by Nova Rain
I spend hour after hour out on my balcony, with my notebook in my lap, drowning in sorrow. It’s not just the revelation about him that’s tearing me apart. It’s his little speech as well. I had to write it down, although I’m more than certain that I won’t forget it.
Nighttime finds me in the same spot, wondering what I should have done to prevent this from happening. Without question, my biggest mistake was kissing him. It’s even clearer now that this spontaneous act led me down the road of no return. After that incredible kiss, I was a puppet in his hands. I was his to do with as he pleased. Joe could satisfy his sexual urges, and I wasn’t going to stop him or say “no” to anything he asked of me. In a way, I’m relieved that he didn’t.
The sound of keys in the door interrupts my thoughts. Ava and Helena stroll in, sending my frustration off the charts. I didn’t mean to bring them into this. I like to be alone in my dark hours, and yet, they don’t seem willing to let me.
“I knew that giving you keys to my apartment was a mistake,” I complain to Ava. “What are you guys doing here?”
“We are here to comfort our love struck friend,” says Helena in a fake British accent. “Ava broke me the terrible news this afternoon.”
“Love struck?” I squint, shaking my head sideways. “Are you serious?”
“Well, I noticed two, empty tissue boxes on your living room table,” She goes on, stalking out onto the balcony. “You didn’t use them to clean your windows, did you?”
“No,” I respond, tapping my fingers on the chair arms. “I’m not in love with him. I’m just…” I paused. “Mad at him. That son of a bitch used me.”
“What’s this?” Ava asks, picking my notebook up from the table.
“He said that to me this morning,” I say, my voice thickening with emotion. “It’s by far the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
“Holy God…” Helena whispers, her face twisting with a mix of shock and admiration. “Michelle, this is beyond beautiful. He told you this?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I affirm with a nod. “I couldn’t believe my ears when I heard it. I mean, how can this brute think like that?”
“I think your brute has been a fan of yours for a while now,” Ava says, speaking her mind, sitting across from me, whereas Helena seats herself beside me. “He just didn’t make a move, because, you know…”
“Let’s get back to the ‘he used you’ part,” Helena suggests, raising her tone. “Are you sure about that? Because: I’m not.”
“Excuse me?” I squeak, whirling my head right to face her.
“Well, you kissed him first, did you not?” she poses the question, maintaining the calmness in her tone.
“He could have said ‘no,’” I claim, annoyance sending my voice down an octave.
“He did,” Helena’s comeback is fast. “It took him a few seconds, but he did. Look, I’m not defending him, dear. He should have been forthcoming about himself, but you have to admit that he at least tried to stay away from you. And he did break it off before it got serious. I don’t know about you, but to me, this shows honor.”
“I must be having a bad dream or something,” I protest, my face tightening as I glare up at my friend. “Are we still talking about the same man here? The guy who wouldn’t tell me jack about himself, because that would ruin his chances of getting me into bed?”
“There is a certain word for this...,” Helena remarks, tapping her index finger on her chin in mock thoughtfulness. “...hypocrite. If you wanted to find out more about him, you should have pressured him more. You didn’t, which means you were fine with the way things were between you. Do you really expect me to believe that he manipulated you into sleeping with him? No, sweetheart. He didn’t. You said it yourself the other day. You seduced him. And let’s not forget the fact that you two knew each other for more than a year. He wouldn’t have waited that long to make his move if he intended to just get you into bed.”
“She’s right, honey,” Ava agrees, staring into the void. “Obviously, I don’t know him that well, but he doesn’t strike me as the shy type. And I hate to admit it, but he looked pretty sad when I told him I would tell you everything. It’s incredible, but…” she draws in a sharp breath. “...Joe actually cares what you think of him.”
“What a load of crap,” I scoff at her, my face twisting into an expression of mockery. “If he did, he’d quit being a mobster’s errand boy.”
“What?” Ava snorts in amusement, her lips curling into a smile of irony. “Do you mean that?”
“Well, of course!” I emphasize, my eyes snapping wide. My friend’s reaction at my words puzzles me. Ava tips her head back, bursting into loud, hearty laughter. Lying back against her seat, she clutches her stomach, her spine flexing and extending as she bangs her palm against the railing. “What the hell is so funny?”
“Thanks, girl,” she chuckles, shaking her head in approval. “That was a good one.”
“You still haven’t answered my question,” I complain, my voice picking up volume and speed.
“Michelle…” Ava starts, her happy expression vanishing. “He’s not doing some nine-to-five job where he can hand in his two weeks’ notice. The guy works for a mafia Don. Do you think he can just up and leave anytime he likes? No. Hell, no. He knows enough about his boss’s business to put him away for a very long time. The moment Joe says he wants out, he’s dead. You’d better believe that.”
My doorbell rings once more at the end of Ava’s rant, preventing me from speaking.
“I’ll get that,” Helena says, arising to her impressive, 5’11” stature.
“You seem to be forgetting something else, too,” Ava adds. “I bet Joe’s killed a lot of people. It’s the job. Can you imagine yourself dating someone who’s got blood on his hands?”
