HE LOW RUMBLE OF HEATED VOICES roused Greg from his sleep. A dense, muggy haze hung inside the cramped enclosure. He reached up and wiped a smeared handful of sweat from between his chin and chest. Little balls of dead skin tugged at his stubbly face as he returned to wipe again with his frayed shirt sleeve. A prick at his leg brought his other hand down on his right calf. Leaning forward, he pulled the pant leg up his pink shin and brushed away the bloated body of a bed bug. In the grayness of the stifling room, he watched as the wounded insect battled to roll from its back to its feet on the bare mattress. All the while, his own brain and ears had finally coalesced to hear the conversation going on outside.
“You got nothin’ to worry ‘bout. Like I told you, they ain’t got evidence or they would’a drug me downtown. The old man lost his book– that’s it!”
“He called my old lady the day before he fell . . .”“So what? Go see her; act like you missed her. Find out what she knows.”
Greg parted the carpet to see who spoke. The voices were coming from up above on the parking structure. Warily, he crept from the stale quarters and peered under the concrete guard rail that ran along its edge. Two men stood less than ten feet from the narrow opening. One was decked out in expensive Italian shoes and a silk suit, the other in jeans and sandals with no socks.
“Missed her?” Clint yowled sarcastically. “She can hardly stand the sight of me. ‘White trash’, is what my old man calls us. He’d rather die and leave his fortune to the Republican Party than me.”
“Then go tolerate her awhile and see why he called her. If the old man’s gonna spill his guts, we need to know.”
“Pops doesn’t trust the police. As far as I know he hasn’t called the cops in fifty years.”
“Then why we havin’this conversation?” Vinnie turned to climb in his car.
“Because the old lady will call the cops–in a heartbeat.”
Vinnie paused to wring his hands. “Only one way to find out, ain’t there? I got an office full of lawyers that’ll squeeze the system if you have any trouble. We ain’t goin’down on account a’the old man, so stop your whinin’ and get your act together. We got work to do.” He slammed the door and peeled off up the ramp.
Greg crept back into the enclosure and scrounged through Nurse’s baskets, looking for a pen and paper. This was no boardroom and there weren’t any secretaries to keep minutes. After recording several pages of detailed notes, he leaned back to soak it all in. Horizontal rays of evening sun angled from down the alley and filtered through the small crack of the carpet doorway. Microscopic bits of glimmering dust and grit floated and danced in lazy circles in the bright shafts. They reminded him of the secure summer days he spent as a child; they reminded him of home, of the security of being in his own bedroom. Only a short time ago he was ready to end his miserable existence, but life now seemed worth fighting for. Just days before, hope had died, hope that he would ever again enjoy the basic comforts of living, of family, of friends. Now hope had been restored. He had learned that if you persevere, you can survive–and even thrive–in spite of the lack of fancy cars, country club memberships, big-dollar jobs or stock portfolios. Service, love, friendship, God, family . . . these were the critical elements to a happy life. He’d always taken them for granted, hadn’t cherished their rare beauty. Would he be given a second chance–a chance to set it right?
The sound of footsteps on the gravelly pavement outside caught Greg’s attention. The last golden rays peeking through the curtain were blocked by a man’s long shadow, which stretched down the alley and up the wall. Greg stuck his face next to the narrow opening and watched as the same young man he’d found crying in the alley jumped up effortlessly over the concrete guardrail into the parking structure and disappeared among the cars.
Frantically foraging through the piles of baskets for a pair of dirty socks, Greg pulled them on over his blisters. In stockinged feet, he skulked from his hiding place and scrambled up and over the wall, scanning between the cars that lined the mostly filled lot. At last he came across Mitch, who was in the act of crawling under the draw arm leading to the employee-only parking area on the upper level.
On tiptoes, Greg darted across the concrete deck toward the draw arm, following the man, who by now had bolted around the corner and up the ramp. He glanced up at the security camera, positioned in a corner near a concrete beam. Protected by a heavy metal frame and thick glass, it panned the entire western half of the second level. The sound of squealing tires coming from behind him prompted Greg to slow to a walk. To the blare of rock music, a carload of inebriated men with wide-toothed grins and heads bobbing loosely from side to side, barreled past him toward the exit. Instinctively, Greg’s posture took on that of a drunkard. He staggered, as if in a stupor, stumbled up against a concrete pillar and slid to a sitting position.
