Bobby-Jack
Bobby-Jack
“A dog with a damned bone! That’s what he was like. Put your hand near the dog's mouth, like you’re gonna grab that bone...and you might lose a hand.”
Bobby-Jack was a big man, a medium big man, not too big, 6’1, 210, maybe, tight muscled, but not muscle-bound, with a well-proportioned frame. He’d been a better than average athlete, with a love for boxing, but a distaste for training any more than a little.
Bobby-Jack liked to sleep in, like a year of Sundays, with nothing to do, but take it easy. “When I retire, you can bet I’ll sleep for a day and a half if I want. But only if I want.” he’d say.
Bobby-Jack also liked guns. People, less so. Guns could solve a lot of problems, if necessary. “Just cause I have a thing for guns, doesn’t mean I like to shoot things, especially animals. “Give me a dog any day. Any day. Any mutt. I don’t care.”
He’d been in jail once, for beating a guy senseless, because the guy was beating a dog like a man beating an old rug. He didn’t say a word, just hammered the guy with a right hand that traveled a viscous six inches, breaking the asshole’s jaw in three places. “Never hit that dog again, you worthless prick! Or you’ll never draw another breath! You got it!” he shouted. His teeth were clenched so tight you could almost hear them grinding like a knife being sharpened on a whetstone. Anyway. Someone called the cops and they came and took him off to the county jail, where he stayed for a while. Thankfully, only a short while. Just not short enough.
After Bobby Jack got out, he needed a change from the same old jobs; bouncer, truck driver, bartender—and, on occasion, handyman. Handy with a hammer. Handy with his fists. Handy with a gun, it didn’t matter. So he took out a small ad in the Yellow Pages: “Detective for hire, Military trained. Can hunt anybody, anywhere, anytime.” Over the next decade, he earned an OK living. Working hard, when there was work to do. And when there wasn’t, he’d head to the gym, hit the bag to keep in shape and sleep in, as long as he pleased. But you don’t sleep as good when you can’t pay the bills. “It’s always something.” he thought. “Some guys get all the breaks. Some never do.” He wondered; "Would it ever be different?"
Bobby-Jack’s business office was a basement room. The floor was bare, the walls painted with that shiny gloss paint, painted a bland ivory with gray trim. The furniture was sparse, bought at the local thrift store. Up close it looked ragged. But at a distance of 10 feet or so, it almost looked presentable. He solved this problem by keeping the lighting low, giving the impression of perpetual twilight. Just soft enough for a hangover, a quick nap, or an evening drunk.
There was no desk, in the office. Any client sat on the couch, while Bobby-jack sat on a straight-back chair that was upholstered with what looked like a piece of blanket. This lack of a professional office put off some clients. But, for others, Bobby-Jack’s directness left little doubt that he was a capable man. He’d look you in the eye like a big tawny cat watching a rabbit. You could never tell for sure if you were a friend or a potential victim.
One night, after some fairly heavy drinking in a favorite bar—the one just off the interstate—a couple of drunk rednecks started bullying one of his oldest friends, a little guy who’d seen harder times than most. At first, Bobby-Jack tried to ignore them, hoping they’d leave, or at least stop. But they didn’t. They kept pushing, bullying, belittling, until Bobby-Jack grabbed the one guy by the throat and hit him so hard, it shattered the guys front teeth. Then he kicked the other guy square in the chest, using the flat of his foot like a heavy truncheon, causing the son-of-a-bitch to expel air and fall back like he was dying. He’d probably killed the guy if an off-duty cop hadn’t been there. Two days later Bobby-Jack was standing in front of a judge who said: “Listen, Mr. Israel—that was his full name, Bobby-Jack Israel—you’ve got to make restitution. You understand me? You’ve got to at least pay their hospital bills.”
“But what if I can’t?” Bobby-Jack asked.
“Then you’re going to jail. I’ll give you 30 days. That’s it. The judge said, leaving Bobby-Jack 30 days of long, sleepless nights—and no sleeping in—probably, no sleeping at all.
“Some guys never get the breaks.” he thought. “Never.”
“A dog with a damned bone! That’s what he was like. Put your hand near the dog's mouth, like you’re gonna grab that bone...and you might lose a hand.”
Bobby-Jack was a big man, a medium big man, not too big, 6’1, 210, maybe, tight muscled, but not muscle-bound, with a well-proportioned frame. He’d been a better than average athlete, with a love for boxing, but a distaste for training any more than a little.
Bobby-Jack liked to sleep in, like a year of Sundays, with nothing to do, but take it easy. “When I retire, you can bet I’ll sleep for a day and a half if I want. But only if I want.” he’d say.
