DDIE BENT TO PICK UP the last of the scattered free weights. Heaving it onto his bony shoulder, he replaced it on the rack. The gym had evolved into a dump of human steroid waste since Clint had taken over. Now Eddie was in grieving, his moral conscience tormented. All he could do was look on helplessly as his grandson turned an honest living into a front for organized crime and illegal steroid sales. The 80-year-old man, an ex-middleweight champ, fought daily with the decision whether to turn the young tough in or continue to turn a deaf ear and hope his own life ended before the joint suffered a final-round knock-out blow.
The boisterous voices from the upstairs offices tugged at Eddie’s curiosity. The building in which he’d spent the majority of his adult life echoed the clatter of undisciplined living. More often than not, the racket drove him from his cramped, main-floor studio apartment out onto the streets, where he would walk for miles.
Clint was a ladies’ man, frequently inviting the girls from the escort service next door over to party. Thinking the moment would be a good opportunity to collect a few more condemning notes on the illegal goings-on, Eddie crept up the rickety staircase to see who the visitors were. On his way, the old man dug his handkerchief from his back pocket to stifle a sneeze caused by a pesky nose hair, listened to see if he’d been detected, then renewed his ascent.
Halfway up the stairs Eddie heard Clint’s doorbell ring. He stopped and waited. The bell rang again–this time long and hard. Finally Clint’s muffled voice cried out over the giggles, “Who is it?”
A cold, harsh voice crackled over the intercom. “Vinnie. Open up!” Clint had installed an alarm in the basement and an electric door lock and intercom on the front door to free himself from having to go down to let anyone in after hours. The door lock buzzed. Trapped between Vinnie coming from below and Clint’s office window above, Eddie, his old heart racing, scrambled to the top of the stairs, seeking refuge. He crept past the window and into the jumbled storage space across the hall. Luckily, Clint was far too busy to notice. It was then, safely ensconced in the darkness, that Eddie fully realized what he’d witnessed through the curtainless glass. He drew back sharply, embarrassed–even as a seasoned old fighter– by the sight, now permanently etched into his brain. He pressed the door mostly shut and stared through the crack into the well-lit office.
Vinnie’s head appeared as he ascended the stairway. Then he paused and stooped to pick up an object from the second to the last step. Eddie looked on as the racketeer resumed his march up the stairs, thumbing through a small black notebook. The old man reached to his hip. The horrible realization hit him harder than he’d ever been hit in the ring: the notebook had fallen from his pocket when he stopped to wipe his nose.
Pausing in the hallway, Vinnie read from the book, his jaw muscles alternately tightening and releasing as if in spasm. Brusquely, he seized the doorknob to Clint’s office and flung the door inward with a thunderous crash.
“Vinnie . . . come join the party!” Clint’s inebriated voice was slurred as he raised a drink in the air.
The menacing, frenzied expression on Vinnie’s face sent the three girls scrambling. “Get outta here and back to work!” he howled. The half-dressed women promptly gathered their things and tip-toed around Vinnie, still firmly planted in the doorway.
With the girls out of earshot, Vinnie hissed, “Bino called–said you missed the pickup!”
Clint, unperturbed, reached over and buzzed the automatic door to let the girls out. “I’ll get it tomorrow,” he shrugged, still cheery.
Vinnie’s face reddened in anger. The young punk’s attitude was too much to take. Almost in a single motion he jerked a handgun from the silk-lined jacket of his suit, rammed up against Clint and shoved its barrel up his nose. “You better get your act together,” he snarled, “or I’ll find a replacement for you just like that.” The hammer on the weapon clicked into the firing position. Clint’s expression sank and his tanned face blanched as he stared, cross-eyed, down the cold metal shaft.
Meanwhile, Eddie, outraged by what he was seeing, swept the door open and started silently across the hall to protect his only grandchild. Stepping unnoticed inside the entryway adjoining the room, he listened as the entire exchange ricocheted through the air and vibrated along the walls. The old man, breathing hard, quietly swung the door closed, leaving it slightly ajar.
“Now tell me what this is,” Vinnie demanded, dropping the black book on the table.
Clint sat up, sober-faced, fully attentive, and flicked the hair from his face. “That’s Gramps’ weight book.”