Nearby, a pot-bellied security guard marched double-time up the ramp at the far end. “. . . Ten-four. Does he look like a problem?” he barked out over his radio.
“No, he saw me,” the radio squawked. “He’s headed back your way.”
“I’m on it. He won’t get past.” The heavy-set guard drew his weapon and pointed it up the facing incline, where he could hear Mitch’s approaching footsteps.
As he rushed back down the ramp, Mitch gauged the situation. The guard on the upper level didn’t pose much of a problem, but the one awaiting him at the gate arm, gun drawn, did.
“Hold on, kid,” the guard growled. “Mister Domenico wants to see you.”
Mitch slowed to a standstill. Raising his hands to his chest, he said, “What, you’re going to shoot me for walking around?”
The second guard thundered down the ramp from behind, out of breath and red-face mad.
“No,” he hissed, drawing his nightstick from its sheath, “but we might break your legs!” With that, he landed a fierce, solid blow to the back of Mitch’s knee. “Mister Domenico don’t like people snoopin’ around, peekin’ in car windows. And I don’t like chasin’ no-good punks like you!”
Mitch’s leg buckled; he collapsed to the floor in agony. Greg, looking on from the presumed safety of his down-on-his-luck disguise, winced at the thought of the pain. He turned away.
The red-faced guard noticed the bum hunched against the column and bent to administer his meanspirited form of justice. “You wanna piece a’ this too?” he sneered, shaking the stick at Greg. Greg moaned and rolled to his hands and knees, intent on getting up and moving along. The cruel guard would have none of it. He raised his stick and delivered a vicious shot to Greg’s backside. The second moan that erupted from Greg’s lips was no act. The guard reared back and kicked Greg with his size-11 boot, snarling, “Get outta here–worthless piece a trash!”
The big-bellied guard broke up the fun. “Come on, Tom. The boss wants this guy upstairs. You can harass the drunks later.”
The red-faced guard huffed and turned away. Then both guards bent down, jerked Mitch to his feet, and escorted him up the ramp leading to the Three Queens employee entrance.
Greg, the wind knocked out of him, fought to stand up. As he limped off down the ramp, he massaged at the growing knot in his buttocks, the soft and ample pounds he’d accumulated sitting down over the last several years. Usually slow to anger, an all-consuming desire for revenge had built up in his chest. More than likely, Mister Domenico was the kingpin of the credit card scam that had ruined his life. It was time someone did something about it. But what, and how?
While gingerly climbing over the guard rail back into the alley, Greg heard someone call, “Sunny, we were wonderin’ where you went.” It was Sound’s voice. As he neared the concrete hut, Greg found, to his dismay, the entire Alley Team huddled together, with Nurse standing between Ritter and Cap’n, looking like her old self.
“‘At you, Sunny?” Nurse asked, rotating her head side to side, trying to adjust her half-blind eyes in the darkness.
“I’m here.”
“See, I tol’ you he didn’t bail on us. An’ he’s th’ only one ‘at didn’t turn on ol’ Nurse like a double crossin’ traitor.” The old woman jabbed her wiry elbow into Cap’n’s ribs. “These two-timin’ bums was tryin’ to get me an’ Belle locked up in th’ nuthouse. Be jiggered if we’re goin’ back there ‘gain.”
“Weren’t nobody tryin’ to lock you up, you old bag a’ wind,” Cap’n replied. “Just thought you might like to let the doctor help you, is all.”
“Help me–cow pucky! ‘At’s what Charlie done tol’ that Alabama judge pert-near fifty years ago.” Nurse leaned over and mumbled through her hand, “Sorry, Belle, I promised I wouldn’t talk bad ‘bout yer daddy no more, but I gotta say it, get it off a’ my conscience. Weren’t my fault. Was yer lazy, hooch-drinkin’ daddy–he’s th’ one didn’t keep an eye on ya’, no matter what he tol’ ever’body else.” She straightened up and folded her arms defiantly across her sagging chest. “If’n I asked once I asked ‘em a thousand times to fill that dry well with the extra rocks the neighbor dumped next ta’the hole. If’n he’d a’got his lazy butt up outta the hammock, he could’a had it filled before Belle was even born. But no . . . said he had plenty a’ time before she learned to walk. Promised he’d put somethin’ over it when she learned ta’ crawl, and swore he’d watch her while I was out back scrubbin’ th’ dirty clothes.”
