ITH NOT A SINGLE STICK of furniture in the room, Nurse plunked herself down on the floor. She leaned her head back against the wall, legs crossed like an old Indian chief, her slip hiked up to her garter belt beneath her new dress. With both eyes patched, her mood was less than cheerful. “You tol’ ‘em he could go,” she chided, “if’n Smitty took a bath?”
Cap’n scratched his head. “I’m sorry. Didn’t think he was strong ‘nough to force him into a tub.”
“Don’t ever’body think like you does. Lightnin’s got a brain. Don’t ‘magine it took much a’ song an’ dance t’ get Smitty clean. Poor feller needs a hero, an’ a smart, good-lookin’ kid like Lightnin’ makes a darn good one.” The old woman tugged the top of the slip and dress up over her waist as she shifted her tired bones. She then reached to her thigh to administer an energetic scratch. Finally having had enough, she fumbled with the clip on the garter and grouched, “Sound, help me out-ta these blasted hose!”
The three men in the room had been observing the old woman with repugnant fascination, half embarrassed at witnessing the immodest exhibition of bare thigh and half curious as to what in the world she was up to. Now two of them averted their eyes. Sound, though, dumbfounded, looked back and forth between Cap’n and Greg, then went to help out.
“Now, just ‘cause you go crawling to her aid doesn’t mean you get promoted,” razzed Greg.
Nurse pulled her dress back down to cover her more lady-like underwear. “You all been watchin’?” she scolded in disgust. “Shame on you boys, ever’one a’ you. Just ‘cause a lady can’t see’s no reason for a bunch a’ gentlemen t’ keep from turnin’ their backs when she ain’t dressed proper.”
Greg turned his back; Cap’n followed suit. But Sound, good soldier that he was, stayed put. “Do you still want my help?” he asked.
“‘Course I do! You’re the only one ‘at don’t want none a’ what I got.” Sound unclipped the garter straps and turned his back while Nurse wrenched her hose down around her ankles. “Might as well turn back ‘round. I’m covered up ‘gain. ‘Sides, if you ain’t seen it before, ‘bout time you learned.”
Greg fought to hold back a bellylaugh. Did she really think they were interested, or was it all an act? Slowly all three men turned to face the cantankerous woman. She, too, faced them, a sullen scowl etched on her face. Then, lifting the corners of her mouth into a toothless, measured, outlandish deliberate smile, she raised her hand, pointed her crooked finger straight at Greg, and cackled, “Gotcha’, Sunny boy!” Then she pointed in turn at the other men. “An’ you too, Cap’n. An’ even you, Sound. Got ever’ last one a’ ya’. You was starin’ at my legs, wasn’t ya’?”
Greg busted out laughing, while Cap’n and Sound were still trying to figure out the joke. “That’s fer givin’ me such a hard time ‘bout seein’ your backsides!” Nurse struggled to speak between her own giggles. “An’ ever’ one a’ you just stood there with yer lower jaws hangin’ down, watchin’ a helpless ol’ blind woman expose herself to ya’!”
Sound and Cap’n finally caught on to what she’d done and joined in the hysterics. “You blind old bat!” Greg managed to spit out. “You see as good without your eyes as we do with them, and you were worried about something going wrong with the operation.”
“Don’t mean I wanna stay this way,” Nurse added.
Greg nodded. “The doctor said he’ll check you out tomorrow.”
Nurse fumbled over to Greg and grabbed him by the arm. “And your sunny face is the first thing I wanna see.”
Greg reciprocated with a soft pat on her hand. “I’ll be there.”
Nurse quickly withdrew. “Get down here, you two,” she ordered, groping her way over to where Sound and Cap’n stood. At last her words turned hushed and tender. “Lost my Belle more ‘an fifty years ago. An’ now I got three grown men–an’ two more ‘at ain’t here–all my sons. . . .” She squeezed the rough hand of her warrior. “Cap’n,” she said, staring blindly into his face, “don’t go frettin’ none ‘bout Lightin’. ‘At boy’s one a’ th’ most genius boys I ever met. I trust your orders; you’re a good leader, but you let him do his thing. After he makes sure his woman’s safe, he’ll be back. If’n I know how his mind works, first thing he’ll probably wanna do is settle a bit a’th’score with Mr. Vinnie. . . . Sound.” She gave his flaxen hand a shake. “If’n you were born by my loins, I wouldn’t love ya’ no different.” The men swallowed hard. “All ‘at said an’ outta th’way–an’‘fore we go an’get all mushy–let’s get workin’on Sunny’s plan.”
