When the Fat Lady Sings
Tom Colston

Tom Colston is a crime fiction writer living in Mt.
Laurel, New Jersey. Tom is currently at work on a brutally
candid memoir of his military experiences during
the Koren War.
©Copyright 2001
Tom Colston

“Get in the car, Eddie. Back seat.”
“Can’t you guys cut me a break? I’ll make ...”
“Don’t start whinin’, pal. Be a man an’ get in the car.”
My name is Eddie Maloney and for me it’s real late in the final
period. Remember when the Philadelphia Flyers made that fat
broad, ‘what’s her name, Kate Smith?’ famous all over again. She’d
sing, “God Bless America” in that big voice of her’s when our
‘Bullies’ had the game iced. The other team’d know they was history
and there weren’t a damn thing they could do about it. The game is
over. Yeah, that fat broad was great.
I started pinching cheap lipsticks and cosmetics from the old
Woolworth over on Market when I was in second grade. I’d sell the
stuff to the older girls in the neighborhood. By the time I was
twelve, if it had any value, I’d lift it. I made more boosting than my
old man made his whole frigging life wrestling a truck. That dumb
mick never made more than thirty-five or forty bucks a week his
whole life when he wasn’t too drunk to work.
Crazy thing was I never got caught, not even once. Maybe things
would’ve turned out different if I’d been nailed and the cops’d
beaten the crap out of me. Yeah, maybe.
After I got booted from high school, I floated around doin’ my
hustle until I hooked up with a team that clipped high-priced rides
for a chop-shop over near the Philly airport. The chop-boss’d tell us
what he wanted and we’d take to the streets. I got so’s I could
spring a door and by-pass the alarm and roll any luxury wheels, car
or SUV, in under a minute.
Working the cars was the first real bread I ever had. For the first
time in my life, I had some decent threads and ate real good. I
moved in with a gorgeous blonde bimbo who when she wasn’t
sleepin’ ‘til noon was uptown spending my bread on facials or her
hair. I was always broke, but I didn’t mind. It was a good life.
Then, some rat bastard who was pissed at the chop-boss fingered
the gig. Next thing I knew, I was being pushed, wrists cuffed, into
the 45th District station along with three of my car pals. Those cops
didn’t waste any time. We were arraigned that same day and each
bound against a 50g’s bail. The chop-boss didn’t spring for the ten
percent bond so the four of us spent nearly three months locked-up
watching TV and waiting trial.
Our chop-boss paid for the lawyer so I didn’t cooperate with the
DA. Big mistake. The trial was a farce. My shyster was a idiot and I
ended up taking a two to five fall. That’s heavy for a white kid, in
Philadelphia, with no priors. My lawyer said I must’ve caught the
old bag judge having a PMS attack. Said he’d appeal. Yeah, right. An
hour later, I was processing at Graterford Penitentiary and saying
goodbye to my car pals.
If you’ve ever seen pictures of Graterford, you know it’s one ugly
mother. But, the outside is beautiful compared to what’s going on
inside. The first thing that hits you is the noise. It’s so loud that after
a few minutes listening to it ya’ wanna’ scream. Can’t carry on a
conversation with the guy standing right next to you without yelling
so’s he can hear.
The second thing that grabs your attention is the stink. Nothing
on God’s earth compares to it. The stench comes from thousands of
unwashed men living in a prison built to house several hundred.
When you add in the odor of the backed-up toilets and the heavyduty
chemicals which are supposed to cover up that smell, this
place real beats up on your nose.
Four cons’re jammed into cells built for one. An’ outside your cell,
it’s so crowded you can’t find a spot to sit without some dude
tripping over you. Because most of the toilets don’t work right,
guys’re all the time taking leaks, even dumps right on the floor in
the common area. The food? No comment! Not even the chop-boss’
yard dog would eat that garbage.
But, all that stuff was tolerable. The worse thing about Graterford
was the perverts. They ran all over like they had hunting licenses. A
guy could fight off one, maybe two. But there’d never be just one
or two. Those faggots’d posse up and then their target was an easy
take down.
Early on, I got real lucky ‘cause I ran into a couple of connected
guys from South Street who remembered me. They sent the word
out to leave me alone. In G., if a guy wasn’t a member of a gang or 
didn’t have muscle behind him, he’d get turned out, robbed, or
beaten for no reason at all. Sometimes a guy’d get nailed even with
people behind him. An’ once you’ve been on some fruit’s perverted
menu, you’re nothing but three squares a day.
There was a whole lot of fighting goin’ on. Mostly with razors or
shivs ground down from spoons or toothbrushes. Dudes’d get
knifed over drugs, fighting off fags, or maybe some fool just looked
at a soul brother wrong. Once, I saw a guy die ‘cause he got into
some crazy dude’s space. Never took much to start the blood
flowing.
From day one, I promised myself no one was gonna turn me out.
