Running With Monkeys: Hell on Wheels Read online

  Running with Monkeys

  Hell on Wheels

  By

  Diane Munier

  Copyright © 2016

  www.dianemunier.com

  Introduction

  Diane Munier writes love. That entails relationships and family spanning the post-Civil-War era in the My Wounded Soldier series, the post-Depression era in Deep in the Heart of Me, the post-WWII era in Running with Monkeys, the sixties in Finding My Thunder and Darnay Road, and the present day in Leaping, Look How You Turned Out, and Me and Mom Fall for Spencer. She has garnered many accolades and literary awards over the years for her writing. Human nature is her occupational specialty and gives her work an authenticity that resonates with a loyal and growing readership.

  Summary: Running With Monkeys

  1946. The boys are home from the war. Jules is looking for a way into polite society, but it seems like the moogs that didn’t go overseas have moved so far ahead he’ll never catch up.

  His luck seems to change when he goes to the movies with his buddies Bobby and Audie, the other two monkeys. They had marched across Europe together, and now they were picking up dames, drinking too much, and generally letting off steam, which translates into trouble. Jules meets Isbe at the movies. Close dancing in a smoky club leads to love. The same night, Jules hooks up with the Irish mob. Love is thawing his hard heart, the one needed for survival in his new and violent world. Isbe vows to stand by, but Jules likes it on the edge. That’s a good thing, because Isbe’s father is chief of police and it’s a tangled gray web he’s soon caught up in.

  Table of Contents

  Introduction

  Table of Contents

  Legal Notes

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Shiney’s, Part One

  Chapter 4

  Shiney’s, Part Two

  Chapter 5

  Shiney’s, Part Three

  Chapter 6

  Shiney’s, Part Four

  Chapter 7

  After Shiney’s, Part One

  Chapter 8

  After Shiney’s, Part Two

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Other Works by Diane Munier:

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

  CONTACT INFORMATION:

  Can I Ask A Favor?

  Legal Notes

  THE CHARACTERS AND EVENTS PORTRAYED IN THIS BOOK ARE FICTITIOUS. ANY SIMILARITY TO REAL PERSONS, LIVING OR DEAD, IS COINCIDENTAL AND NOT INTENDED BY THE AUTHOR.

  Text Copyright © 2016 Diane Munier

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without express written permission of the publisher.

  Cover design: Adrijus from RockingBookCovers.com

  Editor: Edit 24-7.com

  Chapter 1

  He lay in the third-story room, hands folded under his head. It was a twin-size bed, and there was a ceiling fan, and he thought it didn’t do shit but when he pulled the chain and shut it off he couldn’t breathe at all.

  And in a maudlin way, he liked the shadows the long brown metal blades threw across his ceiling—streaks, coming through like trains, silently flashing past.

  He couldn’t make them go away—the memories—so he quit trying. They were his bastards, unwanted children—no denying they were his.

  He’d lost his seventy-dollar paycheck at the track the night before. He’d had a hell of a time doing it, though. His knuckles were swollen and sore; he didn’t remember particulars, but he and Audie had gotten into it with those guys…cause Bobby…even now he laughed, breaking the silence. That damn Bobby.

  This hot July evening he thought of that girl he’d taken in France, and how thick her body was and how she’d breathed through an open mouth and he’d only saw one tit and a fat rosy nipple, and he’d come like a man with no future and if you wondered about that, you’d never been desperate.

  Now he heard yelling from the street below, but he didn’t check it out. Since the war, he didn’t feel the need to be curious. Anything got too close, then he’d act. Squash it. Cause nothing that happened here compared to what had happened over there, and he wasn’t afraid of anything…real.

  He moved his head and looked at the clock on the nightstand. He needed to roll to meet Audie and Bobby in time for the movie. He didn’t know why he’d said yes like a teenager. He was twenty-four; two years of marching over Europe under General Omar Bradley were behind him.

  He wasn’t a kid. But he wanted air conditioning…and popcorn. And after that, a steak and a cold beer, and then they’d hear the deal, this job Bobby had got for them. He’d see. Once he’d left the army, he was done with being told what to do.

  So he cleaned up some at the sink in his room. The common bath was down the hall, and he pissed in the sink when he was drunk or just damn lazy like today.

  But he washed up there, and as soon as the cold splash hit his face he held the sides of the white porcelain bowl, water dripping off his nose. He huffed and felt shit move around in his head—the strafing, the boards piled on top of him—like that could stop it.

  Hell no, he wasn’t going to sit around here. But a movie wasn’t what he wanted either, cause that was two hours of being trapped; more, if they watched the double.

  But he went. Bobby stood outside the theater smoking the last of his fag, wearing his suit pants and a white shirt, tie pulled loose, holding the jacket. They’d bought these suits in a south-side bar, right off the truck; they didn’t ask but gave their sizes, Bobby a forty, Audie a forty-four, him a forty-two jacket, and they were the same wheat color, nicely made, summer weight, and not olive drab. They were good.

