Murder Board

by Brian Shea

“Aleksander, what did I say to you about smoking in our restaurant?” Nadia Rakowski swatted her youngest son in the back of his head. It was not as painful as the slaps she gave in anger. This swat was done with a more loving nature.

  “In Poland people smoke in restaurants!”

  “We’re not in Poland anymore. And my customers complain.” She pointed out from the kitchen.

  Aleksander knew better than to continue this argument. He was tough, but his mother was tougher. He smashed the embers into a metal ashtray on the small circular table in the center of the room, then dipped his head into the steamy vapors escaping from the large pots. Memories of his childhood released with bubbles and pops from the fragrance of the red broth.

  “You’re home early. I thought you’d be sleeping in today,” Nadia said.

  “Things got a little crazy at work last night. Long night.”

  “I know. I heard.”

  Aleksander sighed. “So, what’d you hear?”

  “This is not the time. I’m busy. Must make soup for the hungry customers. We can figure out your problem later.”

  Nadia Rakowski danced through the small kitchen, tending to the several dishes she prepared simultaneously. Aleksander leaned back in his chair and peered out through the gap in the privacy sheet separating the main space of the deli from the family area. There were only three people scattered between the tables, two who had probably been sitting there since the shop opened.

  Aleksander remembered when his family had first come to America. He was fourteen. It had been a difficult adjustment. Learning English late in life proved to be a challenge. It was tough on his older brothers, but they were too old for school, so they didn’t have to face the daily ridicule of classmates. Not much of a chance to make friends anyway. His mornings were spent prepping the shop and he returned as soon as school was done, working until close.

  He never earned a dime. His mother told him there would be time for money. This was a family business and his payment came in good meals and a roof over his head. Matka was quick to remind him how things weren’t that way for her growing up, and that he should be grateful.

  Aleksander grabbed a bowl from the cabinet and served himself a hearty portion of potato soup. As was the case with all Nadia’s recipes, its secrets had been handed down from generation to generation. He was told stories of how this soup saved them from famine when the family faced extreme poverty. Like the Irish, Polish families saw the sturdiness of the root vegetable and used it in a variety of ways.

  Aleksander remembered when he first learned to make the soup. Those early lessons were always the most painful. His mother saw fit to use a sturdy wooden spoon for corrective punishment. It didn’t take many whacks across the back of his hand for him to learn the importance of being vigilant with his care of the roux. A delicate balance of heat and movement kept up the combination of butter, flour, salt, pepper, and the slow addition of cream. He’d made the mistake of walking away from the pot during those critical few minutes, a blunder he made only once. The spoon of justice had been swift and incredibly painful. That day the lesson was simple, but one he never forgot. The roux is the foundation, and without it nothing can be added to fix it when done wrong. He’d applied the same philosophy to life and worked hard to build himself up slowly over time. Even though his current position was less than desirable, Aleksander knew his foundation was strong and would eventually pay dividends.

  He gently blew over his spoon before putting it in his mouth. He savored the warmth and familiarity. Everything made in the kitchen was done by sight or smell, no measuring cups. His mother returned and gave him a smile. Even at thirty, Aleksander loved to receive her praise. If he was to be one hundred percent honest, he sought it above all else.

  “Maybe it’s time you get back to work and sort out the issue. You can’t make things right while you sit here getting fat,” his mother chided.

  The glimmer of kindness was gone. In its place were the stern eyes of a driven woman, haggard and a bit weathered by life, but driven nonetheless. She’d been a real looker back in the day, not that Aleksander cared to admit it. Regardless, it was true. Life had taken its toll. Her once shapely figure had been replaced by a thicker, boxier version. The years of slaving in the kitchen had given her forearms muscles on top of muscles. At sixty-two, Nadia Rakowski could give construction workers half her age a run for their money in an arm-wrestling match.

