WHISKY TALES
When “Smoky Joe” died, almost everyone was relieved.
“Smoky Joe” Libertore worked days at the Central Florida Head Start center. He liked helping children, and the children liked him. They called him “Mr. Livatour” and waved their small hands at him and grabbed his arms and pulled on his sleeves and pants legs. He put his whole heart into his job, so when he got home he was exhausted.
Before leaving him, his wife had accused, “Joseph, you care more about those Head Start kids than you do your own child.” And to prove the point, she took his child all the way to Seattle, so Joseph could never be in their lives, and she could tell the son, “See, your father never comes to see you.” She insisted Joseph pay her $100 a week out of his approximately $360-a-week take-home pay, even though the boy was effectively out of his life and he would never have a decent relationship with him. Joseph complied
Joseph sought solace in the bottle. Whisky was his friend and companion on the weekends, and he often stopped at a bar for a drink or two in the evenings. If he quit drinking after two drinks, he remained himself and could drive home safely, park his used red Celica and go to sleep in his bed.
However, he downed a third drink one Friday night, and the next morning he woke in someone else’s bed. A slender, freckled redhead snuggled up next to him in a large bed with green satin sheets, a soft pink comforter, and queen-sized yellow pillows. His groin ached and his bladder was making pressure, so he slid out of bed and trotted naked into the nearby bathroom. After relieving himself, he splashed water on his face and looked around. This house was much larger than anything he had lived in and had nicer appointments than he had ever had around him. He tried to remember what conversation he had had the night before. The woman’s face came back to him as she had sat next to him at the bar and bought him a drink: an attractive oval-faced redhead.
He was suddenly quite hungry and padded into the bedroom, found his clothes and began dressing. What was her name? He remembered something about her saying her ex-husband was the son of some wealthy fruit distributor. The Duvals? The Denalis? The Dunlops? Something like that. First name? He had a mental picture: a pretty redhead smiling at him and saying “Sherry.”
“No, whisky,” he had said.
She had giggled and then said to the bartender. “Let me have some, too. And another for handsome. What’s your name?”
“Smoky Joe,” He adlibbed.
Vaguely, he remembered that sex with her had been akin to riding a bronco bareback – a pounding, bouncing, swirling attempt at attachment to the being beneath him, but without saddle or stirrups or reins. Eventually, he had gripped the sheets and just tried to center himself above her, so he didn’t get bucked off onto the floor. Something about her was vastly empty and he had tried his best to fill whatever it was she strained for.
Once he was dressed, he leaned over her and said, “I’ve got to go.” Her cherubic face remained unconscious and immobile, so he turned and walked out. He found his car parked in her driveway.
Eating at a fast-food breakfast, especially after his first cup of coffee, he remembered that he had told Sherry that he was a spin doctor and his candidate had just won the governorship. Where had that tale come from? He wasn’t a liar, but he had downloaded an imaginary persona out of his cerebral network. Did it matter? He would probably never see her again.
However, the very next evening he dressed in a purple velvet jacket, blue jeans, motorcycle boots and a white Panama hat and went to a different bar, an upscale place called Le Majeste that had a reggae band and a diverse, affluent crowd. He decided to take it slow, so instead of downing a shot neat, he sipped his whisky with ice and some soda while he enjoyed the music and the ambience.
Just after he had finished his second drink, he was surrounded by three very attractive women who were set on having a good time: a blue-eyed blond that could have passed for a model with her boyish slender lines draped in a faux leopard skin dress, a Rubenesque black-haired Latin beauty in a peasant dress with laced bodice, and a dark-skinned brunette, perhaps mulatto, in a sleeveless ivory evening gown.
They flocked exotically around him like chatty birds. He smiled and nodded at them.
The Latin beauty said, “You havin’ fun?”
“Sure. More now.”
“What’s your name?”
“Smoky Joe.”
The blond said, “You’re not a cop are you, Smoky Joe?”
“Far from it. Just hanging.”
A third drink appeared and he took a sip. “Thanks, whoever bought this.”
The dark-skinned one said, “I like it here. Let’s get juiced.”
The blonde said, “Come on, Smoky Joe. Let’s go get high.”
The buxom Latin grabbed his arm and they escorted him to the Ladies’ Room. He said, “Uh, this is . . . “
The Latina said, “Don’t worry. We’ll protect you.”
They gathered around him, and a vial of white powder appeared . . . and a tiny gold spoon. Each of the women took a snort of the powder and stuck the powder-filled spoon under his nose. He inhaled.