Trekking to within a block of Maggie’s house, Mitch peered down the dark lane. In the glow of the street lamp the tan sedan, parked in front with two men sitting inside, stuck out like a hawk in a henhouse. Mitch silently crept up the sidewalk and hunkered near the back of a big black Cadillac parked at an angle to the sedan, some 50 feet away. Smitty followed. “Looks like we’ve got company,” Mitch whispered. Smitty nodded. “But Vinnie wouldn’t be sitting out front. Who do you think it is?” Smitty shook his head, then leaned his shoulder against the Cadillac to unwind from the busy day. Mitch balanced on his haunches, deciding what to do next. Then all of a sudden Smitty came to life. Decidedly upset, he tapped Mitch on the arm and rested his ear on the Cadillac’s side door.
Mitch tried to read the mute’s face. “What?” he asked. Smitty pressed a finger to his lips, took Mitch’s hand and pressed it against the warm metal. Then he cupped both hands behind his own ears and swayed back and forth like he was listening to a rock-androll band.
Mitch could feel it now, the steady vibration of music from inside. He raised his eyebrows and nodded.
Seeing through the smoke-black windows would be futile - and probably would get them caught; the fashionable car was meant to be private. Smitty pressed his ear against the door and again tapped Mitch on the arm, exhorting him to do the same. From within, a deep voice could be heard mingling with the low, thumping bass. “They’re just sittin’ there, Vinnie,” the voice said. “They haven’t moved in over an hour.” After a moment’s pause, the voice came again. “Whatever you say.”
Mitch cowered even lower than before and, almost crawling on his belly, motioned for Smitty to follow. Thirty seconds–and thirty feet–later, they sat in the shadows of a massive honey locust tree near the street corner. “That was Frankie,” Mitch gasped, “one of Vinnie’s thugs!” Like always, Smitty nodded. Then he tapped on his leather pouch of
tools and pointed back out at the Cadillac.
“We don’t need to yet, but who knows, we might just want to give him a
little surprise before we leave. If those are cops down the street, Frankie
might just come in handy.”
Some 15 minutes later Mitch and Smitty had crossed the block to
the next street, crawled over three fences, fled from one yippie Scottish terrier, and navigated through the lilac hedge into Maggie’s back
yard.
Mitch crept to the kitchen window and peered through a crack in
the blinds. There was his beautiful wife, sitting at the table, eating
supper. He longed to knock on the glass and barge right in, but still
unsure of the intent of the visitors parked out front, he skulked back to
where Smitty was bent over the lock on a small storage shed in the
corner of the yard, a penlight held between his lips.
“Great idea, Smitty. We can wait inside until they go to sleep.” Proud of his contribution, Smitty deftly popped the lock and lifted
it from its clasp. Both men then slipped inside the cozy wooden structure.
By now Ritter had become more than entangled in his own cozy deal. Only 40 minutes after his call to Vinnie, he stood at the checkout desk beside a well-dressed attorney. The man, none too happy to have been summoned from a late dinner with a beautiful brunette, was gathering the last of the documents Ritter had signed, shallow promises that he would return for trial.
“Later, mate,” muttered Ritter as he signed for his one and only personal belonging: an old family photo. He stuffed it in his pocket and followed the lawyer out of the building to a late-model, darkgreen Jaguar, parked in a Visitor’s stall, the balance of the lot nearly empty. The car flashed its lights as the attorney approached. Ritter redirected his steps to the passenger side and opened the door.
“Don’t sit on my seat,” the lawyer said coldly. He walked back to the trunk and raised the lid.
“What, I got to ride in the bloody trunk?”
The attorney shot a look of disdain across the top of the car, then disappeared behind the open lid. Ritter began to walk toward the rear of the automobile just about the time the attorney slammed the trunk and shoved a blanket in Ritter’s face. “Cover the seat with this,” he snapped.
“No problem, mate. Wouldn’t want to get me nice clothes dirty, now, would we?”
Ritter fussed with the blanket as the attorney started the car and revved the engine. Then, just as he was sliding into the seat, the car lurched backwards. The tramp, his feet barely off the asphalt, wrestled to close the door, which rocked wildly on its hinges. Then the attorney again gunned the car’s engine and the Jag pitched forward, snapping the door back, nearly closing it on Ritter’s arm.
“Crimony, bloke!” Ritter shouted. “You ‘bout smashed me bloomin’ hand, cast and all.”