  Audie smiled when he saw Jules, laughed like he had a joke. Beside him were two dames, Bobby with an arm around each. Jules could tell they’d been had by every guy around this Chicago neighborhood. It was always there, a boldness, and a voice, even the eyes, and the hips, always there, the hole looking for the divining rod, backward and hungry.

  “Took you long enough. We’re going to miss the cartoons,” Audie groused, backhanding Jules’s shoulder.

  Unlike Audie and Bobby, Jules wore his jacket. Like armor.

  Audie turned to get the tickets. Jules’s too. And Bobby, cigarette hanging out of his mouth, introduced the broads, Blondie One and Blondie Two, and they loved that, not even knowing the joke behind it, how they called all the easy broads that, “One” or “Two” with the c
olor of their hair thrown in.

  “Hey gorgeous,” Marlene Dietrich said, sidling up to Jules, slipping her arm through his, her short yellow hair in rolled curls, breath like Clorets gum and cigarettes, black mole drawn one side of her mouth, thick makeup on her eyes, red lips staining a black plastic cigarette holder she held close to him.

  The other looked about the same, right down to the mole on her cheek. That one was introducing this one, and who was he to turn down a pair of warm tits on his arm named Blondie?

  Bobby and Audie were carrying on, the baboon and the gorilla, hooting loudly enough to make his head ache. He didn’t want their broads. They accused him of it all the time, taking their women, but he didn’t want them unless he did, and then it wasn’t his fault they went for him.

  Audie loaded up on food, and he bummed two bucks off Bobby cause that idiot owed him twenty, and here he had a roll tonight, and he paid for everything and then gave Jules the twenty.

  The cartoons had just started, and Audie and Bobby ran to the middle, those girls toddling on their spike heels, with their plump asses, and they made people stand all along the aisle while they made their way to some vacant seats smack in the middle of the row.

  Jules held back, standing in the dark, smoking. He’d ditched his box of popcorn. No way was he getting caught in the crowd like that. He saw a woman sitting alone off to the side three rows up. There was an empty seat behind her, on the aisle.

  He went there. He could see Audie up ahead standing to look for him, but he stayed quiet and still and the broad pulled Audie back down.

  This girl in front of him was watching Audie and Bobby and those girls. The cartoon played, but she was watching the guys. He could just see the side of her face, the curve of her cheek. Why was she alone?

  She turned a little to the side as if she sensed someone staring. She had long, dark hair, and some of it hung over her seat, and he smelled her shampoo, and it was real nice…girl stuff.

  He sat back then and finished his smoke. This was better. The cartoon was about a rabbit named Bugs Bunny, and he could hear Audie’s laugh over the crowd’s.

  This girl in front of him, her shoulders shook with laughter, but there was no sound. Then here came two more dames, loaded with snacks and drinks, and the big tits said, “Move, Isbe,” to her friend, the one in front of him, and she lifted up, that Isbe, and he saw it then, long, wavy hair down her back, the curve at the waist, round at the hip—little, delicate, woman.

  The other two went past her, laughing, tripping some, and got into their seats, and Isbe dropped down, and he swore a cloud of sweet girl surrounded him.

  She stood again and faced him while she spread her jacket over the back of the seat, and one of the sleeves bounced against his leg.

  “Sorry,” she said in a low voice, dark eyes flashing at him and a smile, and she turned around and fell into her seat again, and she said something to the little dark one next to her, and more eyes were on him for just a flash, and their heads came together with giggles and grins, and he lit another smoke and watched them, staring cause…shit.

  He reached forward and felt the sleeve from her jacket that dangled near his leg. It was just a sleeve, but soft, and he imagined her wearing her heart there, and he pressed the material between his thumb and forefinger.

  And she flicked her hair over her shoulder, and one long tendril was over the seat again, lying along her jacket, and he reached enough to let it brush his fingers, just light and quick; he did that a few times like some sick mug.

  Then he sat back and tried to watch the show, but he watched her mostly, wondered about her—carefree, laughing easily, going through all the young girl things; whatever those were, he had little idea, like her breasts showing up—kissing a boyfriend for hours and not knowing he had anything below the waist—and all the while he was in Europe getting his cherry popped.

  Then it hit him, popcorn, and he brushed off the first few, but they were trying to hit the girls in front of him, and they were short, and it was raining on him.

  He turned around to see three guys in the back row—high school, Biff and Boff and Junior over there. He just gave them the look, and then they were talking about it among themselves.

  But the girls had turned around, too. The blonde one said, “Cut it out, punks.”

  The boys hee-hawed back, and he looked at that Isbe, and she said, “You gonna save us, hero?” And she had a dimple.

  He sat back and stared at her.