“I know that. I’ve seen the old fart write in it.” Grabbing a handful of Clint’s hair in his fist and shoving his face forward, Vinnie drove his point home. “Take a look at what he’s been writing, you stupid ox!”
Clint fumbled at the book’s pages and tried to focus–a difficult task with his face crushed so close to the table. “The old man’s been spying on me!” Clint barked.
His right hand still firmly attached to Clint’s hair, Vinnie reached with his left hand and retrieved his cell phone. His already peeved tone took on an even more grouchy air. “Angelo”, he yelled as he shoved Clints head back, “I need you to take care of the pickup at Bino’s. Bring it to the gym. Clint and me got some business to take care of.” Depositing the phone back in his suit pocket, he centered his gaze once more on his cowering target and, through clenched teeth, said, “Time the old man took a fall.” Clint nodded in agreement. Eddie, his quivering hand still on the door, felt his heart about to explode. The grandson he’d been willing to risk his life for had just agreed to kill him. Cocking his ear to the side, he discovered that the voices had become both more subdued and sinister.
“You go get the old man and I’ll find somethin’ to whack him with. We’ll make it look like he fell down the back steps.” The doorknob turned practically in Eddie’s hand. “That way we won’t have the place crawlin’ with cops.”
Eddie again ducked for cover, this time behind a stack of nearby boxes. Once Clint had wormed out into the hallway, Vinnie entered the room and flipped on the lights, his eyes darting about. His gaze fixed on a square weight bar lying on a some crates at Eddie’s back. Eddie readied himself. The upper-cut left hook oughta do the trick, he thought, doubling up his fists. It was the same punch that had won him his first professional fight back in 1938. This Jersey boy with the hard lookin’ face probably has a glass jaw anyway.
Mitch, sitting atop a discarded five-gallon bucket he’d found among the towering fuel tanks, watched a four door Nissan pull into the station and its driver hop out to open the trunk. It was almost eleven and he’d seen at least 30 people drive into the place and drop envelopes into the mail slot. Only two had actually purchased gas. Bino had made a couple of calls; other than that he’d spent the entire evening puffing on one Camel after another.
The newest patron ambled from the open trunk to the booth’s sliding glass door, carrying a metal box. Bino got to his feet and waved his hands in an irritated gesture. Something seemed oddly familiar to Mitch. . . . Then it dawned on him: the guy with the box was the one who’d stolen his car!
Mitch stood, took two steps forward and grasped the top rail of the six-foot chain-link fence dividing the storage area from the parking lot. Then he hesitated. If he confronted the piece of trash now, what would it accomplish? A better option was to follow the Chicano–but there wasn’t time for Mitch to get to his vehicle.
Within seconds, the car thief had retrieved the metal box inside the pay booth, replaced it with the one he carried, hopped back into his car and sped away. Mitch made a mental note of the license plate number, though he doubted it would ever prove useful.
Mitch’s heaving chest and rising pulse rate served as painful reminders of the hundreds of hours of sweat–not to mention thousands of dollars–he’d spent on the GTO, now in someone else’s hands. Something else was also painfully disheartening: he’d gotten all the proof he needed that his one-time friend Bino was as dirty as they came.
Vinnie lowered his head and stepped around the boxes, dropping his guard just enough. Eddie struck like a wizened old cobra. His blow was on the mark. Vinnie’s head snapped back–and as the ex-champ had guessed, the Jersey rat dropped to the ground like a wet towel on a dirty locker room floor.
“He’s not down here!” yelled Clint from below. There was no response. Eddie’s eyes darted around the room, seeking an escape route. “Maybe he went out walking,” Clint called out again.
The old man clambered to the window and raised it up.“Nurse! . . . Nurse!” he called out as loud as he dared. “Nurse . . . you and Belle down there?”
Greg, hearing the hushed cries, raised his head from off the smelly pillow. Nurse was not in the small enclosure. He crawled to the carpet that sheathed the opening and eased it aside. There was an old man above, crouched in the open window.
“Nurse–that you? Get help–Clint’s trying to kill me!”
Clint’s calls from the base of the stairs grew more impatient. “Vinnie, did you hear me? . . .”
