The Ventilator

"This thing is weird looking," said Max Lewis, appraising the new piece of machinery in his employer's garage. "What are all these hoses and nozzles for, Mr. Morton?"

Morton stood there in the musty garage, wearing a cream-colored Brooks Brothers suit, with a tiny little red carnation inside the lapel. "They're to make people breathe, Maxie. Don't you read the papers?"

"Of course I read the papers, Mr. Morton," Max said. "I've just never seen one of these things before. What are they called again?"

"Ventilators," snapped Mr. Morton. "They're called ventilators, Maxie. Didn't Mickey explain everything to you--what the job was all about?"

Max shook his head slowly. "I haven't a clue, sir. All I know is Mickey and Salvatore were gonna break into the first Community Hospital to jack something."

"Well, you're looking at it, Maxie. This here machine is worth thirty grand. It helps people with influenza and stuff breathe," explained Mr. Morton. "It especially helps with that flu that's been going on now. The--what do you call it again, Maxie?"

"Coronavirus."

"Yeah," Morton said. "The Coronavirus." He was silent for a few seconds, then he spoke again. "Black Market Joe will pay us thirty grand for this here machine."

"But isn't it wrong to steal this machine," Max said, crossing himself.

Mr. Morton looked at Max, amazed. "Of course it isn't wrong, Maxie. It isn't wrong what we're doing." Mr. Morton grabbed a Havana Blend cigar from his pants pocket, stuck it to his lips and

lit up. "Black Market Joe is going to sell that there ventilator to a hospital in need in the Philippines, cause with their shoddy government there, they don't even get ventilators. People there are dying left and right. We're genuine humanitarians, doing the international community a service, Maxie."

"That's one way to look at it, boss," said Max Lewis, sounding unconvinced.

Patrick Morton was, for perhaps the first time in a very long time, telling the truth. He truly believed there was nothing amoral, not even immoral, about what he had orchestrated: The theft of one GE Healthcare ventilator from the First Community hospital on twenty second street. How it had gone down was quite simple: It wasn't exactly a break-in, as Max Lewis believed. But Mr. Morton wasn't about to enlighten his foot soldier. The less people know, even the ones who are working for you in the Mafia, the better. But no, it wasn't truthfully a break-in. For one, First Community Hospital never closed. Secondly, Salvatore Bronco, a capo in the family, was engaged to Wendy McClane, a nurse at First Community. It was more of a subtle arrangement than a break-in. Wendy simply told Morton's henchmen to come in at 12:30 AM and to take the GE Healthcare machine. There was nothing about stealing in the discussion, nothing that Morton had heard. McClane would perhaps distract co-workers working her shift--doctors, nurses, janitors--while Salvatore and Mickey came in and simply scooped up the ventilator. But the word steal and break-in never was uttered, nor did it enter Mr. Morton's mind.

Black Market Joe had been looking for a ventilator for four weeks now. Mr. Morton had done many a job with Black Market Joe, selling him swag of all shapes and forms: lifted Blu Ray players, Nintendo Switch consoles, Rolex watches. Anything and everything Mickey and Salvatore, and Maxie managed to lift was then sold to Black Market Joe. Mr. Morton never thought of himself nor Black Market Joe nor any of his underlings as criminals and he hated the word stole, in fact he expressly forbade it among all his employees. He much rather preferred the word lifted, lifted, to stole. Lifted, after all, had much more benign connotations. There was nothing criminal sounding about the word lifted. You lifted your two-year-old nephew Logan to bounce him on your knee; you lifted grocery store bags into the backseat of your 80-year-old mother's car; lifted was the action you took after moving crates in a warehouse, a hard day's honest labor.

Worker's lifted, low-life thugs stole. No Capo di Tutti Capi with a beautiful trophy wife named Ruth, a brainy and precocious son who is a math whiz, a lovely cheerleader daughter and a two-million dollar house in Newark, New Jersey stole anything, he lifted.

Just then there was a loud knocking noise on Mr. Morton's garage door. Mr. Morton snapped his fingers irritably and, on cue, Max Lewis tapped the button with his thumb, sending the garage door up.

