Avon Calling! Season One

by Hayley Camille

  “I’m ready,” the boy called back. His voice wavered. He coughed and shuffled minutely against the back of the shed. It was a brave front, but inside his head, a different voice was crying out. What if I get shot? What if I run? I can’t - Vince needs me, he said so. He’s gonna teach me stuff. Look after me. I have to show him I can do this. I don’t want to die.

  Betty had been there, that child on the streets. A pawn.

  She couldn’t kill him. She’d be killing herself. But if they saw her, she’d lose everything she’d worked so hard to build. Her perfect, terrible lie.

  For the first time in many years, Betty was paralyzed. But if she didn’t act now, more one-stripers would be dead within minutes.

  Too late.

  Two trucks came along the bend and she heard a low whistle. Immediately, the boys ran forward onto the road and began kicking a ball back and forth. They stayed in the middle of the road, even as the lorries slowed down, blasting their horn. With a nervous look over their shoulder, they kept playing. The trucks had no choice but to stop in their tracks.

  “Get off the damned road,” the first driver called. Again, the boys ignored him. The thud of the ball was their only response.

  “Bloody kids,” the driver sighed, as a security officer opened the passenger side door and jumped out. He jogged forward, cursing at them to move along.

  Another low whistle.

  And it was on.

  The kids dashed behind the building as gunfire began. The security guard on the road was down before Vince was even on his feet. The GI had no chance.

  Vince and his men surrounded the trucks. Both drivers were shot through the windows, stalling their screeching tires. Two soldiers jumped out of the first truck and another three from the second. More than usual.

  Betty’s jaw clenched tight and she squeezed her eyes shut, still hidden in the shadows only meters from the fight. Every inch of muscle rebelled her choice. Her knives felt heavy and cold against her thigh and she slid her hand up her skirt to hold them, desperate to release the fury building inside her. But she couldn’t. The children were still there in the shadows, now curled into balls of fear against the weathered panels of the rail shed. But their eyes were wide with fear and the sick thrill of adrenaline.

  As the last soldier fell with a hole between his eyes, vengeance roared within Betty’s chest. Her head fell back and she squeezed her eyes shut, not willing to do more than breathe, lest her mind break away from her body and throw her back again to the nights where she was that child. She could hear Vince and his men quickly unloading the trucks, transferring crates to their own vehicle.

  “You did swell, Sam,” Vince was saying. “I knew you had it in you.” There was no response, but she heard the boys shuffling to their feet. Betty opened her eyes and watched the boys help shift crates, stepping over guards where they had fallen. She stole back to her bicycle in the shadows and waited for them to finish. As they drove away, she followed.

  The wind cooled the fury in her skin as she rode. I just need to find another way, that’s all, she told herself. Eliminate the threat. Get Vince some other way. Keep the kids out of it. No witnesses. A better plan. Now that children were involved, it was going to be a lot more difficult than she’d expected.

  Betty wound through the suburbs a safe distance from the trucks and ended up in an unfamiliar fringe of town where small shops met dark alleys. Loud, lively music pumped from the upstairs window of a bordello. Betty stayed on her bike, camouflaged in the shadows on the opposite side of the street. Silhouettes of burlesque dancers moved behind the glass, accompanied by intoxicated shouts and revelry. A pink stiletto painted on the outside wall read ‘Kitty’s Kat House’.

  Despite the lights and noise of the brothel, the alley running alongside was dim. Vince was coordinating the men and boys, who began unloading crates through a side door.

  “Take ‘em downstairs,” Vince said.

  “Shouldn’t we be taking this lot to Donny?” asked one of the men.

  “Half for Donny, half for me this time,” Vince grunted. “I’ve got some of my own business to take care of before I shack up in his basement of stray cats.”

  “Won’t he notice the difference?”

  “Not unless you say somethin’, knuckle-head!” Vinnie clapped the man on the back of the head.

  “The boss put Felix here, though,” the man said. “He’ll know somethin’s up. I don’t trust that guy; he gives me the frickin’ creeps.”

  “Don’t worry about Felix,” Vince snapped, his hand reflexively touching his nose. “He’s out on a job tonight, I heard Donny say so. Anyways, I’ll be back tomorrow night to clear it out. He ain’t got a key to my office yet. This is still my pad.”

