The train ride home was uneventful. I got my favorite corner seat after a couple of stops, and I even managed to look out the window as we headed for the Frankford station.
I limped to my apartment five blocks from the El station, unlocked the deadbolt, and paused in the doorway. Something was wrong. I always left a light on in the kitchen, and it was off. Instead, the bedroom light was on. Someone had been here. I paused, listening, and heard a slight creak from my sofa. Broken springs could be useful sometimes.
Then I caught a faint whiff of lavender.
"Reach out to your right,” I said, “and turn on the lamp, Mr. Tortelli. I like to see my guests."
There followed a half-second silence, then two sharp clicks as he turned the switch. A dim yellow bulb came on, revealing my Spartan living room: worn yellow sofa, two white-and-yellow wingback chairs, wooden coffee table, two tall bookcases mostly devoted to bric-a-brac. As the lamp's fluorescent bulb began to warm, the light steadily increased.
Tortelli leaned back, watching me. He wore another silk suit, dark blue this time with pinstripes. His tie glistened faintly, like sharkskin. Even his black shoes had an enviable shine.
"Two seconds in the dark to realize you had an intruder, identify him, and conclude you weren't in danger. Very good, Mr. Geller. Very good indeed."
"Not in danger? You understate your abilities, Mr. Tortelli."
He half shrugged modestly. “Perhaps."
I came in and closed the door. Casually I glanced around the room, taking inventory ... not that I owned anything worth stealing. Every object in the room had been moved slightly out of place; it would take hours to put them back. And the changes were so slight that few others would have noticed, or cared.
"Why the search?” I asked. “What were you hoping to find?"
"You knew my name,” he said. “My old name. I haven't used it in nearly three years. I need to know how."
"We met in Atlantic City when you worked at the Golden Nugget.” I eased myself into a chair, wincing a bit. Then I told him my casino-enlightenment story. “Of course,” I went on, “your hair is a bit different, and your clothes are vastly better these days. You've really come up in the world."
"And you remembered me, even after all these years?” He looked surprised. “I must have made quite an impression on you."
"No.” I leaned forward. “I remember everything and everyone, Mr. Tortelli. It's a curse. Oh, sorry, I'm a bad host. If you'd like a drink, please help yourself. Beer in the fridge, hard stuff over the sink. I'm not up to waiting on anyone. Need to catch my breath."
"Still...” He rose and began to pace. “It took quite a bit of effort to find out about you, Mr. Geller. Or may I call you Pit?"
"If you like. Charles? Or Charlie?"
"Cal."
"Ah.” So much for “C. Tortelli” on his nametag. “See? I don't know everything."
"I don't like loose ends, Pit. I imagine you don't, either."
"Sometimes I do.” I tensed, but tried not to show it. Was I a loose end, to be rubbed out in my own apartment?
He seemed to sense my unease and chuckled. “I like you, ‘Pit Bull’ Peter Geller. You have a unique style.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small, almost square bit of plastic, which he flipped onto the coffee table.
It was a flash memory card for a digital camera. I leaned forward with interest.
"From the blackmailers?"
"Yes. As far as I can tell, it contains the originals of their pictures. There don't appear to be any copies."
"Thank you,” I said.
He nodded once, then rose and started for the door. Halfway out, he paused. “You turned down Hunt's offer of a car. May I ask why?"
How did he know that? My phone had to be bugged. I'd deal with it later.
I said, “I don't need a car. The insurance premiums would eat me alive. And this isn't the right neighborhood for a BMW, anyway. Wouldn't last a week on the street."
He nodded. “Interesting. Thank you, Pit. I'll be in touch."
A shiver ran through me at those words. But then he closed the door and was gone. And somehow, I didn't feel like drinking.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Copyright © 2005 by John Gregory Betancourt.
[Back to Table of Contents]
In the Fire by Peter Sellers
Shortly before noon on a warm Monday in late June, the Asian Express opened to great fanfare and a waiting line of customers. By the end of the following week we were getting hate mail.
