ITTY’S ESCORT SERVICES. The words, lettered in gold leaf, arched across the tinted plate glass window on the front of the old brick building. Antique copper light fixtures, suspended high above the window, cast soft, inviting rays against the glass that reflected golden beams of light onto the yellow-brick sidewalk leading up to the door. The larger of two men, standing at the door, pressed his thick, rough finger on the bell and pulled at the collar of his heavily starched shirt, buttoned high on his neck, as he shifted nervously on his feet.
“Good evening,” a soft voice crackled over the intercom. “Do you have an appointment?”
“It’s Frank,” the big man in his mid-twenties announced huskily.
“Frankie, what a treat,” the voice lured. “Is your visit business or pleasure this evening?”
“Knock it off,” scoffed the man in his roughest, talking-out-of-theside-of-your-mouth Jersey accent. “I got a guy looks like the picture.” Frank Domenico shifted his weight again, making his Italian patent leather shoes squeak. Perspiration ringed his white shirt at the arms and drooped down his back.
“We’ll be right down,” the woman teased.
“A hundred bucks, all the drinks I want, a woman, and a change of clothes?” the smaller man whined, hitching up his shabby pants and wiping a shirt-sleeve across his runny nose. Frankie shot the pathetic vagrant a pitiless glance. Nameless, faceless, hidden behind months of beard, dirt, and years of sorrow, the slouched figure next to him flinched and stepped a half-step away.
Frank’s threatening, whispered response came from deep within his throat. “Just do like the lady says. Act like you’re the richest man in Vegas tonight.”
“Fine by me–but I want my hundred ‘fore I start.”
Frank reached deep in the pocket of his tailored slacks and pulled out a clip of cash as the door swung open. The vagrant turned momentarily to stare at the long, slender legs of his new hostess, then his eyeballs wheeled back to focus on the cash Frank had stripped from his wad.
“This must be Mr. Glover, from California,” the hostess said, fingering in one hand the photo of a distinctly different man. She reached out and put her other arm around the man’s neck and welcomed him in. “Would you like a drink, Mr. Glover?”
The vagrant snatched the cash from Frank, gave him one last ‘this is too good to be true’ look, stepped into the parlor and took a filled champagne glass from the woman. “You can call me whatever you want lady,” he gurgled.
“I’ll be back in an hour,” Frank said, pushing the door closed.
The hostess, Kitty, pushed her head back out the opening. “This mess will take us at least two,” she whispered.
“Vinnie wants him out by 11:00.”
“This guy’s blood’s so thin he’ll be able to stay on his feet all night. What’s it matter if it takes one hour or two?”
“I do what Vinnie says. I’ll be back in an hour.”
“Frankie, that’s what I like about you, you big hunk. That raw obedience of yours. You come back in an hour like Vinnie told you, and if this guy isn’t ready I’ll personally keep you entertained.”
Frank squirmed again. “Is this a new look?” Kitty asked.
“Vinnie tol’ me I have to look more like a businessman,” he blushed. “Says we ain’t in Jersey no more.”
“Well, I like it. You don’t look like such a thug. Now hurry back, you big brute.”
Frank squirmed again and tugged at his shirt collar. “Vinnie’ll ...”
“Vinnie-shminnie. . . . He doesn’t need to know a thing.” Kitty scrunched her nose and purred as Frank turned and walked away.
Mitch pulled into the old Husky station on Rancho Drive, got out and lifted the nozzle from the pump. Peering toward the pay booth, he noticed Bino was working later than usual. The tall slender figure inside slowly rose to his feet and slid open the teller window. Billows of smoke poured from the small booth, spilled down its grimy front and drifted to the west on the warm desert wind. “I got that shipment of stereos . . . you’ve been waiting for,” he announced between labored breaths.
“They hot?”
“I never sell anything that’s hot,” Bino chuckled in his raspy voice,
the smile on his face causing waves of rough, creased skin to fold like a fan from the corners of a set of whimsical eyes.
“Right.”
“These units were from a closeout buy. . . . It’ll help sell that car you just got finished.”
“The GTO?”
“I’ve got a buyer for it . . . if you’ve got her ready.”
“They put tires and wheels on today. You got the players?”
“Right here.” Bino lifted a box to the window.
“My cards are maxed–can I charge it?”
“Your credit’s good here, kid.” The man began to cough. He lifted the oxygen hose that draped from his weathered neck up to his long nose.
Mitch frowned. “I thought you said you were going to quit that habit ‘fore it killed you.”
Bino’s throaty reply came between coughs. “Couldn’t . . . get past the . . . second day.”
Mitch’s casual gaze came to rest on a point over his friend’s shoulder. Then he got to the heart of his visit. “You think you can find out about someone for me?”
