Staring down the barrel of a 9 MM Beretta is a chilling experience.
Why did I have to come here? I should have gone straight to my apartment and just ignored the gnawing hunger pains that consumed me. They started while I was finishing my story. I didn’t want to break for anything until I had put it to bed.
Now I was returning from the Western Union Office where I sent my story into the Beaver Dam Daily Citizen in time to make the cutoff for the morning edition, when I passed George Web’s Hamburger place.
George Webs’ is a twenty four hour joint located around the corner from my apartment and the delicious smell of freshly grilled hamburgers with onions was just too compelling to ignore.
I could already feel the grease hardening on the roof of my mouth as I walked in the door.
Immediately, I felt something just wasn’t right. The old guy, Frank Meinberg, who has been working behind the counter forever or at least since the first German set foot on Wisconsin soil, was acting extremely nervous. His eyes kept going back and forth between me and the counter to his right.
“Hey Frank, how’s it going?” I said as I slid onto the stool directly in front of him.
It was then I saw him. He was crouched behind the counter with his gun pointing at Franks’ crotch. He stood up as soon as I sat down. A small kid, about sixteen or seventeen years old. The first thing that came to mind was that he looked like a rodent, maybe a ferret. I don’t know, is a ferret a rodent? His eyes were close together and deep set in his face above a small nose. His hair was greasy and swept back in a ducktail, which was the rage of all the cheap punks of the day. He had a slight overbite and he was nervous. He had a tick in his left eye that caused it to twitch. This tick was similar to something you would see in a drug addict in need of a fix. He continued to look around to make sure nobody else came in with me. He was the type of guy who most likely was bullied all his life and now he was trying to make himself believe that he was
actually tough and worth noticing. The Beretta was his support group. The way his hand was shaking it was apparent that he now knew he wasn’t as tough as he thought he was. This is the most dangerous type of person to meet on the wrong end of a gun.
“If you’re doing drugs, get in a program. Do something for yourself, not this. Don’t be bothering Frank and Willie here. They have enough problems without you adding to them, I tell him. What’s your name? Put that gun away.”
I looked around. I don’t want to die in a place like this, I thought.
He walked around the counter and started pushing the barrel of his gun into my side, indicating with a nod of his head the direction he expected me to go.
I stumbled over my feet as I moved out. He continued to jab me, trying to get me to move faster, but the faster I move, the more my feet get tangled and I trip and fall face first onto the floor.
“Okay, you can’t keep on waving that gun around here anymore. It may go off and hurt someone,” I say. His hand was shaking like a dog shitting razor blades and it made me scared as hell. This would be a helluva a way to end my life. I made it through three years of fighting the Japs in the South Pacific only to come home and die at the hands of a nervous, sniveling, pimply faced kid? This can’t be happening.
I looked into his eyes. It was like looking down a deep dark chasm and seeing to the depths of hell. A cold shiver went up my back.
I am the only customer in here and I am being forced to join the black cook, Willie Jones, who was missing most of his teeth and who must have been pushing seventy years old, and Frank, back in the kitchen.
I am wearing my shoulder rig under my jacket and I feel the butt of my Colt Detective Special belly gun pressing against my side. This gun was manufactured to be most effective at close range, for firing into the belly of an adversary and if I ever had an adversary, this kid would have to be on top of the list.
I decided to keep talking to this punk to get him to calm down. He was way too nervous. Maybe I could give him some suggestions on how he could get the money and get out of here without getting caught. Not actually being his accomplice, but making sure myself and the other two back here would survive the night.
“Look, I said, take what you want. Just put the weapon down, please. You can go out through the back door and when you get into the alley, turn left. That will bring you out on North Avenue and one block up is a bus stop. The bus runs until two a.m. and it will take you out to West Allis and from there you will be home free.”
“You know what really gets to me? You trying so hard to get me to drop my gun. I just want to pull this trigger and kill you so shut the fuck up. He locked his eyes on me.
You keep trying to distract me but it’s not going to work. You think you are smart. I don’t need no advice from you. One more squeak outta ya and I’ll put a hole in your head that you’ll be able to whistle Dixie through.”
I’m not too fond of Dixie, so I say to him: “Alright, calm down. I was just tryin’ to help.”
“I don’t need no help; especially from you. Now get the fuck back there against the wall with that other prick and don’t say nuthin’, ya hear me?
“Okay, okay, I’m going.” As I passed the counter I noticed a knife on the metal table that they used to cut the buns with. It wasn’t very big but I could probably do enough damage with it to cause him to drop that gun and then the three of us could subdue him until we could call the police. Either that, or wait for an opportunity to draw my Colt.
How long would it take for me to reach into my coat across my chest and take out my gun straighten my arm and fire? I ran the scenario over and over again in my mind hoping I could somehow cut down on the time it took to do it by even a fraction of a second. Should I chance it?
I have practiced a lot and now I am really good with this gun.
I just don’t know if I am fast enough and I’m not ready to find out.
Seeing as my friends being held at gunpoint with me totaled over one hundred and forty years in age and probably couldn’t see more than six inches in front of their noses, I decided to wait on my Colt. The punk would have to take his eyes off me eventually and that is when I would draw down on him. I didn’t want to get George Web’s two employees hurt and I sure as hell didn’t want to whistle Dixie either, so I had to make sure the time was right before I made my move.