Everyone listened intently as Nurse rambled on. “I checked on ‘em once ‘r twice, ‘fore I started cookin’supper. Caught ‘im sippin’his hooch once while Belle was playin’ on the front porch real nice. Said he weren’t sleepy ‘tall . . .” Her voice trailed off, then she again spoke from the side of her mouth. “Course you can’t remember, Belle. You was too young. Now let me finish without none a’ yer interruptions.”
Greg looked over at Ritter with a puzzled stare. The old Englishman arched his shoulders and nodded as Nurse went on with her narrative.
“Only been fifteen minutes since I checked on ‘em ‘til I called Charlie to eat. When he didn’t answer, I went back out front. Lazy bum was dead drunk, empty bottle a’ hooch broke on the ground.” Nurse’s forehead wrinkled and her lips puckered into an angry kiss. “Good thin’ I found Belle ‘fore she fell in ‘at hole.” The lips transformed into a toothless smile. “I’d a’ missed her somethin’ terrible.” “But you said . . .” Greg interrupted.
“Jus’ a mistake. Been gettin’’ a bit forgetful in my ol’ age. . . . ‘Sides, how in tarnation could Belle be here if’n she fell in th’ well?” Greg nodded politely at Ritter. “Point well taken. Glad to have you back, Belle.”
Nurse cringed. “Don’t you start too, Sunny. Got ‘nough crap in the chicken coop–we’s already up to our knees. . . . You still wearin’ a ring an all, you ought not be a flirtin’ with a young single girl.” Greg reached down and fiddled with the ring on his finger. If he hadn’t put on the extra pounds he’d have taken it off by now. He looked down into Nurse’s face. She knew Belle was dead; she just didn’t want to have to deal with the pain. “How’s Eddie doing?” he finally asked. “As ornery as ever and tight lipped as a door nail,” said Cap’n. “Won’t tell nobody what happened. Just said he fell down the chute.” The expression on Greg’s face grew even more puzzled. “I’ve seen some strange things around here this afternoon. Some poor kid was just whacked in the leg by one of Mister Vinnie’s goons and drug off to see the man, at gunpoint. He’s probably up in Vinnie’s penthouse right now. Not a good place to be. I kind of feel like I know the young guy. My brain keeps telling me he’s a saint. Earlier today I found him in the alley crying behind the garbage can. But when I asked him what was wrong, he jumped up and ran off.”
Mitch stepped off the elevator on the 13th floor, wishing he’d run away the first time he’d ever met Vincent Domenico. “Didn’t figure you’d get on the plane, kid. Tell me, did your wife meet Mike, or was the pleasure all yours?” Mitch just stood there, tongue-tied, his jaw clenched, glaring at Vinnie. “Was it when you put your suitcase in the car?” He laughed and tossed something at Mitch, an object he’d kept tucked under his jacket. Mike’s Federal I.D. badge hit Mitch in the chest and bounced open on the floor. “Just like I figured, a cop, Federal type. ‘Course, maybe you already knew that. Had that badge stuck under his pant leg.” Vinnie’s leer turned hard and angry. “Had this strapped to the other leg.” He stuck his gloved hand under his lapel and brought out a second item.
This time Mitch managed to block Vinnie’s underhand fast-pitch throw. The heavy, metallic object bounced off his arm and clunked to the floor near the badge. Mitch’s stunned gaze settled on the black hand gun at his feet.
“You was gonna set me up,” grumbled Vinnie. “You’re about as predictable as they come. And here I thought you’d wise up and figure out the system ain’t fair. You gotta make your own luck–it don’t come to you. You either go with the flow or get run over. But you’re too stupid to figure that out. You just stand there in the middle a’ the road.”
Mitch again stared down at the small automatic.
“Wonderin’ if it’s loaded? But you ain’t the gamblin’ type, now, are you? Don’t drink, probably don’t smoke, bet you never been with a whore. . . .”
Mitch’s nostrils flared like an angry bull’s.
“I know what you are. One a’ them preacher boys ridin’ ‘round town on your bike,” Vinnie taunted. “What if I told you the gun was loaded and all you got to do is pick it up and pull the trigger?”
Mitch finally found his voice. “I don’t believe anything that comes from your lying mouth.”
Vinnie leaned back in his chair and propped his hands behind his head. “You’re gonna hurt my feelings, kid. We gotta learn to trust each other if we’re gonna work together.”
“Won’t happen.”
“Then it looks like I’m gonna hafta kill you. Go on, take a gamble. I give you my word–it’s loaded. Pick up the piece and give it your best shot. . . . I’ll count to five. One . . . two . . .”
