The Mentor
by Dave Zeltserman
Patrick was fifteen when he got a hold of a dog-eared paperback copy of Charlie Valtrone’s 1960 hardboiled crime novel, ‘I, the Killer’. The novel was Charlie Valtrone’s first and was considered a cult classic. It was also unlike anything Patrick had read before or even imagined that a book could be, both in its realistic depiction of violence and mob-related crime and the raw visceral energy within it that hit Patrick as hard as if he’d been smacked in the face with a sledgehammer. After that book, Patrick greedily devoured everything else he could find of Charlie Valtrone’s, and would later buy every subsequent book as they were published.
It was because of Charlie Valtrone and the power of those books that Patrick wanted to become a writer. He majored in English Literature in college and supported himself now installing carpets while he worked on his unpublished manuscript. For a long time Charlie Valtrone had been both his literary hero and unknowing mentor. Now the great man was not only his acknowledged mentor but his buddy. Hell, the two of them at that moment were drinking Buds and smoking Cohiba cigars as they lounged in the backyard of Charlie’s modest Patterson, New Jersey home, all the while porterhouse steaks sizzling on the gas grill.
A year ago Patrick had sent Charlie his manuscript. He fantasized that he might get a short note back from the man but certainly didn’t expect anything. After all, Charlie Valtrone was a legend while Patrick was an unpublished twenty-six year-old nobody. Even though he only lived a couple of towns over from Charlie, the last thing Patrick expected was Charlie calling him to tell him, “Kid, there’s some good stuff in this. But you need to fix a few things. Let’s get together.”
Patrick didn’t waste any time getting together with his idol. That first meeting was spent drinking whiskey and talking about everything except writing. More late evenings followed, and before too long Patrick was coming over to Charlie’s home three or four times a week. It was more than Charlie becoming his mentor, it was as if Charlie and his wife, Eunice, had adopted him. They’d feed him when he’d come over, and after Eunice would go to bed, he and Charlie would drink long into the night with Charlie telling him about his younger days when he used to hang out with members of the mob.
“Now, remember,” Charlie would say, “I was just hanging around these guys. Doing a little bookmaking on the side, a few errands here and there, but nothing heavy. I wasn’t going around breaking legs or nothin’ like that, so don’t get any big ideas in your head.”
“Yeah, right,” Patrick would respond. “Someone late in paying up, and you telling me you wouldn’t lean on them?”
“Me?” Charlie would wink and show a thick-lipped grin from ear to ear. “I’m a regular pussycat. Who could I have scared into paying up?”
Not quite a pussycat. Even at seventy-four Charlie was an imposing figure. A big man, barrel-chested, thick heavy arms and large hands with knuckles as hard as concrete. Although his hair had turned from black to white over the years, he still had all of it, and it was still cut short in that trademark bristle cut of his. His jaw heavy and his face broad and square and with enough scars marking it to show that he’d seen his share of barroom brawls and back alley scraps in his younger days. You’d know this even if you didn’t notice his somewhat flattened nose. Patrick watched as Charlie blissfully blew smoke rings from his mouth. He tried to imagine what it would be like if he didn’t know Charlie and the guy came knocking on his door to collect on a late loan. Yeah, if that were to happen, even with Charlie Valtrone being a geezer in his seventies, the sight of the guy standing outside his front door would probably have caused Patrick to piss his pants.
Patrick was still watching his mentor blow smoke rings when Eunice walked over to Charlie and started rubbing his shoulders. She was maybe fifteen years younger than Charlie. Patrick had seen pictures of her when she was a young woman, and she was gorgeous back then and she was still a good-looking woman now. Over the years she’d kept herself slender without ever becoming bony. There weren’t many wrinkles on her face and she dyed her thick long hair the same red that it had naturally been twenty years earlier. She was a woman of class. Charlie slid his eyes sideways so he could look at his wife without moving his head. In his raspy, gruff voice he asked her how the steaks were coming.
“Look at the kid,” he growled. “The boy’s famished. We got to feed him soon before he keels over on us.”