There stood Black Market Joe, clad in a tattered World War 2 bomber's jacket, two goons by his side, one bald, the other with blond hair tousled up into a man-bun. Undoubtedly, they were both packing, as was a testament to the bulges in the side of their hips, nestled underneath their respective leather jackets. This was normal business practice, noted Mr. Morton. He only wished he were wise enough to have called two more of his soldiers over to out-man and out-gun Black Market Joe should any difficulties arise. But Mr. Morton was the Boss of Bosses, and Black

Market Joe never would be stupid enough to try any funny business with him. Still, it was good to plan ahead in this line of business. The next time, Mr. Morton pledged to himself, he would have at least two other guys waiting there with him before Black Market Joe appeared with his goons.

"You're late," Mr. Morton said brusquely.

"Yeah sorry," said Black Market Joe, grinning widely. "We got held up in traffic. You know about that big snowstorm going on out there. The black ice has been a bitch to navigate. I told Frederick over here," he said, pointing at Mr. Man-Bun, "to drive very slowly. Sorry, Mr. Morton. Wow, is this the ventilator?" Black Market Joe's eyes bulged on seeing the impressive contraption.

"It sure doesn't look like a refrigerator," quipped Mr. Morton. "Where's the money?" At that, Black Market Joe snapped his fingers and with that Mr. Bald Headed Goon sprinted outside for the briefcase. They all four stood there in uneasy silence. Finally, Mr. Morton broke the ice. "So how has Coronavirus been affecting business, Joe?"

"It's been helping out wonderfully, Mr. Morton. These ventilators are in such high demand. They're better than gold. Do you think you can scrounge up some more, sir?"

Mr. Morton shook his head regretfully. "I only have one insider at one hospital," he said, meaning First Community. "The others are impenetrable. We tried bribing them, but these nurses and doctors can't be bought. It's almost like Coronavirus is suddenly giving people in the medical community scruples. It's weird. But I'll keep an eye out, Joe."

Black Market Joe nodded his head somberly. There was always a vacant look on his face. Clearly, he had zoned out. His mind was on business constantly. He had so many hustles and side hustles going on and so much math to do in his head, it was hard to keep track of all of it, Mr. Morton knew. But Black Market Joe was like a machine. He was smart and sharp as a tack. It was a shame he worked solo because he would have made a wonderful employee. Mr. Morton thought Black Market Joe would have made a wonderful consigliere, or counselor. His mind worked that well. Before he knew it, Mr. Bald Headed Goon returned with the leather-clad Gabbana briefcase. He propped it up on the ventilator and Mr. Morton's eyes were assaulted by a flash of green. This was Mr. Morton's raison d'etre: the bread, the cash, the fruits of his labor. Unlike many in The Life, he was not drawn to the criminal underworld for the prestige, the women, or the ability to inflict violence on whosoever crossed him. Instead, he was drawn mostly to the money. Unlike most Mafia dons, Mr. Morton was quite faithful to his wife, Ruth. He loved her and his children more than anything else in the world. Money came in a close second.

Mr. Morton immediately shut the Gabbana briefcase. "Looks good, Joe."

Black Market Joe looked at Mr. Morton confoundedly. "Don't you want to count it, Mr. Morton?"

"No, Joe. That's fine. I trust you."

-

Mr. Morton rose every day at seven o'clock AM. Every morning, without fail, he would go for a five-mile ride on his Schwin bicycle. He always had a big day ahead of him and he wanted to keep his head clean and sharp, keep those endorphins going. He had a rule when he was out there pedaling on the streets of Newark, New Jersey: Never, ever think about business. He thought about business all of his waking hours, he worried about his wife and kids constantly. How was he going to earn enough to take care of them and afford his mini mansion with the cobble-stone driveway and his Renaissance art obsession? True, he was the boss, but he had to hustle. He always had that fear that if he wasn't doing a good enough job, and he wasn't raking in enough money for himself and his family, then his other family -- his business family -- might see him as weak and have him knocked off. It's been known to happen. Complacency was a boss' worst enemy. So while he was pedaling his bike he never thought about business, only the pleasant things in life: The hummingbirds he'd see pecking at the trees, the beautiful orange glow of sunrise, the relative peaceful emptiness of the roads at this early hour. He thought a lot about his family and his son Dennis, how he loved Dennis. He was a chip off the old block, like his father. Good at math. But unlike his father, he was going to grow up to be a legitimate guy. Dennis wasn't wired for mob life. He had the brains of his father and the sensitivity of his mother, Ruth.

