Avon Calling! Season One

by Hayley Camille

  “Let’s not play games, Vince,” Betty called cheerfully, pulling a knife from her garter. “We both know what you’ve become. How many guards have you murdered running Donny’s heists this month? Fifteen? Twenty?” She picked her way through twisted metal and old wooden crates in the dark, her ears straining for any sound other than the dull wash of nightlife in the streets beyond. “They all had homes, Vince. They had lives you know; children, wives. Good, decent men. Did you honestly think that you’d get away with it? That you’d never get caught?”

  Betty stopped still. Breathing, irregular. Coming from the right. And finally, his mind.

  “No. No, no. no. Please God, don’t let her find me. I’ll stop, I swear I will.”

  “There’s no point praying now, Vince. You lost that bet years ago, dear,” Betty called.

  His thoughts were becoming more incoherent as she drew closer. Rattled by fear, like a playing dice loose inside his skull.

  “I’ll leave town. No - Donny’ll find me. Yes - I’ll head to the West Coast. No! I’ll join the service! Just don’t kill me. Not today -”

  There. Crouched in the gutted chassis of a Model T Ford staring through the broken windshield to the darkness beyond. Betty crept closer and silently knelt beside him at the window.

  “If only you’d done that twenty years ago, Vinnie, before you had so much blood on your hands,” she said. And slit his throat.

  It had been an awful night. Betty pulled herself tall as she walked back up the road toward the bordello, but she struggled to find any satisfaction in her evenings’ work. She looked a mess. Her shoes were ruined. She’d frayed her lovely satin red Juliet cap on the wet pavement. To top it off, she’d broken a fingernail - she could feel it catching on the inside of her glove.

  She despised Travis. Killing him was a pleasure. But the others – they were just another obstacle on her path to Donny. Another layer of filth to peel away, before she reached the festering disease underneath.

  Betty flicked the rain out of her eyes as she walked, wondering if George had stayed up late, waiting for her to arrive home. He rarely did, assuming she was in good company with her Avon customers and perfectly safe. George turned in early of an evening and slept soundly, rising bright and cheery each morning for work. His habits suited Betty’s night adventures well.

  But tonight, she was much later than she’d intended, drenched to the bone and covered in scrapes. She’d need a ready explanation. A very good one. But the night wasn’t over yet.

  Betty slipped back up the dark alley beside the bordello and returned a few moments later with her cosmetic bag, neatly packed with the cash from the wall safe behind Donny’s painting. She’d gathered her knives, wiped clean on Sydney’s jacket. She loaded it all into the basket of her bicycle, which was still propped against a wall in the shadows across the street. She returned to Vince’s office three more times, each time bringing with her a stack of crates to tie onto the rack of her bike, stripping a fence paling from the junkyard to rest them on. It was no good leaving the crates behind. If Donny found them before the police did, the drugs would be back on the streets all too soon and lining his pockets soon after. No, they had to be taken. That is, all but one paper package she’d taken from a crate first, and left there, split in a puff of white powder across the desk. Just so there were no misunderstandings, when it came to the police. There were no victims here.

  For the second night in a row, Betty found herself wheeling through the backstreets of the city, searching for a new place to stash her unwieldy pyramid of cargo. She hugged the edges of Central Park, intent on checking Herb first. He was sleeping on his usual park bench, a scattering of sodden newspapers over his face to keep the rain at bay. Betty pulled up quietly beside him. The newspapers had shifted as he’d slept, revealing a closed eye and lightly bulbous nose, pink with broken veins. Betty flattened her feet either side against the pavement to keep her pyramid of crates from losing balance, then reached down to unfasten her umbrella from the cross-bar underneath her. It was far too late for her to bother covering up anyway, and losing it might help explain her appearance if George was cross. The umbrella fitted nicely over the top half of Herb’s body.

  For a minute, she watched him sleep, stretched out on the park bench. Above him, the American elm which Betty considered to be his, reached its branches out protectively, lessening the shower. She was always quite grateful to that elm. Herb’s scraps of possession were shoved under the park bench beneath him, in a puddle.

