On Broken Wings

by Francis Porretto

  Smalley sat in silence for a long interval. Tiny knew he had sold his plan as thoroughly as it needed to be sold. He waited for the policeman to convince himself.

  "You make an attractive case. But the fee for this license will be beyond the usual. To make the risks worthwhile, I'm going to need a slice of the take."

  Tiny nodded. "I expected that."

  "When shall we meet again to discuss details?"

  "How much time do you need to do the planning, Commander?"

  The policeman appeared to calculate. "Give me a week."

  "Done." Tiny strode forward, hand extended. Somewhat to his surprise, Smalley took it. Tiny shifted his grip to a knuckle-cracker and bore down with all his strength. The big cop gasped and staggered. Tiny followed through mercilessly, driving Smalley to his knees.

  "Your vision does you credit, Commander. So does your strength. But I tell you now, I'm as wary of you as you are of me. And if you decide to try to fuck with me, you'll find that I and my associates know quite a lot about fucking as well. Not to mention whom to fuck with. You have my name. I have your name. I also have your home address. I know where your wife works, where your children go to school, and last but not least, the address of the lovely flat you rent for your lovely mistress. Do we understand each other?"

  Face white with pain, Smalley nodded and hissed assent. Tiny let him up and moved smoothly back to the door to the office.

  "Very good, Commander. In a week, then."

  He let himself out and hurried down the corridor toward the street exit. As soon as he was out of the building, he wrenched off his tie, shoved it into his pocket, and undid the three top buttons of his shirt. As he strode toward the car he had borrowed, a laugh rose through his chest, and he did not repress it. Jake Bonham had been one hundred percent correct.

  "Kindred spirits. Hah!"

  ***

  Although it was after ten in the evening, Angel Ortiz was only just home from work. It was a late return even for a man known to be absorbed in his business, but Angel believed that one worked when there was work to be done and until it was done, whenever that happened to be.

  Maria had pouted at him over the phone. He had expected it, and had promised her his undivided attention for the whole of the weekend in recompense. She had giggled in her special way, the one that said I know better than to believe your sweet talk. After she'd stopped giggling, she'd delivered the news of a lifetime. Now she was brushing her hair while he mixed them the cocktails with which they would toast the future that lay before them.

  I am finally to be a father. His joy was difficult to contain.

  He had finished with the drinks and was about to bring them into the bedroom when he heard a commotion in the hallway outside his apartment. He frowned. Vallares Arms was a choice residence, the finest condominium complex in the Hispanic part of Buffalo. Part of what one bought by paying its high apartment prices and commons charges was supposed to be freedom from this kind of irritation. For two years, he and Maria had lived there in gracious tranquillity. But, he supposed, there was no way for building management to exclude strife completely. Domestic quarrels would occur sooner or later in any family, except his.

  The disturbance in the hallway was growing quite loud. Someone was shrieking. There was an unmistakable percussion; it sounded like repeated blows of metal against wood. He turned from the bar and went to his door to see if there was something he could do to put an end to it. Maria wouldn't mind waiting a moment or two longer for her Blue Horizon.

  As he opened the door, Angel Ortiz's last thoughts were of his wife.

  ***

  Tiny was standing back from the action, fondling his bicycle chain, content to watch as Rusty hammered the apartment door to flinders with a tire iron. Half a dozen blows more and they would be through. Then they'd give the occupant something to scream about.

  He sensed rather than heard the door open behind him. As he spun about, a man's head poked around the doorjamb. Tiny swung; the chain wrapped itself around the interloper's neck. One sharp yank, and the man was down and motionless on the hallway floor. A flip of the wrist and the chain came free again, coiling sinuously in its master's hand.

  He nudged the body with the toe of his boot. There was no reaction. The man's eyes were open, staring at nothing.

  Should have minded your own business, asshole. We'd have gotten to you soon enough.

  The adrenaline rush of sudden violence brought a savage grin to Tiny's face. He was done with watching. He left Rusty to his hacking and slipped through the open apartment door. No one else was in evidence. The place reeked of money: deep pile carpets, leather furniture, heavy, gold-embossed drapes, and ceramic figurines and spun-glass ornaments all arranged just so. Not a speck of dust on anything.

  He scanned the apartment for the master bedroom. That was where they always kept the good stuff, the cash and the easily carried, easily fenced items.

  He shoved open the likeliest door and found himself on top of a gorgeous Hispanic woman in a satin negligee. There was a hairbrush in her hand and an expression of outrage on her face.

  Something to spend the rush on.

  His grin widened. He closed the door behind him and depressed the button-style latch on the knob.

  He bumped her backwards, into the room and against the edge of the bed. She tottered and sat. She screamed and tried to rise, and would have tried to flee, but he was upon her, his legs pinning hers against the side of the bed.

  She tried to back away from him then, outrage engulfed by fear, realizing what had to have become of her husband, but it was too late. He came down upon her full length, one hand clamped over her mouth, the other groping for his zipper to turn loose his raging erection.

  This part of the take I don't have to split with anyone.

  There would be plenty of time to search for valuables later.