“Who is it–what do you need to know?”
Mitch rattled off the license number and address by heart. “His name’s Greg Hart. I just stopped him from blowing his brains out under the overpass, by the interchange.”
Bino nodded.
“He was driving an Olds . . . expired tags from ‘91.” Mitch repeated the plate number as Bino scribbled it down on a notepad. “I’m more than a little curious why he wanted to die.”
“This is no small order. . . . You’ll owe me . . . big-time for . . . this one.”
Mitch didn’t mind. It was important, and he and Bino always did each other favors. Bino Dalton was the best-connected two-bit fence he’d ever met–not that he’d known any other men at all like the bigtalking chain-smoker with the perpetual listening ear. Make that two impressive ears, gargantuan appendages that doubled back and rested tightly against his black hair, which went from bushy to sparse to completely missing on top. Instead, sun spots dotted the crown of his head. He kept a thin, well-trimmed moustache that ran across his wide smile, extending past his slight lips from one wrinkled cheek to the other. He reminded Mitch of Inspector Clouseau from the popular Pink Panther movies of the ‘70s. “Bino” wasn’t his real name, but no one cared. He’d picked up the moniker somewhere during his drinking and gambling days, and somehow it stuck. He claimed to be reformed now, and never drank or even dropped so much as a dime in a machine anymore. The hard life had taken its toll, though, and his degenerating 47-year-old body looked more like it had seen 70 extraharsh Siberian winters. The doctors said he wouldn’t last three more years unless he quit smoking.
Mitch never bought anything from Bino that he couldn’t get a receipt for. Borrowed plates were one thing; stolen property was out of the question. He’d probably have to fix a dent or tune up one of Bino’s friend’s cars for this favor. Again, no big deal.
The pump stopped at $32.15. “If you’re tight, I’ll put the gas . . . the gas on a ticket, too,” Bino offered.
“Stephanie gets paid in two days. I’ll pay you then.”
“Nah . . . you can wait if you want . . .” said the con artist, catching his breath, “‘til you sell the goat” (referring to the Pontiac GTO). He slid a charge slip and a pen out on the counter. “When do you go to finals?”
“Next week, if I can afford it.” Mitch popped open the trunk to put the stereo away.
“Why don’t you bring the car by tomorrow–about four.” Bino sucked in a deep breath. “I’ll tell my contact to come and look at it then.”
“Okay.” Mitch slammed the trunk shut, hooked the nozzle back on the pump and hopped back in his car. “See you tomorrow.”
For the past several weeks he’d been working late in Mike Hutchings’ Body & Paint to get the Camaro finished. Mike had opened the new business on the north side of town just two months earlier. The two of them enjoyed their business relationship. For every hour Mitch worked on Mike’s jobs, he got an hour or two of free shop time. It was better than driving back to his grandpa’s place near Logandale, an hour away. And Mike got the benefit of having a part-time employee without all the attached paperwork and taxes.
Besides, Mitch could do more work in three hours than any full-time man, which was why he was going to vocational finals. Earlier in the year, at the insistence of his body shop instructor, he’d decided to enter the state competition, which he won, hands-down. No one even came close to his incredibly high scores in time and quality. Still, he only took the body shop class for an easy credit and for a handy place to work on his cars.
If only he’d taken high school seriously. Then he would have been accepted into a real college instead of a vocational school. He’d been a 4.0 student–until, that is, he’d messed with the wrong girl, a girl who wanted fast cars, a good time, money and the basketball captain’s heart and hand. She hadn’t cared about her future, nor his. It had taken the convenience store arrest to wake him up to what his grandpa had been telling him all along.
Anyway, no sense in worrying about the past; he had a promising future to look forward to. He was going to be the best dad any kid ever had.
The older, principally white neighborhood was well-marked with gang graffiti, broken glass and littered yards. A half-dozen young male juveniles with baggy, low-hanging pants, tank-tops, and bandanas tied around their heads milled aimlessly about. A few others rested their haunches on hot rods parked near the entrance to the cul-de-sac where Mitch and Stephanie lived. Several of them raised their arms, flashing their fingers in defiant, heckling gestures as Mitch drove past. In his youth he’d never been party to such rudeness. His grandpa would have broken his finger–or so he threatened–if he’d ever seen him raise his hand in such a vulgar display.
Mitch smiled and returned the gesture as he revved the engine on the Camaro, squealing its tires. Somehow he’d made good enough friends with the punks that the one-fingered salute was more like a gang greeting than an insult.