  Aleksander realized his mother’s words were on a timer, and any delay in responding accordingly would most likely result in a swat from her dishrag. He tilted the bowl and let hot soup drain down the back of his throat, then placed it in the sink and gave it a quick rinse. His older brothers never had to clean up for themselves, but Aleksander wasn’t afforded such luxuries. Unlike some families where the youngest was babied and doted on, he was treated harshly, referred to as the runt of the litter.

  At six foot three, Aleksander towered over his mother. He leaned down low and gave her a peck on the cheek as she diligently stirred the soup, keeping it from thickening up. He stepped out of the kitchen and onto Dorchester Avenue. His dark-colored Audi A8 sat parked in front. Its tints were illegal, but he’d pay any ticket for the protection it provided. Most of the cops in his area knew Aleksander well enough to give him safe passage.

  As was his normal routine, Aleksander walked the exterior of his vehicle and checked for any scratches or dents that may have occurred during the past ten minutes while he was inside. His car, named Priscilla after Elvis’s ex-wife, meant more to him than anything, and he treated it accordingly.

  Satisfied the vehicle had remained in mint condition while he was away, Aleksander got behind the wheel. For as much as he babied the car, he drove it like a madman. He accelerated out into the narrow streets and headed back to work.

  Veronica paced back and forth inside the living room. His text said we need to talk. Knowing the man who sent it, the message could be interpreted in a multitude of ways. Her fingers played with the handle of the switchblade in her pocket. She hoped it wouldn’t be needed, because regardless of the outcome, using it would mean a death sentence.

  A rev of an engine followed by the chirp of a car alarm told her he was here. She tried to settle her mind. Six long years she’d been working her way up the ladder. Only a select few had ever made the steep climb and held her seat in the organization. Veronica Ainsley intended to keep that seat. Her name had long ago been abandoned when she’d been recruited. To those around her she was known as Slice. Not because of the blade she carried. Although, for the amount of times she’d put it to use, the moniker would’ve been appropriate. No, it was because she was told by her first handler that she was as nice as a slice of pie. She preferred the reference to the knife, blocking out those hard years of servitude.

  The back door opened. An alarm tripped and the man disabled it by entering the code within the allotted time. The alarm wasn’t designed to stop people from coming in so much as it was to stop people from leaving. Slice was the only resident who knew the security system’s disable code.

  “Slice, come in here and have a seat.”

  Aleksander Rakowski’s voice was calm. It was a trait she’d come to deplore. There was no way of telling his mood. It was a maddening guessing game trying to discern his approval or disapproval.

  She moved into the kitchen, where the tall man poured himself a large glass of milk. Slice dropped into a seat facing him. His back remained to her. She thought he might be testing her to see if she’d be willing to stick the knife in his back.

  The man she’d once thought she loved placed the glass down on the counter with a clink and turned to face her. She was wearing a green tank top he’d told her brought out her eyes. It was his favorite color on her. Slice’s mocha-toned shoulders were exposed. There was a time when the man standing before her used to take notice of such things. She thought at least if nothing else, the sight of them now would soften whatever blows might befall her.

  “You made
a mistake. One I was forced to clean up. I don’t like to have to do those things. You know this, yes?”

  The calm of his words unbalanced her. “It wasn’t my fault. If your security had been monitoring the door instead of playing with the girls, this never would’ve happened.”

  “I don’t want your excuses.” Aleksander leaned forward. His large frame made the table look as though he were sitting at a child’s tea party. “I will personally make sure security does not make another mistake. But your job is the girls. Do your job!”

  “I tried to make it right. You’ve got to believe me.” Slice’s voice trembled. She refused to allow herself to cry, though her tears had long ago dried up.

  “I want you to promise it will never happen again.”

  “I promise.”

  “You promise what?” he asked patronizingly.

  “I promise I will never take my eyes off the girls again.”

  “Now it’s time to fix your mistake. What do you do if your car is totaled?”

