NIL DESPERANDUM
December 24, Christmas Eve
“I’ve been walking with a purpose for hours. Deeply immersed in thought, I feel the direction destiny is taking me never had a point of no return.” It’s almost Christmas, the city is bathing in the lights of countless Christmas trees, decorations and Santa’s singing Christmas carols. For the first time in my life, I am honest when I say I’m just as cheerful as the people that surround me, doing their final Christmas shopping.
‘You feelin’ lucky?’ The first thing I’ve asked myself ever since I stepped into the Money Tree Casino on the other side of the bay. My lucky pocket piece, the coin never leaves my side, has so far proved to be no contributing factor to my luck. As a matter of fact, I’m down on my luck. My chips are down and so are the casino chips I used to play the slots. I could write down my life story, it’d keep me busy for quite a while, but I’m too tired and too sick. It would probably take years to do – and I don’t have years left. I could write how I’ve alienated my family when I started stealing money to pay off my gambling and casino related debts. How I plugged one hole with another with scams and fraud. Or the time I’ve spent in jail, the sights I’ve partaken there. How debt collection agents took whatever measly, pitiful possessions I had from my shanty apartment. Eventually my eviction notice came in, I was forced by a bunch of guys and everything I owned fitted in one single backpack. And I was still in the hole for an amount I can never pay off. Not in a dozen lifetimes. Not that I’d be interested in rehashing my life a dozen times. Its Christmas tomorrow and I aint got a place to celebrate. Oh, but if you mean the lousy hotel where I live – The Lefebre Inn – I don’t count the patrons there as pleasant companions to spend some quality Christmas time with. Over the horizon there’s always a new day coming, as some hopeful people like say, or another popular phrase, ‘nil desperandum’. There’s a new day coming full of hope and positive thought but I believe it’ll be night for the rest of my life. I do not regard myself as overly pessimistic, or how I see the world as a negative place with people who lie to get to the top, a world of bloated egocentric people or how start to think in terms of hatred or revenge against those that are all to blame for my misery. None of that. In the whole wide world there’s only one person who screwed up and that would be me.
I’ve been a homeless bum for a few months before I got to stay at The Lefebre. Living on the edge of society isn’t something I highly recommend. Some journalists have done it to write a juicy piece in magazines and tabloids. Eating out of a garbage can is the stuff dreams are made off but the desperation I’ve experienced cannot be replicated by a journalist who sleeps under a bridge for a week or two. All of them have fancy condos waiting for them, a medical team on standby and a fat paycheck on the doormat at the end of the month. Once I saw a lady who did just that and went to live with beggars and homeless, as an indictment against the deplorable conditions of the bottom of the barrel. The woman who performed that nice bit of acting is a well respected journalist who moves around the highest circles of the city’s social life. She was born into an elitist family, a silver spoon up her ass, grew up and raised by her parents like a little empress, went to schools and colleges most normal people cannot afford and ended up as a journalist fighter against social injustice. The hypocrisy wouldn’t be so glaringly obvious if she weren’t so famously spoiled and popular amongst politicians. I saw her once at Meert, located on Upper Pflantzer Avenue near the huge fountain with all the marble as you may know. Meert is a very well-known restaurant which consistently ranks amongst the best dining establishments in town. I’ve heard their écrevisses in white wine sauce is top notch; their foie gras on buttered toast accompanied by the finest selections of wine anywhere draws a global audience. Grand cru, premier cru, not a single bottle goes for less than one hundred thalers. A diner arrangement easily goes north of one thousand. Money bums like you and me don’t have. But fighters against social injustice do. I saw her sitting at a table at Meert, next to one of the large windows decorated with the name of the restaurant and elaborate art noveau ornaments. How I know it was her sitting at such a refined banquet? I recognized her from a photo I saw in a discarded magazine I pulled from a wastepaper basket. She was sitting there, laughing, talking to her fellow dinner guests and enjoying the evening. A waiter brought a bottle of cognac which was thoroughly inspected by one of her gentlemen companions. He gave it his nod of approval. Soon after the same waiter returned with the glasses and a portable humidor for cigars. Perhaps I stood there for only a few minutes when a smartly dressed man came out and told me this is no place for me and I had to clear out this instant. I wasn’t looking for trouble with the boys dressed in blue so I left when he asked me to.