  ====

  Chapter 10

  After three weeks, it was no longer strange or disorienting for Christine to awaken in the peach bedroom, to writhe and stretch amid the bedclothes and prepare to face the day. Even with the blinds drawn, the east-facing window admitted enough slivers of morning light to awaken her naturally.

  She could hear Louis moving around the kitchen before she opened the bedroom door. Spring had asserted itself, and the morning was warm. On impulse, she disdained the robe he had given her and went to join him in her briefs.

  He was at the sink as she came in. He didn't turn. "Good morning. Not too much in the fridge, I'm afraid."

  "That's okay, I'm not hungry."

  "Chris, you will eat breakfast." He dried his hands. "I just don't know –" He had turned to face her. "Where's your robe?"

  She shrugged. "It's not cold."

  He strode from the room without looking at her. He returned with the robe and held it out to her with a wordless command in his eyes. She put it on.

  "Don't do that again."

  "Why not?"

  His face passed through half a dozen variations on consternation and shock. "Chris, there are proprieties, there are rules, for Christ's sake! When you present yourself to a man naked it conveys a message! Hadn't that occurred to you?"

  Red faced, she shook her head. She was half angry at him for reproving her, and half terrified that she might have offended him.

  "Was there a message, Christine?"

  She shook her head again and stared at the floor. The Nag came awake for the first time in many days.

  There was, wasn't there? He treats you too well and you feel obligated, but he asks for nothing and takes nothing. You can feel the bill mounting, and you're afraid that when he presents it, it'll be beyond your ability to pay. You'd do damned near anything just for a hint at this point, wouldn't you?

  As always, the disembodied voice in her skull was right on target. She fought to dispel the unseen advisor and reserve her attention for Louis. The Nag vanished, but the thought remained.

  When was he going to tell her what he wanted
from her? How awful must it be, that he was taking so long to get it out in the open? What would she do when he brought it forth?

  He punctured her anguish with a sharp expulsion of breath. "Never mind, it's mostly my fault. For three weeks you've been living out of my closet. I should have taken care of it first thing, but I let myself get distracted. So we take care of it at once. School's out for today."

  Her fears surged again. "What are we doing?"

  "Shopping."

  ***

  How the hell am I supposed to do this? I can hardly even pick out clothes for myself.

  They drove in silence. Christine faced straight ahead the whole way, hands clasped in her lap. Incipient panic was visible on her face. Now that he had precipitated this adventure, Louis would have liked to reassure her that everything would be all right, if only he could reassure himself.

  Albrecht's was busy for a Monday. The bustle of shoppers moving through the parking lot further amplified Louis's tardy misgivings. He did his best to put them aside. It didn't work.

  I haven't even taken her out to a grocery store yet.

  As he parked the truck, he turned to her and said, "Chris, will you wait here for me for about fifteen minutes, please? No wandering off? Just wait for me to come back?"

  "Why?"

  "I have to find someone and tell her you're coming. She's going to help us shop. This is going to be really special, and a few things won't be ready for us until I come back for you. Will you just wait here, please? And try not to be afraid?"

  She nodded. He knew her stoicism for a pose intended to please him, but he tried not to show it. "I promise I'll come straight back." He slid out of the cab and sprinted for the doors. He did not look back. He did not want her to think he doubted her.

  To his relief, Albrecht's women's department was not as busy as he'd feared. It was only a moment before he'd located and reached the office of the department head. She was a petite, meticulously groomed, and exceedingly attractive woman of perhaps forty, a little shorter than he even in her high heels, who carried herself with regal posture.

  "Ma'am, I have a special request, and if you can't or won't oblige me, I'll understand."

  Her expression was pleasant but noncommittal. "What is it that you need?"

  He waved toward the door. "Out in my truck is a young woman who's been physically and emotionally maimed. Less than a month ago, a motorcycle accident ruined her face and nearly ended her life. She has no one and nothing. She needs clothes."

  "And?"

  "And if it meets with your approval and your schedule for the day, you and I are going to help her buy them."

  "Could you please be more specific, Mr. -- ?"

  "Redmond, Louis Redmond." He reached for his wallet. "Here, run this through your reader and hold onto it, would you please? We'll be needing it." He fumbled out a gold card.

  Her expression dubious, she did as he asked. When she returned, a new note of respect had entered her voice.

  "How does one acquire a hundred-thousand-dollar credit limit, Mr. Redmond? I've never seen one before."

  "I have funds in escrow to secure it. May I assume that I'll have your assistance?"

  He watched for an indication of assent, but she was still reserving judgement. "May I meet the young lady?"

  "In a moment. Do you have a private room we can use for this? Her scars are very visible, and I don't want a lot of flinching passers-by."

  "Certainly. We'll use this one. I'll have some privacy screens brought in. There is a fee, of course."

  Relief crept over him. "Of course. Have you ever helped a child pick out clothes?"

  "Yes, why?"

  "I think this will be a lot like that. She has the body of a grown woman, but little sense of self. Whenever she says 'I' or 'me,' you can hear her straining. You and I have to guide her without being obvious."

  "Just how old is she?"

