Made for Murder

by Julie Hyzy

  Donny addressed her in a guttural voice. “Get out of here before I tell Bobby to take care of you, too.” He turned toward the bathroom, and slammed open the six-panel door with the palm of his hand, but it met with an obstruction, and stopped short.

  Uncle Fred emerged from the shadows behind the blocked door. “I believe the lady said, ‘not so fast,’” he said calmly. The old man’s eyes were bright over a pouchy, malevolent grin and he spoke in cool, measured tones. But it was the sleek, silenced Walther PPK pointed directly at his chest that caught Donny’s attention. His brain stutter-stepped.

  “Uncle Fred,” he said, with forced joviality. “She… she said you were dead. Thank God you’re okay.” Too late, Donny noticed his uncle was perfectly dry and fully clothed. He shot an accusatory look at Susan. “You lied to me.”

  She blew him a kiss. Smiled.

  Donny thought about calling for help from Bobby and Mark, just outside. His quick glance toward the door must have telegraphed his thoughts because Uncle Fred shook his head. “Don’t even think about it, Donny. My guys are taking care of your two clowns right now.” As though by pre-arranged signal, a half-second later, one of the goon squad came through the door. He nodded to Fred, then stood behind Donny, pressing something metal and hard against Donny’s back.

  “You,” Donny said, glaring at Susan. “You did this.” He looked back to his uncle, but saw nothing there but cold hatred. “She did this. She’s setting me up.”

  Uncle Fred shook his silver head. “I heard everything, boy. And it nearly broke my heart.” He shrugged. “Not that I didn’t expect something like this from you. God, Donny, you had such a future. But then you tried to pull something like this.”

  Susan sat cross-legged on the big bed, watching them. Donny couldn’t make himself comprehend what was going down. “You said you hated him,” he said.

  She smiled again. “Nope. You said that.”

  “But,” Donny sputtered, not understanding. “You said…” he knew he sounded like a whining toddler, but he couldn’t go out like this—not knowing. He’d done everything right. He was supposed to be the head of the family now. What had he done wrong? “You said…”

  “I said I had a score to settle,” Susan finished for him as she stood and moved close to Fred. “Your uncle got me out of a very bad situation and away from some very nasty people a long time ago. He helped me when I needed it, and he didn’t ask for anything in return.” She smiled up at the corpulent septuagenarian like he was some sort of god. “I’m just glad I got this chance to pay him back.”

  Donny’s stomach lurched. The big guy behind him yanked at his arms, pulling them back and twisting some sort of scratchy restraint around his wrists.

  “Good-bye, Donny,” Uncle Fred said. “I’ll be sure your family’s taken care of.”

  The bile rose in Donny’s throat. He wanted to spit at them both. Instead he fixed Susan with a stare of disgust. “I paid her well, Fred. You might as well get my money’s worth with her before you kick her out.”

  Susan canted her head. Snapped her fingers. “You’re right.” She reached into her little purse and pulled out the suffocation bag.

  Her blue eyes glittering, she advanced on Donny, whipping open the plastic bag with a hollow thwack. “I always repay my debts, Mr. LaRocco.” she said. “And I still owe you a hit, don’t I?”

  Evenings for Vylette

  It was night, now.

  Vylette watched, as she always did, from the second-story porch that overlooked the alley and eight small yards below.

  Evening was families, seven of them, spilling out untidily onto the still-warm grass, carrying beers from blue-curtained kitchens to waiting hands that reached out from mesh lawn-chair cocoons. Evening meant tuning the brown transistor radio till Rosemary Clooney’s voice softened the night with her wistful melodies.

  Evening was mothers, quietly talking. Touching each other as they shared a joke or leaned back in their chairs to look about, assuring themselves that children playing ghosts in the graveyard were still all in one piece.

