by Eric Beetner
But when Jennifer’s mother got up, you remember that look. The shaky but determined look. Jennifer has that.
Jennifer rolls her head on her neck. Deep breaths. She walks over to the hallway. Steps inside the bathroom. Comes out with the old box of tampons you keep under the sink.
“Got a new woman here, Dad?” she asks, examining the box.
Trembling. You know what this means. “Show me your hand,” you say, as indignant and furious as a man can be with his limp dick hanging out of his pants and hog-tied.
“You’re asking a magician to reveal her trick, Dad.”
“Show me your hand.”
She does, and you see all ten fingers. “You fucking—”
“I told them you had the forty. Sorry. I owed them eight for a mule deal I fucked up.” Jennifer smiles, digs around the tampon box. Pulls out your other seventy grand. “So I figure, they just want their cash. And I say, how about forty? I know a guy named Gil. He owes me, bigger than shit. Told them just to play along with some bullshit story I cooked up. Maybe cut off a finger.”
You remember all that manipulation now? The lies? Mommy’s little girl, all grown up. Jennifer smiles. “Thanks, Daddy.”
You start to yell but she calmly walks over to you. You keep yelling as her rail-thin arm reaches down. You see those track marks. The shit-cheap tattoo on the inside of her forearm. You stop yelling when your own pulse is so full of adrenaline and anxiety that you can’t do anything but watch as she grabs those ratcheting clippers. Grabs them hard.
“Love you, Daddy.”
Squeezes.
No matter how loud you scream, she ignores it as she walks out of your life. And you won’t stop screaming.
Back to TOC
THE JUNGLES OF PEEKSKILL, NEW YORK
Angel Luis Colón
I got the call from my boss, Dorian Ramirez, while I was in the middle of a sale. The buyer: a nice widow by the name of Ethel Grainger. I got the lead from a shady estate lawyer Dorian works with. Ethel had come into some extra cash and was ripe to make a bad decision. I just had to nudge her the right way.
I raised a finger and smiled. “Misses Grainger, excuse me, this is the head of my company.” I stood from her plastic-covered couch and walked into her kitchen. Becoming a widow seemed to suit Ethel. It was obvious the stove and the kitchen table hadn’t been used in months. The ceiling was stained a dull orange from tobacco, but I didn’t spot any ashtrays. Seemed those were buried along with her husband. Old pictures—almost all black and white—hung on the off-white walls. They were the same as the rest I’d seen. No kids. Just adults.
I connected the call. “Mister Ramirez? I’m here.” I cupped my free hand over the phone to keep my voice from traveling.
“David,” he barked more than stated, “is it Teeso?”
“No, sir, the tee is silent.”
“So? Okay, whatever. Listen, I was going over my numbers—the big earners. Looks like you and I should have a talk about your future endeavors. You agree?”
My stomach flipped. “Absolutely. Do you want to work out a phone appointment? Maybe tomorrow morning?”
It sounded like he sucked on his teeth. “No. Dinner.” That sucking sound again. “Tonight.”
I didn’t know how to respond. This wasn’t a question. “Sure thing. Um…” I darted to Ethel’s kitchen table and snatched a pen from the mouth of a ceramic fish. “Just give me the address.”
“I’ll have Ernie pick you up in an hour at your place.” The phone disconnected.
“Mister Soo?” Ethel called from the living room. “Is everything okay?”
I took a breath. Put my phone into my pocket. “Yes, ma’am.” Turned on my smile again and walked back into the room.
Ethel smiled. A frog wearing lipstick. She fingered the gaudy, gold necklace wrapped twice around her neck. “No trouble?”
“Not for me, no.” I shook my head and sat back down. Collected my folders and papers detailing land ownership opportunities in North Carolina. “Seems there may be some problems with a few of our investors.”
She leaned in.
I continued, “See, there seems to be issues with our tax assessor’s documentation—nothing major—one of those annoying contrivances. Government out to get their cut and all.” I winked. “Always the case, right?”
Ethel watched me put my papers into my briefcase. “Does this mean the offer is off of the table?”
