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The Dascoli Last Stand

Kevin Cole

    At Drill Team finale, on Memorial Day, Brad Dascoli dropped his loaded gun. It was during the light carbine spin, the West Point move, all cadets rotating rifles with syncopated speed. The gun clattered to the concrete ground. Brad broke ranks and discipline to chase the runaway weapon. A fellow cadet kicked it far from his grasp. Another kicked it again. The rifle finally came to rest against the spiked schoolyard fence. Brad ran to the fence, picked up the rifle, cradled it like a wounded comrade. The spectator crowd of parents and neighbors stared at him as if he had performed a sexual act of bestial consequence.
    Brad’s mother, Lea, ran to the fence. Too late, Brad had stumbled away with the gun.
    “Put the safety on, you little jackass,” Georgie Pomutz said. He stuck his acne cratered nose between the fence spikes.
    “Lay off, Georgie,” Lea said. “That drill is sick. It’s dangerous. They’re twelve year old kids!”
    Lea swept both hands through her hair, then lowered them, ready for parental combat.
    Georgie pulled his nose back from the fence, pointed it at Lea like a snot pistol.
    “Most twelve year olds can handle it,” he said. “My kids did.” Ray Taylor intervened. He was the VFW commander, blue hatted for respect.
    “That’s enough Georgie,” he said. “The kid’s humiliated. It wasn’t deliberate. This is a bit too much.”
    The drill ended in the schoolyard with a circling platoon of young flagwavers. The seventh grade band backed them with the traditional off key version of “Stars and Stripes Forever.”
    “Come to the barbecue later,” Ray said. “We’ll get Brian over this. Poor guy.”
    “We’ll see,” Lea said. “Got a busy day helping at the store. Sounds good, though.” She looked again for Brad, but he had retreated to the gym with the other ROTC cadets.
    Ray kissed her on the cheek, walked off to command his veteran platoon. The rest of the crowd dispersed in holiday disorder. Georgie sniped at Lea with a final glower. Then, he vanished behind an overage sea scout.
    Lea was redfaced, muttering, attracting bystander curiosity. She walked away from the schoolyard, downhill on Scammon Avenue towards Osterhaus Avenue.
    “For God’s sake,” she thought, “wasn’t there enough going on?” She remembered the contents of the envelope and shuddered.
    American flags hung from porches, from apartment windows. The smell of overcooked chicken franks wafted in from backyard grills. Roc Naglee waved to Lea from the doorway of Naglee and Negley’s chic health center, “Fitness Forever”. She ran both hands through her blackgrey hair, jerked an answering wave.
    The letter arrived, with typical city timing, right before the holiday weekend. The imperial Department of Health return address was underscored by the red-lettered threat, “LEGAL NOTICE, OPEN UPON RECEIPT.” The twelve page document, naming James and Lea Dascoli, owners, was an indictment of their business, Old Town Bakery, for violation of the city’s sugar free baking policy. A warning was issued that random inspection by SSCB (Salt and Sugar Control Board) enforcement teams was mandated. The final paragraph threatened termination of business if the sugar control law was not followed with full acceptance.
    Lea shuddered again.
    There was a problem. To the city, sugar was an issue. To the Dascolis, it was gold. Jimmy and Lea’s “Back Door Bakery”, the basement room where they made creamy wedding cakes, buttery pastries, and sugary donuts, was an American success. Neighborhood word of mouth advertising quickly upgraded a small order business to brisk clandestine catering. Weddings, confirmations, birthdays, were all serviced through a service slot in the Dascoli back door. Cash was pushed in, cakes pushed out. Jimmy hired Gabe Lopez, an unemployed veteran, to discretely make deliveries.
    Lea passed the former “Mussey’s Motors”, a used car lot, now “City Speed”, a used bicycle lot. She was startled to a nervous halt as she approached Osterhaus Avenue.
    Police barricades blocked intersections. Howling spectators with giveaway balloons lined the sidewalks. It was The Gold Coast Run. She shouldered her way through the spectator line to a viewing point. An erratic line of numbered runners in yellow hats went by. Each wore a tee shirt with the logo of a corporate sponsor. As Lea watched, the contestant from Bank of the Nazarene elbowed past the runner from Dubai Holdings Trust. There was no complaint. This was an extreme sports event, winner take all. First and only prize was an authentic Spanish doubloon from the golden age of piracy.