The anonymous letters were on stationery from one of the provincial government ministries a couple of blocks away. The correspondent claimed that “the best rats in town wouldn't eat there.” That wasn't true. I'd seen them in the alley, making off with our scraps.
Kevin and I had found the job at the University of Toronto Student Employment Office. The posting said that a new fast food restaurant needed staff. The pay was two fifty an hour days, and three bucks nights. The job wasn't what either of us was looking for, but it wasn't as bad as most of the other opportunities advertised. It didn't involve waiting tables, lifting boxes, or selling things over the phone. We called and were told to be at an apartment in Thorncliffe Park the next evening at seven.
Donald Chu answered the door wearing a tight-fitting tank top and a Speedo. “Come in,” he said. “Come in, please."
At first I thought it was another one of those situations and that the ad had been a ruse. But Donald Chu was smaller than I was, and Kevin was a lot bigger. Unless Chu knew karate, we could have taken him. When he stepped aside we saw three guys and a girl sitting in his dining room. They were around our age and fully dressed. We joined them.
"It is called Asian Express,” Donald Chu said as he walked back and forth, waving his arms enthusiastically, “because everything will be fast. The food will be good Chinese food. Egg roll. Chop suey. Pineapple chicken. The service will be fast, fast. The food will be hot and ready. People will come in and get good food fast and go away and come back tomorrow. There is no other Chinese food in the area, and Chinese food is very, very popular.” He was right about that. But he didn't explain why his staff consisted of four Jewish guys, a Greek girl, and me. I wondered if the rest of them knew any more about preparing Chinese food than Kevin and I did.
Training took place over two days during the week before opening. In those few hours we were supposed to learn everything there was to know about running a fast food outlet. Fortunately, there wasn't much actual cooking involved. Most of the food arrived already prepared and frozen in vacuum-sealed plastic bags.
One of Donald's equipment suppliers, a flamboyant man in a felt hat and a camel hair sport jacket despite the heat, talked lovingly about the new bain marie, a tank of water kept almost at the boiling point. The frozen plastic bags were suspended in the water for set amounts of time, and the food was supposed to emerge hot and ready to serve. The salesman's pudgy hands caressed the machine tenderly and directed most of his instructions at me.
We learned about the microwave oven. It seemed fantastic that you could pop uncooked food into a cold oven and it would be ready to serve a few minutes later. There was a brief seminar on the deep fryer and how to make egg rolls and wontons. I never got that quite right, and they frequently came out soggy.
We learned how the steam table worked and we were shown the trick of spraying the food with water and stirring it to give the illusion of freshness. As time went on, we did that a lot.
Donald also showed us how much food to serve in the various Styrofoam containers. The small portions were guaranteed to ensure that customers would be on their way quickly. We were shown where to put the garbage in the side alley, and we were taught how to clean and maintain the machines. That information came late in the day. By then I was having trouble keeping my mind from wandering.
Donald posted the first week's schedule. Kevin and I got some of the night hours. Cary and Moshe got the rest. Ira didn't want to work nig
hts and Donald didn't want Louise doing it. She'd have been quite safe, probably, but no one knew that at the time.
For the first couple of weeks, most of the food was kept in a basement freezer and heated up every morning. As the day progressed, we could replenish as needed. The rice arrived freshly cooked in the morning, delivered to the side door by two Chinese men, and was placed in the steam table. It needed to be sprayed and stirred most often.
I didn't eat Chinese food, but Kevin said that what we were serving wasn't good. The frozen sauces had odd, artificial flavors. The meat that wasn't gristle was dry. The reheating was inconsistent. Donald didn't seem to notice. He let us open up, get the food ready, and serve it, with no supervision. When he did show up, he usually didn't stay long.
One night, two girls came in asking for pineapple chicken. There was none ready, but Kevin and I didn't have the heart to tell them. He said it would be a couple of minutes and I got a package from the freezer and popped it into the microwave.