“I can’t think about that right now,” I say, averting my gaze from her to glance out at the city lights. “What a shame. That guy could have done anything with his looks. He could have been a model, an actor… Instead, he’s just some lowlife.”
“That was your supervisor,” Helena announces, her hands behind her back as she saunters back out onto the balcony. “He said – and I quote – some huge guy in a Camaro dropped by and left you this.” She goes on to present a white envelope with my name on it. I pry it open with steady fingers and pull out a piece of paper, wondering who has gone to the trouble of writing me a letter.
“I know I’m probably the last person you want to hear from right now, so I’ll try to keep this short. I’m just doing this because there were some things I wanted to say to you last night, but you didn’t stick around to hear me out.
You must be wondering why I chose this life. I didn’t. After the orphanage, I started boosting cars for a living. You see, I didn’t have any skills. I didn’t get a fancy education like you did. In fact, I didn’t even go to high school. I hated school and everything that came with it. Anyway, I sold those cars to rich folks. But, one day, I got busted. I was given parole, but I couldn’t go back to doing that. The cops were all over me. I was homeless and broke. My boss found me sleeping on a bench in Central Park. Trust me, when you put your hand in your pocket and only feel your leg, when your stomach growls so much that people can hear it from ten feet away, you’ll do just about anything. My boss clothed me, fed me, and put a roof over my head. I’d never have met you if it wasn’t for him.
The women in my life are not what you’d call ‘decent.’ They look a lot like the girls I described to you this morning, but their looks are not the only problem. Most of them would sell their own mothers for a hit. So, when this classy, gorgeous woman kissed me back in North Haven, I thought that God was smiling down on me. It was like I was burning in the desert, and a huge wave swept me away. It was a breath of fresh air in a life that reeked of filth. I tasted that beauty. And she was sweeter than all the sweets of the world put together. She made me feel alive for one night. For once, I was with a real woman who looked me in the eye for a change.
She purred in my arms, she caressed me, she wanted all of me. But this girl is just too good for me. Being with her can put her in danger, and I can’t take that chance. That’s why I kept avoiding you, Michelle. I want better things for you. You deserve them. I don’t.
I’m sorry that I let you down. I should have been honest about myself, but I don’t regret what I did. It was my one and only chance of having something so beautiful, and I took it. I’m going to repeat this, in case you missed it this morning. Don’t blame me for being human.
Take good care,
Joe”
Tears rise up in my eyes, before I even finish reading his letter. I let it slip through my shaking fingers, recalling the way I barged into his apartment this morning. Within seconds, I realize my worst mistake: I was too quick to judge him. For some reason, I used to believe that Joe had every chance to find himself a proper, clean job. Yet, he was never given the choice. I drop my head into my hands, wishing that I had allowed him some time to explain himself to me. Tears moisten my fingertips, a sea of sorrow rushing into my heart.
“Awww, he’s so sweet,” Helena comments, tilting her head to the side. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have read it,” she whispers, folding the piece of paper.
“It’s okay,” I sigh, dropping my hands onto my lap.
“Can someone fill me in here?” Ava requests. I can’t offer her an answer. I simply hand the letter over to her.
“You have to let it go, Michelle,” Helena advises in a much fainter tone than usual. “You two were not meant to be.”
“I know,” I nod in agreement, hoping that I can find the strength to do so. Joe is not a knight in shining armor. He’s not a catch by any means. I can finally understand him, but that doesn’t mean I can forgive him. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to do that. Still, it doesn’t matter. He’s correct; dating each other would be much too dangerous. I can’t be a part of his world, any more than he can be a part of mine.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Joe
I need a distraction. Michelle’s screams are still weighing on my mind, and my empty routine doesn’t help me forget them. Usually, I go over to Eric’s house in Manhattan, he tells me if he needs anything from me, and then I get back. September is a busy month and I have to collect bets on football and baseball, and that can take hours on end. Sometimes, I have to rough up any unfortunate bastard who hasn’t paid his “loan” installment. But, after Donny and Bryan saw the look on my face later in the day, they were having none of it. They told me to stay home for a couple of days and relax. Still, I can’t find any peace in my apartment. I feel like a beast in a cage. And, since I still have a score to settle with Decker, I decide to go out looking for him.
The Maltese family may own dozens of buildings in Brooklyn, Manhattan, and Queens, but they hang out in one place: “Rosa’s” Italian restaurant on Greene Avenue. It was named after their Don’s late mother. This is their tribute to her. I plan to get over there, and keep my eyes peeled for my target. Sadly though, I can’t use my own car. I’ve owned my Camaro for seven years. They all know whose car it is. So, I rent a small, black Toyota. It’s nowhere near as powerful as my Chevy, but I don’t mean to get involved in a high-speed chase. I need stealth, not horsepower.
The long rows of cars on either side of the road confirm my information. “Rosa’s” restaurant is packed with men in cheap suits. I can see large groups of them through the glass front, laughing, drinking, and goofing off. It’s one, big, happy family. What a joke… There’s no such thing. One slipup: that’s all it takes to get whacked. Big or small; it doesn’t matter. One of those assholes in there can be shot tomorrow morning by people he considers his friends.