“For now, I’m sure it’ll pass over. I’ll call you right back once we’ve gotten our ducks in a row.”
“How long will that be?” Ethel asked. “Would you like something else to nibble on before you left?” She waved at a plate of sugar cookies I hadn’t touched.
I half-wondered if she didn’t want me to leave because this house was so damn empty. Widows had a habit of keeping you around, but Ethel didn’t seem to be the type to dangle the sale in front of me so she can have company. I frowned. “No idea. Sometimes it takes a day, sometimes a few weeks. We hold off because…well, I can’t talk about that.” I leaned in and winked. “Inside access and all.”
“Now you’re toying with me, Mister Soo.” She cocked her head to the side and smiled—dried lipstick cracking on her thin lips.
I ignored the second flub on my name. “I apologize, Misses Grainger, it’s…I guess I can trust you with this. See, in these cases the property values take a small dip and spikes once we’ve resolved the issue. My employers like to keep it quiet so we scrape in a little extra during closing.”
Ethel’s eyes lit up. “And what’s to stop me from buying right now?”
I nod. Raise my eyebrows as if her suggestion was new to me. “Well, nothing really. Though, you’d have to sign off on the assessment and cover those fees. It’s not necessarily illegal, more like one of those corporate white lies they’re always talking about on the news.”
She didn’t have to say “yes” and coincidentally, the papers left for me to tuck away happened to be all five that she needed to sign to make this deal a reality. I placed them on her coffee table and held up the pen from the kitchen—her husband’s name written in bold letters across its length.
“We act now and I assure you, Ethel, money will be made.” I handed her the pen and watched her sign all the relevant spots.
When she was done, she gave me the pen back. I slipped it in my pocket.
The drive up to Peekskill was quiet. Ernie didn’t like to play music while he was on the road. Add the lack of conversation, and I found myself captivated with my hands—cracked my knuckles, made fists. Examined old scars I forgot about. Anything to pass the time.
“Have you ever been up to Dorian’s?” I asked.
He clenched the wheel of his S-Class so hard the peaks of his hairy knuckles were ivory. Ernie had a twitch. He always tried to cover it up by pretending to shrug, though there’s only so much a man can actually shrug about. He had to be stressed because he was extra-unsure about the question I asked. “Once or twice,” he finally mumbled.
That was a bummer. A little insight would have been nice. Dorian was a bit of an enigma. He was the kind of guy you couldn’t get a read on and in my line of business, those were the types to worry about. That was also why he ran the show. I never personally met the man, but most folks who knew Dorian Ramirez couldn’t tell me more than I already knew. Bronx-born, rags to riches story. On paper, he was a legitimate entrepreneur who gave Latino kids scholarships every year. In real life, he had his hands in a little of everything—money laundering, gambling, and the land sale scheme I was a part of.
My bit was pretty easy. Cozy up to old-timers with more cash than brain cells to burn. I’d convince them I had a lucrative opportunity—land investments, better than gold—and move on from there. In reality, we were selling worthless swampland and landfill. The buyer’s dumped a sum on us and walked away with so many legal issues to come, it was a wonder their grandkids weren’t going into bankruptcy. Dorian’s
lawyers kept us all clean. Everything was on the up and up—so long as nobody dug too deep into the paperwork. The first few signatures brought with them plenty of guilt, but it’s amazing what a sick mom, a sizable cocaine habit, and an affinity for a brand new Beemer will do to a guy’s conscience.
Ernie was my boss in name only. He never told me what to do or who to speak to. I got my leads by going back and forth with lawyers and paralegals that got a little action from Dorian. Ernie collected the paperwork, checks, and receipts and got them where they needed to get to. Those were the details I tried to avoid. This line of work was hazardous in more ways than one. Most times, if you kept yourself in your own tidy corner, when trouble came, you’d be lucky enough to know too little to be of any importance to the cops or the feds.
After another set of shrugs—I stopped counting—Ernie side-eyed me. Frowned. “When did he call you?”