    “These guys get it to the extreme,” a khaki clad spectator said to a son in mini khaki. They high-fived, waved matching game towels.
    “I’ve got to get across the street,” Lea said. She chewed an errant fingernail.
    “Taste good, sweetheart?” a short older woman said. Her breasts sagged left and right under a “Gym for Geriatrics” sweatshirt.
    Lea ignored her, turned away, rubbed a wet hand on her jeans. This event had to end sometime, for God’s sake.
    It did. The running stream of yellow hats surged forward, then ended. A last runner waving a corporate banner tripped the runner ahead of him, then vanished upstreet. The crowd, unsatisfied, murmured and remained, loiterers with leisure time.
    Lea ran across the street, picking her way through the malingerers. Charlie Woodbury, skeletal neighborhood relic, scowled at her through schoolmaster glasses. His balloon cord tangled in her earring. After a yelp from Charlie and a fluttering unwind, she was free.
    “Let me just get to the store,” she said, running to it, a block away to the left.
    There it was, “Old Town Bakery”, on the corner of Osterhaus and Baird, next to the downstairs subway entrance. The time faded sign hung from iron moorings over the gingerbread storefront, and cottage style display windows. The windows were mostly bare now, a few plain, pale looking rolls and loaves, “Ghost Bread”, under the mandatory “100% Sugar Free” sign. Jimmy had hung an American flag over the display. It was an old one, public school surplus, the white stripes faded to worn yellow.
    The store was empty.
    Jimmy was behind the counter when Lea walked in. He looked scared, wide baby face, side fringe bald head, belly fat projecting over his city regulation bakery pants.
    “Ray told me about Brad,” he said. “Where is he? Didn’t you wait for him? Dammit, Lea.”
    “He went back to the gym with the rest of the cadets,” Lea said. “He was gone before I could do anything. I couldn’t do anything. If he isn’t here soon, I’ll go back and get him.”
    That wasn’t necessary. Brad walked in the door, still uniformed, face pale beneath his freshly shaved head.
    “For conduct unbecoming in the line of duty,” he said. “Yes sir.”
    Jimmy smacked the counter. A mist of sugarless flour ascended.
    Lea ran hands through her hair. Tears welled up.
    “It’s discipline, Mom,” Brian said. “I lost control.”
    “Oh, Brian,” she said, “please sit down. Dad and I need to talk.” There were four old tables in front of the counter, round with polished wood tops. Brian sat at the first one, at attention.
    “Stay there, please,” Lea said. She led Jimmy by the hand into the backroom, the contraband bakery room.
    Jimmy closed the door to the store area behind them.
    “What did they do to him, Lea?” he said. “What was that— a general court martial? Why didn’t they just shoot him for God’s sake?”
    “He wanted to join— to be one of the boys.” Lea said. Her hands shook. “You know how it is. He wants to be accepted.”
    “He can be accepted by guys who aren’t psycho,” Jimmy said. “This crap is over. We have enough to worry about with this letter. The city and this ‘Surge for Health’. We’re screwed. Royally. Totally. You know that.”
    “We’re making money, Jimmy,” Lea said. “The family is holding it for us. It’s safe. When is it going to be enough so we can leave, get out of this crazy city. It’s all changed.”
    “It’s not that easy, Lea,” Jimmy said. “We can’t just suddenly come up with...”
    There was a rap on the outer door. Jimmy opened the slot. Gabe Lopez peered in, sad eyes under a baseball hat.
    “They’re here for the first grade order, boss.,” he said.
    “Okay,” Jimmy said. “That’s four dozen assorted donuts, two sheet cakes with whipped cream and strawberries. Come in and help us load up.”
    Gabe’s eyes looked sadder.
    “He wants to do the deal in the store,” he said. “The guy promises he’ll be quick”
    “In the store? He better be quiet, too,” Jimmy said. “All right, we’ll see him up there now.” He closed the slot.
    “That’s careless,” Lea said. “Doesn’t this guy realize he gets nailed, too, if we get caught?”