He pulled up to the end of the driveway, pressed the automatic door opener, and eased into the two-car garage. Other than low rent, it was the only thing about the house and neighborhood he liked. The crime rate ran high, but the price was right, providing them a house with a garage at the cost of a cheap apartment. Without the garage his cars would never make it in such a neighborhood. The GTO parked inside shone, its new chrome wheels glistening in the reflected glow of Mitch’s headlights. Stef had picked it up after her appointment, but she didn’t much like driving his muscle cars. She said the crummy guys were always hitting on her when she went by in them. He knew she preferred her plain white Ford Escort.
Mitch hit the switch on the visor and the double door began to lower. The old motor sputtered and slowed as he stepped to the rear of the car and lent a helping hand. It just didn’t have the power to close all the way. He’d recently tightened the lift springs in hopes that they had just been too loose to move the heavy wooden door, but now the extra torque on the springs kept the under-powered motor from doing the job. One more thing the landlord refused to repair.
As he scaled the two steps to the kitchen door, Mitch decided he wouldn’t tell his wife about his run-in with Greg Hart. She didn’t like him going to Bino’s, either, so that information would also remain unspoken. Stephanie sat at the kitchen table reading a parenting book when he stepped in the doorway. She looked up at him, her soft eyes gleaming. There was a warmer glow about her than usual.
“Hi,” she greeted in a hushed tone.
“You look beautiful.”
Her long blonde hair brushed the tabletop. She reached up and drew
“He’s had a rough go of it. Says he’s going to pack it up. . . . What’s up?”
“Come and sit down,” she grinned. Her perfectly straight teeth sparkled, matching the whites of her big, half-moon-shaped eyes. Mitch was never more in love with her than he had been the last few months. Even though her skinny little waist was disappearing, she’d never seemed more alluring. She drew two dark images from the back of her book and laid them gently on the table. “Would you like to meet your children?”
Mitch grappled to read her face to see what she meant. “You mean my son?” He was convinced they were going to have a boy; she was sure it was a girl. The running argument of “he says son, she says daughter” had acted as a source of good-natured teasing ever since they’d learned of Stephanie’s “motherly way” condition.
Stephanie’s eyes cast a mischievous twinkle. “Your daughter, too.”
Dumbfounded, Mitch managed to find a seat. For some reason his eyes refused to focus. He didn’t have a clue what he was looking at, anyway. After a few awkward moments, he glanced up and, in a state of shock, mumbled, “We’re having two?”
Stephanie nodded, her smile wide and full, accentuating her sensuously rounded cheeks. “Let me show you.” Her index finger traced along the lines of the first image as she beamed with excitement. “This head belongs to your son. . . . See his tiny hands and feet?” Then, using a pencil she pulled from behind her right ear, she made a series of light arcs, outlining the blurry shapes. Mitch watched in complete fascination. Under her direction, he could see what he hadn’t seen before. “Down here are his male parts.” She pointed to a lighter area.
“Whoa!” he gasped. “Quite the kid.”
“Stop it,” she chided, delivering a loving slap on his shoulder. “And this is your daughter,” she continued, pointing to the second image, “– at least the doctor thinks it’s a girl. He couldn’t identify any external organs; it’s possible they’re just hidden.”
Mitch swivelled his head 90 degrees to the side, peering over at his wife, then returned his gaze to the two negatives. “She’s upside down. . . . Are these her feet or his?”
“Probably his.”
“I was going to say, that would be one heck of a position to have to stay scrunched up in.” Mitch took in a deep breath, still absorbed in the images, soaking in the wonder of it all. “Twins! Are they identical?”
The corners of Stephanie’s mouth hiked, her eyebrows lifted, and her eyes locked onto Mitch’s face to see if he’d in fact thought through his question. “A boy and a girl?” she questioned.
Mitch shrugged and pulled a face–as if he’d just caught a whiff of rotten eggs. “I guess that would be impossible.”
Stephanie smiled and nodded. “To tell you the truth, for a split second I wondered the same thing.” Again she peered through the twofoot void between them as Mitch stared down once more at the images, a distant look in his eye. For a full minute the two of them sat in silence. She knew what he was thinking, and wished she could help. Mitch had always longed for a family of his own, a father and mother with whom he could share the joyous news. He wanted to be the best dad the world ever knew. At length, she could hold back the question no longer. Placing her slender hand gently on his, she caught his gaze with her hazel eyes.“What are you thinking?”
His soft smile met hers. “I couldn’t ask for anything more. I have a gorgeous wife who’ll soon give me two children of my own. . . .” His thought drifted off. “And how are you doing?” He knew she wished her relationship with her own parents was different, too.
“I wish I could call them . . . let them know.”
“So let’s do it. The worst they can do is tell us to get lost.”
“I can’t; I don’t think I could stand the rejection again.”