The Jag and its antisocial driver became fixed on the road. What with traffic noise and the wind rushing past–both windows being wide open, presumably to allow for an ample supply of fresh air–Ritter figured there wouldn’t be much conversation, so he kept his mouth shut for the duration of the ten-minute ride.
Skidding to a stop in front of Three Queens, the attorney spit out the window and snarled, “Take the blanket and throw it in the garbage. The both of you smell like . . .”
“You kidding?” interrupted the derelict, drowning out the attorney’s words. “This thing might come in right handy.”
The surly fellow stepped from the car, again spit on the sidewalk, and summoned security. “See that this piece of trash gets taken to Mr. Domenico’s office.”
Ritter got out, shut the door, leaned on the roof of the car with his good hand and asked, “You got a business card, mate?”
Turning on his heels, the lawyer stomped back to the Jag, got in, and slammed the door.
Ritter followed, egging him on. “Seriously,” he remarked, bending down to speak through the window, “a chap like me don’t ever know when good counsel might come in handy.”
Foot to the throttle, the sleek sports car shot from under the canopy and skidded onto Bridger, disappearing into the lights of the city. Ritter now turned to face the guard. “Me counsel, he is. Just a bit high-strung, is all.”
“You wish,” the guard scoffed as he led Ritter to the elevator.
Frisked from head to toe, Ritter was put on an elevator and whisked up to the 13th floor.
Parking himself in front of his presumed benefactor, Vinnie looked the bedraggled man up and down and shook his head in disbelief. “You’re Ritter?”
“‘At’s right, mate.”
“And you have some information for sale?”
“To the highest bidder.”
“Bidder?” Vinnie leaned back in his chair.
The vagrant went right to work establishing his worth. “See, the Feds didn’t want to pay me up-front. They figured to keep me locked up awhile, then I might be willin’ t’ give up me information for nothin’. On the other hand, that information might hurt you–or a young fella named Mitch Wilson–real bad.”
“How do you know Mitch Wilson?”
“Helped pluck him right from under your nose, I did. How’s the guard–the fella who got clobbered with the pipe?”
“You’re either very brave or very stupid,” Vinnie taunted. “If I told my men the guy that rung Carl’s bell was standin’ in my office, you’d vanish in a heartbeat.”
“Didn’t say I done it meself, mate. But I sure know who did. And now they’re comin’ after you.”
Vinnie’s eyes narrowed. “Who’re you talkin’ about?”
“Seems one a’ them fellas got hurt real bad by the little credit card shop you had stashed down in Eddie’s basement. Now he knows who took his money, I don’t think he’ll be walkin’ away ‘til he gets his pound a’ flesh. For all you know, he’s already got a man inside your new operation.”
The ruffian got to his feet and strutted over facing Ritter. “You better start tellin’ me somethin’ worth hearin’ or I’ll just let my boys have a little chat with you.” He punched the call button on the elevator.
Ritter’s cocksure bravado didn’t wane. “Now if I told you what I knows, you wouldn’t have much use for me, now would you, mate? ‘Sides, you just put up fifty-grand for me bail. All I want’s a shower, a hot meal, some new threads . . . an’ maybe a bit a’ respect.” He reached out and smoothed the gangster’s silk lapel between his thumb and fore-finger. Vinnie slapped his hand away. Unfazed, Ritter concluded by saying, “I might come in real handy when them fellas come snoopin’ ‘round your place. An’ when someone treats me right, I’m ‘bout as loyal a’ fella as you’ll find.”
The elevator door opened and the security guard stepped out. “Take Mr. Ritter down and find him a room,” charged Vinnie, the flicker of a smile on his lips. “See that he gets somethin’ to wear and then bring him back here. We’ll be havin’a late meal together.”
Ritter grinned broadly and stretched out his good hand, a gesture meant to seal the deal. Vinnie merely glanced down, turned, and walked away.
In the meantime, Mitch and Smitty had been rummaging through the contents of the storage shed by the flicker from a penlight Smitty kept in his bag of tools. Mitch stretched a pair of garden gloves over his hands and handed a pair to Smitty. “You know what to do then?”he asked, depositing a can of starter fluid in Smitty’s bag. “You can’t let him see you or he’ll start shooting.”