Even with the ginzo muscle behind me, I wasn’t totally safe. On the
street, I’d been a booster not a fighter so I had a lot to learn. A
black dude taught some nasty kung-foo shit in exchange for my
cigarettes and I worked the weights out in the yard, religiously.
After a couple of scrapes with one demented convict who had a
hard-on for me, I learned how to handle myself. I guess you could
say my time at G. wasn’t all wasted.
I got parole after serving eighteen months. My parole officer sent
me to a dish washing job over on 5th. It wasn’t that I’d been
reformed and was willing to bust my ass for minimum wage, mind
you. The deal on the parole was simple. No job? Do Not Pass Go.
Do Not Collect $200. Go Directly To Jail. The manager of the greasy
spoon was a real prince. That ugly Greek bastard’d fit right in at
Graterford. He told me that unless I kicked back half my pay to
him, no job. I took the scum-bag’s deal.
Broke and needing a legit address to get my PA off my ass, I
moved back in with my Ma. The old broad’d never visited me inside
and I hadn’t seen her for about three years. Ma’d changed a lot. She
looked a hell of a lot older, all skin and bones. Chain smoking
those menthol Newports and guzzling cheap vodka had dug a mess
of deep creases in her face. She wasn’t a pretty broad.
But, I’ll give the old broad this, the witch still had herself a pair of
brass balls. She made it clear she wasn’t happy to have me moving
in. She’s been on her own since the old man had drunk his liver to
stone. After being the target of his fists for more than twenty-five
years, she wasn’t about to be ‘the hostest with the mostest’ for
nobody. Especially, not for me.
Hey, I wasn’t thrilled either. Looking around the Maloney
homestead, I could see that Ma’s housekeeping hadn’t improved any
since she’d kicked me out. The stove looked like it still hadn’t been
touched by a clean wash cloth. And, Ma still had the best fed and
fastest cockroaches on Lombard. Nothin’d changed.
One night after work, I went to see a guy named Stones. A con in
G. told me this Stones guy was the man to see. A week later Stones
intro’d me to Mario Correza. You’d never know it by looking at him 
because he was a low-key, older guy, but Mario ran the biggest
coke and crack operation in Philly and he owned the PPD narc
squad. I mean he owned them, man.
Right from the start, we got along real good. Never figured out
why Mario liked me. The dude just liked me and trusted me is all. I
started out driving and working as a body-guard for Mario. After a
couple of months, Mario promoted me the job of picking up the
dailies from his dealers and gave me a big raise in salary. I moved
back in with my old girl friend and life was good again.
It was my job to drive to the drop houses, with Willie Bang-Bang
who carried a TEC-9, and pick up the dealer’s cash. Some nights,
we’d have eighty, ninety, a hundred grand in the duffel bag when
we checked back in. I don’t know when the idea of skimming
Mario hit me. All I know is that after a month or so of hefting and
smelling that green, I couldn’t stand it any longer.
So, one night when Willie was sitting up front and I was putting
the duffel in the trunk, I snaked a wad of tens and twenties into my
pocket. Later, I sweated out watching the bills speed through the
counting machine and wondering whether Mario’s cash man would
catch the short. He didn’t. That night I left with an extra three
hundred dineros in my pocket.
But, that clipped bread was like poison. Every night after
collections, I’d drive the two or three bills down to Atlantic City to
Trump’s Casino. Yeah, I took it from Mario and ran it right into ‘The
Donald’s’ diceman’s bank. I couldn’t believe it. Every night, I lost. I
never had one single winning night. I felt like one of those furry
little animals on a trend mill. Feet-moving and wheel-turning a milea-
minute but going no where.
One night, I got too greedy. I lifted a grand out of the duffel.
When the cash man announced the count, Mario had Willie stand
me up and turn my pockets out. Mario said he didn’t mind losing
two or three bills a night but when I grabbed a yard, he said that
was too much greed. He said ‘I had to go’. I told Mario I’d never do
it again. He just laughed and picked up the telephone.
Hell, I can’t really blame him. I’d’ve done the same thing in his
place. But really, what did he expect from me. I’m a thief. Ain’t I
been one my whole damn life? A tiger can’t change his stripes, can
he?
Ma used to say I was the luckiest kid in Philly. An’ you know, I
was lucky. All those years, never got pinched, not even close, until
the cars. Not once. But, those frigging tables in AC killed me. Maybe
if I could’ve won once in a while instead of crapping out all the
time. Maybe I wouldn’t’ve dug so deep into Mario. Yeah, maybe.
“OK, Eddie. Get out of the car.”
“Guys ... Can’t we ... “ 
“Come on pal. Make it easy on yourself.”
That big voice booms down from the speakers high over the
Spectrum ice. An’, the other team knows they’re history ‘cause there
weren’t a damn thing they could do about it. I can hear the fat lady
now, “God bless America, land that I ...”