SUMMER JOB

The brand-new ’63 sea green Cadillac convertible bounced over the curb and pulled up next to Luca’s fruit stand. A guy wearing a garish Hawaiian shirt and a Panama got out and leaned against a front fender, arms folded.

“Who the fuck is that?” I whispered to Uncle Luca.

“Just a guy. Don’ worry ’bout it.”

“He doesn’t look like he’s here to buy fruit.”

“Look, his . . . his guys provide security. Make sure I’m not robbed.”

“So what does he want?”

“Money.” Luca wiped his gnarly hands on his green apron and went to the portable desk where he kept the cashbox. He removed an envelope and approached Mr. Hawaii, grinning. They muttered a few words; sounded like Italian. The guy took the envelope, jumped in the Caddy and sped off.

“So how often do you pay for, ya know, security?” I asked.

“Couple times a month. Just stay away from him. Got it?”

“All right, all right. Just curious.”

“In this business, that can getcha in trouble.”

I had been working for Uncle Luca for only two weeks, helping sell fresh fruit to well-heeled Montecito residents. But more than a few times each day some guy and occasionally a woman would speak in whispers to Luca and he’d write something down in a green ledger he kept in the desk drawer, right next to a snub-nosed black revolver ­– “to scare away hoodlums,” Luca explained. Some of the whisperers handed over greenbacks that Luca stashed in a separate cash box.

I was a year away from graduating Catholic High School and desperately needed a summer job to pay for college. My parents told me they had only enough for my first year and that I’d have to pay for the rest. When Uncle Luca offered me three dollars an hour to work at his fruit stand, more than twice the minimum wage, I jumped at it.

I worked ten-hour days, seven days a week. In the early mornings we rolled the fruit bins from the bay of the adjoining Richfield gas station where uncle paid to store them overnight. I’d arrange the bins in back of the sidewalk, remove the burlap covers, and sort the fruit, pulling the pieces that had started to rot. His supplier arrived every few days, our busiest time, unloading the truck and restocking the bins.

During mornings and late afternoons customers often swarmed the fruit stand. I helped the ladies pick out the cream of the crop while Uncle Luca took in the cash. Only the best customers could pay by check.

One day after I’d worked there awhile, I asked him, “Don’t you need some kinda permit or approval to do this?”

“What are you, a cop? The County knows I’m here and I don’ cause trouble.”

Yes, the law knew he was there all right. The fruit stand was on the Sheriff’s normal patrol route; and daily a squad car would pull up and a deputy climb out and greet Luca, grinning. My uncle would scribble something in his ledger. The cop would select a piece of fruit from one of the bins and wave goodbye.

One afternoon, Luca started to cough and spit up thick phlegm into his huge paisley handkerchief. That night at closing he handed me the fruit stand’s cashbox, stuffed the green ledger in a pocket and the pistol in his belt.

“I’m sick. Gonna take a day. You run the stand tomorrow.”

“Really?” I felt panic flood my nervous system. “But what about your . . . your special customers?”

“Just tell ’em I’ll be back on Wednesday. I’m not expectin’ a delivery and the others can just wait.”

“Okay, Uncle, get better.”

The following day things went smoothly enough until one of the special customers showed up, a tall guy smelling of gin and dressed in a neat gray suit.

“Where is Mr. Bianchi?” he asked. “I want to put twenty on Grasshopper to place in the fourth.”

“Sorry, mister. My uncle won’t be back until tomorrow. You can talk to him then.”

The guy laughed. “You don’t understand much, do you son?”

“I know enough.”

“Tell your uncle that Mr. Cooper is still angry with him for raising the vig. There are other bookmakers in this town, you know.”

“He’ll be back tomorrow. I’ll tell him you came by.”

Bookmakers? Mr. Cooper was right. I didn’t know shit. But I knew that Uncle Luca sure didn’t make books.

Throughout the day, others came by, talking in code just like Cooper. I told them the same thing. Nobody was happy, especially the Highway Patrolman that showed up just before closing. I gave him a couple peaches to try and calm him down.

Then right when I started to throw the burlap tarps over each bin and haul them into the gas station’s bay, Mr. Hawaii in his green Cadillac slid to the curb. He got out of the car and slammed the door.

“Where’s Luca?” He looked around, eyeing the gas station.

“He’s sick. Didn’t work today.”

“Sick? That wop never gets sick.”

“Yeah, he does. He was coughing like crazy when he went home yesterday.”

“I’ll just swing by his house.”

“Hey, he said he’d be back tomorrow. Can’t it wait?”

Mr. Hawaii glared at me. “I already gave Luca an extra week, and he shorted me last time.”