  Evening was tee-shirted men, some muscular, some not, their perspiring faces reflecting the citronella candles’ glow. Evening meant laughter and yells that muted to murmurs and whispers as toddlers climbed up on their fathers’ laps to fall asleep, still part of the revelry, but comfortable in the safety of strong arms. Older siblings, right behind, stumbled into the parents’ circle, rubbing eyes and crying for silly, indecipherable reasons, causing the mothers to stand up as one, herding them off to bed, patting their heads and quelling their whines.

  The men would savor this last beer, the one in their hand. For with children put to bed, the wives would return to the yard, no longer to chat and mingle. They’d saunter by in their pastel cotton shorts, to pick up toys and empty beer bottles, shaking them to assure their emptiness. They’d smile and maybe let their hand rest ever so lightly on their husband’s necks as they leaned in to whisper that it was time for bed. The men, as one, would stand up to close their mesh chairs and complain about women, all the while hoping that their wives were waiting for them inside.

  And with the snap of the last yellow porch light, evening ended and night began.

  Vylette watched long after night came.

  Behind her, through the curtainless porch window that opened to their dark kitchen, blue television flickers told her that Mother still hadn’t gone to bed.

  Maybe one night Vylette would walk down the stairs, talk to the families below. Perhaps, they would see her nervousness, and understand right away that it hadn’t been her all these years who screamed at the little children recovering errant toys from her lawn. They’d see right away that Vylette was a nice person, and they’d pull up a chair and offer her some lemonade.

  She sighed.

  “Vylette!”

  At Mother’s bombastic summons, Vylette pushed open the heavy door to the kitchen, reluctantly leaving the cricket-song darkness for the incessant blare of TV. Large-smiling people grinned stupidly in shades of black, white and grey, singing catchy toothpaste songs.

  The yellow rocking chair in the corner slowed its rhythmic movements, now that its occupant was up on her feet. Though small-boned, Mother’s years of sitting in the worn vinyl chair had added enough weight to more than double that of Vylette’s. Years of cradling cigarettes had worn deep grooves around her pale lips.

  The stale smell of smoke was encouraging; Mother hadn’t yet lit a new cigarette. Maybe she was ready for bed after all.

  “Where were you?”

  “On the porch, Ma, like usual.”

  “Go get me some Lucky Strikes.” Mother said. Reaching into the coffee can from atop of the refrigerator, she dragged out a wrinkled dollar. “Here,” she said, thrusting the money. “And hurry, I think the liquor store closes at twelve.”

  The walk home was quiet. Vylette listened to the night, heard her own soft footsteps, felt the cool breeze that tickled where she’d perspired, and tried to catch between tree branches a glimpse of the stars, bright in the inky sky.

  At the corner of Douglas and Spaulding, she stopped and took a deep breath of the damp evening air. Douglas Street. Straight, direct and quick. Spaulding Lane, the only curvy road in the neighborhood; the one that would take her past the library, four blocks out of her way.

  Another breeze kicked up, with a whisper of trembling leaves. It lifted her hair from her shoulders, smelling like the promise of morning dew.

  Spaulding. Of course.

  Even at night, beneath the streetlights, with the muggy mist dancing around their softly buzzing glow, the library beckoned. The hum of far-off traffic accompanied night sounds as she crossed the street to the front door. She’d been here at seven when they’d politely asked the last two patrons to leave. She’d been one. And he’d been the other.

  Vylette lifted her hand—hesitated. He’d touched the handle right there—held the door open for her as she left. She looked around and thought about how odd she must l
ook right now, hand poised over a locked glass door.

  She had to touch where he touched.

  It was wet, from the humidity. And cold. Why had she expected it to be warm?

  She kept her hand on the top of the handle and laid her forehead on it. Who was he? And why was he having such an effect on her?

  She couldn’t remember exactly the first time she’d seen him. At some point, though, he’d begun to look familiar, and she realized that he was at the library nearly as often as she was.

  It all began about a month ago. With a nod of recognition. He’d nodded. She’d smiled.

  Their little ritual. Repeated as they crossed paths, both of them browsing, or when she passed the table where he sat, his books spread out in all directions.

  Repeated when he strolled between the high cases and happened upon Vylette, searching, or leaning or reading.