Mitch, sensing the guy wasn’t kidding, reached down and picked up the gun. Lifting it, he took aim at Vinnie’s glowering mug.
“. . . three . . . four–you better do it before I scatter your brains all over my elevator doors–or ain’t you got what it takes?”
A thousand pictures flashed through Mitch’s mind. The one most vivid was of Stephanie standing out on the sidewalk in front of Maggie’s, crying as he pulled away. His heart was racing, his breathing deep as he gripped the gun.
Vinnie brought his own gun from his jacket and steadily hiked it to eye level. “Five.” Mitch squeezed the trigger; the gun clicked. The tough guy, obviously impressed, pulled himself to his feet and walked over to where Mitch stood. “See, you do got what it takes,” he gloated, reaching out to pry the weapon from Mitch’s frozen fingers before tucking his own back inside his belt. “And all this time I thought you lacked stomach.” A quick flick of the wrist snapped a loaded clip from the small hand gun. The cartridge bounced off the white carpeted floor and rolled up against the floorboard. “Like I said, the gun was loaded– just not the chamber.” He shoved it in Mitch’s front pocket and returned to his desk.
All at once Mitch’s simmering temper reached the boiling point. “And you’re nothing but a lying, cheating coward who always plays with a stacked deck,” he screamed. His eyes glazed over. He’d just been willing to kill the wise guy, so great was the disgust and hatred he felt towards him.
“Feels good, don’t it. . . . Blood pumpin’ through your veins, adrenalin rushin’ to your head. Makes everything hard, intense. Go ahead, pick up the clip and pop it in. It’s easer the second time around, and just as big a rush. That is, unless my bullet nails you first. Then it’s no rush at all. It’s just . . . dead.”
Greg had just finished explaining what he’d seen, how the two guards had dragged the young man off to Vinnie’s penthouse and about the whack he himself had taken across the backside. A broad smile spread across Sound’s lean face, “If you think you’re hurt that bad,” he said, “you ought to drop them pants and let Nurse take a look.”
Everyone laughed–all except Nurse. “What else?” she insisted. “This ain’t no time fer funny business. I seen an’ heard more livin’ in this alley–bad eyes an’ all–‘an I care t’ talk about. ‘At boy might be in a heap a’ trouble, and we’s likely the only ones can help.” Faces slackened and all eyes turned back to Greg.
“Vinnie was wearing a pair of disposable coveralls. He pulled a small white car out of the garage down the alley, just after the young guy ran off. Then some young dude–I guess he was a valet, or something–came and drove the car away.”
“Was it an Escort?” Ritter piped in.
Greg shook his head. “I’m a computer nerd, not a car salesman.” Ritter closed his eyes, remembering. “I noticed a white Escort parked
Sound raised a finger and shook it in Ritter’s face. “Just because you’re a mechanic and know your cars, it doesn’t mean the rest of us do.” Smitty scratched methodically at his scraggly beard and nodded in agreement.
“Nobody asked your bloody opinion,” Ritter shot back as he turned between Sound and Smitty.
“Enough,” Nurse snapped, disrupting the quarrel. “Don’t matter. You two report to Cap’n, then go check out the car. Take Smitty. If’n it’s locked, he can open it up so you can see whose it is.”
“You heard the orders, go check out the car,” Cap’n repeated. Smitty turned and–mime that he was–leaned forward as if in full stride, waiting for someone to take up the lead. Ritter pivoted sharply on his short legs and stepped in front, striding out on upcurled toes to keep from aggravating his bunions. Sound leaned over to address Nurse, raising a finger as if to protest the assignment. But before he could get out a single syllable, Cap’n roared, “Move, private!”
Overmatched, and defeated before he’d begun, Sound abandoned the objections, smacked his lips together, and followed the other two vagrants up the alley towards Bridger Avenue.
Pistol clip in hand, Mitch stroked the first bullet with his thumb. Vinnie had removed his own gun from his jacket and held it up with its clip. “Your move, kid. Kinda excitin’, ain’t it. Just like an old TV-western showdown.”
Mitch’s chest heaved. Every muscle in his body was knotted. He knew how to shoot–picked off many a junkyard rat with his grandpa’s 9mm. He hefted the weapon and imagined blowing away the big, two-bit rat sitting before him. His mind reeled as he pondered what he was up against. The guy’s a piece of trash , no better than a filthy rat. . . . But Stef and the twins. What would they do? Vinnie’s a cold-blooded killer. I’m overmatched. . . . Deciding he had to call Vinnie out and meet him on more equitable terms, he muttered under his breath, “You’re still playing with a stacked deck.”