  Louis scowled. "I don't know, and she doesn't, either. My guess is about twenty-five, but I wouldn't bet the rent on it. She could be anything from twenty to thirty."

  "Is it really that bad, Mr. Redmond?"

  "Worse." He paused, wondering how much explanation would be right. "She was basically the chattel of a motorcycle gang for the past several years. I won't disturb your sleep by telling you what they did to her. Let's just say it did nothing for her opinion of herself."

  She continued to listen like a detective listening for a false note in the description of a crime. He thought of Christine sitting alone in his truck, paralyzed with fright, not knowing what was about to happen to her, and his patience evaporated.

  "I want you to bring her your best. Clothes appropriate to a very high-toned environment. Classics. Dresses, suits, high heels. Your best fabrics, silk, linen, like that. I need the use of your taste and judgment. A complete wardrobe, two weeks' worth of outfits without a trip to the cleaners. Consider the whole of that credit line to be available if we need it."

  Her mouth dropped open. She studied his face at length. He kept his silence.

  "You're a perceptive man, Mr. Redmond. And now, may I meet -- ?"

  "Christine. I'll be bringing her momentarily. And thank you, Ms. -- ?"

  "Davenport, Helen Davenport."

  "I'll be right back." He was sprinting before he'd reached the door.

  ***

  Louis didn't quite have to drag her, but if he hadn't had so tight a grip on her hand, Christine might have cut and run before they'd reached Albrecht's front doors. Every time another shopper came near, she flinched away, into Louis's familiar and comforting shape. She could not help noticing that a few of them flinched away from her as well.

  The bustle of activity, the fabulous array of goods, the whirl of color and light in the great department store were enough to disorient her completely, if she allowed herself to notice it. Only a month ago, she would not have been allowed to enter. She clutched Louis's hand and tried not to see or hear anything or anyone.

  He put an arm around her shoulders and led her into a large office, where a petite, beautiful woman wearing a pretty velvet suit rose from behind a desk to greet them with a warm smile.

  "Christine, my name is Helen. Mr. Redmond tells me you'd like to see some new clothes."

  As nice as Helen seemed, it was all Christine could do not to dive behind the curtains and hide. She turned to Louis, who gave her a nod and a squeeze of the hand.

  "Yes, thank you, Ma'am."

  Helen moved to her side and slipped an arm around her waist, pulled her away from Louis and guided her to a large three-paneled mirror at the side of the room. After positioning her new charge, Helen moved a little way off and studied Christine and her several reflections with intense but professional interest.

  "You have a dramatic figure, dear, and good posture to show it off with. We've just received a line of skirt suits that most women can't carry well -- too severely cut -- but on you, I think they'd look excellent. Would you like to see one or two of them?"

  Anxieties waning, Christine turned toward Helen and unleashed the devastation of her smile. Helen responded in kind, and they were off.

  ***

  What had started with such trepidation on all fronts soon turned into a positive delight. Albrecht's women's department was as good as its reputation, and that day Helen Davenport did them proud. For Louis, it was a pleasure to watch her lead Christine through the range of choices they'd agreed upon, helping the frightened young woman to relax and to see herself as worthy of so much expense and attention. Soon Christine was enjoying herself, too.

  Toward the end of the morning, as Christine retreated behind the privacy screens with a forest green velvet suit and high-heeled pumps much like Helen's own, the department manager took Louis by the arm and drew him aside.

  "We have a lot left to cover." She held her voice to a low murmur. "You're well over three thousand dollars already."

  He swallowed hard, then shrugged.

  "She needs more foundations, hosiery, fiv
e or six more pairs of shoes. And she should see a manicurist at once. I can bring one in later today. What about makeup?"

  "Maybe not today."

  "There's something else. Do you have any other lady friends?"

  He tensed. "No."

  Her eyebrows went up. "Really? I can't imagine why. She needs to learn a few things about hygiene."

  "Like shaving?" It hadn't occurred to him until that moment.

  Lady, if you think I'm going to climb into the tub with her and show her how to shave her legs, you're nuts.

  "Among other things. Do we have the day for this?"

  He nodded. "Are you up to it?"

  She grinned. "Watch my curve ball, slugger."

  "You're not just up to it, you're into it, aren't you?"

  The grin only became wider. "Aren't you?"

  Christine emerged from behind the screens, looking vibrant and excited in the velvet suit. Helen exclaimed, "Chris, that's stunning on you, you have just the right figure for it. Leave it on, I know you'll be taking it. How would the two of you like to join me for lunch?"

  ***

  Helen Davenport's condominium was beautiful and tasteful, the expression of a mature aesthetic sensibility in cool colors and Danish Modern furniture. She guided Louis and Christine into her dinette, where she bade them sit and be comfortable while she went to her larder. Within five minutes she had produced a cold collation of meats, cheeses, crackers and fruit, and had opened a bottle of chilled Rhine wine to go along with it. All three of them ate with gusto, and soon were very merry.

  Louis had long wondered at the female tendency to giggle in company. Now he saw it at close range, and even participated a little himself. The cold sweet wine and the copious food loosened everyone's buttons. The two women, for all the difference in their ages, origins, and stations in life, could have been childhood friends.