I started gambling at a young age. I don’t remember why or what made me start it. Some people say a gambling addiction is easy to cure once you’re flat broke and got nowhere to turn to, reality sets in and you must stop out of necessity rather than willpower. I’m on the safe side when I call hogwash on that statement. I started nicking money out of my family’s purses, wallets and eventually I started taking jewelry and other valuables. One night my father caught me red handed. After putting all puzzle pieces together, he threatened me with a club and told me never to return home again. That was over twenty years ago. I wasn’t even invited to my father’s funeral. He died without a son I’ve heard people saying. I spied on the ceremony from a short distance, how my family was scarred for life by my misdeeds and how nobody asked questions where I was. My father died with a broken heart and an empty wallet because of me. The thing that scared me most was how I didn’t or couldn’t cry while I saw it happening. The day of the funeral was a typical rainy November day and only a handful of people were present; ex-colleagues, his brothers and sisters, nephews and cousins. My mother sat in a wheelchair and from what I saw, she was mostly apathic throughout the ceremony. When the coffin was lowered into the furnace for cremation, most people left flowers and returned to their car. From someone close to the family I’ve heard, he recalled the last money my mother owned was spent on my father’s funeral. It’s likely she’ll be buried in a pauper’s grave in the near future. Her health has been declining since father died and she won’t make it to February. I cannot make up for all the wrongs in my life but there’s one thing I can right and that’s exactly what I am going to do. I’ve already had my two strikes for two offenses. Final offense is my third strike that means life without a chance of parole. I’ve got two choices: make a bold attempt and live or die in prison. I’ve been in prison twice. My first major crime was stealing money from mail. I used to be a mailman but I could manage to keep my gambling addiction within my budget. Until I needed more and I started stealing. One day I was caught, and the remembrances of that day still haunt me. I committed my second offense shortly after I left the penitentiary. In a casino I thought I could take some poker chips unnoticed. Emphasis on the word ‘thought’. I don’t want to end up going to prison for the long run. Not even in my condition I want to wait around until the day of blessed relief comes.
Early this morning something big fell onto my lap and it’s been keeping me busy since. I was on the other side of town and I didn’t have enough money to pay for a bus ticket so I decided to look for a snug out-of-the-way corner in a dark alley. It had to be dark not to be bothered by the Christmas glow. I found a nice alley with steam pipes near the surface to keep me warm. Most beggars sought refuge in shelters, but I don’t like it there. Chances of getting mugged are higher inside than out on the street. Only mice and other vermin would keep me company or a crack whore and a desperate client, but I don’t mind those girls. They’re as pathetic as I am, only in a different field. I fell asleep under cardboard and the night sky in the middle of the city until two voices awakened me. My senses, toughened and on edge ever since I started sleeping on the streets, heightened in awareness and I tried to sense what went on. I don’t exactly remember how long I’ve slept before my rude awakening. These two gentlemen couldn’t see me from the position where they were standing but they were close, perhaps only several yards away. I was lying on the ground behind a bunch of dumpsters. I sat up, silently, and overheard the whispered conversation.
“Paul sorry you had to stay up on this hour… But damn I’ve finally found the big fish we’ve been working on. Unpaid overtime. It’s ours and nobody can do anything about it.”
“Go on Bernie, I wanna hear it. Did you find out?
“Hell yeah my man. The money. It’s all ours. I found out where those bastards stashed it. Millions, it’s been around there since 1959 and nobody touched it since. It was goddamn hard to trace but thankfully not all clues have been erased just yet. Without those scattered leads it would’ve been impossible. One of those chums was still alive. He also told me why he didn’t pick it up and left for good. He couldn’t. He’s blind and was only one left after the heist. The rest got killed by police or ended up in the slammer. Took me years to investigate who’s who but we’ve got it. He was going to pick up the money but in his haste his car crashed and ended up blind. Bad karma I guess. Too bad the old bugger had to die, but hey, you can’t bake an omelet without breaking some eggs.”
“You got that right. You know where it is.”
“Yeah.”
“Tell me where it is then.”
“108 Fretch Street. It is a basement box owned by one of the perps. The blind cat paid the rent for decades in hopes of retrieving it one day. It looks like we’ll be the ones cashing in. And the Steel Bank won’t miss it either.”
“We’ll pick it up on Christmas day. I still need to have a truck ready with a reliable driver. Someone who cannot be compelled to harm us because of his past. It takes some time. Tomorrow we’ll be swimming in money.” After that, they both went their own way leaving me pondering this little chat.
Then I remembered! The Steel Bank heist of 1959 was one of the largest bank robberies of modern history. A gang of hoodlums and a disgruntled ex-banker concocted a plan to rob the Steel Bank. All of them were in cahoots together because they were left with the bank’s losses on loans, lost their money or got left holding the bag after a bad merger or something. I remember the wild tales about the heist as a kid. Exciting stuff. One man got away with the money in a van while the others were arrested or shot dead by the police in a shootout. The money was never recovered and neither was the identity of the guy who made it out of there. The old gang never betrayed one another. When I heard the last man alive was blind, it explained why the money had been missing for 51 years. I don’t want to take everything, just a tiny amount to cover some expenses I need to make. 108 Fretch Street is quite a walk from here. I better get going right now.