The Epiphany

            by Abe Leiman

 

“Go ahead, count it up. Should all be there...”, his voice was shaky. It wouldn’t have sounded out of the ordinary to anyone else, but Jack McCormick had acquired an ear for rats like this.

            “You kidding me, man? You think I am a goddamn joke? You think this business is a goddamn joke? You think I have any tolerance for rat bastards like you?” Jack’s calm, raspy voice shifted suddenly to an aggressive, violent tone.

            The man stopped dead in his tracks. He knew he had been caught. He knew there was nothing to say. He knew what Jack did to people like him. “I, I, I....”

            Before either man had the chance to open his mouth, Jack picked up the closest blunt object, which happened to be the very bottle he was about to sell this rat. With little hesitation and an unchanging facial expression, he took the bottle to the man’s head with one swift blow. The man fell to the floor, nearly unconscious, in an explosion of glass and dry gin.

            “Do I need to say anything to you? EVERY GODDAMN WEEK, one of your types comes around here, thinking you can slide with antics like these! You throw counterfeit money in my face, and think you’re gonna get out of here in good health?! I run a business, my friend, and people like you do nothing but slow it down.”

            Ironically enough, Jack lost a full bottle, which would have gone for a good $10, in teaching this guy his lesson. It was all, indeed, strictly business. This is all Jack had known since The Prohibition Laws were passed, and he had started up this entrepreneurship.

By this point in his sales, he had cut out any emotional aspects of his work. He was a man of business, and had no intentions but to make enough money to feed his family.

            Jack looked down at the man lying before him, bloody and pleading to cut some sort of a deal. Jack, however, cut no deals. He picked the man up by his arms, and dragged him to the doorstep. Throwing him out into the cold winter air, he said, “You’re lucky I didn’t kill you right here, you sunuvabitch. Let this be a lesson to you and to the whole goddamn city of New York. I run this place, my friend.” Jack was still seething with frustration, but now filled with adrenaline and confidence. He left the man on the sidewalk, slammed the door, and returned to the warmth of his room.

            Jack walked over to the small file cabinet in which he kept all written accounts of his sales, and, more importantly, all his earnings from the day.

            “20, 40, 60, 80...”, he muttered under his breath, until he slipped the last bill through his fingertips. All his profits came in cash, and stayed in cash. He took all the money he had made, and slipped it into his long black leather jacket. He put his gloves and top hat on, and gave one final glance at the clock. 9:59, right on time. He closed down shop, secured the locks on all the doors, and exited the building onto West 42nd Street.

            As Jack walked down the block toward his home, his mind cleared of all business concerns, as it always did on this routine walk home. His worries about dangerous sales and purchases, debt with the Italian mob, and planned assassinations floated to the back of his mind. He was no longer a businessman, but rather a family man. All he had on his mind was getting home and seeing the faces of his wife and children. Jack reached the end of West 42nd, and turned onto Chestnut Lane, a dank, narrow street that looked more like an alleyway than a residential avenue in New York City.

            No one had ever seriously questioned Jack’s authority, and it was expected that he receive the highest level of respect from any man, rich and poor alike. It was what he thrived off in the outside world, the essence of his reputation and character. It was as necessary to him as food or water would be to any other man. His classic skinny-tire Peugot bicycle sat outside the 5 story red brick apartment complex he called home, and it remained untouched each day, just as his unlocked white Cadillac and open garage did. No one wanted to get his legs broken over a bicycle or a car, and everyone knew this was Jack McCormick’s territory. Jack opened up his front door and began the ascent to his family’s apartment room, which sat at the end of the hall on the 5th floor.

            When Jack reached his room, he was out of breath, but maintained his composure to greet his family. He unlocked the door and entered the main room, holding back a smile, choking back a tear, as he often did. His persona changed instantly as he took his first step into his home. There was no use for the aggression, the temper, the sheer ruthlessness that he employed daily into his business endeavors. Jack paused for a moment, to hear if anyone was even still awake. He heard only the distant sway of a rocking chair, and crept toward the adjacent room. Sitting there in the rocking chair was his wife, Maria, with their two daughters, 1 and 4 years old, laying on the sofa next to her. All their eyes were closed, and Jack was careful not to disturb them. He took in the view, feeling comforted. He stood there for a moment longer, admiring and appreciating his beautiful family. Without a word, Jack turned around and walked over to his bedroom and toward the stiff bed he slept on each night. He stripped his clothes off and lay down in his bed, still thinking about his wife and kids, but with thoughts about the next day’s business plans and prospects drifting back to the surface of his mind.