  Betty sailed past Herb often, usually to throw a sandwich or apple his way on route to stash a haul of crates. He lived quite a jolly life, inside his own mind, not quite altogether anymore. He drifted in and out of reality, which Betty took advantage of – she could visit him knowing he’d never speak of it again, as he’d either forget or consider it a figment of his own imagination. Besides, if he’d told anyone about the lady that rode through the night with a dozen wooden crates of heroin balanced on the back of her bicycle, who would have believed him? Nobody. He was a wino and a tramp. Pitied, but ignored.

  Herb probably didn’t even remember his old life, Betty mused. The one he’d had before Donny. He’d lost that reality years ago, after his wife and children fled in fear of the repercussions of a bad-debt he owed to Donald Pinzolo. Herb was forced to repay in dirty service to Donny, and it didn’t suit his temperament. He was grief-stricken, out of his depth and developed frayed nerves and a weak mind. Herb had tried to keep clean, but in the end, he’d found solace on the inside of a bottle, and washed away the loss until he could no longer remember it at all.

  Even if he had, Herb would never have recognized Betty, and the part she’d once played in his fate. But she remembered.

  *

  “I got a payment coming in next week. I swear!”

  “Next week, hey?”

  “Sure thing, Donny. I’ve got a shipload of electric shavers arriving from the coast - real fancy, don’t need soap or nothin’. You just plug it into a wall socket and bam! So long, barber. They’re gonna sell like hotcakes. I’ll get you one - on the house!”

  Donny Pinzolo leant back in his chair, took a drag on his cigar. “Santori gives me as close a shave as I need every day.” Smoke hung on the air around him, a smell like old barnyards and saddle leather that infused all their clothing. “This is the third time we’ve been here, Herb. I was generous. You’ve racked up quite a sum. Your terms were a month. I’ve always been generous with you, haven’t I?”

  “Course you have, Donny.” Herb Connell scuffed his shoe against the paisley rug. He sniffed and shoved his hands into his pockets. “I got done over, that’s all. It wasn’t my fault. Charlie said the horse was good to win, twenty-to-one. Said it was a sure thing. Would’ve had enough to pay you back, and more, but the bastard took off with my loot and I haven’t seen him since.”

  “Charlie Hopper, you say? From the stockyards?”

  “That’s right,” Herb said. He rubbed his nose.

  “Mmm.” Donnie studied him, smiling. He didn’t talk right away. Not out loud, at least.

  What do you say, little Susie? Came Donny’s voice in her head. Is Herb here telling the truth?

  Beside Donnie’s desk, Susie’s eyes widened, and her head shot up. She sat with her arms wrapped around her skinny legs, which were pulled up onto the chair. If she’d curled up any tighter, she might have disappeared altogether, which would have suited her fine.

  She hated Donny. She hated being there. Most of all, she hated her father. An hour earlier, she’d been pulled from her bed and shoved into the back seat of her pop’s dusty Cunningham and driven down to the docks, where Donny kept a warehouse.

  She was there to work.

  It was only a couple of months’ ago that Donny learned she had inherited her late mother’s ability to tap into their heads. He must have suspected she might have the gift too. She hadn’t meant for him to find out, but Donny had tricked her.

  Susie was mesmerized by a jar of gu
mballs that appeared on Donny’s desk, a treat her father would never have bothered with. Donny knew it. “Take some candy, kid,” he’d said one day. It was only after her hand was already inside the jar of gumballs on his desk that she realized her mistake. He’d never opened his mouth.

  And so, it began. At first, it had only been once or twice a week, but it had grown quickly. Now, she was lucky to scrape together a few hours’ sleep before school each morning. Donny used her as often as he liked, just as he had used her mother. Her pop was always pleased to deliver. With his wife gone, Roy was less useful to his uncle’s business. And less useful meant disposable. Roy wasn’t well built, couldn’t hold his own in a fight and was more sour and stupid than his older brother, Frank. His wife had been the best he’d had to offer Donny. He should have guessed Susie was the same. When Donny learned his twelve-year-old daughter's secret, Roy had struck gold. He was useful again, had something to offer. So, whenever Donny called, he dragged Susie to the docks to read the minds of swindlers and dealers as they ran at the mouth, guns at their heads. And Susie told Donny what he wanted to hear. The truth. The truth that, more often than not, got them killed.