We chatted with the girls until the oven beeped. The chicken was still frozen. I gave it another couple of minutes, then a couple more. We kept joking, but the girls were checking their watches. I took the chicken out of the oven and touched a couple of pieces. It was warm enough and the sauce was hot. The girls didn't come back to complain. They never came back to eat again, either.
There were tourists who didn't know any better and a small group of hardy souls who came back day after day. One of them gazed around the otherwise empty store and looked sad. “I don't understand it,” he said, taking his dollar ninety-five lunch. “This stuff is great. See you tomorrow.” True to his word, he returned almost daily until the end.
The usual customer response wasn't so kind or so generous. A man who stopped in for an egg roll came back and threw it on the counter. “I can't eat this shit. It's disgusting."
Kevin gazed into the deep fryer. He put his face down close to it and sniffed. “Maybe we should clean this,” he said.
* * * *
The humidity in Toronto could always get bad in July, but in 1975 it was particularly unkind. Being on Wellesley Street just off Yonge, we did a fair business selling cold drinks to passersby. Quite often one of us would have to go down the basement to replace the tanks of syrup. Other than stirring the rice, there wasn't much else to do. We spent a lot of time leaning on the counter watching the street.
"Rapunzel's at it again,” Kevin said.
Across the street, on the second floor, was a body rub parlor, which were big in those days. One of the girls was a blonde with long wavy hair. She liked to lean out the window and call to men passing below. Most ignored her. Some yelled back. Occasionally, one would change course and head up the stairs.
"You notice something?” I asked Kevin as two plump, balding men surrendered to Rapunzel's siren song.
"What?"
"All the guys who go up there are old."
"Yeah,” Kevin said.
"I wonder what it's like up there,” I said, when Rapunzel was back.
"Go find out,” Kevin said. “I'll mind the store."
I looked up at Rapunzel and thought, she's way out of my league. “I'll think about it,” I said.
* * * *
At the end of the second week, there was still enough business dribbling in to keep Donald's spirits high. But he cut staff. “I have to fire Ira,” Donald said. “He's too slow. Here we have to be fast, fast.” He slapped the back of one hand against the palm of the other. “And I have to fire Louise. She can't work nights.” That was too bad. Louise was cute and I thought she liked me.
* * * *
Thursday was what Kevin and I called Boys’ Night Out. There were several gay bathhouses in the area, and Thursday was the busiest night.
Not many of the bathhouse-bound men were in the mood for Chinese. When they went by our window, some peered in as if checking to see what we could see. Most just walked past.
One man, though, stopped at the window. He was maybe fifty and slightly scruffy. He stared through the glass, not at the menu and the walls as people did in the daytime. He looked at me. I glanced away, then back. He was still staring. I told Kevin I had to get something from the basement. When I came upstairs the man had gone.
* * * *
Queer men have always been attracted to me. One day I was sitting on the subway, beside the door, when I noticed that a guy across the car was staring at me. When I looked at him he winked. As the train pulled into the next station, he came to stand by the door. Reaching out, he pressed his fingers into my shoulder and held his hand out to me, leaving it there until the doors opened.
* * * *
One of our regulars was a guy who wore military fatigue trousers and had his hair buzzed. He drifted in one evening and stood at the counter eating chow mein. “Good food,” he said. We were so grateful we gave him a free drink. He looked surprised when I handed it to him. He said his name was Chuck and he told us about things he ate while on patrol in Vietnam. Compared to roasted rat and raw bamboo shoots, our food may have been okay.
Chuck ate without looking at the food. His head never rested. All the time he talked he looked around. It was disconcerting. Kevin and I both started doing it unconsciously.
"Thanks for the Coke,” he said, and he walked away, searching.
* * * *
The food was better now. Donald had changed suppliers, probably too late. Word of mouth spreads fast and I wouldn't have been surprised to see people crossing the street to avoid us.
The frozen food was gone. Instead, the Chinese men who brought the rice filled the steam table with the whole menu, fresh and hot. It looked and smelled fine, at least for the first few hours. Then we sprayed and stirred as much as before. If supplies ran low, we called Donald. We had to let the phone ring twice, hang up, and then call again before he'd answer.