Ruth was beautiful, inside and out. They had met at the High School Prom back in Knickerbocker Village. He was seventeen years old with long hair, acne faced. She looked like an angel. You couldn't find one single blemish on her face. Her eyes were brown and almond colored. They radiated love and warmth. One look and she could melt the hardest of hearts. That's what she had done with Patrick Morton. That's what she had done with every man she had ever gazed her eyes upon. Ironically enough her date had drunk a little too much spiked punch, he was rendered a useless dancing partner. Ruth ditched the guy. Morton saw Ruth sitting alone near the giant strobe lights at the front stage. He asked her to dance and she gladly accepted. As they were moving arm-in-arm to The Cure's "I Will Always Love You," Ruth told Patrick Morton the whole story about how her date, Carl Rittenhouse, had drunk too much spiked punch. Morton was sympathetic, dubbing Rittenhouse a "dog" and "bum." Never once did he enlighten Ruth to the pesky little fact that it was he, Patrick Morton, who had spiked that punch and that he had probably drunk just as much vodka-laced punch as Rittenhouse. He could just hold it better, was all.

Ruth stayed with Mr. Morton through the thick and thin. A beautiful, loyal, and irreplaceable woman, Ruth. Their daughter, Jane, took after the mother in many ways. But she had the moxie of the father. Whereas Ruth was more docile and ladylike, Jane had inherited her father's mean streak. When pushed far enough, she'd explode. It didn't even matter who had done the pushing: Teachers, fellow students, meter maids. Jane had a tongue nearly as sharp as her old man's, and was almost as physically combative as him as well. "It's funny," Ruth mused to Mr. Morton one night before they both had gone to sleep, "But when you think about it Dennis got my temperament and Jane got yours." Mr. Morton did not split hairs with his wife on this. He did not split hairs with her about much. She was generally always right and today she was right as well. He simply nodded his head before finally nodding off.

Of course, Mr. Morton had another family, a bigger family, one he had pledged bigger allegiance to than his own bloodline, The Borgota. He worked with a widely diverse assortment of cutthroats and crooked businessmen, enforcers and white-collar criminals. He had a hand in everything: Construction, the labor unions, slot machines, candy machines, vending machines from New Jersey to the West Coast. He didn't like this Covid-19 matter. It was April of 2020 and the disease was consistently making headlines. It was already beginning to put a considerable dent into the underground gambling world he profited enormously from. He worried that if he had weakened and lost money for La Famiglia, he would be seen as weak and subsequently get clipped.

Enter the ventilators.

Ordinarily, he would have never considered jacking a ventilator from First Community hospital. But these were desperate times, and they called for desperate measures. He was just trying to stay financially afloat. And if the ventilator could save some lives in the Philippines as well, then all the better.

Later that day when he was being driven to the Ace of Spades social club downtown Newark, Mr. Morton complained to his caporegime, Max Lewis: "Maxie, I have been telling you all week I need a new Android phone. This one keeps crapping out. What's the hold-up?"

"Sorry, Boss," Max said, his eyes on the road, a harried expression on his face. He had just narrowly avoided a front-to-bumper collision with a semi hauling diesel. "I have just had a lot on the table lately with the delinquent payments and lack of business. I know how you want me to earn every month, but this Covid19 has really put a dent in business. People aren't gambling, people aren't buying money from our candy machines." Maxie sighed, "housing is down, construction is down, banks are lowering their criteria for mortgages, where does this leave us? Sometimes, Boss, I am just afraid, you know? I am afraid for us, and for the country."