  “As long as you’re sure,” his off-sider said.

  Felix seemed to remember he was under the watchful eye of the two young boys from the orphanage. “Donny’ll get his half. I’ve just got a few debts to settle here, that’s all,” he said playfully. “It’s our secret, hey, boys? Worth some candy and a few cigarettes to you? What do you think?”

  Sam and his friend were quick to nod their heads.

  “Sure Vince, we won’t tell,” Sam said. “Honest!”

  “Good lads!” Vince said, and Sam pulled himself taller under the praise. “Right, let’s get these crates inside. Donny’ll be expecting us back. I’ll tell him how good you boys did tonight.”

  Betty waited until Vince and his crew had driven away again. She sat for a few minutes, considering the latest development. Vince had kids on the street, and Donny was involved. From behind his genial smiles, handshakes and cigars, Donny was always involved. It was clear, though, that Donny didn’t know Vince was skimming his heist.

  Distractedly, Betty tapped her foot to the music spilling from the upstairs window. She’d always liked the blatant celebration of the bordello strips at night, and this establishment was no different. Sure, the pretense of their performance kept their audience sated, but underneath, the working girls held their own independence in hand, and that was something to be admired in times like these. A plan was forming in her mind. An opportunity even, perhaps.

  Betty rode away, quite looking forward to her next visit. As the dirty alleys gave way to neat residential streets, Betty’s chin lifted to meet the wind. Each house passed on her ride home, with its neat driveway and painted letterbox, clipped lawns and decorative shutters, made her heart feel lighter. Domestic bliss was hidden behind the lace drapes of every window that flickered by. Roast potatoes and meatloaf and peas. Braids and ribbons and bags of colored marbles. Spinning tops and Sunday hats. Betty breathed a sigh of relief. It existed. Despite everything, it was all still real enough to touch.

  She zipped along the outskirts of Central Park in the moonlight, and then slowed to toss a small paper package from her basket onto the sleeping pile of newspapers she knew to be Herb, passed out on his usual bench. Betty looked back over her shoulder to wave, but the old man didn’t stir like he usually did. Betty frowned and pulled to a stop, then wheeled back to him. She stood astride her bike, toes to the ground and gave him a gentle nudge, lifting a newspaper leaf from his face with concern. Herb snorted, sniffed and twisted to a more comfortable position, then began snoring. Betty smiled. She gathered the picnic rug from the base of her basket and lay it across him, repositioning the brown package she’d left so it wouldn’t fall off. At least he’d have a tuna sandwich to fill his stomach when he woke. Betty balanced on her bicycle, ready to take off again, but stopped short. The leaf of newspaper she’d lifted from Herb’s face had fallen to the ground in front of her wheel. She hopped off and picked it up. It was a front page, grubby and torn, but the photograph was still clear enough under the lamp light to turn her stomach. An aged but very familiar man commandeered the headlining image, shaking hands with Mayor Sutherland under the headline “Pinzolo’s Heart of Gold”. She quickly scanned the article. An orphanage restoration with Donald Pinzolo as the new benefactor. Young boys give
n a second chance. Offered jobs and training within his business empire. For the good of the city. A local hero.

  No! Betty tore the paper into bits, her jaw set and her eyes stinging. She tossed the shreds of lies into the air like a snowstorm, jumped back onto her bicycle and took off with renewed energy. At least she knew now, where the children with Vince had come from. St. Augustine’s Home for Unwanted Boys. Where they wouldn’t be missed or protected from what lay ahead. Betty set off at a faster pace, eager for a new day to begin. A woman’s work was never done.

  “Here I go again,” Betty sang, twirling her blue gingham skirt as she spun around the kitchen to the jaunty notes of Benny Goodman’s orchestra through the wireless. She placed a dish of steaming vegetables in the center of the table. Betty danced her way back to the oven, returning with a plump roasted chicken. “I hear those sweet notes sing again, ring-a-ling again,” she trilled.

  “Twirling in your spell of love!” finished George, in a lovely baritone as he entered the kitchen. He spun Betty into her chair and the children, who were already seated, giggled.