“How much does he owe?” I’d gotten paid the day before, in cash with no paperwork, and I figured I might be able to cover for Luca.”

“Three hundred.”

I gulped. “Really? All that for security?”

Mr. Hawaii gave me a funny look, then laughed. “Pay up or shut up, kid.”

“You’ll have to see Luca tomorrow.”

“Don’t worry, I will. And tell him there’ll be a twenty percent late fee.”

I hurried to close the stand then drove my Volkswagen bug over to my uncle’s house to drop off the cash box and keys. We had over 75 customers that day and I’d really had to hustle. Aunt Emily met me at the door with a drink in her hand. Luca was her fifth husband, all of them more than a bit sketchy.

“How is he?” I asked.

“He’s been downing bourbon rocks all day and seems to be a lot clearer.”

A petite woman with silver hair and perfect makeup, my aunt reached for the cash box. “How’d we do?”

“Great. Lots of customers, including some strange ones.”

“Whaddaya mean strange?” Luca had appeared at her elbow, swaying, his eyes bloodshot, gray greasy hair swept back from his sunburnt forehead.

“That guy from security came by. Said you were late with his payment, will be back tomorrow. Said there will be a twenty percent late fee.”

Aunt Emily frowned and turned toward Luca. “Are you having trouble covering protection? You know those thugs will beat it out of you?”

Luca grinned sheepishly, showing off big horse teeth below a huge Roman nose. “I can handle those fools.”

“Yeah sure, like you handled it in Philly?”

“That wasn’t my fault. Just a misunderstanding that—

“That got your hands stomped on. Will you never learn?”

The color had risen in Aunt Emily’s cheeks. Luca stared at the ground and coughed. I studied his hands, noticing how small and delicate they seemed, all except the knuckles that were huge and scarred. My aunt seemed to realize that all this was news to me, because she smiled and pushed Luca back into the house.

“Thanks for bringing the cash box. He’ll see you tomorrow.”

“But there’s more,” I blurted.

Luca reappeared and I continued. “Mr. Cooper was really pissed that you raised the . . . the vig. He called you a bookmaker.”

My aunt and uncle looked at each other. Luca motioned me inside. “You wanna beer?”

My aunt frowned. “Luca, the kid’s not even seventeen.”

“So? I was drinkin’ Pop’s wine before I turned twelve.”

“Yeah, and it probably stunted your growth.”

Their immaculate house stood in a grove of trees overlooking the Santa Barbara Country Club and golf course. It definitely wasn’t the low-rent district. The three of us sat at the kitchen breakfast nook. Aunt Emily mixed Luca a drink and I sipped a bottle of Carling Black Label. It tasted awful. They explained to me that Luca was a bookie and took bets on horses that ran at Santa Anita Park. They explained odds making, the vig, other coded language that his special customers used, and Aunt Emily’s role in keeping track of the accounts.

“So what’s this protection crap all about?” I asked.

Luca sighed. “The local thugs know what I’m doing is . . . is illegal. So they wanna piece of the action . . . they want money.”

“So why do you give it to them?”

“Because I don’t wanna end up wearin’ concrete shoes at the bottom of the Channel, that’s why.”

Aunt Emily glared at me, daring me to shut the hell up with the questions. So I did, finished my beer and left. I spent an hour watching the sunset at Leadbetter Beach, trying to understand everything I’d been told, and to let my head stop spinning from downing the beer on an empty stomach. I had always thought it’d be cool to live a bit outside the law, be the shady character for a change, instead of the goodie-two-shoes with good grades and a clean record. Luca being a bookie shouldn’t hurt anybody. But with the mob involved, I figured things could get dicey really quick; and they did.

I didn’t sleep much that night but showed up at the fruit stand on time. Luca seemed nervous and still coughed like someone close to death from pneumonia. But customers rolled up and business was brisk, me selling fruit and Luca taking bets. Just after the morning rush the green Caddy arrived. Two guys dressed in cheap suits and Mr. Hawaii got out. Luca pasted a grin on his face and offered them some fruit. They spoke in Italian. I could see a shoulder holster inside one of the mobsters’ coats. I figured the others had guns.

The four of them argued. Luca lost his grin and spat back foreign words as fast as an auctioneer’s chant. One of the goons reached out and grabbed Uncle Luca by the shoulder. He batted the hand away and kept repeating the word domani, domani, domani. The two suits stepped toward him. Uncle backed away, his eyes blazing, lips mumbling more Italian including the word merda.