Eddie squinted down at the alley below. There was no way his old body could take a two-story plunge. Nor could he take on his grandson. Besides being young, Clint was a talented fighter with a rockhard jaw. If respect had given way to greed, he could easily whip the old man. Ironically, if there was one thing Eddie had taught the boy, it was to be tough. In fact, the only things that had kept Clint’s temper intact when Vinnie had grabbed him by the hair, had been the gun in Vinnie’s hand, one too many drinks, and a hunger to run the operation when the timing was right to move up the ladder.
“Vinnie?”
The shriveled old boxer nervously glanced around the room for any ideas. The laundry chute! Eddie remembered the failed laundry that once occupied the building. When the company had gone belly-up 25 years earlier–not enough business from the neighboring casinos–Eddie, in cleaning the place up, had nailed the chute doors shut to prevent young Clint from falling to the basement when he was first learning to walk.
Vinnie let out a soft moan and began to stir. The effects of the whiplash Eddie had laid on him were wearing off. Eddie hunched over the crumpled gangster and withdrew the handgun from under his silk jacket. Stuffing it down the front of his own pants, the old man in the white tank top scurried past the crates of used weights to the far wall. The first step squeaked its familiar tune as Clint started up the stairs.
Sinewy hands grappled at the dusty door. Eddie fought to yank it open, but the rusty nails held. Vinnie moaned again as Clint jostled into the room and bent to pry open an eyelid of his fallen ally. Clint knew well the look of a cold-cocked opponent, and stood to look for the perpetrator.
Eddie peered over the crates; Clint’s head swivelled warily, his fists bunched up. “Gramps, come on out. . . . I’m not gonna hurt my own grandpa.” He inched over to the window. Nurse was pushing her cart down the alley below.
“Maybe, maybe not,” Eddie mumbled to himself. He drew the gun from his pants and raised it with both hands. He couldn’t kill his own flesh and blood, but he might be able to slow him down long enough to get away.
Suddenly Clint stepped in Eddie’s direction. Raised up as if to shield his face, the old man’s hands began to shake–not from fear but out of sorrow. Could he pull the trigger? Then Clint wrenched around like a startled cat at the sound of the door buzzer. He, too, was shaking. What Vinnie had tried to do had crossed the line. His only hope was to get the old man out of the building before Vinnie came to. The door buzzed again. Clint left the room to answer the caller on the intercom.
Eddie lowered the gun; his kin had been saved by the bell. He had only a few seconds to act. He reached to the disassembled weight machine a few feet in front of his face and removed a flat bar. Jamming it under the lip of the door like a crowbar, he pried the chute open, snapping the antique nails like the brittle stitches of a worn out glove.
Vinnie grunted and rolled to his side. Eddie knew it was time to either use the gun or take a dive before the wiseguy came to. A stale smell wafted up from the two-and-a-half-foot-square opening. Cobwebs hung silky and thick. Eddie brandished the gun like a sword and slashed them away. A shiver went up his spine.
Rough-cut lumber, polished smooth in the center, lined the chute’s interior. Small horizontal gaps in the dried, shrunken wood allowed enough space for Eddie’s partially crippled fingers to grip. Pulling his wiry frame through the narrow space, he lifted himself into the murky hollow, hands clinging to the walls like a crab wedged between two wet rocks, his feet pushing against one wall, his back and buttocks against the one opposite.
Eddie pulled the squeaky door closed. Slowly, cautiously, he began to inch his tired old body down to the next floor. He let out a silent chuckle: just look at the depths to which his eavesdropping had taken him!
Clint reappeared in time to see Vinnie, still groggy, stagger to his knees and brace himself against the closest stack of boxes. “What happened?”
Hunching forward, Vinnie shook his head in an attempt to sweep the stars from his addled brain. “The old man popped me–must ‘a hit me with a pipe or somethin’.”
“Bare fist,” Clint said with a hint of pride. “Got a fist like a brick.”
Not far below, Eddie, making little progress in his descent, felt a sting in his right arm. He slapped at the spot and felt the unmistakable crunch of a spider among the layers of cobwebs. The haunting thought of the black widows he’d exterminated in the basement kindled within him a venomous dread. Consciously calming his nerves, he couldn’t help but hear the intensifying shouts from above.
“I’m gonna kill the old codger!” Vinnie reached for his pocket. “Took my piece, too, the s.o.b.”