Smitty signaled his understanding, his face bathed in the glow. “We’ll wait until after I talk to Stef. See if you can find a couple of potatoes, then keep watch.” Mitch slid open the shed door and both men crept to the back porch. With a few quick flicks of the wrist, Smitty unlocked the knob and extracted the dead bolt. Mitch entered first. Turning to Smitty, he said, “Wait here and keep an eye out.”
Smitty bent over in the attitude of the Hunchback of Notre Dame, one eye wide open, the other nearly shut. He’d spent the last few years on the street. To him a minor residential breakin was no sweat. Indeed, the Chaplinesque humor proved to ease Mitch’s own discomfort.
Mitch gave the little tramp a slap on the back and whispered, “That’ll do.” He inched his way down the hall. It seemed logical that the master bedroom would be the door at the far end on the right, a distance from the hall bathroom and the two other doors on the left. Slowly he turned the knob to one of the other rooms. His face drawn tight, he peered through the darkness.
The stillness of the scene was interrupted by a faint series of rhythmic sighs, sounds familiar to Mitch’s ears. Stephanie lay sleeping near the window, under the soft gleam of the streetlamp flowing through the blinds.
Tiptoeing into the room, he eased the door closed and crouched near the head of the bed. He slipped the glove from his hand and stroked Stephanie’s hair and neck. I love her so much, he thought, spellbound by her exquisite features, profiled against the pillow. “Stef,” he whispered. She rolled over, mumbling incoherently, her face only inches from his. “Stef,” Mitch repeated, combing her hair behind her ear with his fingers.
At last her eyelids parted. She blinked, then smiled and said, “Mitch, I was just dreaming about you.” All at once her face took on a blustery expression. She pushed herself up on her elbow, half sitting on the bed, and hissed loudly, “You lied to me!”
Mitch pressed a finger to his lips and glanced at the door. “Shh, you might wake Maggie.”
“You lied to me . . .” Her voice faltered and her face hardened at the thought.
“I know . . . I’m sorry.” He dropped his head, rolled forward and knelt on the floor, taking her by the hand.
Stephanie jerked her fingers away and came to a full sitting position, folding her arms across her chest. “You know?”
Tongue-tied, he looked again into her face. How he regretted the hurt he’d caused her.
“You know?” she repeated, her voice rising to a near yell.
“Shh, you’ll wake Maggie.” Once more he raised his finger and glanced over at the door.
This time Stephanie lowered her voice. “You know they’re looking to arrest you for attempted murder? You know that two Federal agents are parked out front? You know that you’re wanted for armed robbery? You know I was nearly raped and beaten by Al and Andy Kostecki? . . .” Her words trailed off. She turned her face from the shadows, gazing through the blinds. The moon’s soft reflection glistened on the tears running down her cheeks.
In the dim light Mitch could see her swollen cheekbone and the dark bruise below her eye. His heart throbbed with pain. He stood and reached out to comfort his wife, to calm her, to hold her close. “Are you okay?” he croaked.
“No, I’m not okay. And I wasn’t raped, if that’s what you’re asking.” She drew abruptly away.
Mitch knew her too well. Now wasn’t the time to go into detail. She was hurting, understandably so. “It isn’t what it looks like. You have to trust me,” he whispered. “You’re not safe, either.”
Suddenly, from the kitchen, a woman let out a scream and a ribbon of light shot under the door. Mitch jumped up on the bed, tugged his glove over his hand, and slid open the window. “I haven’t got time to explain.” He kicked the screen from the window. “There’s a terrible man waiting in the street who wants to hurt you.” He swung his hips through the window and dropped silently to the ground. Then he stuck his face back in the opening. “Don’t tell anyone I was here, not even Maggie. Just say someone was in your room. I’ll be in touch. I do love you.” With that, he was gone.
The door to the bedroom burst open. Maggie, wrapped in a robe, visibly shaken, stood in the hallway. She hurried in and flicked on the light. “Are you alright? I heard voices and found a man in the kitchen.”
Stephanie could hardly move. She just sat there, sobbing, unsure, experiencing the fear of a dove–should she take wing and risk getting snatched from the sky by the hawk circling overhead, or take her chances with the cat on the prowl below?
From in back of the next-door neighbor’s hedge, Mitch looked on as the Federal agents pounded on the door. And then he struck out, hurdling fences, racing across yards.
Just up the street, Smitty crawled on his belly to the back of Frankie’s car and shot a long stream of starter fluid up its muffler. Taking a potato he’d stolen from Maggie’s pantry, he crammed it up the tailpipe with the sole of his shoe. He lunged back into the shadows and disappeared into the night.