“What? You got a gun, I got a gun. Sounds even to me. You ‘fraidI’m faster?”
“Maybe, maybe not. But you’ve got nothing to lose but your miser
able life. I’ve got everything to live for–that is, I had, until you came
along.”
“Hmm,” Vinnie sighed, crossing his legs at the ankle. “You want
your puny life back?”
“That’d be a good start.”
“Look around you. I started with nothin’, just like you, kid, and
now look what I got. I’m offerin’ you a piece of it.” Vinnie waved his
arms in a flourish. “All you got to do is come to work for me.” “Why me?”
“Don’t know. Been tryin’ to figure it out for myself. Ain’t never had
nobody tell me no but my old man.” He swallowed hard. “You miss him.”
Several fowl oaths tumbled from Vinnie’s lips as he stood, snapped
the clip in his gun and shoved it back in the holster. “The old man was
nothin’. Just a shooter for his brother. Had no self respect. . . . Now
about that wager.” Vinnie spun on the balls of his leather shoes and
strode over to the wet-bar.
Mitch looked down at the clip in his hand, while his other hand
inched toward the gun in his pocket. Vinnie had a soft spot after all.
His whole life was centered around proving himself to his dead old
man. “My dad’s dead, too,” Mitch murmured as he eased the gun from his
pocket. “Shot himself in the head when I was seven. I miss him and hate
him, both at the same time. Miss him for not being there for me; hate him for
what he did.” Mitch slid the clip partway into the grip.
Almost in a single motion, Vinnie swung the refrigerator door open, spun
around to face Mitch, yanked his pistol from its holster and bolted a round
into the chamber. The barrel was pointed straight at Mitch’s head. “Don’t
miss him!” the hood snarled. “Like I told you–my dad, yours, they was
patsies. . . . Now you wanna die or gamble?” Mitch eased the clip from the
grip and slid the gun in one pocket, the clip in the other. “I would’a been
disappointed if you hadn’t tried, kid. But if you ever try again, I’ll kill you on
the spot.”
Greg watched the vagrants turn at the end of the alley and head toward Third. “They gone?” Nurse asked him. “Can’t stand ‘nother minute a’ their squabblin’. We got some serious things t’ consider. . . .” She leaned in close to Greg and Cap’n. “I ain’t never told nobody what I’m ‘bout t’ tell you two. Ya’ both gotta swear ya’ won’t tell no one, long as I’m alive.”
“What is it, Nurse?”
“Swear.”
“I swear.”
“You too, Cap’n.”
“You know me better’n that . . .” Cap’n began.
“You gotta swear.”
“Fine. I swear.”
Nurse faltered, cleared her throat, then spoke. “Few months back, I
heard some ugly shoutin’ at the body shop. Was real late and woke me outta a dead sleep. I snuck down by the door and could hear Mister Vinnie yellin’ at Jimmy.”
“Who’s Jimmy?” Greg asked.
“The lowdown slime ball used to run the shop for Mister Vinnie. Always had his drugusin’ friends down here late at night, smokin’ their glass, keepin’ me awake.”
“Glass?”
Cap’n piped in. “Street name for meth.”
“Methamphetamine?”
“‘Course,” snorted the big man. “Where you been hangin’out, Sunny, at the beach?”
“Sorry. I’ve lived kind of a sheltered life.”
“No mind,” Nurse continued in her hushed tone. “Like I’s sayin’, Mister Vinnie was askin’Jimmy what he’d been tellin’others, ‘specially his new boss Mike. Jimmy kep’sayin’‘Nothin’, Vinnie, I swear I ain’t told nobody nothin’ . . . I swear.’Well, after that, their voices went kinda’ smothered, like they was in a closet. I started back for bed, ‘cause I couldn’t hear what they was sayin’ no more. Then I heard a pop. I’m sure it was a gun.”
Greg’s eyes went wide. “He killed him?”
“Didn’t see it with my own eyes, but the yellin’ stopped. I was shakin’, see. And then a couple ‘a minutes later, some machines started inside. Two weeks later the cops were askin’ lots a’ questions ‘round here. Rumor has it, everybody knows it were Vinnie who done it. A warnin’, a’ sorts, not to cross ‘im.”