Bug the Olives, By George Martorano

By George Martorano

The United States of America's Longest Prison Sentence, Life Sentence for First Time Non Violent Offense without possibility of parole and America's most prolific prison writer George Martorano Needs Your Help.

• Language: English
• Publisher: George Martorano
• Release date: May 9, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458119469

George Martorano

The United States of America's Longest Prison Sentence, Life Sentence for First Time Non Violent Offense without possibility of parole and America's Most prolific prison writer George Martorano Needs Your Help.You can only protect your liberties in this world by protecting the other man's freedom. -Clarence Darrow

Book preview

Bug the Olives

Published by George Martorano at Smashwords

Copyright 1998 George Martorano

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

CHAPTER 1

As Johnny sat with his head in his palms at the kitchen table, he tried to clear his thinking somewhat, even though he was enjoying the smell.

Look at you, you son-of-a-bitch, drinkin’ again. I oughtta ….. spoke his grandfather. The grandfather started to unbuckle his belt, a belt that he had never used on any of his grandchildren.

Hey, you, go outside. Leave’m alone, you f’n gink! came another voice, the final command from the household’s boss, his grandmother.

Johnny and the grandfather stared at each other as a pot from the stove clanged. They both looked that way, to the ten-year-old boy standing on a chair, attending the food. John still watched the small arm stir as his grandfather grumbled something and left.

That’s right, go play cards with your bum friends, closed the grandmother from the other room, as the front screen door banged.

John, John, my heart, you’re killin’ me, killin’ me! finished his grandmother, as Johnny slumped his face in his palms again, the booze crawling around his eyes.

Then Johnny looked up when the two small feet hit the linoleum floor. Ten-year-old Steven was dashing out the back door.

Needs more bosnalogol! shouted Steven.

Bosnalogol? What’s a kid knew about bosnalogol? said Johnny, watching Steven pick the small green leaves from the short bushes in the back yard, a yard cared for---with all the right things grown for Italian dishes.

Johnny got up for a drink of cool tap water. With the filled glass, he stood in the kitchen’s archway, watching his grandmother knit.

You drive Steven home after he makes his gravy, she said, not looking over at him but keeping her fingers going. Johnny swallowed again and then answered, Sure, Gram. Johnny knew that she wanted to say more, but she didn’t. Maybe she sensed it, sensed when a guy’s got trouble. Who knows?

Johnny turned, hearing the back door as Steven hopped up in front of the stove again. A smile came across Johnny’s face nearing the aroma and pots, shaking his head from side to side.

How come you ain’t out playin’ ball or something? Always wit’ the sauce. You like tomatoes more than baseball, kid," Steven looked up at his older cousin.

Johnny saw the look he was getting---like he was crazy or something. Gotta have my gravy for Sunday and Monday and Tuesday, and, and… Steven got stuck on what day came in the middle of the week.

Every Saturday, to come here all day with Grandpop and make gravy so’s you can have it all week. Don’t your mother cook?

Yea, she can cook, but her gravy ain’t right, said Steven standing on his toes for the back pot.

Johnny looked down on the floor beside Steven’s chair and the containers, things he’ll fill up to take home with him. Johnny shook his head again and moved to fill the glass, as Steven filled up for the week.

See ya, Gram, said Johnny at the front door.

Make sure you watch Steven go in the house. Don’t leave’m on the corner.

I won’t. Come on, Steven. Johnny held one of the containers and the door for him.

In the sunlight, walking to the car, Johnny saw the redness on the handsome boy’s cheeks from the big kiss his grandmother had laid on him----along with a five dollar bill he jammed in his front pocket.

Here, I’ll hold’m,’ said Steven, sliding onto the front seat. Johnny carefully surrounded the boy with plastic buckets.

As they drove across town, the car filled up with flavor that was making Johnny want to open up one of the containers and eat a meatball.

Steven you’re a strange one. Out of all the kids in the family, you’re somethin’ else. Look at ya; hair all slicked back; dressed up, and always smellin’ of Baby Magic. Your mother must buy it by the gallon.

Steven smiled at first, then laughed. You eatin’ over? the boy asked.

No, wish I could. Lord knows it’ll be good. Thank goodness there’s only one of you, or I’ll be driving’ pots across town all week. And Steven laughed more. Johnny bent over and gently bit his shoulder.

Stop, stop! Steven wiped it, catching sight of two pretty girls walking down the street.

Babes! he pointed.

Whatta you know about babes? All you know is pasta, pasta, morning till night. Now they both laughed, pulling away from a red light.

Johnny stood in his aunt’s kitchen watching Steven put the containers away and his Aunt Lillian jumping to the ten-year-old chef’s commands.

Kid’s nuts, half smiled Johnny, leaving. See ya, he said, the two still arguing.

Johnny felt under the front seat as he pulled away. It was still there. He looked at the clock; closing time was near. He headed for back streets. He wanted to cut across town, through the factory district. On weekends there wouldn’t be any traffic.

He pulled in front of Leggett’s house in fifteen minutes. With a short knock, knowing Leggett would be alone and waiting, he walked in.

You got everything? Johnny asked as he sat across the table from his friend.

Yea. Sure you don’t want me to come along?

How you gonna come along? You can’t see, you can’t drive. I do it alone, said Johnny, reaching for the glass of beer in front of Leggett.

Only you do this thing for me. Nobody else, only you, Leggett said as tears started rolling down a hard face.

Look, you gotta get your eyes done. Another couple months, you won’t see a fuckin’ thing. You need another beer, Johnny moved for the refrigerator. Leggett wiped his eyes and stood up.

Here, he said handing Johnny a roll of cloth. Johnny unwrapped the black ski mask with a pair of gloves inside, began trying everything on. Leggett stood there with two beers in his hands, trying to focus. Geez, if I don’t get this operation soon, I’ll be as blind as a bat, slipped Leggett.