  Slice found the question funny because she’d never owned a car. On a few occasions she’d been able to drive his, but it was under very strict conditions. “I guess you’d get a new one?”

  “Smart girl. So that’s what you’re going to do. Do you understand?”

  Slice nodded. She released her grip on the knife in her pocket and rubbed her moist palm against her pants.

  “Is she ready?” he asked.

  “She will be.”

  Aleksander Rakowski stood. He loomed over Slice and then leaned in and kissed her forehead. She could feel his warm breath and the years of servitude flooded her mind. The things she’d done for this man. “If she’s not,” he said casually, “then you can always fill her spot.”

  Without another word, he turned and left. She reset the alarm after the door closed behind him. Alex had given her a way of making things right again. Slice went to the stairwell.

  The solution to her problem was on the second floor, sleeping in a locked room. Maybe if she did this thing, Alex would see her as he once had. Doubtful. But maybe. And the unbalanced hope canceled out reason.

  The room was dark. The packed snow from the long winter never got cleared from the dilapidated rooftop. As the temperatures rose the heavy slush began making its way into the crevices, seeping into the building’s interior. A leak dripped from several locations along the poorly maintained ceiling. To the man in the chair it was an unnerving sound. Another man stood nearby, behind the chair, but did not speak. It was frustrating since the two had known each other since childhood. But he knew the reason for the silent treatment. He knew what was coming. Radek Balicki knew because he was usually the man standing behind the chair. An unsettling turn of events.

  He adjusted himself in the metal chair. The plastic drop cloth underneath bunched slightly around the legs and made a crackling sound. The restraints on his wrists and ankles were tightly ratcheted and left no wiggle room, not that Balicki had any delusions of freeing himself and fighting his way out. This was not the movies. No amount of theatrical kung fu would save him from his fate.

  Balicki vowed to not grovel. He swore if his time ever came, he would face it unflinchingly. Today would be the ultimate test of his resolve. At least they didn’t blindfold him.

  The moment the girl disappeared from the hotel he knew it would not end well for him. Balicki had seen the determination of his employers in the past and was fully aware he’d be given no favoritism.

  The building’s location placed it at the southernmost point of Dorchester, north of Milton, where the Neponset River divided the city from its suburban neighbor. The area was a mix of industrial and residential, but on the corner of Medway Street the building owned by the Rakowski family was out of earshot of any residents. Balicki knew this because he’d inflicted pain within these walls many times before. Of course, the building had been purchased under a false name, unrelated to the family. No traces to them existed on paper except for the Polina Deli.

  The boarded-up window and graffitied exterior were an eyesore to residents but also served to keep away nosy people. It looked as though you could get hepatitis by simply stepping onto the property.

  A loud rapping at the door. The man standing behind Balicki crossed the poured concrete floor. Heavy deadbolts set at the top and bottom of the reinforced steel door thudded their release. A loud creak of the hinges gave way to a flood of gray mid-morning light, quickly lost as the tall Rakowski filled the void.

  Balicki swallowed hard. As much as he thought he had prepared for this moment, being faced with its reality was devastating. His heart raced and he forced himself to slow his rapidly increasing breaths.

  The door closed and the locks clicked back in place. Alex Rakowski approached.

  “Radek, it’s a very sad day for me. I never in my life thought we’d be having this conversation.”

  Balicki didn’t speak. He was terrified any utterance would undo his barely contained composure.

  “I’ve given a lot of thought to this.” Rakowski flicked his eyes in the direction of the man standing silently behind Balicki.

  A loud clang and a cart’s wheels, squeaky and in desperate need of oil, rolled into view. The same mobile tray of pain he’d wheeled out several times before. The tools were always the same—pliers, hammers, a mini sledge, a few knives, and some pruning shears. An involuntary shudder ran down Balicki’s spine. He prayed for a quick end, but from the looks of it, that would not be the case.