    “Sugar free, not for me,” Jimmy smiled. “Let’s go help another guy who likes it sweet.”
    They walked to the front of the store and were met by the inspection team. There were five of them, spread out around the bakery in offensive formation. The leader, suited and hairstyled, flashed a smile of gleaming implants, and a badge.
    “James and Lea Dascoli,” he said, “I’m Nathan Crosman from the Salt and Sugar Control Board.. You’ve been found in violation of the city’s sugar regulations. We’re authorized to inspect this business, confiscate the contraband, and shut you down. Any questions?”
    “You’re killing our family with this law,” Jimmy said, “and everybody else with a family business. You have no right to tell people what to eat! Where is this law from? God?”
    “Even better,” Crosman said, “it’s from the mayor, the city council, and been upheld in court. Let’s get to it, boys.” The team were dressed alike, same-suited, with a mix of bonelook and marinelook hair. They deployed in formation. As they scattered, Gabe Lopez was revealed, detained.
    “Sorry, boss,” he said. “They caught me loading the truck. Somebody tipped them off.” His eyes were sadder, cap dropped low over his forehead.
    “The back room, chief,” a team member said. He donned forensic gloves.
    “The stash is in the back room. That’s what the snitch said.”
    “The ‘concerned citizen’ said,” Crosman corrected. “Okay, Harney, lead on.”
    Harney took the point, led the team into the back room. Jimmy and Lea followed, compelled by condemnation.
    “Look at this haul,” he said. “Chief, ready the camera.”
    “Put the light on,” Crosman said to Jimmy.
    Jimmy pulled the switch, a bulb on a long cord flicked on. Shadows followed Harney’s accusing finger.
    “There ya go, chief.”
    Revealed were trays of donuts with a rainbow of icings. Next to them sat large sheet cakes, blizzard topped with whipped cream and strawberries under decorative cellophane.
    Crosman took pictures of the evidence.
    “You do great work, Jimmy,” he said.
    Jimmy nodded, hands shaking like Lea’s. Lea whispered an old prayer.
    “Now, let’s get this up front for the retrieval team,” he said. “Ammen and Hinks, help Harney with the load. Shanks, call the truck. Think I’ll take some newsworthy pictures.”
    He did. Jimmy and Lea were nudged to the front of the store, the team behind them in practiced ranks. Shanks wiggled his brush mustache, patted Gabe on the hat, shoved him forward.
    Brian still sat at the table, at attention. Ammen and Hinks placed the evidence in front of him. They prepared to bureau tag the cake and pastry.
    “Don’t eat any of the evidence,” Hinks said. He had a knife scar under his chin.
    The teammates were chuckling, pleased. Jimmy and Lea were headsdown upset. Brian stared straight ahead, on duty.
    “James and Lea Dascoli,” Crosman said, “you’re under arrest for felony violation of the salt and sugar control laws.” He produced a folded warrant and a manufactured smile..
    Jimmy forced himself to attention. Lea cried, rubbed her hands on her face.
    “You have the right to remain silent...” Crosman began the Miranda liturgy.
    “These do look good,” Hinks said. He picked up a donut, waved it in front of Brad, who grabbed it from his hand, and slammed it into his face.
    “Counterattack engaged,” Brad said. He leaped at Hinks, forced donut into his mouth. Jelly oozed, Hinks gagged.
    Brad grabbed donuts from the tray, fired them at Ammen and Shanks, a grenade barrage, with successful head shots.
    Brad emptied the tray, drove the team back. Harney howled as donut debris entered his left nostril.
    “Come here, you little...” Crosman advanced on Brad. Gabe tripped him going by.
    Jimmy grabbed the tray from Brad, smacked it against Crosman’s knee. Crosman grabbed the knee and hopped. Then, Jimmy slammed the tray over his head.
    The team retreated towards the door, as Brad retrieved more ammunition from the second tray, and continued the deadly fusillade.
    “Get out of our store,” Lea said. “We built this, we worked at it, get out!”
    Crosman used his cellphone with a jelly reddened hand.
    “Back up, we need back up! Don’t ask me for what! Are you laughing?” Lea picked up a sheet cake, smashed it into Crosman who now resembled a shabby snowman. The team retreated to the street. Jimmy slammed and locked the door. He upturned a table, placed it against the doorframe.