I get lucky, just after ten o’clock. Sean Decker walks out, all smiles like his “buddies,” He gets into his white Mercedes and drives off. I turn the key in the ignition and turn on the headlights, debating what I should do with him. I don’t know for sure. Crew members like him don’t act on their own accord. They follow their boss’s orders. Maltese’s eye contact and the confidence in his tone the other night were clear signs that he was being honest with me. And this is what confuses me even more. If Peter Maltese didn’t put a hit out on me, then who the hell did?
I follow that scumbag in the narrow streets of Brooklyn, keeping a safe distance from him. He’s not stupid, and he’s been around enough to know when someone is tailing him. Twenty minutes later, I find myself in more familiar territory. Old, small houses are all around me. I even notice an unfinished building down the road and to the left. I’ve seen the scaffolding on the ground floor so many times that I can remember which parts of it are still clear of rust. This is Oaken Drive. “90’s Rocks” is on it, just sixty yards away from that building.
What the fuck are you doing here, you little bitch?
I ask myself the same question over and over again, pulling over behind a red pickup truck, more than a hundred feet away before the entrance. The taillights in Decker’s Benz flash red as he slows down. The Mercedes rolls to a gentle halt, six cars ahead of me. He steps outside, taking a few glances around him. The only light in the neighborhood is coming from a lamppost, just in front of his car.
I check my rearview mirror. By passers would complicate things. The darkness tells me that it’s safe to proceed. I open the driver’s door, my gaze fixed on my target. He’s crossing the street, staring at the glass window of the bar. Without wasting another moment, I rush off towards him, desperate to find out what he’s doing in Michelle’s neighborhood. Decker slips through the gap between a green Jaguar and a red Fiero, and then steps onto the curb. By now, he’s parallel to the bar, and just a few steps away from clearing the empty blot next to the building. I snarl, lunging over the Jaguar. My weight knocks him off his feet. He drops hard to the dusty ground, his head bouncing off the hard surface as a small box falls out of the pocket of his jacket. Grabbing him by the shoulders, I roll us over, until we’re far enough from the road. I flip him over and sit on his stomach, my blood boiling in my veins. I don’t give him a chance to speak. A thundering blow to his jaw rocks his head back.
“That was for North Haven, you fuck!” I growl, my fingers circling his scrawny throat. “Who sent you? And what the fuck’s in that box?” Before he can open his mouth, the sound that fills the air makes perfectly clear what that box contains. It’s a rhythmic beep, a beep that I’ve heard dozens of times. “A bomb?” I snarl once more, rage spreading within me like wildfire. “Maltese wanted you to blow up the bar? Why?”
“I can’t tell you, Mancini,” He claims, fear quickening his voice, his hair almost white in the pale moonlight. “He’ll kill me.”
“He’ll shoot you,” I counter, jerking my arm back. “I’ll either beat you to death or gut you. I’m debating. Why the hell did Maltese put you up to this?”
“It wasn’t Maltese,” Decker chokes out, blood trickling down his cheekbone. “It was Santone.”
“What?” I scoff, tightening my grip around his neck. “Are you shitting me, motherfucker?”
“I can’t breathe,” He whispers, his eyes rolling back in his head.
“Start talking,” I command, lifting my hand off his neck.
“Eric…” Decker coughs. “Eric thought his father hadn’t left a will, but he was wrong. He found it three weeks ago. One of his maids sent it out to his contract dealer by mistake. According to that will, he only gets five percent of Thomas’s fortune. The remaining ninety-five goes to a Michelle Garner, his daddy’s illegitimate child with his maid. She works in that bar.”
“This is getting better and better,” I groan, the urge to beat up on him coming back within me. “Stop bullshitting me, you fucker.”
“It’s the truth!” Decker insists, gazing up into my eyes. “Thomas Santone had an affair with a Marlene Garner, back in 1992. When he discovered she was pregnant with his child, he fired her. We found out about Michelle on the background check we did on her, after you beat up Masters and Wayne.”
“What about North Haven?” I ask, lowering my tone. “Did Eric order that, too?”
“Yeah,” Decker nods. “He wanted to keep you off the streets. You’d keep a low profile if you knew that someone had put out a hit on you. Think, Mancini. If he wanted to kill you, he’d have me put that bomb in your car.”
“Get up,” I command, raising back up to my feet. I let him walk by me, before I grab him by the back of his neck. I bend down and pick up the box as we stride out of the parking lot. Four, small, red lights are peeking through the narrow gap in the middle. Reaching down into Decker’s pocket, I find a small, white key fob. “Open the door,” I urge as we cross the street. He obeys and seats himself at the driver’s seat. “Hold on. There’s something I need to tell you,” I murmur, the moment he tries to reach for the handle. Rolling my fingers into a fist, I throw my arm forward and rotate it in midair. The punch in his eye sends his body reeling across the interior. Decker bangs his head against the passenger window, before landing flat on his chest, senseless. I throw a quick look around me. The dark, empty road acts like a green light. I toss the box into the car, and then kick the door shut. I turn around and begin to strut back in the direction I came from. I have no second thoughts over this. My mind was made up when I heard that beep.