* * * *
The next Thursday night, I was cleaning up some garbage that a couple of drunks had left on the counter when the scruffy man came back. He appeared at the window staring at me like before. As soon as he knew that I'd seen him, he came in.
"Hi,” he said.
Kevin was downstairs changing a soft drink canister. I felt like yelling for him to come back, but then I thought I was being foolish.
"What can I get you?” I asked, smiling to counter the fact that I was backing away. There was a louvred door into the kitchen. It wasn't much, and it was held shut by a simple hook and eye, but I wanted to be behind even that suggestion of security.
"Wait.” His voice was plaintive.
"Do you want something?"
"Yes.” He grasped my arm.
I was unsure what to do. I didn't seem to have the strength to pull away. Then Kevin came up the stairs.
"Get out,” he said. His voice was soft but he spoke with purpose. “Get out or I'm calling the cops.” I heard him lift the receiver.
The grip on my arm tightened until it hurt.
Kevin dialed zero. “Get me the police, please,” he said.
The man let go abruptly, walked to the door, and blew me a kiss.
"It's okay now,” Kevin said. He hung up. “You all right?” he asked. I nodded, but it was a while before I could stop shaking.
* * * *
"Guys kept trophies,” Chuck said. Everyone knows about this now, but it was news to us then and brought with it a thrill of the gruesome and forbidden. “Some guys kept ears. Some guys kept wieners.” He nodded in a way that included us as men of the world. “I knew one guy,” he chuckled, “who went everybody else one better. He took a face. He sliced all around here.” He traced the sides of his head, along his hairline, behind his ears, and under his chin where it joined the neck. “Then he peeled it off. Lots of guys wrote home about that one, you bet.” He munched away contentedly, eyes scanning. “They shipped that guy home, though.” He chuckled again. “Imagine that."
* * * *
Sometimes the body rub girls would come in. They had bought food once early on. Now
they only got cold drinks. Sometimes Rapunzel came, but usually it was a stacked brunette whom we called Miss Twilly, after a character in a William Goldman novel.
"Business stinks, eh?” she said one afternoon.
I found it hard to talk to her, but Kevin had no problem. “Whatever gives you that idea?” he asked.
She laughed. “I ate here,” she said. “You oughta give out a length of plastic tube with every meal."
"How's your business?” Kevin asked. I was aching to know, but never would have brought it up myself.
"Better'n this."
"What's your secret?"
"Come over. We'll show you."
* * * *
Two days after changing the food, Donald had a terrible idea. “We have to tell everyone that we have new food,” he said. “I want to have someone walking around on the street with one of those signs.” He indicated his back and front.
"A sandwich board,” Kevin said.
"Yes, a sandwich board."
"Well,” I said, “there are lots of places that make them. And you can hire some derelict to wear it."
Donald shook his head. “No, no. We are not busy, and I don't have extra money to spend. We will make our own sign, and you have lots of time. One of you will wear it.” He smiled, as if assuming we'd appreciate this stroke of genius.
Donald bought two sheets of orange Bristol board, a black marker and some rope. Kevin had the neater printing, so he made the sign. It looked uneven and cheap. But Donald nodded and said, “Excellent. Who wants to wear it?"
Kevin lost the toss. “You want us to walk back and forth in front of the store, right?” he asked hopefully.
"All over,” Donald said, waving his arm in a circle round his head. “On Yonge Street. At the corner. Up and down. Wherever there are people and traffic."
When Kevin had tied the two pieces of card together and slipped them over his head, I held the door for him. He had to turn sideways to get out. “Good luck, pal,” I said. “I'll be thinking of you.” He walked toward the corner. Miss Twilly was on the sidewalk, laughing.
Donald had left again, and I started preparing for the lunch trickle. When I looked up from dishing out some fried rice for the only lunch customer yet that day, the scruffy man was standing at the window. I almost didn't recognize him. He was wearing a suit and he had shaved. I was so startled that I returned his stare.
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