Mr. Morton smirked to himself. "Maxie, you're crazy. Our parents fought in Korea, our grandparents served in World War 2, our grandmothers lived through the Great Depression. They knew what it meant to struggle then. Nobody knows what it is to struggle now. Nobody knows what it means to make sacrifices." Mr. Morton laughed scornfully, looking out the window at the sporadic trees scattered around the fast-moving business and tenement buildings. "That's the problem with this millennial generation, my friend. It is weak. People no longer have any backbone. People are easily offended and they want to be treated always with kid gloves. They want to shut down the government over this little miniscule virus. They want to tank the whole economy. Now they are even wearing gloves and masks to the grocery stores, to church," scoffed Mr. Morton. "It doesn't make any sense."

"I was thinking Boss," Max Lewis said nervously as he navigated the 2020 Bronco down the streets of downtown Newark, "Would you be upset if I wore a mask? You know, I've got a newborn baby at home, little Ceilia. Denise is worried about the, what-do-ya-call-it? Oh yeah, the infant mortality rate. She says she would sleep better at night if she knew I were wearing a mask to work."

Mr. Morton's voice tensed up. It had gone from its normal pitch to a fierce-sounding growl. "Maxie, what's the matter with you? Nobody who works for Patrick Morton is going to wear a mask."

"I know Boss," interjected Max Lewis. "Denise was just concerned that--"

"Nobody who works for Patrick Morton is going to wear a mask, period. You got that, pal?"

"Yeah, I got that," Max Lewis said as his voice began to crack and weaken.

Mr. Morton laughed to himself. What was going on? What was wrong with people these days? Max was a few years younger than Mr. Morton and closer to the millennial generation. But he had been a capo in Mr. Morton's family for three years now. He should have known better. Mask-wearing would have made the family look weak to other borgotas. People would start talking. And that's when coups would start to happen. These people in The Life, they sniffed weakness like junkyard dogs. They would look for any chink in your armor, for any crack in your dam, and then they would attack it mercilessly, relentlessly. Mr. Morton was sincerely ashamed of his caporegime, Max Lewis, and wondered to himself if he were cut out for such a prestigious title.

-

"Please Mr. Morton, don't!" the bloodied man cried out in pain, in genuine agony. He pleaded for mercy. For his own life. Mr. Morton worked him over a few more times with the Louisville Slugger inside his office in the Ace of Spades social club. Morton was very conscientious. He didn't want to kill the man. He just wanted to scare the living daylights out of him, give him a beating he would never forget. He focused primarily on the man's legs and kneecaps. Max Lewis looked on with an uneasy expression on his face. He even crossed himself a few times. Mr. Morton finally let go of the spindly little man's shirt sleeve and dropped him to the floor like an old sack of potatoes. The man fell without protest, welcoming gravity after such a severe beating. "I told you," Mr. Morton said, waving the bat at the man's face, "To stay away from the vending machine businesses. You keep encroaching on our territories, my friend. Nobody sells Snickers and Mars Bars here in Essex County unless they have my blessing. Do you have my blessing, George?"

The tiny little man shook his head miserably. Mr. Morton grinned from ear to ear. "Good. I am glad that we are finally at an understanding. Maxie, get this filth out of my office." Max delicately grabbed George's shoulder. George was wincing and writhing in pain. Max escorted George to the door but then Mr. Morton had to have the last word. "Don't let me catch you moving in on our territory again, my friend. Or else, it won't be a baseball bat next time. Next time, I'll pump two in your head myself. Got it?"

The thoroughly defeated and emasculated man nodded his head slowly and miserably.

"I am glad we are at an understanding," grinned Mr. Morton, exposing his pearly whites.

Max Lewis returned a few minutes later. "You think he'll be any further trouble?" asked Mr. Morton.

"Nah," Max Lewis said with just a twinge of sadness to his voice. "The guy isn't gonna try to move in on our territory anymore Boss. He's just a simple entrepreneur trying to make a few bucks for his family who doesn't understand the politics out here, the way things work. He'll be fine. He'll never bother us again. I guarantee it." Mr. Morton smiled, placing his feet on the shiny oaken desk. He wore very expensive Deli Aldo Italian loafers, made from crocodile skin. Just then Mr. Morton's android phone rang to the tune of "Mrs. Robinson" by Simon and Garfunkel. "Hello," he said. "Morton here." It appeared to be his wife. But the voice was garbled and the connection was very bad. "Ruth I can't hear you," he said into the phone. "Please call back later. Bye."

