey cupped a palm over Tony’s shoulder. This time, Tony responded, "Thanks Whitey."