  And tonight, as he’d held the door, he’d said “Good-night.”

  Standing there, eyes closed, Vylette conjured up the memory. He was tall, maybe six feet. Handsome too, and solidly built. Thirty-two, she guessed. She smiled as she thought, perfect.

  Inadvertently, she grasped the cigarette pack tighter. The crinkle of the paper brought her out of her reverie and she raised her head.

  She stepped back from the door, letting her hand linger a moment. “Good night,” she whispered.

  Vylette ran the rest of the way home.

  “It’s gonna be hot again today,” Mother said, as she shuffled into the kitchen, holding onto the plastic tile walls for balance. She grimaced. “You making bacon and eggs again?”

  “It’s Saturday, Ma. It’s what you like.”

  “Yeah, well. Last week they didn’t taste so good. Maybe we ought to go back to Oscar Mayer bacon. And let me have three eggs today.”

  Vylette heard the scrape of the heavy oak chair against the linoleum and the whoosh of the plastic seat as her mother lowered herself into it. She turned each of the pieces of bacon once before reaching for the percolator.

  As the coffee poured into Mother’s cup, her eyes lit up. If there was one thing Vylette did right, it was coffee. Pushing the container of half-and-half closer to mother, she turned back to the stove to finish the bacon. Leaving the strips a little fatty, just the way Mother liked it, she was about to start frying the eggs. “Sunny side up?”

  Mother stared straight ahead, her cup held tightly before her in her fleshy hands, but she glanced up long enough to nod. Turning back to the burners, Vylette wondered what her mother thought about for all the hours she sat alone in the apartment. In this lonely old three-flat with no other tenants. How many years had it been since she’d gone outside for something other than a doctor’s appointment? Ten? Mother would venture to the porch sometimes and find some reason to complain about the grass or the garden or the weather, but mostly she stayed here, in the kitchen, with the television.

  Vylette placed the steaming plate of buttery eggs and fatty bacon on the table next to the pile of toast. She refilled Mother’s cup and sat down across from her.

  “Aren’t you eating?” Mother asked, picking up her fork.

  “Don’t feel like it right now.” Vylette said, and then waited a moment. “Ma?”

  “Mmm?”

  “Don’t you ever want to get to know the families around here? The neighbors?”

  “Why would I?”

  “It just seems like they like each other so much. They get together almost every night and talk. Just talk. Wouldn’t that be nice, Ma? We could get to know other people and make friends with them.”

  Mother chewed a piece of bacon as she stared at Vylette. “That’s what it looks like to you. But just try and join them. You’ll find out real quick that the only reason they get together is to make each other jealous.” She held her fork aloft and gestured with it. “Every mother down there thinks her kid is the smartest, or the prettiest or whatever. And she’s gonna give another mother a compliment about their kid, but it won’t be a real compliment at all. It’ll be something like ‘oh your son is such a good loser—I know my son wouldn’t handle that so good—since he never loses nothing.’ Stuff like that.”

  “I don’t think so, Ma.”

  “No, of course you don’t. You aren’t one of them. They all look so nice and polite, don’t they? But they aren’t. I know they all talk about me behind my back. The kids think I’m some sort of monster. But I don’t care. Let them. Keeps them away from me.”

  Vylette sighed.

  Mother swallowed more eggs. “But you go ahead, if you want. Go.” One side of her mouth curled up, and she winked without smiling. “Go. See if I’m wrong.”

  Vylette handed the novel, finished late the night before, to the young librarian behind the desk. And then she headed for the reading room.

  Vylette tried to look nonchalant as she scanned the shelves. She chose a book with a colorful binding, and opened it, giving herself a moment to think while she scanned the room. Yes! He was here.

  Do something, she thought. You’ve waited all day. He’s here. Do something.

  She closed and carried the book, trying to look purposeful, as she pushed herself toward him. He looked up as she neared.

  “Hello,” he said. And then he smiled.