Eunice laughed at that. “I think he’ll survive another five minutes.”
“I don’t know. The kid’s all skin and bones. He’s wasting away in front of our eyes.”
That wasn’t exactly true. Patrick carried an extra twenty pounds more than he should thanks to all the junk food he ate on the job, as well as all the booze and good food Charlie and Eunice fed him during the week. Eunice rolled her eyes and told Charlie she’d get them a couple of more Buds and that that would tide them over. As she walked away, Charlie reached out to smack her playfully on the rear. She looked over her shoulder at him and smiled wickedly before stepping back into the house.
“Ah, nothin’ like a good woman,” Charlie said in a contented growl. “Kid, you need to get yourself one.”
“I’m working on it.” Patrick looked away and found himself tensing as he asked whether Charlie had had a chance yet to look at the latest draft of his manuscript.
“Yeah, I did. Kid, you’re getting closer. Plot, pacing, structure, characters are all good. This book could be great, but some of the scenes just don’t ring true to me. Especially your bank heist scene. Too over-the-top, not realistic enough.” Charlie paused to blow out another smoke ring. He sat pensively and watched as the smoke dissipated into the air before he continued.
“I don’t know, kid. I think you need to have more experiences in life. Maybe spit in some tough guy’s eye and get yourself in a barroom fight. And go to a damn shooting range so you know what it feels like to fire off a clip. And goddamn it, wakeup in a drunk tank some morning!”
Patrick nodded, feeling his disappointment. He had been hoping this latest version would get his mentor’s seal of approval. Somewhat dryly, he said, “Or maybe you could just introduce me to some of your old friends and I could break a few legs for the experience like you once did.”
Charlie gave Patrick a dull-eyed smile. “Don’t know what you’re talking about, kid.”
“Yeah, sure you don’t.”
“Seriously, kid, I don’t. But you’re being kind of bold here, don’cha think?”
“Come on, Charlie. I read ‘Leave Them Screaming’. Several times, in fact. There’s no way you could’ve written that if you hadn’t really worked as muscle for the mob.”
“Nah, that was all imagination.” Charlie tapped his skull with a thick, stubby index finger. “All of that came from up here. Sure, I listened to stories that guys in the neighborhood were telling, but no, I never did any of that stuff.”
“Damn, I’d love to meet some of those guys and hear their stories.”
Charlie’s small pale eyes grew wistful. “Yeah, I know you would, kid. The problem is all the guys I knew back then are either dead or missing.”
A cell phone ringing interrupted them. Charlie took from his pocket what looked like a cheap disposable cell phone and listened intently for several minutes as a hardness settled over his features. Then with the same irritable suddenness that you’d see with an old dog turning surly, he lashed out. “What are you talking about,” he demanded into the phone, his face reddening with anger. “The thirtieth is still a week away! You nuts or something?”
It was the thirtieth. Patrick got Charlie’s attention and signaled to him that it was the thirtieth. Charlie looked at him with a perplexed uncertainty before realizing his mistake. He turned away from Patrick. His voice low and tight, he said into his cell phone, “I was just screwing with you. Of course I know what day it is, so don’t go thinking this is some sort of senior moment.” There was a long pause before Charlie muttered into the phone for the other party not to worry about nothin’. After he ended the call, he stared into space until Patrick brought his attention back by asking whether he had missed a book deadline.
“Yeah, something like that,” Charlie murmured out of the side of his mouth. As he sat staring blankly at Patrick, confusion dulled his eyes and his lips folded downwards into a dour frown.
Eunice came back then with fresh beers. After she reported that the steaks were done, they moved inside. Charlie seemed distracted during dinner and made only a few guttural responses to Eunice’s attempts to engage him in conversation. After dinner while Eunice was clearing away the dishes, Charlie turned to Patrick and told him he needed his help.
“I’ve got an errand to run,” he said. “A half hour driving back and forth to Paramus, but we’ll be back in an hour. But kid, I could use your help.”
“Sure.”