  Tonight was one more blur between school books and fear.

  An uncovered light bulb hung over Donny’s desk, stinging Susie’s tired eyes. She rubbed them and pulled herself up straight. Her Uncle Frank knew what she was there for and the two enforcers guarding Herb knew better than to ask questions. They were used to her presence now, as they had been used to her mother before her.

  Roy’s fist hit the side of her arm. She sucked in her breath, squeezing the pain away with her fingers. Donny was looking at her. Even her father, as stupid as he was, didn’t need to read Donny’s mind to know he was waiting for an answer.

  Susie eyed Herb, who looked quizzically between her and Donny. He’d clearly noticed her in the chair beside Donny's desk when he’d first arrived, but was too nervous then with his own plight, to question it. Now, feeling more confident that Donny seemed to be considering his situation, Herb offered her a smile. Susie automatically smiled back, then faltered and looked away. It was harder if they were nice.

  “This your girl, Donny?” Herb said, frowning in confusion. “What’s a kid doin’ up this late at night? Should be in bed, yeah? My missus gets the little monkeys in bed by eight.”

  Donny cocked his head toward Herb, then back to Susie. With a sigh, she faintly shook her head. Her stomach hurt. She curled up tighter.

  “You’re lying to me, Herb,” Donny announced. “There is no shipment.”

  Herb’s mouth dropped open. “But - there is! I mean, I might not have set it up yet, but I know a guy who works for Schick. He’s gonna get me some off the truck, owes me a favor. I swear. I just have to make a call. One call and it’s a done deal.”

  Susie squeezed her eyes closed, sifting through the desperate pleas in Herb’s mind. There was a man. Francis Estelle. Delivery truck driver, fresh out of jail. He knew nothing about swiping the shavers, but - he was crooked. She caught Donny’s eye and nodded her head.

  “What’s going on?” Herb shrieked. “Does the kid know somethin’?”

  “Shut him up.”

  One of Donny’s guards kicked the back of Herb’s legs, and he crashed to his knees. A tight fist in his hair kept him upright.

  Donny rolled back his black leather chair and stood slowly, stretching his legs. He leaned forward on the desk with his head hung in front of the kneeling man, a sorrowful look on his face. Instantly, one of the guards flanking Herb whipped a gun from his belt. It pressed hard against the man’s temple as his pleas began anew.

  “But -” Susie unraveled herself, almost falling. Her father pushed her back down onto the chair. The small click of the safety was deafening.

  “No, Donny, please,” Herb shouted, “I can get the money, I swear! I just need a week, is all! A few days!” Herb looked frantically at the little girl, bewildered. Susie curled into her chair again and buried her head into her knees. “It’s just a phone call,” Herb pleaded, “he’ll come through with the goods, I promise.”

  Donny stood silently, watching the gun barrel bruise Herb’s skin.

  “You’re not gonna do anything rough with a girl here, are ya? She’s just a tiny mite. I swear, I’ll sort this out. My Rosie, the kids – they need me!” Tears broke from the corner of his eyes.

  Donny didn’t move. Finally, he sat back down. He signaled to the guard, who holstered the gun.

  “I’ll tell you what, Herb.” Donny said. “I’m going to give you a reprieve. Do you know what that means? It means I don’t take it out on your kneecaps. Just this once. Because I think you might know someone worth knowing.” Herb’s head bobbed like a toy.

  “He’s good for it, he really is. Owes me a favor.”

  “And now you owe me another favor,” Donny said. “So, you call your guy at this fancy electric shaver company and tell him what you need. Then you tell him who you need the money for and get him to come pay me a visit when he gets here.” Donny smiled broadly at his men. “’Bout time I got into the barber business, hey boys?”

  Herb nodded, furiously. “Sure thing, Donny. Whatever you want.”

  “And don’t you worry about Charlie Hopper. My boys’ll go pay the stockyards a visit.”

  “I didn’t mean any trouble for him. I just wanted my money is all -”

  Donny waved his hand. “Get out of here. With a parting gift, boys, to remember us by.” Herb was thrown out the door with a punch to the gut.

  Donny stretched back in his chair.