Just then Angelo entered the room, the metal box from Bino in tow. “Where you want this, man?” He wagged a chin at Vinnie–then did a double-take. “Whoa. You look like you been kicked by a burro. Who popped you?”
The voices droned on above him. Eddie had only traveled halfway to the next floor when he felt his muscles cramp up. His legs shook from fatigue; his sore back cried out. Knowing that if he didn’t straighten out soon he’d lose all control, he reached for the boards. If he could just hang on a few seconds more, he could hoist himself up and find room to stretch his legs. At that very moment on the floor above, Vinnie was straightening himself up from the boxes to prove he wasn’t badly hurt. As his buckling knees hit the floor, the board Eddie had clutched simultaneously gave way, and down he went, his limbs banging against the chute’s walls as he plummeted the remaining twoand-a-half stories, where he landed on a dilapidated wooden platform, which, giving way, helped break his fall.
Above, Vinnie careened backward, smashing against a box filled with outdated weightlifting devices. The spilling plates and bars clattered onto the warped, hardwood floor. Stunned, Vinnie whacked Clint’s helping hands away and straightened the collar of his suit. “Get ya hands off; I’m fine. . . . The old man’s as good as dead–now find him.”
Angelo, a look of terror on his face, set down the box. “Adios, I’m a thief, no mas.” With that, he sprinted out the door and back down the stairs.
Clint turned back to Vinnie. “He’s not here. He must’a jumped out the window after he hit you.”
Vinnie shuffled over to the window, still shaky in the knees, and peered out at the hard ground below. “If he jumped, he’s got two broken legs for sure.”
Down in the alleyway, Nurse’s shopping cart was tucked out of sight behind the power box. She listened closely to Greg’s report of what he’d seen and heard. Peeking out from her carpet-covered sanctuary, she stared up at Vinnie, hulking like a dark stone gargoyle in the open window. His grim specter cast a long shadow across the alley floor and up the filth-encrusted buildings opposite–buildings he’d soon tear down to make way for his own casino.
Stephanie slid a chair across the care center cafeteria’s tiled floor, parking it close to an old woman. Her crippled hands rested on the arms of her wheelchair. A tattered book rested on her lap. A fringe of snow-white hair was flattened against the back of her gaunt head. She stared out through a pair of thick glasses, her gaze fixed upon the long row of windows at the far side of the room.
“Hello, Mrs. Russell,” Stephanie called out in a loud voice. “How have you been?” The hunched old woman slowly turned and looked up, then beamed with joy at the sight of her visitor.
Mrs. Effie Russell raised a shaking hand–spotted with age and still adorned by an old-fashioned wedding band–and pointed at the window. “I’ve been sitting here looking out all evening, hoping you would come. You’re such a sweet girl.”
Stephanie reached down and stroked Effie’s hand. “I love coming to see you.”
The old woman brought her other hand over and rested it on the young woman’s smooth arm. “Do you know . . . I can’t even see the stars from the city lights. . . . I miss the stars.”
“I know you do. . . .”
“I used to sit on the porch, waiting for Fred to come home from working on the dam. I could always see the stars then. . . . I wonder what’s keeping Fred tonight . . .”
Stephanie smiled sadly. “Effie, Fred passed away 12 years ago, remember?”
“He did?” Effie, her back forming a question mark, sat in silence, waiting for the recollection to settle in.
Stephanie waited an instant, then said cheerfully, “I brought some perfume. Would you like me to put some on for you?”
Effie raised her head and returned to the moment. “That would be real nice, dear. You always smell so good.” The invitation accepted, Stephanie opened her hand bag, removed a small vial and unscrewed the lid. Effie’s brow furrowed. “Now what was the name of that dam?”
“Hoover Dam.” Stephanie gently rubbed each side of Effie’s neck with her fingers.
“Herbert Hoover,” Effie nodded, reaffixing it in her memory. “Will he be running for office again this year?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Probably for the best. It’s been hard for Fred to make a living for us. . . .What’s taking him so long tonight?
“I’m not sure. Would you like me to read while we wait?”
Effie nodded, “I’d like that.”
Stephanie stepped behind the old woman’s wheelchair and glided her down the corridor toward her room. Through an open door, Maggie could be seen, brushing the hair of another elderly woman, pausing occasionally to touch her arm, smile, and respond to her comments.