The sudden conversation startled me. “Oh, well, probably like a half hour before you picked me up. I was finishing up a Carolina sale.”
Ernie nodded. “I had as much prep time as you. That’s how Dorian likes to do it—keep you on your toes.” He rolled down his window. “Mind if I smoke?”
“Your car.” I watched Ernie take a pull of his cigarette and shrug to himself. “You guys super close?”
Ernie snickered. “I see the man almost every day, but no.” He pointed his cigarette behind us. “I know he rarely goes to his house. I saw him a few hours ago when he was picking up like, twelve pies at the pizzeria he owns over on Tremont.”
“Twelve?” That amount seemed a little ridiculous, but it wasn’t surprising to hear Dorian owned a pizzeria. The man owned one of everything.
Ernie scratched his nose. “He’s staying home a few days. Sort of like a vacation for him. His wife and kids are gone for a while. When that happens he stays home all day…aw crap.” He pulled the car out at the next exit. “I completely forgot the damn ice pops.”
“Is that some kind of code?” If Ernie was working an angle here, it was working. Not only was I nervous, but his newfound chattiness threw me all sorts of off. I was nervous. Last thing I needed was to get mixed up with two fellas I barely knew and whatever weird drugs they were into.
Ernie didn’t answer my question. He floored it and pulled into a gas station with a mini-mart. “You need anything?”
I waved him off. “No thanks.”
He opened his door and faltered. Turned to me. “You ain’t Korean, are you?”
“No.” I did my best not to come off pissed at that question.
By the look on Ernie’s face, I was a terrible actor. “No offense, just checking. Dorian kinda has a thing about the Korean War.”
“Okay…”
Ernie shrugged—good for him, it worked in this situation. “You’ll understand when you meet him.” He left the car. Jogged over to the mini-mart with the look of a man that needed something more important than popsicles.
Santa Claus. He looked exactly like Santa Claus by way of Gordon Gekko. It’s the only way I can describe Dorian Ramirez. This was a Saint Nick birthed by the spirit of American capitalism—swaddled in the finest multi-figure Armani suit he could find.
He greeted us at the front of his three-story home with a yellow smile—a Cuban cigar clenched between thick, ringed fingers. He slipped the cigar between his teeth and offered me a paw. “Davey—is Dave okay? Pleasure to meet you.” He had a thick Bronx accent—gruff and drenched with forced friendliness. The way he stood made you feel as if he was about to leave to do something better than speak to you. “Good drive up?” He turned away and shook Ernie’s hand. “How are you, Ernie?” Dorian turned and walked into his house. “Come on in, gentlemen.”
The house was huge, but sparsely decorated. I’d heard a few guys—Ernie included—joke about how cheap Dorian was. They weren’t kidding. Nothing on the walls, only the bare minimum of furniture. No TVs, no fancy decorations on fancier pedestals. He led us into the kitchen—like the rest of the house, utilitarian. A fridge, oven, counter, and sink. Only what was necessary to call the room a kitchen.
“Are you guys hungry?” Dorian walked over to a table large enough to seat six but with ten chairs cramped around it. The table had two piles of pizza boxes on it—three empty.
I smiled and gave him a nod. “Sure.”
Dorian motioned to the pile of boxes and walked to the sink. He grabbed a roll of paper towels and tossed it my way. “Don’t dirty the floor. Ernie. How’s business?”
Ernie did his shrug. “Same as it was yesterday.”
Dorian unbuttoned his suit jacket with his free hand. Finished his slice in three bites. Wiped his mouth and beard clean, and then hooked his thumbs into the front pockets of his pants. He had a gut like Santa, but the rest of him was thinner. “You have Rico keeping track of sales?”
Rico was a pizza guy with a habit of sneaking a five or ten spot from the till of one of Dorian’s bodegas. When Dorian found out, instead of firing the guy, he started forcing everyone that worked for him to handwrite each sale—what was sold and for how much—even if they had a computerized register. It was redundant and a waste of time, but nobody was going to tell Dorian that. They’d curse under their breath and continue on with their day. Why would they complain? Get in good with Dorian and you made money. We all knew that. As far as I knew only one of Dorian’s employees ever went behind bars and he—if rumors are to be believed—didn’t make it a week until the sharpened end of a toothbrush met the space between his ribs.