  “Well done, kid. You earned some candy.”

  Susie took a gumball from the jar on the desk. She knew better than to turn it down.

  “Right. Time to get some real business done. I had a visit today from a couple of the hiring bosses down at the waterfront. Sounds like trouble.” Donny pulled a heavily bound ledger book toward himself. “Pull up a seat, Frank.” He glanced at Susie. “Roy, take the kid home.”

  Her father pulled her away by the neck of her night gown. Susie’s uncle Frank scraped her now-empty chair toward the desk.

  She was grateful. Tonight, there had been no blood. She almost didn’t mind that her night gown reeked of cigar smoke. Almost.

  Herb had been naïve to think Donny would have spared her. He never did. With her mother gone, Susie was Donny’s new secret weapon. It didn’t matter what she saw.

  Frank and Donny’s voices muffled as the door slammed shut behind her. Susie followed her father to the car, shivering in her thin night gown but grateful for the fresh air. Behind his back, she pegged the gumball as hard as she could into the darkness. Since that first night, she hated gumballs. She wished every time she left, that Donny would choke on one. The thought almost made her giggle. He wouldn’t though. Donny never consumed any of the lures he offered others. And there were plenty.

  Donald Pinzolo smuggled heroin from China, among other things. Corruption, extortion, racketeering. He took kickbacks from every hiring boss on the docks so that no longshoremen would find work unless they paid a price. He had a hand in the pocket of every bookie in town and strings behind every bootlegger and thief. All wrapped up in the veneer of a good, family business man. There wasn’t much Susie didn’t know, given her unique ability to overhear their private thoughts. Not that Donny cared – a girl was no threat to him.

  As Susie curled back into bed half an hour later, she buried her face in her pillow case and breathed in, deep. Her mother’s perfume. She had to use it sparingly now, the bottle was nearly empty. But as long as she only washed her pillow once a month, her mom was still close. She tried to ignore the foul remnants of Donny’s cigars that clung to her hair and nightgown but couldn’t. She had no other pajamas to change into, to make the smell go away. In the end, as always, an unpleasant aberration of smoke and perfume mixed inside her lungs, poisoning her dreams.

  Donny and his men lived on the other side of her bedroom door. Inside, only perfume and pretty
pictures were allowed. Night by night, Susie used them to build a wall around her heart, fiercely protecting the memories she kept there. Memories of her mother as Susie wished she had been, in rosy dresses with teacups and glass dishes. Shopping trips and painted faces, pretty hats and full bellies. Her imagination served her better than reality ever had.

  On those walls she built inside, Susie painted a freedom that her mother had never been able to find beneath the suffocating pain she absorbed from the world around her. Ethyl’s empathic ability had been too heavy a burden. Until the syringe had taken it, and her, away.

  But Susie was different. Stubborn. Possessed with an inexplicable instinct for self-preservation and the defiance to see it through. She had lived and grieved too much in her young heart already and sworn that nothing would ever break her like it had her mother.

  But first, she had to control it – that power of empathy that had killed her mother.

  Susie was learning.

  When other people’s thoughts came unbidden to her mind, Susie took the emotions that came in alongside and boxed them up inside her head, leaving only words and intentions. It made all the difference. Facts alone couldn’t carry guilt or misery or fear.

  Only Uncle Donny had that power over her now.

  He was fear. Cold, calculated fear, dressed up in a suit with a smile. He knew so much, even without Susie’s help. Every whisper on the city pavement filtered back to him. Every promise, every fight, every lie. Donny knew everything. He could make people disappear and, somehow, nobody noticed.

  But Susie did.

  *

  Betty gently rearranged the umbrella over Herb’s face. He was soaked, but so addled by the empty bottle in the brown paper bag beside him, he probably couldn’t even feel the cold. The picnic blanket she’d left on him last time she’d come this way was draped over his legs, soaked through. Francis Estelle, the delivery truck driver Herb had promised stolen goods from, had never come through for Donald Pinzolo. Herb’s lesson, and price, had been high. As it always was with Donny. Betty whispered goodnight, rebalanced her crates and continued on her way. Soon after, with the crates safely stashed in an unused rail shed, Betty turned for home.