Charlie nodded, and lumbered to his feet. He left the room, and when he came back he was carrying a gym bag. He signaled with a tilt of his head for Patrick to follow him. On the way out he stopped in the kitchen to give Eunice a kiss on the cheek.
“I’ll be back soon, doll,” he told her.
“You two be careful out there,” she scolded him. “I don’t want you corrupting our boy here by taking him to a strip club, or anything like that!”
Charlie made a face at the suggestion and left the house with Patrick following behind. Once they got on the road, Charlie pulled into a strip mall parking lot a few miles from his home and parked his Cadillac Escalade before getting into an older model Buick Regal nearby. “Don’t ask,” he told Patrick. “I got to deliver this piece of crap. It’s a long story.”
“I thought that call was over a book deadline?”
“Yeah, it was. This is a different matter.”
During the ride to Paramus, Charlie made small talk about politics and recent TV shows and the Yankees prospects for the upcoming season, but seemed mostly distracted and didn’t appear to pay attention to any of Patrick’s responses. After a while Patrick found himself drifting asleep, partly from his friend’s ramblings and mostly from the steak dinner and beer. He was jerked awake when they slowed down in front of a small rundown looking ranch-style house, and with some curiosity noticed that Charlie had turned off the headlights before gliding the car into the driveway. As they left the car, Charlie put a finger to his lips, hushing Patrick. Charlie had taken his gym bag with him, and while they walked to a side door of the house, Charlie removed a couple of objects from the bag, one of which he pressed into Patrick’s hand. It was too dark for Patrick to see what it was, but it had a cold metal feel and it felt heavy. It wasn’t until Charlie was rapping his knuckles against the door that Patrick realized he had been handed a gun and that Charlie held one also. He was still trying to make sense of this when the door opened a few inches and Charlie shot the man on the other side of the door in the chest. The man fell backwards into the house. The noise that the gunshot made was only a puff. A silencer must’ve been used. Patrick was still trying to understand what was happening when Charlie pushed the door open. The man who had been shot looked dead as he lay on the floor. He was thin and wiry, in his thirties and wore a wife beater tank top and khakis with his chest torn open by the bullet. As Charlie moved past him he shot the man one more time in his right eye, then turned and nearly snarled at Patrick as he ordered him to follow him into the house. Patrick obeyed, at this point moving purely on autopilot. Even without Charlie ordering him to do so, he shut the door behind him.
There was a man’s voice from deeper inside the house. This man was yelling to someone named Tony, asking him what was happening. Charlie moved quickly and stealthily towards that voice, and Patrick followed him, his mind still refusing to accept the events that he had witnessed.
As they moved through the house, a man walked out of a bathroom. He was bigger than the man Charlie had earlier shot, taller and wider in the shoulders, and he must’ve been the one who had been shouting out to someone named Tony. His eyes grew wide as he saw Charlie. Before he could reach for the gun that he had tucked away in his waistband, Charlie fired three rounds, each of them leaving expanding red dots on the man’s chest. He toppled backwards. Charlie moved to him so he could search through the dead man’s pockets. He was doing this when a noise sounded from behind Patrick.
“Goddamn it, kid,” Charlie growled in exasperation. “There’s someone behind you! Do your job as backup!”
Without even realizing he was doing it, Patrick started firing his gun as he turned. Like Charlie, his gun had a silencer attached to it, and the bullets made only a soft puff sound as they hit their target. It was a girl. She was unarmed, no older than twenty and was half naked wearing only a pair of panties. She must have stepped out of a bedroom to see what was happening. Patrick had shot her twice in the stomach, and she collapsed on the floor and moaned in agony. Charlie pulled a thick roll of bills from the dead man’s pocket and gave Patrick a disgusted look. Patrick stood paralyzed as the girl writhed on the floor nearby.
“What’s the matter with you, kid? You going to let that poor girl suffer?”