“Get over here old man and open this safe,” the punk said waving his gun in Franks’ face. Frank shuffled over still holding his hands straight up over his head. When he reached the safe, the kid pushed him down. Frank hit his head on the edge of the counter, opening up a gash above his right eye causing blood to run down his face. As they say in the fight business, he was in need of a good cut man.
“Open it,” he screamed at Frank.
“Hey kid, take it easy,” I yelled.
“Don’t call me kid. I ain’t no kid. Another word outta you will be your last.”
“Okay, okay. There’s no need to hurt Frank. He’s doin’ what you asked him to do. Give him a chance.”
The punk ignored me and turned to Frank and said, “I ain’t goin’ a ask ya’ again, open the damn safe and now,” pushing Frank forward again.
This time Frank was ready and braced himself with his hands as he fell. Kneeling before the safe, Frank began to turn the dial on the safe door. I decided this was as good a time as any for me to draw my piece. The kid was staring intently at the back of Franks’ head apparently forgetting that Willie, the cook, and I were still here.
I reached inside my corduroy jacket and across my chest with my right hand to my shoulder holster that was hanging under my left arm pit. I unsnapped the Colt and slowly cocked the hammer hoping the clicking noise went unnoticed.
It did. I raised my arm, pointing the gun straight up at the ceiling. I glanced over at old Willie and the whites his eyes were as big as saucers. I took my left hand and put my finger to my lips indicating for Willie to be quiet.
Then I screamed; “Hey punk, drop that fuckin’ gun or I’ll blow a hole in your head the size of a bowling ball.”
I then pulled the trigger and the sound was deafening. As I stood there with the plaster from the ceiling falling on my head, the punk dropped his gun and turned around screaming as he headed out the front door at a pace that would have made Eddie Tolan, also known as the Midnight Express and the world’s fastest human after winning the 100 and 200 meter dashes at the 1932 Summer Olympics, envious.
I turned around and noticed tears running down Willie’s face as he sat slumped against the wall and old Frank was laying face down moaning in front of the safe.
I could tell Willie was alright. All he needed to do was go home and put on a clean pair of pants, but I was worried about Frank. He took a mighty hard bump to the head when he fell against the counter and he wasn’t sounding too good either.
As I walked over to him I asked Willie if he would be able to call the police and tell them what happened.
Willie just nodded and walked to the pay phone hanging on the wall.
“Mister, I ain’t got no nickel.” He said.
Shit, I thought to myself. “Just dial “O” for the operator, Willie. She’ll connect ya.”
“Okay, I do that.” He replied.
Frank was looking a little grey and his pupils appeared to be dilated. So in my best educated medical opinion, I figured he had suffered a concussion. Remember, I’m a crime reporter, a rodeo clown and a private dick, not a medical doctor.
I turned to Willie and yelled, “Hey Willie, tell ‘em to call an ambulance. Frank will be needin’ medical attention.
“Yassir,” Willie answered.
I rolled my eyes and turned back to tend to old Frank. Willie was one of the many black people who moved to Milwaukee from the south years ago, one who immediately went to work as a kid to make money to help support his family instead of going to school to finish his education. I guess he thought Milwaukee was heaven as he could use a white guy’s john without worrying about being lynched. Only here he is, sixty years later, flippin’ burgers for $0.75 an hour. Little did he know that Milwaukee was one of the most segregated cities in the 1950’s.
I went to the cooler and took out a handful of ice and wrapped it in a rag I found laying on the counter. I applied it with some pressure directly on the gash over his eye until the cops and ambulance arrived.
They came in together and one would have thought they drove in the same vehicle. The two uniforms, one tall and lanky and the other short and stocky, looked like they were right out of the academy, and they probably were. If you had seniority on the force, you usually got first dibs on which shift you wanted and the graveyard shift was the shits. Not only did the most heinous of crimes occur at this time, but it screwed up your sleeping routine something fierce. The tall cop bent down next to me and asked me what happened.
I noticed his name was Bieber. I looked closely at him and noticed Mildred had more hair on her legs than this kid had on his entire face. Not only that, his breath smelled liked a dusty old fart.
I bent my head back so I didn’t have to breathe in the foul air and told him. “Some young kid was in here tryin’ to rob the place. The punk pushed old Frank and he fell and hit his head on the counter.”
“Can you give us a good description of the perp,” he asked?
While I was giving Officer Bieber a description of the little ferret, the emergency people were bandaging Franks’ wound and helping him to his feet. They were insisting on taking him to Milwaukee General but Frank didn’t want to go “I’ll be alright.” he kept on repeating but he didn’t resist as they gently led him out to the ambulance. I secretly hoped he would be alright.
Willie the cook was sitting on a stool at the counter and the other uniform had his pad out and was getting a statement from him. The white of Willie’s eyes were still as big as saucers and I bet he wouldn’t be getting to sleep for another week.
Officer Bieber asked. “Who shot the hole in the ceiling?”
“I did, I replied. I’m licensed to carry,” I said as I reached around to my back pocket to get my wallet where I kept my license.
Officer Bieber’s right hand instinctively went down to the butt of his revolver while he grabbed my arm with his left and said, “Slowly, move your hand slowly.”
“Okay, no problem,” I said as I removed my carry permit from my wallet.
Officer Bieber relaxed his grip on my arm as he read my permit. He handed it back to me and said.
“Okay Mr. Fly, why don’t you start from the beginning and tell me exactly what happened here. Oh, by the way, where did you learn to shoot?”
I looked at him “Smartass I said to myself. Everybody has to be a smartass.”