Maybe the doctor take some money down, some every week, added Leggett, sitting again. Johnny pulled off the ski mask and reached for the beer with his gloves still on.

We went over this Leggett. It’s thirty-three hundred each eye; cash. We got no medical. I’ll do it, and that’s that, said Johnny, draining the beer.

Leggett began to lowly weep again, popping his beer into his mouth. Let me drive, let me drive! Leggett pleaded.

Drive what? You’ll hit a fuckin’ pole! snapped Johnny looking at the kitchen clock.

Time to go, Johnny grabbed the ski mask and began to leave. Leggett quickly followed him.

I’ll come right back here----be gone no more than an hour, Johnny said. He wanted to say more, something like: ‘If I’m not back, then I’m locked up or dead.’ But that would only get Leggett started again. No, he thought, better to leave things the way they are.

Johnny parked up the block from the place he planned to stick up. He didn’t want to get out. He sat there with leftover aroma from Steven’s containers…He looked at the clock again; it’s now or never.

Johnny eased the rolled-up ski mask down over his head, looking at himself in the rear-view mirror. He pulled the gloves up on his wrists reaching for the gun under the seat. Here goes nothing, he said, getting out of the car. Thirty-three hundred an eye, and headed for the wide door and a stick-up…

Johnny stood there, looking out at the dead night, up a narrow side street. His eyes caught his reflection in the smudged bay window; twenty bucks, he said.

What’s that? a voice spoke from behind him, in the empty tap-room.

Twenty bucks, Johnny said going back to his barstool.

It was a twenty, answered Lou, the bartender, heading back to the rear kitchen. Johnny reached for the glass of booze beside the seven dollars and change. All that was left from the robbery.

When he got back to Leggett’s place and counted out the money, there was six thousand, six hundred and twenty dollars for Leggett’s eye operation, with twenty left over for himself and rounded off Johnny’s life to a huge zero.

Here it is, the best sausage sandwich in town, said Lou, placing the chipped up plate in front of him. Johnny took one look at the tomato gravy on top.

Are you kidding? Eat that and I’ll die in my sleep, Johnny said pushing it away. Lou showed no feeling one way or another.

They upstairs? asked Johnny, nodding his head toward the ceiling.

Sure, said Lou, pulling the plate in front of him and opening wide for a bite. Johnny left the last money he had for Lou, and went for a side door and the stairs. He paused, looking down at the first worn step. He puffed out his cheeks with an exhale, starting to climb.

After three steps, his nostrils caught something from Louis greasy kitchen and all he could think right now was Steven and his containers. A grin cut across his face.

At the top of the stairs, he looked at himself in the rust-spotted mirror. Brown hair and eyes. Everybody in South Philly’s got brown hair and eyes; at least he wasn’t ugly.

With another exhale, he turned the knob, opening the door----a door he’s been avoiding all of these years. And now arriving at it, now or never.

Cutting across the smoke-filled room, Johnny is closely watched by some, while others keep their eyes on their cards. He stood off from the men and game until one came over.

What’s up, John? said the man. Johnny didn’t answer, only looked in the brown eyes. Slowly, Johnny unzipped his jacket. The man glanced down at the gun.

I want in, said Johnny. The man gently raised his hand to Johnny’s shoulder, you sure?

I’m sure, answered Johnny, shaking his head.

In’s in, no playin’ here, said the man.

I know, Johnny said looking down.

Okay, hang around, relax. You’re wit’ me now. You got good blood. Everything’s gonna be all right, said the relative, patting Johnny’s cheek and returning to the game. Johnny zipped up his jacket and went for a seat. When his back hit the soft chair, his eyes caught a picture of Jesus on the wall.

CHAPTER 2

Steven walked long, thinking about his bills. Ever since he had graduated from high school, renting his small apartment, it’s been bills and broads. Although he was happy having it, he hated the expenses along with the car payments, auto insurance, gas, electric, phone and----what was next? Even his clothing bills at Jack’s were more than he could handle.

At the corner, he wondered if he should go back to his apartment or pick up his car being washed at Mike’s gas station. The neighborhood park caught his eye, so he headed that way.

As he sat on a bench, basking in the sun, he wondered if Cousin Johnny would come through for him again. Na, he spoke to himself. After all, it was always Cousin Johnny or his father.

Hey, Mister, you crazy? asked a boy now sitting at the other end.

Kid, go play wit’ your friends, said Steven. The boy looked off to where his friends had run. Steven could see that he had enough of play. So now the kid was going to bother him.

Steven looked off again. His mind was racing to put things together. His eyes caught the motion of little sneakers whipping back and forth. He looked at the boy pumping his legs.

Go away.

No! said the little boy.

One of them days, said Steven, raising his arms to the heavens.

One of them days, said the boy, raising his arms. The boy laughed, seeing Steven smile.

Want a candy? Steven watched as the little hand brought out a soiled box with smashed, rainbow-colored things in it. Steven was already shaking no before the dirty outstretched hand produced sticky stuff.

Happy Harry’s, said the little boy.

What?

Happy Harry’s, melon head, the boy reached out more.

Why not? said Steven and began chewing with the boy giggling.

Anthony, Anthony! came a young voice in the distance.

Your friends want ya, Steven said, pointing in the direction. But Anthony was already off the bench and flying across the park.

When they call, he runs, said Steven to himself. When they call…, an idea growing in his head, he quickly headed for his car, washed or not.

When he finally got to the club, it was nearly five o’clock. He hoped a good street number came out today and put his father in the right mood.

When he entered the bar at Eleventh and Elsworth Street, his idea quickly passed. In the