Charlie waited for Patrick to act. When he didn’t, Charlie walked over to the girl and shot her once in the temple. She stopped moving then. Patrick must’ve gone somewhat into shock because everything became dream-like after that. Charlie taking his gun from him, the two of them leaving the house, Charlie giving him the car keys and telling him to drive, saying that he was to drop Charlie off at the strip mall in Patterson where he had left his Escalade and then lose the car at an address in Newark. It wasn’t until Charlie had taken a flask from his jacket pocket and made Patrick drink from it that the world snapped back into focus. He started shivering then, his arms shaking as he gripped the wheel. Charlie had him take another swig of the bourbon that was in the flask.
“Kid, you must’ve figured out by now that I did more than just muscle in my younger days,” Charlie said, his voice flat, a weariness softening it. “The thing is, it don’t matter if you become a bestselling crime novelist, once you’re in you’re in, and you stay in until they nail the coffin lid shut on you.”
They sat in silence while Patrick drove. After several minutes of this Patrick muttered under his breath calling Charlie a lousy stinking bastard.
“What was that?”
“You’re a lousy stinking bastard,” Patrick repeated, his voice louder but sounding odd as if it weren’t really coming from him. “You drag me to a mob hit?”
“Kid, you better watch your mouth. I like you and I’d rather not knock those pearly whites out of your mouth.” Charlie pushed a thick hand across his eyes and let out a heavy sigh. “About dragging you to this hit, I’m sorry about that, kid, but it couldn’t be helped. Somehow I lost track of the date. You’ll see when you’re my age. That stuff happens. But the hit had to go down tonight and I needed backup and didn’t have time to arrange anything else. You did a crappy job shooting that broad in the stomach like that, but here, for your troubles.”
Charlie tried to hand Patrick the roll of bills he had taken off the second man he had shot inside the house. When Patrick wouldn’t take it, Charlie shoved the money in Patrick’s jacket pocket.
“There’s over two grand there,” Charlie said. “Don’t be a schmuck. Yeah, I know, you’re upset about that broad. There wasn’t supposed to be anyone else in the house except for those two mooks I took out. In a way it’s a shame she was there. That broad had a nice rack on her. But in another way, it was a damn lucky break. If she wasn’t there and things didn’t go down the way they did, I would’ve had to leave you tonight in a landfill with your brains leaking out of your skull, and I like you kid and I’m glad I don’t have to do that.”
They didn’t say another word to each other after that until Patrick pulled up next to Charlie’s Escalade at the strip mall parking lot where they had earlier left it. Charlie put a hand on Patrick’s arm. He said, “Kid, be over at the house tomorrow at seven. I’ll have Eunice make a lasagna the way you like it with chopped up sausage. Afterwards I’ll introduce you to some guys. Whether you like it or not, you’re in now, but I’ll take care of you and make sure you get treated properly. And this is what your writing needed. I’m sure of it. You’ll see that I’m right.”
Charlie nodded to Patrick and left the car. After the car door closed, Patrick headed off towards Newark without looking back at the other man. For a long time all he could feel was sick to his stomach as he replayed in his mind what went down in that house. He kept seeing the faces and the gaping wounds of the people they had killed. Especially that girl’s. She was so young, and even when he squeezed his eyes closed he’d see her as she lay on the floor with her guts leaking out of her stomach. At some point before he reached Newark his thoughts had shifted away from those killings and to his novel. Almost as if a light switch had been flipped on he saw clearly how he needed to rewrite the bank heist scene so that it would have the same type of realism that he loved so much in Charlie Valtrone’s novels. He started getting excited over the prospect of doing this. By the time he ditched the car at the address he was given, all he could think about was getting home and working on his novel. He also found himself salivating over the thought of Eunice’s lasagna with chopped sausage.
About the author: Dave Zeltserman lives in the Boston area, and is the award-winning author of twenty-two crime, horror, and thriller novels, and numerous short stories. His novels have been named by the Washington Post, NPR, American Library Association, WBUR, and Booklist as best books of the year. His novel, Small Crimes, has been made into a Netflix film, and his horror novel, The Caretaker of Lorne Field, is currently in film development. He also writes the Morris Brick thriller series under the pseudonym Jacob Stone.
Photo by Martin Zaenkert on Unsplash