Back at the bar, he gulped down the drink that he had left and ordered another. He had noticed that men were approaching the three women who sometimes danced but sometimes not. The women had stacked their chic matching purses – leopard, soft pastoral tan leather, and patent ivory – next to him at the bar. He ran his fingers over them feeling the textures of silk cloth, softened leather and slick lacquer. Then a man approached him and asked, “You ‘Smoky Joe?’”
“That’s right.”
He nodded toward the dance floor. “Those your women?”
“Yes.”
“I want the blond.”
“Fine.”
“How much?”
“Oh . . . you think . . .” he began to object, but clicked in a new persona, “you can afford her?”
“Why?”
“They’re very expensive.”
“How much?”
“A thousand for one hour or five for the night.”
The man grumbled, set down his drink and left the bar.
The Latin beauty came back and said, “How’s it going here, Smoky Joe?”
“Fine. You know we could make a lot of money tonight if you wanted. Guys are willing to pay big bucks for some time with you girls.”
“Yeah? We tell ‘em we’re with you, so they won’t get too pushy.”
“I put the price very high.”
“Good. ‘Cause we just want to party. We’ve already got plenty of dinero.”
The next morning, he found five hundred dollars in the breast pocket of his velvet jacket that he had folded over a chair. The women had been generous with their time and bodies and money. He remembered escorting their white Mercedes, but after he got inside the condo and smoked with them, he remembered nothing. He didn’t even know what he had smoked. Once again he left a place that was not his and drove home, not knowing where the women had gone or what exactly had happened the night before.
On Sunday, as he usually did, he drove to a nearby lake over which creaked a no-longer-used, rickety dock that he could dive off and swim in the lake. After swimming, he lay on a blanket laid over the rotting wood of the pier until the sun had warmed him and dried his hair and trunks.
The lake pooled in a tiny, unkempt park, and often an apparently homeless man came and squatted on the dock and drank cheap wine from a green bottle. The man didn’t talk much, but Joe found him comforting because he was about the same age and height as Joe and had the same hair color. Joe thought: There, but for the grace of God, go I. His debilitated doppelganger said his name was Murphy. Murphy always wore the same pair of worn work pants, faded long-sleeved plaid shirt, and tan work boots. He smelled but not to bitter rankness; Joe suspected that he both bathed and washed his clothes in the lake, so he was bearably odiferous.
If he was on the dock, Joe said, “Mornin’, Murphy. Whassup?”
Murphy would say, “Mornin’” and nod. But he said no more.
Joe wondered what had brought Murphy to his insouciant vagrancy, but the one time he had tried to make conversation, Murphy muttered something about “the war,” not clarifying which war. The war in the Middle East? The war on crime? The war against terror? The war on drugs? Once Murphy had offered his wine, but Joe had declined – not out of fastidiousness, but because he preferred the sharp, quick sting of whisky to the sweet, gradual seduction of wine.
During the week, Joe assiduously, devotedly helped his Head Start children, getting them ready for the world of school and striving.
The next Saturday, he drove to Clearwater beach and sat in a Hawaiian shirt and white slacks and sandals under his Panama hat at a tiki bar on a verandah of a hotel where a steel drum band banged out calypso tunes. He drank his whisky, talked to women, danced and swallowed a small pill that one of the women gave him. “It’s X,” she had said. “You’ll like it.” He did feel quite happy and sociable that night. He waxed eloquent regarding “a libation civilization that buoyed up the hectic world of work.” He talked to many people, including a gaggle of young district attorneys, who were staying at the hotel for a convention of Florida law enforcers.
They bought him drinks and asked him if he came there often.
“Sure. Every weekend I’m here. Just ask for Smoky Joe. It’s a very profitable place.”
“Smoky Joe, can you get us some stuff?”
“What do you want? Whatever you want I can get you.”
“Can you get us some weed?”
“Of course, but that’s too easy.”
“What else can you get us?”
“X or H or C or M – I got it all flowing through. Got the best sources. Got the best pipeline.” To accompany this speech, he gestured flowingly.
“Will you be here next weekend?”
“For sure.”
“I’ll be back then.”
“Good. I’ll be here. Bring plenty of money.”
Sunday morning he vowed never to return to that hotel. “Jesus, what was I thinking!” He cringed at his liquored loquaciousness of the night before.
Sunday afternoon, Murphy was at the lake. Joe said, “Murphy, let me give you some advice. If you ever run into ‘Smoky Joe,’ run the other way. He’s a bad dude.”
“Smoky Joe’s a bad dude,” repeated the wino.