  “You’ve assisted me in many such instances in the past.” Rakowski picked up one of the knives from the tray and eyed the blade’s edge. “What do you suggest I do?”

  “It was a mistake. I will never fail you again.” Balicki quivered as he spoke.

  “I know.” Rakowski put the knife down.

  “Alex, we’ve known each other for over ten years. I’ve always been good to you. I’ve always been loyal to your family.”

  Rakowski held up a gloved finger to his lips. “I know. That’s why I’ve found a solution that keeps everything in balance. I don’t want to kill you, but I must make an example.”

  Balicki was no more relieved to hear Rakowski wasn’t planning on killing him. Life after being in this chair was sometimes worse. “What solution?”

  “I must take something from you, something others will see and be reminded of your failure.” Rakowski gave a pensive scan of Balicki’s body. “You like to touch my girls?”

  “Alex, please. It was a mistake. I—”

  “Enough! You like to touch my girls, yes?”

  Balicki nodded, his heartbeat now drumming loudly in his ears. His breathing came in ragged bursts. He was no longer able to control his reaction to the stress of the moment.

  “You’re right-handed, yes?”

  “Please.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes. My gift to you is I will take your left.” Rakowski stepped back and the large man moved into view, picking up the pruning shears. The enforcer stood at the ready and patiently waited for the final command.

  Balicki wriggled against the restraints. And then, giving up, closed his eyes.

  “One more thing. Since you’re going to be somewhat limited in your services to me, I’m going to need an able-bodied replacement. I was thinking your brother could help.”

  Balicki’s eyes shot open and anger momentarily overrode fear. “Jakub’s only sixteen!”

  “That’s two years older than when I started.”

  “I don’t want him in this life! I promised my mother I’d keep him away from it.”

  “Then you shouldn’t have failed me.” Rakowski leaned in close to Balicki’s face. “Either your mother loses a son today or I gain an employee. But one thing is certain, you will not question my decisions ever again. Understood?”

  Rakowski backed away and Balicki conceded, dropping his chin to his chest in defeat. He heard his employer shuffle away to the door. The latches released, the door opened and closed, sealing Balicki to his punishment.<
br />
  He closed his eyes tightly and grit his teeth. Every ounce of energy fought his urge to scream. The large man was close by. He could feel it. The metal on metal scrape of the shears opening caused his body to shake.

  6

  “I made you a birthday present and wanted to give it to you.” Embry Kelly’s voice pleaded over the phone.

  “I’m sorry, baby. I’ve got a very important thing I’m working on,” Kelly replied.

  “What’s more important than me?”

  “Nothing. But something really bad happened to somebody and I have to help. I’d much rather be with you.”

  Embry sobbed quietly. The pain in her failed expectation of delivering whatever “Embry Original” craft was ever-present. In the world of an eight-year-old, the disappointment was equivalent to finding out her best friend moved away, or her pet fish died. There was no balance in the equation. As an adult, Kelly knew this. As a recently divorced parent, his ex-wife knew it as well, and used it as leveraged guilt.

  “Hey Squiggles, I’m going to make it up to you. Daddy-Daughter Date Night this week. I promise.”

  “Restaurant?”

  “Of course, how could we do an official date without our restaurant?”

  “Movie and popcorn?”

  “You drive a hard bargain. Fair enough. We’ll do the works.”

  Embry sniffled loudly. The consolation prize seemed to ebb her tears.

  Kelly heard the muffled scratching as the phone got handed off. Samantha hissed, “Michael Kelly, don’t you dare make her another promise if you don’t plan on being able to keep it.”

  “Like the one you made to me when I put that ring on your finger?” Kelly regretted the words as soon as they escaped his mouth.

  “Not tonight. I’m in no mood.”

  “Sorry. It just slipped out.”

  “Don’t forget about her spring performance. Embry’s been practicing every waking minute. Thursday at one o’clock. If you’re not there, so help you God.” She hung up.