            Jack awoke the next morning to the voice of Maria telling him he had an important phone call. By this point, Maria knew what Jack did to make his money, and although she did not condone it, she accepted it and never seemed to bring it up. Jack got up and lumbered into this kitchen to take the call. His two children were eating breakfast at the table next to the phone.

            “Talk to me...,” Jack answered the phone.

            A deep voice rattled the receiver in Jack’s ear. It was the voice of Sarsfield, the closest thing to a business partner that Jack had ever had. Sarsfield was a fellow Irishman, but was one of the few men in the business who had the skill to negotiate and engage in business with men of all origins. He received large shipments of alcohol from the English and the Portuguese, and even did a little work with the Sicilian mob.  Sars and his men made runs down to port cities like Boston to receive new shipments, and brought it back to New York to sell to bootleggers and owners of speakeasies. He was Jack’s main supplier. Over the telephone, he yelled something about a new shipment coming in that day from England; he made it abundantly clear that it was a very urgent matter.

            “Jack, this is big, this is huge. You better be 100 percent positive about this one. This stuff is coming in by the gallons, and is going for dirt cheap. Have the $500 in cash, and  meet me at the shop at midnight,” said Sars.

            Jack, still in the presence of his family, made sure to make no direct references to his work or the matters being discussed on the phone. His answers were quick and dry. “Yeah, should be fine...I am, Sars...not a problem...yes, I have it...very good, goodbye.” Jack noticed that Sars didn’t say why they had to meet at midnight, why it was such an impending matter that he had the money in cash right away, and why he didn’t even s

ay what type of alcohol was coming in. He trusted Sars enough to not say anything though, and anticipated the business that had come his way. Jack just received news of one of the biggest shipments he had ever dealt with, but his composure and calm tone were enough to make his family think that the telephone conversation was about nothing more than a co-worker’s lost gloves.

            Later that evening, Jack got ready for what was to ensue. He sensed something was odd about this situation, but couldn’t put his finger on it. He dismissed his doubts on the grounds that he had done more business with Sars than he could remember, and everything had always gone smoothly. He decided to take his father’s old revolver, just in case. In his adjacent coat pocket, he held $500, all in cash. His family had, once again, already all fallen asleep, and Jack had to sneak out of his house without making any noise.

            He reached the sidewalk, and walked down his street towards his shop. It was the dead of winter, and snow lay on the ground from the previous night’s snowfall. It was snowing until noon that day, and this made Jack wonder how Sars was able to get this shipment and bring it back up to New York all in one day, being that most of the highways and roads were closed. The cold would force Jack to put his hands in his coat pockets, but this only made him feel the cold steel of the revolver, which sent a shudder down his spine. Paranoia crept up on Jack’s mind. It was like a parasite that fed of his memories; memories of things he had seen, things he had heard, things he had done. The only images in his mind were those of men being thrown off bridges with blocks of concrete tied to their feet, tossed in the trunks of cars like a sack of potatoes, and lying before him bloodied, another victim of Jack’s temper. Jack, however, had enough willpower to dispel these thoughts and images. He had felt similar things many times before, but never had they lasted more than a minute or two, before Jack blocked it all out and went about his life. He would return to reality, or what was reality for him.

            Assuming his usual persona, he turned the corner, putting his business building into his field of vision. In front of it stood about 5 men, all wearing black. There were no barrels, crates, or boxes. One man, slightly taller and muscular than the rest, emerged from the group, before Jack had taken more than 5 steps on the block. The man was Sars. His countenance was one of distress and anxiety, and it was quite noticeable to Jack.

            “It’s me, “Jack shouted out to Sars, “it’s only me, you silly bastard; you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

            “Ha-Ha, oh my Jack,” Sars stifled a laugh. “Always on time, aren’t you my friend? How are you? It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” Sars spoke in a tone of forced friendliness.

            “Yeah. yeah, I’m fine. But let us quit pussy-footing around and start talking business. You do realize that I have come here in lieu of my trust in you. You gave me, let us just say, less information than is suitable. You’re lucky I came through on this one, because I could tell by the way you were speaking that this is something big. Now start talking, I gotta get home to my family.”