In fact, Murphy repeated it, mumbling like a prophet, wherever he went. He spoke it to the voluble convenience store clerk where he bought his wine, to his gossipy landlady (he wasn’t really homeless, merely disabled with bipolar disorder), to people waiting at bus stops, to children playing around the park, to tourists asking directions to Disney World, to other unfortunates along the street. The children repeated “Smoky Joe’s a bad dude” to their parents. The bus commuters asked one another, “Who’s this ‘Smoky Joe?’” The tourists asked the service personnel at hotels about this character “Smoky Joe.” The others in the underclass said they’d keep their eye out for “Smoky Joe.” One skinny, wobbly, toothless wonder growled, “If he comes near me, I’ll split him open from head to foot.”
Meanwhile, Joseph Libertore went to work every day, did his best for the less fortunate children under his care, and sent his support check religiously to his ex-wife for their son.
Exhausted the next Friday, he stopped by a bar on the way home. To work, he had worn a pair of camouflaged cargo pants, his motorcycle boots and a thick mud-brown pullover because the air had cooled. He had taken a leather aviator’s jacket with him to work, anticipating even cooler temperatures that night.
The first bar he spotted on the way home was named Kickstand Road House, its lot spiked with several motorcycles and pick-up trucks. The bar attracted a rough, testosterone-burdened crowd, but he didn’t plan to bother anyone else. He put on the aviator’s jacket to fit in better, found a black wool watch cap in the left pocket, pulled it on, found black leather gloves in the right pocket, pulled them on, left his sunglasses on and went inside, up to the bar and stood while the bartender poured him a shot of tequila. He snapped the shot down and let it infuse him with warmth and relaxation. The barkeep poured him another. He shot it down.
Now feeling loose and relaxed, he ordered another, but this one he took to an empty scarlet booth near the front door, sat and stared at the glass. In his mind he addressed the contents, Golden liquid, you are wonderful, but you’re causing me some problems. I may need to rethink our relationship.
The door in front of him opened and in stepped another person who had dropped in on his way home from work – average height, but a little round and balding. What made him stand out were the gray Brooks Brothers suit, white shirt, blue tie, closely clipped brown hair and gold-rimmed glasses – a business fish swimming in an aquarium of thugs.
Nervously, he approached Joe’s booth and said, “I’m looking for ‘Smoky Joe.’ Do you know him?”
Joe said, “Sit down.” Then he popped the third shot.
The agitated man slid into the booth and said, “Where can I find ‘Smoky Joe’?”
“You found him. What can he do for you?”
“This is extremely confidential.”
“So is ‘Smoky Joe.’”
“You do jobs for a fee, don’t you?”
“He’s been known to.”
“Hits?”
“If the price is right.”
“$50,000.”
“That’s the right price. Who’s the mark?”
“My wife.”
“Messy divorce?”
“Something like that. I’ve got to get her out of my life as quickly as possible.”
“Where is she?”
“Here in Orlando.” He slid a folded piece of paper across the table. “This is her home and work address. Try to make it look like a mugging or an accident.”
“No problem. But . . . uh . . . how does Smoky Joe know you’re legit?”
The man slid an envelope across the table. “Here’s ten percent now. The rest when you finish the job.”
Joe took the envelope and concealed it inside his jacket pocket. “If you stiff Smoky Joe, he’ll nail you for kicks.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll pay the rest.”
“Ok, go.”
Joe waited fifteen minutes, slid out of the booth, left a tip, opened the door and stepped out. Behind him, as the door closed, he heard the bartender say to other customers, “Hey, you know who that was? That was ‘Smoky Joe.’”
“Smoky Joe” slept with a curly-headed hooker that night and left her a big tip. She told him she liked “Smoky Joe” a lot. “I mean you can sleep with me no charge. I’ll make you dough.”
“Don’t need your dough, babe. But Smoky Joe’ll take you up on the freebies ‘cause Smoky Joe likes you, too.” She hugged him and kissed him as if he had just proposed marriage.
After he woke in his own bed Saturday morning, Joseph checked the pockets of the flyer’s jacket and found the envelope. He counted the money inside: $4,800. In the pockets of his cargo pants he found another $53.85 and the piece of paper with the directions to the residence of “Smoky Joe’s” target.
“Damn. I’ve got to stop drinking. This craziness is starting to become a dangerous habit.” He mumbled to himself as he made coffee, “I may have picked up a disease last night.”
He resolved to stop bar-hopping. That night he stayed home, read magazines and played Doom on the computer. He called his ex-wife’s number and asked to talk to his son. His wife told him that the son was staying overnight at a friend’s house.
“I don’t believe you.”
She said, “I don’t care what you believe.”
He hung up. He walked over to his dresser, opened the top drawer and pulled out a .32 caliber revolver that his father had given him. He had a vague idea that he would go to the lake and kill himself because maybe he couldn’t handle life; he seemed to be making a mess of it. Nothing seemed to be in his control.