  She hadn’t expected the smile. Nor her reaction to it. She felt her face flush hotly as she clutched the book a little harder. She looked up at him.

  “Hi,” she said.

  Vylette raced up the back steps of the three flat, tearing open the flimsy screen door that they never bothered to lock. The neighbors were still out, and Vylette heard the strains of “Fascination” as she passed. Her footsteps slapped at the black plastic runners that protected the grey painted steps as she ran.

  “Vylette!” Mother said as she came in the door, “where have you been?”

  “I went to the library.”

  She looked Vylette up and down, “You have no books.”

  Vylette felt the familiar rush of blood to her face, and cursed herself.

  “You were out with a man, weren’t you?”

  Vylette bit her lip.

  “Were you?”

  “Would that be so bad, Ma?” Vylette said, plaintively, wishing she sounded more confident.

  “Who is he?”

  Vylette didn’t answer.

  “Some masher, I think. Looking for innocent girls to prey on. You be careful. They can sweet-talk a pretty young thing like yourself into doing things you shouldn’t be doing.”

  “Ma.”

  “What is his name?”

  “His name?”

  “Yeah. He has a name, doesn’t he?”

  “It’s…” Vylette looked at her mother, “Gabriel. Just like the angel.”

  “Did you like the stew?” Vylette asked.

  Her mother made a face that said, so-so. She stood up to turn on the kitchen television, the small thing they kept on top of the sewing cabinet, and turned the dial to channel two. She turned the volume up, probably to drown out the sound of the water as Vylette did the dishes.

  Turning back to the sink, Vylette scrubbed the aluminum pot and ran it under the hot water, letting the sting of the rushing water surround her hands to her wrists. She glanced up at the clock with the fake white lattice on either side of the green clock face. Nearly five. Maybe he’d be there tonight again. Maybe he was there now, waiting for her.

  “You’re not going out again tonight, are you?” Mother asked, from the yellow vinyl rocker that kept shifting to the left if you actually rocked in it. She’d been at it for some time, so she stood now, and lifted the chair by its arms, shifting the entire thing to the far right. In moments she would have to do it again.

  “I thought…”

  “There’s a special tonight. Lawrence Welk. Don’t you want to see it?”

  “No, Ma, not tonight.”

  Rushing, and trying to look nonchalant at the same time, Vylette made her way to the library. The walk took mere minutes, but it felt like she was
moving in slow-motion.

  She tried not to look too eager as she surveyed the reading room. She looked once, twice. He wasn’t there. Maybe, she thought, a different room? But if that was the case, maybe he wouldn’t want to be disturbed. Should she look, or just let well enough alone?

  Taking her time to decide, Vylette picked up the same book she’d grabbed in haste the other day. A book on horticulture. My good luck book, she decided.

  Within a minute, she gave up trying to wait and moved through the library to look for Gabe. He wasn’t in the secondary room; he wasn’t even in the juvenile room.

  Disappointed, she returned to the main room and started perusing the shelves. Her finger ran along the spines of the romance novels and she chose one by an author she liked. This would do, she thought, and she sat at the table Gabriel had used yesterday and she opened the book to read. The horticulture book, titled Cuttings and Propagation, sat on the table next to her.

  After reading the first page of the romance novel for the eighth time, Vylette shut the book and stared at the windows over the bookcases, dimming with the impending darkness. She pictured each neighbor family coming out, comfortable and sure in the knowledge that the other families would be there too. Important to each other.

  Maybe she wasn’t as important to Gabriel as he was to her.

  She flipped through the horticulture book. And tried not to wait.

  Mother shook Vylette’s arm, breaking into her thoughts.

  “How many times do I have to ask?”

  Vylette raised her head from the novel and blinked. Mother was standing next to her, leaning on the kitchen table, holding out money.

  “Half & Half. We need Half & Half.”

  “Sorry,” Vylette mumbled, standing.

  “So, tell me,” Mother began, “This Gabriel. He’s at the library every night?”

  “No, not every night.” Vylette reached under the table for her shoes, “but almost.”