“Which nightgown would you like to wear tonight?” Stephanie asked.
Effie thought. “The new pink one my mother bought me for my birthday. . . . My father bought me a book, too.” The old woman’s words were slow and frayed, but her tone was young and full of life. “The Secret Garden.”
Stephanie placed the old book on the nightstand and helped Effie dress for bed. The young woman brushed Effie’s fine, snowy locks, rubbed lotion on her hands and feet, pulled the covers down and positioned her near the bed. Effie bowed her head in prayer and offered up a prayer, a simple prayer of thanks and supplication. Then Stephanie helped her climb in and pulled the covers up.
“It’s there on the dresser.” Effie pointed at the worn, leatherbound book with its broken locking strap. “Read me the inscription in the front . . .” Her words trailed off, replaced by the distant remembrance of the words penned on the brittle pages.
Stephanie opened the book, its cover faded at the edges. She had almost memorized the tender words.
My Dearest Effie, You are growing to be such a beautiful young woman, now nine years old. I am proud of you and wish I could be at home more often. Your mother tells me you are a great help with your new baby brother.
“George,” Effie whispered.
Stephanie continued. I met this woman, Mrs. Burnett, on a train to New York. When she told me about her new book, I just had to buy you a copy. I hope you enjoy it. I’ll see you in a few months. Love, Daddy.
The author’s inscription was dated April 28, 1912, and signed, To Effie: Best wishes, Frances Hodgson Burnett.
A single tear trickled down the crevasses of Effie’s aged face and disappeared into the branches of wrinkled skin. “I never saw him again. Ship sank on the way back from London.”
Waiting for the painful memory to fade, Stephanie turned to the bookmark. Each page clung to the ones on either side. They reminded Stephanie of fallen maple leaves stuck to a wet lawn. “Chapter 23, Magic,” she began. “Dr. Craven had been waiting . . .”
Some blocks away, Mitch, still perched in the darkness, was watching Bino fill out the end-of-day deposits, close out the credit card machine, hit the lights, lock up the booth, and limp across the parking lot in semi-darkness. He stopped to unlock the door to the Audi, then pulled out a cigarette to light up. The flame’s glow cast an eerie shadow across Bino’s normally friendly countenance.
Gripping the top of the fence, Mitch jumped up, gained a foothold on the rail, and vaulted over the chain-link barrier, landing just inches from the rattled Bino. “You set me up,” he screamed, getting up in the face of the two-bit fence, “didn’t you?” The cigarette tumbled from Bino’s lips and glanced off the side of the car, sending a tiny cascade of sparks onto the crumbling asphalt at Bino’s sandaled feet.
Bino stepped back, breathing hard, clutching desperately at his gaunt chest. Mitch clicked open the car door and helped his ex-friend sit down. “I want my car back, and you better not lie to me again.” Mitch held tightly to the nap of Bino’s shirt, waiting for a reply.
“You have . . . no clue . . . what you’re up against,” Bino finally blurted out.
“The odds’ve been stacked against me before.”
“They’ll kill me–and you too.”
“Not if I can help it. Who are they?”
Bino’s gaze fell. “I was an honest . . . gambler, up ‘til a year ago. . . . Come from . . . a long line of cops. Guess you . . . could say I’m the . . . ‘bad hand’of the family.”
The gravity in Mitch’s voice was evident. “Who are they?” he demanded again.
“Walk away, kid. . . . Take the loss . . . on the car. . . . Borrow the . . . money from your grandpa . . . and don’t ever look back.”
Mitch hauled Bino close. The words rose up from his throat in a prolonged, threatening growl. “Bino, who are they?”
“Listen . . . to what I’m tellin’ ya’. . . . Don’t borrow money . . . from me–and don’t take . . . Vinnie’s job.”
Mitch looked the washed-up gambler in the eye. Bino was afraid! Scared silly. And that was no bluff.
. . . They always called it Magic, and indeed it seemed like it in the months that followed–the wonderful months–the radiant months–the amazing ones. Oh! the things which happened in that garden!
Stephanie looked up from the yellowed pages. Effie was sound asleep. Her face was peaceful, her dreams floating in the sunshine of distant memories, clear and sweet.