Bobby-Jack also liked guns. People, less so. Guns could solve a lot of problems, if necessary. “Just cause I have a thing for guns, doesn’t mean I like to shoot things, especially animals. “Give me a dog any day. Any day. Any mutt. I don’t care.”
He’d been in jail once, for beating a guy senseless, because the guy was beating a dog like a man beating an old rug. He didn’t say a word, just hammered the guy with a right hand that traveled a viscous six inches, breaking the asshole’s jaw in three places. “Never hit that dog again, you worthless prick! Or you’ll never draw another breath! You got it!” he shouted. His teeth were clenched so tight you could almost hear them grinding like a knife being sharpened on a whetstone. Anyway. Someone called the cops and they came and took him off to the county jail, where he stayed for a while. Thankfully, only a short while. Just not short enough.
After Bobby Jack got out, he needed a change from the same old jobs; bouncer, truck driver, bartender—and, on occasion, handyman. Handy with a hammer. Handy with his fists. Handy with a gun, it didn’t matter. So he took out a small ad in the Yellow Pages: “Detective for hire, Military trained. Can hunt anybody, anywhere, anytime.” Over the next decade, he earned an OK living. Working hard, when there was work to do. And when there wasn’t, he’d head to the gym, hit the bag to keep in shape and sleep in, as long as he pleased. But you don’t sleep as good when you can’t pay the bills. “It’s always something.” he thought. “Some guys get all the breaks. Some never do.” He wondered; "Would it ever be different?"
Bobby-Jack’s business office was a basement room. The floor was bare, the walls painted with that shiny gloss paint, painted a bland ivory with gray trim. The furniture was sparse, bought at the local thrift store. Up close it looked ragged. But at a distance of 10 feet or so, it almost looked presentable. He solved this problem by keeping the lighting low, giving the impression of perpetual twilight. Just soft enough for a hangover, a quick nap, or an evening drunk.
There was no desk, in the office. Any client sat on the couch, while Bobby-jack sat on a straight-back chair that was upholstered with what looked like a piece of blanket. This lack of a professional office put off some clients. But, for others, Bobby-Jack’s directness left little doubt that he was a capable man. He’d look you in the eye like a big tawny cat watching a rabbit. You could never tell for sure if you were a friend or a potential victim.
One night, after some fairly heavy drinking in a favorite bar—the one just off the interstate—a couple of drunk rednecks started bullying one of his oldest friends, a little guy who’d seen harder times than most. At first, Bobby-Jack tried to ignore them, hoping they’d leave, or at least stop. But they didn’t. They kept pushing, bullying, belittling, until Bobby-Jack grabbed the one guy by the throat and hit him so hard, it shattered the guys front teeth. Then he kicked the other guy square in the chest, using the flat of his foot like a heavy truncheon, causing the son-of-a-bitch to expel air and fall back like he was dying. He’d probably killed the guy if an off-duty cop hadn’t been there. Two days later Bobby-Jack was standing in front of a judge who said: “Listen, Mr. Israel—that was his full name, Bobby-Jack Israel—you’ve got to make restitution. You understand me? You’ve got to at least pay their hospital bills.”
“But what if I can’t?” Bobby-Jack asked.
“Then you’re going to jail. I’ll give you 30 days. That’s it. The judge said, leaving Bobby-Jack 30 days of long, sleepless nights—and no sleeping in—probably, no sleeping at all.
“Some guys never get the breaks.” he thought. “Never.”
chapter 2
I first met Bobby-Jack on a transport plane headed to Korea and war. 1952 had begun well enough, but one final offense—at my last failed attempt at college—meant I was on the U.S. military’s radar and the draft. That’s how I ended up in the military on a plane headed for Korea. It seemed a helluva price to pay for wanting to have a good time.
When I stepped on the transport plane, looking for a place to sit, I quickly sized up the competition. To my left were three young men, probably no more than 19, trying to disguise the obvious unease that was on each of their faces. What seemed wholly appropriate, given the circumstance. To their right was a group of four men who looked like jocks, maybe football players, laughing like they were in the local bar, throwing back a few beers, laughing and talking in a way that bore no resemblance to the approaching task at hand. And, to their right sat a tall, dark-haired man with a days worth of beard and the look of a veteran who’d been there before. Or, maybe, an experienced boxer sitting in the dressing room waiting for his turn to fight. He didn’t express fear, just a concentrated intensity that lead me to believe that if I made his friendship, it might be as safe a place as I could find in a war zone. I approached the men, angling for a spot between the jocks and the dark-haired man, asking if they could make a little space. The biggest of the four jocks turned my way, and then disdainfully disregarded my question. When I asked again, politely, he gave me a look I’d seen a hundred times before, indicating I was about to cross a line for daring to speak out of turn to one of my betters. Without saying a word, the dark-haired man just looked at him, with a look that conveyed a world of subtle menace, causing the big jock to lower his eyes, like you do if your in the wilderness and look up to see a 200 lb. Mountain lion perched on a rock outcrop, head tilted down, looking you dead in the eyes. The only thing you can do is lower your head, and slowly back-up, otherwise, the big puma will take your stare for aggression. That is exactly what the big jock did, making space for me to sit.