  “Oh, George! I’m meeting my ladies tonight,” Betty gushed. “I had the most marvelous idea today, you’ll never guess what it is!”

  George seated himself at the head of the table. His brief frown at her mentioning another night out was quickly quelled by the sheer enthusiasm radiating from his wife’s face.

  “I won’t even try then, Jitterbug. You’d better just tell me - what is this marvelous idea of yours?”

  Betty leaned forward, passing George the carving knife, then dishing out the children's meals as she spoke. “Well dear, you know the orphanage that’s being all done up in the city – St Augustine’s? There was quite a buzz about it in the newspaper -”

  “Oh, yes,” George said.

  “Well, I just thought -” Betty hesitated, her eyes glittering with suppressed excitement, “- why not turn our spring church social into a fundraiser? Ooh, it’ll be lovely George! We’ll set up in city hall - deck it all out! The Seymour girls have a cousin in administration – they’ve already inquired for me, it’s all set if we want it. Imagine the glamor darling! We’ll invite all the glitterati, the local politicians and businessmen, the media - the whole bit! We’ll make a real night of it. Just think, George darling - the dresses! The lights! And a big band to dance the night away. You’ll dance with me, won’t you, George?” she finished breathlessly, jumping up to kiss him on the cheek.

  George beamed. He stood up from his dinner, taking her once more in his arms to twirl her about the table, laughing. The wireless was still playing its tune, and George joined the song with good humor.

  ‘Things are fixing now, you’ll see my sweet heart twirling now,

  We’ll have a fairy-tale ending now, dizzy in your spell of love -’

  Betty clung to his neck and laughed.

  “Gosh, what a big heart you have, love. It sounds like a swell idea,” he said.

  “You really think so?” Betty asked. “It’s all for the children, George. Those poor orphans, just imagine what it must be like for them.”

  “I couldn’t begin,” George said. “Just don’t overdo it now. You keep some of that big heart of yours for this old dead hoofer.”

  “Oh, George,” Betty said. “You know my heart burns brightest for you. There’s no one I love more.”

  “Better not be, Jitterbug,” George winked. He cleared his throat as he sat back in his chair and resumed his dinner. “So where are you off to tonight then?”

  Betty turned away and stepped to the oven, pulling out an apple pie and placing it on the top to cool. “I have some colors for Mrs. Sampson,” she said, nodding to a bundle of Avon products sitting on the counter. She turned away again, fussing about in the kitchen drawer for dessert spoons. “She’s offered to help with the invitations, too, for the fundraiser. She’s such a dear.”

  “I see,” said George. “Just don’t stay out too late, dear. I was awfully worried about you last night, you got home after ten o’clock! It’s not decent, Betty, to be getting about town at that hour on your own. And it’s not safe. What if something were to happen to you?”

  “I’m sure I could handle myself if it came to it, George,” Betty said.

  “Of course you couldn’t,” he said, wiping his mouth. “There’s all sorts out there, love, you’ve got such a kind heart you always think the best of people. There are some unsavory types on the streets at night and I’d hate to think of you getting in trouble.”

  Betty smiled quietly and touched his hand gently. “Of course you would. You’re quite right, of course, dear. I’ll be home as early as I can get away.”

  “Right then,” George said. “Who’s ready for pudding?”

  “Me!” cheered the children, together.

  Betty pushed her arms through her coat as she walked toward the sitting room, then stopped at the hall stand mirror to pin her hat into place.

  “Nancy and George Junior are tucked into bed, dear. I won’t be out too late,” she assured George, who sat with his slippered feet up, reading a newspaper. Her husband pushed the mahogany footstool away and dropped the paper on his lap, leaning forward. “Watch your ash on the needlework, George!” Betty ducked across and brushed the embroidered footstool pillow with a gloved hand. Neat stitches of roses and hollyhocks circled the words ‘Home, Sweet Home’.

  “Sorry, dear,” George said, holding his pipe over the side table instead. “Mind you watch the weather tonight love, it looks like rain. Are you sure you don’t want me to drop you over there?”

  “No really, I’ll be fine,” Betty said. “It’s not far.” She kissed George on the cheek and picked up her Avon bag from the front door as she left, closing it gently behind her.