            “Well, Jack, this is definitely something big. This we both know. However, there are further...shall we say... extenuating circumstances which I don’t think you understand. Here, let us walk.” He put his arm around Jack’s shoulder, and walked over towards the business front, speaking in the same manner that he was walking, abrupt and ungraceful. “Things change, Jack, and people change as well. And often the people who are affected most by these changes do not even understand the sources of change. They do not understand the causes behind these changes, and why it must affect them so much, whether it be physically or emotionally. But let me forewarn you, Jack, that the reasons are there. The legitimacy of the reasons is often there, even if others are oblivious to it.” Sars paused, collecting his thoughts.

            “What in the name of God’s green earth are you talking about? I came here with intentions of doing business. It’s 12:30 in the goddamn morning, and if you don’t mind, I’d like to make this transaction. Now what the hell is going on, where is the...”

            Before Jack could finish, a loud bang rang out and Sars jumped away from Jack. In his hand Sars was tightly gripping a smoking Winchester rifle, which he now slipped back under his long coat. Jack fell to the concrete, gripping his leg, which was now bleeding profusely. The shock he felt was way too strong to allow him to feel any type of pain.

            “Business changes, Jack. To a real entrepreneur, there are no real alliances, no real friends. It’s you against the world, Jack, and at some point you’re going to need to think about this. You’re not the only one who has dreams of being on top. It is strictly business, Jack.”

            Jack immediately dove his hands back into has pockets, as he lay there on the ground. Again, all he felt was the cold steel of his revolver. This time it did not send a shudder up his spine. His nerves were shot. Jack gripped the gun, but did not dare to take it out. As much as he wanted to keep his credibility and power, the situation was crystal clear in his mind. Pulling his gun out would make Sars and his men kill him instantly. He knew these new associates of Sars were ready to do whatever was necessary for Sars. Jack glared up at these men from the sidewalk. He felt completely helpless at that moment. He finally felt defeat. He finally felt dehumanization. He finally felt everything he needed others to feel.

            Sars said nothing else, other than barking at Jack to give him the $500 dollars. Jack used all the strength in his hands to get ahold of the wad of money and throw it on the ground. Jack knew his life could have been ended right there, but he was too experienced with situations like this to do anything rash. More than that, though, he was caught up in his mind. He lay there, in contemplation, as all 6 men walked casually away from the scene, leaving Jack on the ground.

            Sars’ words echoed in Jack’s mind. “Strictly business, strictly business, strictly business...”. Jack began to realize that this was the same simple justification he used in his own practices. Yet here he was, humiliated, disrespected, powerless, and on the verge of death due to rapid blood loss. That paranoia crept up, now accompanied by fear and frustration. His world turned sour and completely dark. Hopes and dreams turned into regrets and hatred.

            Helpless, Jack lay there in front of his business, his thoughts cloudy, his head throbbing with pain and paranoia. He thought of his family. He felt the cold steel of the revolver. Every day of his life, he promised to himself that he would put his family before his business and his own welfare. He considered this sentiment briefly. Again he reached down and felt the cold steel of the revolver. The gun was already loaded. Sars and his 5 associates were already half way down the block. Jack’s thoughts were very clear, lucid almost, yet his thinking was restricted to only his most basic instincts and the simple ideas and emotions of his subconscious. Again Jack thought of his family. He cared so much for them; another sickening image popped into his head. Jack saw a man getting shot square in his back. The man fell to the ground, shaking violently. This pushed Jack over the edge, and he was barely conscious at this point. He felt as though he was nearing insanity. The face of his older daughter appeared, asking her father why he was crying. Unaware of his tears, he  touched his eyes, feeling moisture. He looked at his hands, but they were only a vibrant red, from clutching his wounded leg. He did not respond to his daughter’s question. He had nothing to tell her. There was plenty he had to cry about, but was scared of admitting it to both himself and his family.

            Unable to think any more about these things, Jack muscled the strength necessary to get on his feet. He hobbled over to his business, and opened the door. He entered, and proceeded to empty every bottle liquor onto the floor. After empty gallon upon gallon of gin, vodka, whiskey, wine, and moonshine onto the tile floor, Jack began searching for a flame. He found a book of matches, and exited the store. Without thinking twice, he lit a match and threw it into the building. There was no explosion, just a flame that slowly pervaded the whole building. Jack turned around and limped down West 42nd Street, his home and family in front of him, and the wreckage of his past, business, and alter ego behind him.