  She was laughing with that little one next to her, and that one said he was cute.

  He snorted. Cute. Shit.

  And here came more popcorn, and the blonde one was turning around again, looking at him and throwing popcorn back at the rowdies.

  The usher came and flashed his light and two older ladies got up and moved to the other side of the theater. The boys told the usher to get fucked. They seemed to know him, and he threatened to bring the manager.

  “Kick them out, Giley,” Blondie said. Giley gulped, and he kept his light on those boys and issued more threats, but as soon as he disappeared they started up again, and Jules got out of his seat, and he heard the girls saying, “He’s getting up. He’s doing it.”

  Jules walked past the row that separated him from the miscreants, and he went behind them and leaned over the biggest one and said, “You throw any more shit in their direction, I’ll twist your wrist so hard you won’t play football again.”

  He said it softly. The guy looked at him, and they stared for a few seconds. This one still had a pudge in his cheeks, and his top lip was sweating.

  Then Jules walked back to his seat. No sooner did he sit than the little one beside Isbe climbed over her seat so quickly he could barely register what she was doing. She plopped down next to him.

  “Hey,” she said.

  He just raised his brows. These girls were crazy.

  “Um…my friend Isbe up…right there?” She pointed at the doll in front of him.

  Isbe was turned around, grinning at him.

  “Turn around,” the tiny girl hissed.

  Isbe turned around and laughed.

  Blondie threw popcorn at her and said, “You guys are nuts.”

  “She wants to sit by you,” the little climber said.

  “Oh yeah? What about you?” he said, like he didn’t know.

  She gripped his arm and laughed, “You’re cute.”

  “Hey,” Isbe said, standing up and moving around the end of her row to wait for the other girl to vacate her seat. That one stood up and skee-daddled out of there, and Isbe tripped over Jule’s feet, ass almost in his face, and he mentally bit a knuckle, and she plopped into the seat beside him.

  The rowdies started up, seeming upset that Isbe had chosen to sit by him, so he turned around to look at them and that quelled them, but he could feel it building in their little pricks.

  She had her elbow on the armrest, and they were close. She looked at his mouth, she did that, then back in his eyes and…damn, girl.

  “What’s your name, hero?” she said.

  Blondie looked back, and she was smirking, and he couldn’t care less.

  “Hero,” he said.

  “I’m Isbe.”

  He nearly repeated that, but he was used to catching his words.

  Then the movie started, and he couldn’t have told you what it was cause he felt this girl so strongly beside him, and not just that, but…it was normal…maybe so normal it was a joke…he was a joke…cause he wasn’t one of those boys in the letter sweaters. Those were her kind.

  Her little finger was touching his, on his leg. He looked there, her finger against his, looking for a yes, and what was he supposed to do? If he’d sat with Bobby, one of the blondies would be stroking his dick about now, but this little firecracker was stroking his pinkie. He needed to get up and go outside and wait for his buddies.

  “How old are you?” she asked him, and her hand covered his, and they were looking at each other again, and she was so you
ng.

  “Hundred and twenty-four,” he said.

  “Me too,” she whispered, and her other hand reached up, and she tapped him on the lips with her pointer finger, and then she stared there, and he was stuck in the whole thing, and then a piece of popcorn hit him on the cheek. He looked back there, and those assholes were smiling big and staring at the screen.

  What was he going to do, take it out on them? He could. But what would that do?

  “I gotta go out,” he said, and he gave Isbe a tight smile and got the hell out of there. One of those boys said something, and he stopped quick, leaned over the big one, yanked the box of popcorn out of his hands and dumped it over his head. His friend said something and people turned around and said, “Pipe down,” and the pimply usher was there, his flashlight trembling. It didn’t matter now.

  He went quickly through the lobby, and outside it was night and cooled off because it had rained some and the storm was still rolling in the sky, thunder and cars splashing through the shine on the street.

  He took a breath and the damp felt good in his lungs; they’d been dried up for so long, pulling hard in this city. He ran his hand through his hair, growing long after so many years. Everything felt…so different. Was he really here? For a few minutes in a theater, in the dark, he had been…present.

  Someone honked, and his heart stuttered, and he walked down the street for a bit and dug out his Camels and fumbled for the lighter in his jacket pocket, and he flipped that open and lit the smoke. His hand shook like his drunk uncle’s used to, not because of what he’d done; that was nothing. But because of what he could have done—for nothing—to a kid.

  He leaned against a building, and he took that first drag and thunked his head against the bricks and closed his eyes.

  He could blow this off, go back to his room—and what? He needed the work. He’d wait until Audie was out and he’d make him say where to meet. He knew where it was, but they wouldn’t let him in by himself. You had to be spoken for, and Audie had connections.

  He didn’t want to eat with them, those broads; he didn’t want to watch those red lips move and move with those thick black marks painted on…for beauty.