    “We’re done now, Lea,” Jimmy said. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t take any more of this.”
    “I’m not sorry,” Lea said. “They pushed us and pushed us where we couldn’t go any further. Now, they’re wearing it.”
    Jimmy looked out the window where a bored crowd surrounded the pastry encrusted team.
    “Yes, they are,” he said.
    They laughed, a loud burst, pointed at Crosman wiping icing from his face. Hinks was pulling donut from his brigade tie.
    There was a shout from the upstairs window.
    “I have not yet begun to fight!” Brian said. He dropped the other sheet cake on Shanks, a direct hit. He secured the high ground, the second floor.
    “More ammo!” he called.
    Shanks whirled, splattering collateral cake on bystanders, including Georgie Pomutz and Charlie Woodbury. More people were coming, a siren whooped from an approaching police car.
    “How can I help, boss,” Gabe said. “I’ll help, then I’m out of here.”
    “Good idea,” Jimmy said. “Let’s check inventory and get ready to fling it.”
    “On Memorial Day,” Lea said.
    They went to the back room, checked shelves and freezers. Gabe found several additional cakes, cookies and whipped cream pastries. Armed with bandoliers of baked goods, Jimmy and Lea went upstairs.
    “Got to go,” Gabe said. “I’ll come back later to...keep an eye on things.”
    “While we’re in jail,” Jimmy called back to him.
    Brad defended the upper window behind a breastworks of scattered furniture. Jimmy and Lea reinforced his position. Below, a gathered crowd of the curious peered up at them, and watched the health team literally lick their pastry wounds.
    “I’m the one who dropped a quarter on them, “Charlie Woodbury said. He peered through his bifocals under a shapeless fedora.
     Jimmy used the fedora as ground zero, allowed for wind variation, and dropped a cake on Charlie. It exploded in a starry burst of gooey color. Lea pummeled Georgie with pastries. When he wiped one away, another hit him in the face. His nose lifted through the wreckage, turned like a periscope.
    “You may fire when ready, Gridley,” Brad said, firing pastry at will into the onlookers.
    “Here’s somethin’ ta see,” a grandmother said, dragging a toddler to a better sightline, “a whole family flipping going godawful looney.” She cackled, the toddler stuck a hand into her plastic diaper.
    Parade ballons were released into the air, indignant curses offered from upturned mouths. People pushed forward toward the bakery. Georgie Pomutz was kidney punched in the back. Two squad cars arrived in a duet of sirens and tire squeals. Policmen emerged, hands on weapon belts.
    “That’s it,” Jimmy said. “This bunch just isn’t going to their get raw meat today. They’re going to have to settle for some Old Town Bakery pastry.”
    Brian scattered some baked goods into the crowd.
    “Officers, we’re coming out! “Jimmy called down, “Please get us out of here.”
    Charlie Woodbury snarled. Georgie Pomutz snorted through his icing glazed nose. The crowd was disappointed at the abrupt game end. Stragglers began to leave.
    Lea took Jimmy’s arm. Brian walked ahead of them downstairs, arms still laden with baked goods. When they got to the front door, Jimmy rolled the table away from the entrance. He removed the American flag from the display window, dropped it on a table. They walked outside.
    The police had edged the crowd back. They advanced, took the Dascoli’s into custody.
    “Assault and flagrant disregard for the city’s health code,” Crosman said. He wiped jelly and icing off his suit with purpose and dignity.
    “With malice toward none, with charity for all,” Brian said.
    Jimmy tossed the remaining baked goods into the crowd.
    “Enjoy it, folks,” Lea said. “It’s real food. Remember it when you’re having Ghost Bread for your next kid’s birthday or your wedding anniversary. This is final compliments of the Old Town Bakery.”
    “Let’s go,” the lead officer said, blue clad, fit and groomed. He led them to the car, Jimmy first, Lea second, Brian last.

******

    It was quiet late night. Gabe carefully popped the lock on the bakery back door.
    “I know how to make the cakes. Jimmy taught me,” he said.
    Shanks held the flashlight.
    “This stuff is righteous. It’s pure,” he said. “I’ve got five orders for you already.
    “The business of America is business,” Gabe said.

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