As a man of modest stature, I’ve learned not to overplay my hand with hard men and other human predators, so I just said, “My names Johnny Trumbo.” My unintended benefactor turned away, just slightly, hesitated for a second, and then said, “Call me Bobby-jack.”
Over the next 18 months I stayed tight to my new friend, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible. I learned that Bobby-jack wasn’t a veteran. At least, not of war, but was the same as age me. A few months, younger, in fact. He’d left home at 12. Both of his parents were raging alcoholics, he told me. The only saving grace; he had was a grandfather who lived with the family. His grandpa was his real family. He educated Bobby-Jack about how to hunt, fish, work with his hands, and fight, which he told me he did, nearly every day of his life. A 12 year-old is easy prey for a seasoned predator. Even at 12, though, Bobby-jack wasn’t really a boy. By the time we met on that transport plane headed for war, it was just one more phase in a life filled with violence, which is probably why war on a battlefield, or fighting for food in a hobo jungle as a kid, didn’t seem that different. At least he was guaranteed a meal and a place to sleep, assuming he lived through the day. That was more of a guarantee than he’d found most places. It was why he enlisted, I think. By comparison, I was forced by Uncle Sam to fight, or go to jail and be branded a traitor for life.
Mark Magula
When I stepped on the transport plane, looking for a place to sit, I quickly sized up the competition. To my left were three young men, probably no more than 19, trying to disguise the obvious unease that was on each of their faces. What seemed wholly appropriate, given the circumstance. To their right was a group of four men who looked like jocks, maybe football players, laughing like they were in the local bar, throwing back a few beers, laughing and talking in a way that bore no resemblance to the approaching task at hand. And, to their right sat a tall, dark-haired man with a days worth of beard and the look of a veteran who’d been there before. Or, maybe, an experienced boxer sitting in the dressing room waiting for his turn to fight. He didn’t express fear, just a concentrated intensity that lead me to believe that if I made his friendship, it might be as safe a place as I could find in a war zone. I approached the men, angling for a spot between the jocks and the dark-haired man, asking if they could make a little space. The biggest of the four jocks turned my way, and then disdainfully disregarded my question. When I asked again, politely, he gave me a look I’d seen a hundred times before, indicating I was about to cross a line for daring to speak out of turn to one of my betters. Without saying a word, the dark-haired man just looked at him, with a look that conveyed a world of subtle menace, causing the big jock to lower his eyes, like you do if your in the wilderness and look up to see a 200 lb. Mountain lion perched on a rock outcrop, head tilted down, looking you dead in the eyes. The only thing you can do is lower your head, and slowly back-up, otherwise, the big puma will take your stare for aggression. That is exactly what the big jock did, making space for me to sit.
As a man of modest stature, I’ve learned not to overplay my hand with hard men and other human predators, so I just said, “My names Johnny Trumbo.” My unintended benefactor turned away, just slightly, hesitated for a second, and then said, “Call me Bobby-jack.”
Over the next 18 months I stayed tight to my new friend, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible. I learned that Bobby-jack wasn’t a veteran. At least, not of war, but was the same as age me. A few months, younger, in fact. He’d left home at 12. Both of his parents were raging alcoholics, he told me. The only saving grace; he had was a grandfather who lived with the family. His grandpa was his real family. He educated Bobby-Jack about how to hunt, fish, work with his hands, and fight, which he told me he did, nearly every day of his life. A 12 year-old is easy prey for a seasoned predator. Even at 12, though, Bobby-jack wasn’t really a boy. By the time we met on that transport plane headed for war, it was just one more phase in a life filled with violence, which is probably why war on a battlefield, or fighting for food in a hobo jungle as a kid, didn’t seem that different. At least he was guaranteed a meal and a place to sleep, assuming he lived through the day. That was more of a guarantee than he’d found most places. It was why he enlisted, I think. By comparison, I was forced by Uncle Sam to fight, or go to jail and be branded a traitor for life.
Mark Magula