He put the gun on a side table next to his sofa and turned on the television to the late night news. The broadcaster announced a late breaking item.
“Law enforcement officials have instituted a search for an underworld figure known as ‘Smoky Joe.’ He’s suspected of being involved in drug distribution, prostitution, armed robberies and murder for hire. Since his legal name is unknown, a police artist’s sketches are being released.” The screen showed two sketches that vaguely resembled Joseph Libertore: one in a Panama hat and sunglasses and another in watch cap and sunglasses. “If anyone knows ‘Smoky Joe,’ please call the confidential number below. Your identity will be protected. Please be careful. Do not try to apprehend this person on your own. Call the police. The suspect is a hardened criminal and is presumed to be armed.
“Although police say they have had their eye out for him for some time, the search intensified today after a female victim claimed that ‘Smoky Joe’ had raped her. Her name is being withheld for her own protection.
“Also, a convenience store clerk is claiming that ‘Smoky Joe’ robbed his store two nights ago.”
The screen showed a dark angular face from the Subcontinent. The man said with a Pakistani accent, “At first, I didn’t know it was Smoky Joe, but after looking at the police sketches, I’m sure it was him.”
“A side light to this story is that a prostitute arrested today for solicitation claimed that ‘Smoky Joe’ is her pimp. Police questioned her as to his whereabouts, but she said she didn’t know and wouldn’t tell if she did.”
More resolved to end the charade, Joseph turned off the television.
He put on the aviator jacket and pocketed the handgun. Outside, the air chilled him, but he ignored the cold on his skin. He had to end the madness.
At the lake, he shuffled out to the end of the dilapidated pier and stared into the dark water. Below him a form like Christ on the cross floated face down in the water. For a moment, he thought he must be hallucinating. He looked harder and recognized the plaid shirt, the work pants and the work boots, and next to the body a wine bottle floating neck up.
“Murphy . . . Murphy . . . whassup? Did you fall in?”
Murphy didn’t reply.
“Did you jump in? End it?”
Then Joe realized that Murphy was his savior. He said, “You sweet man. I always liked you, but I didn’t know you could redeem me. From this day forward, I give up whisky and other hard liquor. In your name, Murphy, I swear I’ll get out of the hole I’ve been digging for myself.”
Joseph pulled out the revolver and emptied it into Murphy’s cold body. In the colder dark, the pistol cracks echoed and the muzzle flashed, while the bullets sprouted tiny geysers and shivered the body, sending ripples outward. The gun empty, Joseph tore back to his car and raced to the nearest pay phone outside the convenience store where Murphy had bought his last wine.
He dialed 911.
“Hurry! There’s been a shooting at Manheim Park. There’s a body in the lake.”
“Do you know the victim’s name?”
“He called himself ‘Smoky Joe.’”
He hung up and then called the television station. “I’ve got information about ‘Smoky Joe.’”
“Do you know where he is?”
“Yeah, in a lake in Manheim Park. He got rubbed out.”
The death of “Smoky Joe” led the news all weekend. The coroner opined that the victim had drowned before he was drilled. His crime spree had ended, although more people came forward to say that he was the one who had mugged them, raped them, sold drugs to their children, fathered their child, or broke up their marriage. The curly-headed hooker wailed, “I loved him and he loved me!” His landlady muttered, “He pretended to be disabled. He had me fooled.” The police chief announced, “At least we can all sleep easier from this day forward knowing this menace is off the street.”
Joseph Libertore slept easier, too, having substituted running for drinking. From the newspaper, he cut out the picture showing Murphy’s bullet-punctured body floating Christ-like in Manheim Lake and framed it. The caption read: “The end of the notorious ‘Smoky Joe.’”
End of "Whisky Tales."
"Whisky Tales" was first published in A Collection of Nickel-Plated Angels, 2008. The story is loosely based on my experiences with alcohol after my divorces. I self-medicated with alcohol on both occasions. Although my experiences weren't exactly like those in the story, I did enough foolish things while intoxicated that I could see what the end result would be if I kept it up for very long: death or dissolution. One characteristic that is valid for drinking writers (or writing drinkers) is that the urge for storytelling is intensified and the tongue is uninhibited, so fiction flows. Ending an addiction, or a very bad habit, is killing the personality that allowed the bad behavior. This idea of erasing the evil doppleganger prompted the story.
I once did a study (here the professor takes over) of my own fiction to determine from whence came the inspiration for my stories. My general findings were that approximately 30 percent of my stories were based on personal experiences, either mine or those of someone else who had related the story to me. Others were inspired by other sources including dreams, a sentence, an abstract idea, a visual image, or a fictional character suddenly talking inside my head. I have put this information into a PowerPoint to be used in a Creative Writing course.
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