Ernie nodded. “We’re keeping an eye on stuff. Rico’s been behaving.” He chuckled. “Though, the limp slowed him down a bit.”
Dorian eyed him a minute and smirked. “Good.” He turned his attention back to me. “How’s the side-business?”
The “side-business” Dorian’s way of bringing up the more unscrupulous part of his life. The legit joints were chump change compared to what the land deals and other illegal activities brought in. I gave Dorian my winner smile. “It’s been good. I actually closed off that one bid we had in North Carolina before I came out here.”
Dorian smiled. “That’s what I like to hear.” He wandered over to me and patted my back.
I nearly choked on a bite of my pizza. ‘Thank you, Mister Ramirez.”
He laughed. “Good work is its own reward, Dave. See, unlike Ernie over here, you’re a man with work ethic.”
That came out of nowhere.
Dorian continued, “You’re not the type who’d steal behind everyone’s back, bullshit their way through the day, and come back to their boss with a smile on their face and a dagger behind them, right?”
I swallowed my pizza. “No, sir.”
Dorian watched Ernie.
Ernie started shrugging something awful. “Dorian, what the hell are you talking about?”
Dorian turned his head. Stared out at his yard through glass sliding doors. The man had property that seemed to go for miles. The sun was setting. A few yards out, high grass grew. The stalks blew in the wind. “Why don’t you step outside for a little—get some air?” Dorian asked Ernie. He was still smiling, but there wasn’t an ounce of joy in it. This was an animal act—baring of teeth—a threat.
Ernie stopped shrugging. Looked out at the reeds swaying. “I’m okay.” His eyes widened. “Oh, man. I got your ice pops.” Ernie rushed out of the kitchen.
I pulled a second slice of pizza from the box nearest me, folded it, and wrapped a paper towel under the edge of the fold. “You know, if you have business to discuss with Ernie, I can head out.” I was thirsty now, but couldn’t muster the guts to even hint at it. Chewed my pizza and suffered through the hard swallow.
Dorian rested a hand on the back of a chair. “No, you stay here.” He slid the glass door open and whistled between his fingers. In the distance, the high grass seemed to come alive. Dorian closed the door and turned to me. “How long have you been working for me?”
“Something like t
hree years.” It was probably longer than that, but it was the first answer that came out of my mouth.
Dorian pointed to me with his chin. “Are you content with where you are? Do you think you could be doing more?”
“Well, I…”
Ernie walked into the kitchen with a plastic bag. “Got the real fruit ones you like.”
“Coconut?” Dorian clicked his tongue against his teeth.
“No, the pineapple.” Ernie opened the freezer and slid the bag inside. “I know you weren’t thrilled with the last batch.”
Dorian nodded. “Great.” He jabbed a thumb towards the sliding doors. “Grab a slice and take a walk outside.”
Ernie stood by the fridge. “I’d rather not.”
“Get outside,” Dorian roared. Two short words, but it felt as if the whole room would cave in. As if the air were vibrating.
Ernie shrugged. Rubbed the back of his head. He took short, slow steps to the sliding glass doors and opened them. He turned to me, fished his car keys from his pocket, and tossed them over. Then he stepped outside and closed the door without a word. He lit a cigarette and sat down on a rusted folding chair.
The high grass danced violently not far from where Ernie sat. “What’s out there?” I asked before I could stop myself.
Dorian walked to the fridge. Grabbed the entire bag Ernie had placed in the freezer. He walked out of the kitchen. “Come on. We need to discuss this business and where you stand.” His voice echoed around me.
Outside, Ernie watched me leave. Behind him, the grass parted.
Dorian lay in an old-school cast iron tub filled to the brim with scalding hot water. Every time he shifted, water splashed onto the tiles beneath the tub and ran down the drains located at either side.