"I am so sorry, Boss," Max said contritely. "I will go get your new phone now."

"Take your time, Maxie." Mr. Morton now seemed to be in a much better mood. He always was after administering a beating and cementing his reputation as King of the Jungle. "You can go pick up the phone in the next few hours. Who else wants to see me?"

"Senator Hatfield," said Max, looking down at the clipboard on Mr. Morton's desk. "He's your next scheduled appointment."

"Then let him in, my friend," Mr. Morton said, placing a Havana Blend cigar to his lips and lighting up.

Senator Hatfield was a good-looking older man of about fifty-five. He had salt-and-pepper hair, neatly trimmed, and he wore an Armani suit with a long red tie. His fingers were finely manicured, smoother looking than his, Mr. Morton noted with a faint sadness. Senator Hatfield bowed his head in reverence to the Don of Don, Boss of Bosses, Capo Di Tuti Capi. Patrick Morton nodded his head slowly, just barely enough to extend the same courtesy to the senator but still display dominance. Then he motioned for the senator to sit down.

"What's bothering you, Senator Hatfield."

"It's my...mistress, Mr. Morton."

"Yeah?" Mr. Morton said, eyeing the man suspiciously.

"Yeah," said Senator Hatfield. "As you know, I am up for re-election. And this woman, her name is Rosetta Moore. Really, she isn't my mistress, per se. Just an ex-staffer. She fell in love with me one night. She had stopped by my office while she was canvassing, wanted to get some more fliers. Donna my secretary was gone. One thing led to another," Senator Hatfield laughed shamefully. "I invited her into my office for some champagne. I made a mistake, and now she won't stop bothering me. Somehow she even finagled my home phone number--don't ask me how. She called my house, Mr. Morton. Luckily Stephanie wasn't home. She was out buying masks. Listen, I need help. This girl keeps showing up at the office. It is only a matter of time before the press gets wind of this and then my second term goes down the gutter."

"That would be very unfortunate," Mr. Morton said.

"Yes," Senator Hatfield said. "That's why I need your help. Mr. Morton, she needs to disappear."

Mr. Morton exhaled. And then he rapped his knuckles atop his oaken desk drawer a few times. "You want me to rub the young lady out?"

Senator Hatfield laughed nervously. "Well, I don't know how else to put it. I would just like to say send her someplace where I would never have to worry about her blabbing ever again." Senator Hatfield winked at Mr. Morton.

"That's a little unnecessary, don't you think?" said Mr. Morton reproachfully. "The lady should lose her life because you were weak and broke your marital vows to your wife?"

Senator Hatfield tensed up. "Okay," he said, laughing. "Maybe this was a bad idea. But if I lose re-election, I am toast. You are toast too, politically. Martin Hoyle, my opponent, was extremely tough on crime as DA. He's incorruptible, Mr. Morton. It would be in your disinterest if this went public."

Mr. Morton exhaled mightily once again, like a roaring lion. Then he wagged his massive fingers at Senator Hatfield, as though Senator Hatfield were an incorrigible kid. "We aren't making her disappear."

Senator Hatfield sagged in his chair. "The punishment doesn't fit the crime I am afraid, senator," said Mr. Morton. "What we can do, however, is scare the living hell out of her. It won't be difficult, senator. I have many men in my employ who can be very persuasive."

"Are you sure they can scare her, she's pretty infatuated with me, Mr. Morton."

"Positive," Mr. Morton said, winking at Hatfield.

"How much money will you need for this job?"

"It's on the house," Mr. Morton said affably. "We're friends. That's what friends do. We help one another out."

Just then Mr. Morton's cell phone buzzed to life once again with the popular Simon and Garfunkel jingle. He picked it up but it was of no use. The voice on the other end--which sounded like Ruth's, but Mr. Morton couldn't be one hundred percent certain--was so severely garbled Morton had no choice but to hang up. "In any event, senator, I am glad to know I have been of assistance to you. Have yourself a wonderful day."