  George settled back with his pipe and newspaper, letting the minutes tick by in silence. After a while, he turned to the side table and dumped the ash from his pipe onto a small tray, refilling the empty bowl with folded tobacco flakes. He lit it anew and stood up, stretching his legs.

  George wandered into the kitchen, in search of a scotch glass and saw the first spots of rain fall onto the kitchen window pane. The wind had picked up outside. It wouldn’t be long before a storm began in earnest. “Blast,” he muttered to himself, remembering Betty was out on her bicycle in the inclement weather. He turned back toward the lounge room. A small pile of Avon products on the counter-top caught his eye. “Horsefeathers,” George cursed again. He picked up the pile and returned to the telephone stand in the lounge room, placing them down next to the phone. George flipped through Betty’s address book until he found what he was searching for. He dialed the number for Mrs. Marjory Sampson, then shifted her Avon products around vaguely as he waited for the call to connect. There was a glass spray bottle of Crimson Carnation toilet water, an ivory tin of Quaintance body powder, something called Color Pick-up Cream in a small jar and a handful of powder pots in various shades of brown. Apparently, Mrs. Sampson had a sizable order to pay for tonight and he guessed that Betty would be disappointed at her own carelessness in leaving it behind.

  Marjory Sampson was a heavy, bustling type of woman, well known at church for her raspberry jam tarts and outspoken opinions. When any news of interest passed the lips of the parishioners, Marjory could be counted upon to have known about it at least the day before. George generally kept a wide berth from the church social group, as they were the kind of women whose gossiping and babbling about, frustrated him. Betty, however, seemed to bring out the good in everyone, even Marjory Sampson, and she always knew the right thing to say to keep them all in favor, despite themselves. She was good with people, in that way, George mused, as he waited. Betty could twist someone’s arm while presenting them with bad news and they’d only thank her for it. He frowned, admonishing himself for the thought. No, she’s thoughtful, that’s all, and naïve to their gossiping ways. Betty had a heart of gold. Of course, they all adored her.

  Finally, a woman’s voice picked up the line.
<
br />   ‘Good Evening, Mrs. Sampson, this is George Jones. How are you?” He smiled down the phone line, ever courteous, even when no one was there to see it, as the woman responded in kind.

  “Oh, yes, I’m fine, thank you, fit as a fiddle,” George replied. “I imagine Betty must be with you by now, she left quite a while ago, but I’ve found the pile of cosmetics here she meant to bring - Oh, she’s not? Well, I’m sure that’s where she said she was heading. I was going to run them over in the car - tomorrow night, you say? You’re quite certain? Yes, of course you are. If she’s not there, well, I must have misheard, that’s all. Never mind, I’m sorry to bother you. Yes, I will, thank you, good night Mrs. Sampson.”

  George hung up the receiver with a deep frown. He looked down at the Avon products on the table and scratched his head, then returned to the kitchen to find the scotch glass he’d been originally searching for. He found a glass, poured himself a drink and stood at the kitchen window, watching the rain hit the glass pane. What had only minutes before been a splatter, was now a downpour. George’s mouth tightened to a straight line and his brow furrowed with a heavy burden of worry. Then, quite unexpectedly, his eyes flashed with a tinge of something quite unfamiliar to him. Anger.

  Just as she had the night before, Betty parked her bicycle under the tree across the road from Kitty’s Kat House. She pulled her crocodile-skin bag from the back rack and squeezed the leather handles as she strode across the road with it through the rain, arranging a bright smile on her face. With a look of consideration, she changed tack, and ducked into the dark alley beside the club. A shiny new blackout special Chevrolet was parked near the side door that Betty guessed led down to Vince's office. She looked around surreptitiously, then lifted her skirt delicately and pulled her largest knife from her garter. It would be rather a shame to ruin such lovely paintwork. With a quick flick of the wrist, Betty stabbed each tire in turn, careful not to scratch the beige finish, then sheathed her knife and continued back to the entrance of the bordello. She placed her cosmetic bag down on the doorstep. Glass jars clinked softly against one another inside. Betty smoothed down her red dress and plumped her hair, then knocked briskly on the door.