Mitch studied the angles of her angelic face. An elusive, transparent sadness seemed to seep through the beauty. Stephanie’s parents lived in a ritzy part of town. They’d threatened to disown her if she had anything more to do with the boy from the junkyard. Unlike their daughter, they’d been unable or unwilling to see past Mitch’s rough edges. She’d first met him at a high school varsity basketball game, where, though still a Junior, he was captain of the visiting team. She was the squad leader of the home-team cheerleaders. They’d bumped into each other again a few hours later at a local hamburger joint, some smutty girl hanging on his sleeve. Though he tried to hide it, he’d seemed embarrassed.
A year later, as Seniors, they met again during the same high school rivalry, but by then Mitch was no longer on the team. Stephanie later had found out he’d been cut because of his arrest in an armed robbery at a Las Vegas convenience store that fateful night a year before.
It had all happened so fast, entirely without warning. Mitch hadn’t known what his friends were up to. He was driving. They’d stopped so his friends could buy a soda–when suddenly they came racing out, a case of beer under each arm, waving a gun in the air and screaming for him to take off. Mitch had panicked and sped away in his partly-restored Cougar.
It was three days before the police chief knocked on his grandpa’s door to make the arrest. In a way, it was actually a relief. The system tried him as an adult, but because of his cooperation and spotless record he’d gotten only six months in jail and one year probation.
Mitch raised his hand to brush Stephanie’s hair behind her ear, his eyes locked on hers. Gently he reached back to caress her neck. Her face was clean and inviting; she rarely wore makeup, her dark eyebrows and long eyelashes hardly needing any help.
“I love you,” he whispered, leaning toward her to kiss her soft, full lips. She raised her hand and ran it through his uncombed, short-cropped hair. The kiss was warm and passionate as they shared the moment.The violent squealing of tires accompanied by angry yells outside jolted their thoughts back to reality–back to where they lived, back to the awful ugliness of their neighborhood.
“I’ve got a possible buyer for the goat,” Mitch announced. “I just need to put a stereo in it so I can show it tomorrow. If I can sell it–and a few more like it–we’ll have enough money to get out of here and help with school. You won’t have to work.” Mitch stood and began sorting through the mail. Scowling, he dropped one credit card application in the wastebasket. Another, boasting a “preapproved 2.9% introductory rate,” he returned to the table.
Stephanie clasped her hands behind her head, casting him her trademark smile–sly, inviting, sumptuous. “I was hoping we could celebrate.”
Mitch didn’t want to hurt her feelings, but the stereo was important. “Will you wait 20 minutes for me to put in the player?”
“I’d wait all night if I had to,” she said as he stood to leave.
“I won’t be long.” Mitch guided two fingers into the collar of his Tshirt and yanked it from his formed body. He waved his other hand back and forth as if to cool himself down, the muscles rippling in his forearm. “I’ll be back,” he assured, lowering his voice an octave and punctuating the words as if she hadn’t heard the first time.
“And I’ll be waiting,” she winked seductively.
Mitch’s thoughts were far from the routine task of installing the stereo. His body took over, mechanically navigating through the simple, step-by-step procedure. Instead, his mind traversed back 14 years, coming to rest on Natalie, the young therapist who had been assigned to his case by the Department of Human Services after his father’s death. He had met with her several times. She helped him sort out his complex feelings. He’d always refused to discuss the details of what he saw when he opened the door to his father’s truck, and she never forced him to relive that memory. Natalie had been his hero. She told him that someday he’d open the door himself and let out all the ugly thoughts–when he was ready to let them go.
His mother had suffered a bombardment of lawsuits, lawyers, criminal accusations, together with the overwhelming loss of her husband. Young Mitch, over the ensuing months, had spent more and more time with his Grandpa Wilson and less with Natalie and his mother, even starting third grade at a school near his grandpa’s business. Then after his mother’s disappearance, Grandpa Wilson was awarded temporary custody–“Kinship placement,” the court called it. Even though the social worker resisted the placement, citing the grandfather’s wrecking-yard home as an “undesirable, unfit environment” in which to raise a boy, the elderly man got leeway as Mitch’s only close living relative.
When his mother suddenly showed up three years later, Mitch wouldn’t have anything to do with her, or her new husband. Wracked by so much guilt for abandoning her son, she’d finally left him in the care of his grandpa, never to return.
Grandpa Wilson was a bit of an old-fashioned gent, one who didn’t have the slightest use for therapists or anti-depressants. Hard work, he preached, was the best and only antidote to such tommyrot. Hard work: that’s what had gotten him through the death of his own wife five years before Mitch moved in. And Mitch soon had adopted a likeminded approach, taking on every project with a passion. Hard work– it almost succeeded in keeping the door of his memory tightly sealed, leaving the raw nerves of utter grief and guilt untouched since that dreadful day long ago.