Senator Hatfield heaped praise upon Mr. Morton, then he stood up, bowed his head, and high-tailed it out of there.

Mr. Morton sat there, his feet still up, the cigar half smoked. This was the life, he thought to himself. This was the way things were supposed to be: With him in charge. He was a born leader, he knew. Ever since he was in second grade instructing the other schoolchildren how to make sand castles, Patrick Morton had always been a leader of men. "Some things never change," he said to himself cozily. "I am the King of the Jungle. All hail the king!"

Just then Max Lewis popped his head into the door frantically. "Boss, I have some important news for you."

"What is it, Maxie?"

"It's Ruth, Boss," he said delicately, daubing sweat off his forehead. "She said she's been trying and trying to call you." Mr. Morton motioned with his fingers, perhaps just a little exasperatedly, for Max to go on with the news. As always, Max obeyed. "It's Dennis, Boss. He's been rushed off to First Community hospital."

The second those words exited Max's mouth, Mr. Morton leapt to his feet. He already had his light blazer on from the coat rack. "Let's go, Maxie."

On the drive over to First Community Hospital, Mr. Morton's head throbbed in agonizing uncertainty. Just what could have been wrong with Dennis? The kid was healthy as a horse. Not only was he a whiz at math, he was quite the athlete as well. He came in third place every year in his swimmer's team. His arms and legs were long and sinewy. He had no no allergies, no asthma. The kid was built like a rock-solid race horse. Just why he had been rushed to First Community Hospital? Max had no answers. He said all Ruth had told him was Dennis was in room 102. Max sped at the speed of light. It was a wonder they didn't get a ticket. Finally they reached the parking lot and sprinted up the entranceway into the hospital, Mr. Morton nearly knocking over an elderly man on crutches.

After a gruelingly long wait in the elevator, they hit floor 3, zipped past the musty-smelling corridor and then made their way into room 102. What Mr. Morton saw next as he bulldozed his way inside the room filled his heart with terror and revulsion: A doctor administering a sheet over his son's pallid and expressionless face. Father Bentley, a priest he'd recognized from the local parish, was standing there with a book in his hand, clearly having just read off the last rites. He heard the electrocardiogram beeping frantically. He looked over and saw that the image on the screen had flatlined.

"Hello, you are Mr. Morton, I presume," said the doctor, extending his hand. "I am Dr. Whitmier. Mr. Morton, I assure you: We did everything we could to save your son's life."

"Where's Ruth?" Mr. Morton asked feebly.

"She's in the room next door. Resting. We had to give her a Valium. She was--quite understandably, Mr. Morton--very upset."

Mr. Morton looked over at the lump on the mattress and what was left of his son, Dennis. Soon his tears turned to wrath. His loose fingers clenched into a balled fist. Then he approached the doctor. "He was a good kid. A healthy kid. A bright boy. Please just tell me doc--why? Why--and how--could this happen? You'd better have a good reason pal, or I'll tear your liver out and feed it to the dogs," he snarled intimidatingly.

Dr. Whitmier's face went ashen white. "I am so sorry, Mr. Morton. We did everything we could to save him. Apparently your son came down with a terrible--and sudden--case of Covid-19. He couldn't breathe, Mr. Morton. He had experienced a terrible episode of cytokine storm." Dr. Whitmier looked over at Father Bentley forlornly, then back over at Patrick Morton again. "We maybe could have saved him, but last night some man--I don't even want to call him that--stole our last ventilator."

Mr. Morton's face then went ashen white. He walked over towards what was left of his son, hugging the cold remains under the blanket. There Mr. Morton sat on the bed with his son, balling his eyes old. The crestfallen, baldheaded man looked like Rameses from Cecil B. Demille's "The Ten Commandments," nestling his prematurely deceased offspring in his arms.

He gazed over at Max Lewis with an agonizing expression on his emotionally contorted face: As if to say: "Why, Maxie? How could such an injustice happen?"

Max Lewis said nothing. He simply stood there, crossing himself all the while, as the tears slowly began to drip down his face.

The End

By Jack Bristow

From: United States

Twitter: jackbristow18