The Scummers

Forty

224 Forty North Depot Activity Romulus, New York September 1961 Nah, her name wasn’t Jane Russell. She just looked like Jane Russell. Her name was Antonia DiPaulo. Everybody called her Toni. The first time I saw her I was standing guard duty with Bannerman at the main gate, right next to the badge office. It was late summer in Upstate New York. Where once the unstoppable cold had rolled down from Canada, now the heat came in layers that collected around your boots and always, always, ended up in your crotch. And all summer long, every time I worked the main gate, I had never seen Jane Russell, even though she had been working in the badge office, right there in front of us, all the time. The badge office. You opened the door and stepped inside. And the first thing you saw was Antonia DiPaulo. Toni. I had never seen a woman with tits like that. Sure as hell, I had never seen them in West Virginia, not even at Myrtle Beach. Maybe those women in the whorehouse in San Franciso had bigger ones, but they sagged and flopped. I thought that Toni’s tits floated in place, drifting along out in front of her like clouds rubbing together in the mists of sweat. Bannerman and I were working the gate. It was late afternoon and I knew the civilians in the badge office were getting ready to go home. There were a few civilian cars parked in the lot out in front of the badge office, but nothing that stood out. Until the big, black Cadillac sedan pulled in. It was not a limo, 225 but it had to be the biggest damned car ever to roll into the parking area. The thing was long, shiny, had tinted windows and looked like something out of a bad Mafia movie. The guy driving did not get out, just sat there with the engine running, windows rolled up, and I knew he had the air conditioner going full blast. I could barely see him through the dark windows but he sat turned in his seat, as though intentionally keeping his face away from the guard shack. Sort of pissed me off. Standing guard duty at the main gate meant you were responsible for everything that happened there, including anything that happened in the visitors’ parking area. And, besides, I was bored. I left Bannerman in the guard shack and walked over to the car, rapped on the window with my knuckles. The guy did not move, just kept his head turned, staring away from me. I rapped again. Harder. I could see his body shift, turning slightly toward me. The window came down an inch or so but, still, he never looked at me. “Get the fuck away from my car.” It was just a flat statement, no real emotion, not even irritation, as though he were reprimanding a mildly unruly child. The guy’s voice was low, gravelly, and when he spoke it was like he was just clearing his throat. He still did not look at me but I could see more of him, now. He was an older guy, his hair slicked back and shiny, his shoulders broad and heavy. He was wearing a black suit and black gloves. Gloves? It was September, for Christ’s sake. I stepped back from the car, put my hand on the butt of my .45 and started to lift it from the holster. “It’s okay, private . . .” She was looking at my chest, trying to read my name tag. 226 I was looking at her chest. “ . . . Stone,” she said finally. She had come out of the badge office and was standing close to me, her hand out, reaching, but not touching. I was looking at Antonia DiPaulo. I was looking at her wondrous tits. She was wearing a white blouse that looked like silk and I realized it had been carefully tailored, cut precisely to fit, and display, those amazing tits that flew out in front of her, parting the universe, announcing their power over mankind. “I don’t know your name, Miss . . . Miss . . .” “DiPaulo,” she said. At least, I think that’s what she said. The vision of her tits was plugging up my hearing. “And please forgive my driver, Carlo. He’s just trying to do what he was told to do. I will see...