I stood close to the desk and cashbox. I reached into the drawer and pulled out the revolver just as the goons grabbed Luca and began dragging my struggling uncle toward the Cadillac. Mr. Hawaii opened its cavernous trunk. Cocking the pistol’s hammer like I’d seen them do in the movies, I pointed the gun skyward and squeezed off a round. An explosion and the hearing in my right ear went away. A woman sorting through our bin of mangos screamed. The goons let loose of Luca and stared at me.

I stepped forward and pointed the revolver at the chest of the closest creep. “Leave ’im alone.” I didn’t recognize my far-away voice: deep, gruff, with hardly any tremor.

The thug grinned. “Well look who’s grown a pair.”

The three mobsters laughed then Mr. Hawaii stepped forward. “We’re just taking Luca for a ride to discuss some business.”

“No you’re not.”

“Look kid, there’s three of us.”

“Yeah, and I can get at least two . . . you first.”

The smirk on Mr. Hawaii’s face vanished. “You don’ wanna do this, kid. Your uncle understands.”

“Fuck off, Louie,” Luca muttered. “I’ll shoot you myself if you come around again.”

“Oh, we’ll be around.”

A Sheriff’s cruiser pulled to the curb, its red lights flashing. Officer McCluskey, one of Uncle Luca’s most frequent customers, stepped from the car, pistol drawn and pointed at the trio.

“What’s going on, Jerry?”

“These hoods are trying to shake down my uncle. Trying to take him for a ride?”

“We just wanna talk business,” Mr. Hawaii said.

“Yeah, sure, business,” McCluskey said and grinned. “Up against the car, all of you . . . and spread ’em.”

McCluskey motioned me forward. “Cover me as I pat ’em down.”

He must have collected a half dozen guns, an assortment of knives, blackjacks, and brass knuckles from the trio before he finished his search. McCluskey shoved the goons into the rear of his patrol car.

“You can put that pea shooter away,” he told me and laughed.

I lowered the black pistol and handed it to Luca. I went out back of the gas station and vomited into the weeds, the roar of traffic on the 101 drowning out the noise of my sickness. I sucked in deep breaths of ocean air, let my body shake for what seemed like half an hour, then checked the crotch of my pants for wet spots before I returned. McCluskey and the mobsters had disappeared and a tow truck was hooking up their green Caddy. It was parked in a red zone.

“What now?” I asked my uncle.

“You done good, kid, real good.”

“But won’t those guys come back?”

“Don’ think so. I’ll bet the cops ’ill find warrants on those fools, and they probably stole them guns. Besides, the higher-ups now know I got my own protection.” He waved to a patrol car cruising by. “So go help those ladies at the peaches.”

That evening after work, Luca invited me over to his house. I sat in their living room and stared out the picture window at the golf course and the Santa Barbara Channel beyond. Aunt Emily brought us snacks, fancy crackers and dip with something green in it.

“You want a beer?” Luca asked.

“Sure, but I’m expected home for late dinner.”

“Have you told your folks anything about—”

“Hell no. I’d be looking for a new job if I did.”

“Well, speakin’ of jobs, you just got a raise to four an hour.”

“Thanks . . . thanks, Uncle Luca. Hopefully I won’t be using the pistol any more.”

He grinned. “No you won’t. But I’m gettin’ a second one, just in case.”

After such a summer, senior year in high school seemed totally lame. I had caught a glimpse of the seedy side of off-track betting on the ponies and learned a whole new type of mathematics from Uncle Luca. And I was good at it. By September, I was taking in bets and helping him set odds, my parents none the wiser.

I got accepted to UC Berkeley to study physics. But the summer before I left town for college I again worked for my uncle. Mr. Hawaii and his associates had been busted for various crimes and were serving extensive time at Avenal State Prison. Two summers working for good wages bought me at least a couple years of college; a partial scholarship gave me the rest.

Uncle Luca, Aunt Emily and their bookmaking operation faded from my life. As years passed, I learned he’d purchased a prime piece of property on Coast Village Road and built a fancy grocery store, home of the five-dollar organic lemon. Luca and Emily grew ancient, living under the oak trees on an estate with a gated driveway and their own security people. Who knew being a bookie could be so lucrative? Luca did.

Terry Sanville lives in San Luis Obispo, California with his artist-poet wife (his in-house editor) and two plump cats (his in-house critics). He writes full time, producing short stories, essays, poems, and novels. Since 2005, his short stories have been accepted more than 370 times by commercial and academic journals, magazines, and anthologies including The Potomac Review, The Bryant Literary Review, and Shenandoah. He was nominated twice for Pushcart Prizes and once for inclusion in Best of the Net anthology. Terry is a retired urban planner and an accomplished jazz and blues guitarist – who once played with a symphony orchestra backing up jazz legend George Shearing.