Dreamwalker

by Russell James

  “Excuse me,” Pete said.

  The man didn’t even look up. He signed the bottom of one page Silvio DiStephano and set it aside.

  “You sitta up front,” he said, pointing to a table across the room. “Maria take you order.” The accent was first generation Italian, the English absorbed through a New York City filter.

  “No, sir,” Pete said. “I was asking about the apartment.”

  The restaurateur looked up at Pete for the first time and sized him up top to bottom.

  “You need apartment? Is one bedroom over store. No pets. Furnished, un poco. Capisce?”

  Pete nodded. Everything he owned sat in the pack at his feet. Furnished sounded good, even poco furnished, whatever that meant.

  “What’s the rent?” he asked, afraid of the answer.

  Mr. DiStephano looked him over again, this time a deeper assessment, eying him with a hint of recognition.

  “You just get here, no?”

  “Right off the bus,” Pete replied.

  Mr. DiStephano made a fist and pounded the table, as if celebrating his insight. He smiled mightily.

  “You need job,” he announced. “Apartment is free with job. You do some prep, you do some dish. Minimum wage. Cash on Friday. Va bene?”

  Another stroke of good fortune? A job and housing all in one stop. Of course, Pete could see a lot of downsides. “Cash on Friday” meant he was working off the books, and from the looks of the paperwork mess in front of the owner, that was in a business where the books were a distant memory. He had a feeling that the days would be exhausting, and living upstairs meant he would probably be on call for anyone who missed work.

  But it was dark outside now, and the night promised to be cold. He could scrounge a meal for dinner and he would have a roof over this head. Those imperatives overrode any misgivings. And that same intuition that told him what city to travel to, and which way to walk, voiced no objections to the idea.

  Anyway, he thought, this place is dead. I handled hundreds of students per hour slinging dirty dishes at me in the Ithaca cafeteria. How much business could they do here?

  “I’ll take it,” Pete said.

  Mr. DiStephano stood up. He had a half-foot on Pete easy.

  “I’m Papa,” he said. He pointed a finger at Pete. “Dishwasher is hard work.”

  He grabbed Pete’s hands and flipped them palm up.

  “Ah, soft little lamb’s hands. You no work all your life.”

  Pete gritted his teeth. He had done his high school fast food stint and washed dishes to repay Ithaca College. Cutting lawns. Shoveling driveways. He’d worked his ass off since he was fifteen.

  “I can pull my weight,” he said, pulling his hands free. “I’ve worked in a restaurant before, doing dishes and working the prep line.” He embellished his verbal resume a bit to make Papa regret his snap judgment.

  The older man smiled and sat back down at his table. He pulled a single key from his pocket. It had the worn, gouged edges earned over a long life. He tossed the key in front of Pete.

  “Room on right, top of stairs. Dump you bag.” The man looked up at the clock on the wall and pointed. Papa DiStephano was going to be a big pointer. “You work five to close. You late already. I dock you half day pay. You no late no more, capisce?”

  Late? Pete thought. Five seconds ago, I didn’t have a job. Now I’m working a half-shift for free.

  He bit his tongue. At least he wasn’t sleeping in the street. “Be right back.”

  He bounded up the stairway at the rear of the restaurant. At the top of the steps, he used the key on the solid wood door to the right.

  It was about two-thirds the size of his dorm room. Diffused street lighting bled in through a small dirty window in the far wall. Pete learned the English translation for poco. There was one bed, one dresser, and a closet-sized bathroom that ate into the limited living space. He checked the bed. The mattress was firm, the sheets were clean. This place would suffice while he figured out why he was here at all.

  He dropped his pack on the floor and opened it. He untied his running shoes and traded them for the greasy work boots he always wore in the cafeteria. He shed his sweat shirt and put on a plain white T-shirt. He’d show him the old man knew how to dress for work in a kitchen.

  He left the room and closed the door behind him. The thrum of voices rose up the stairwell. He descended into the restaurant and stopped in shock. The place was half full.

  Two women bustled between tables, jotting orders down on small pads of paper. Boisterous laughter erupted from one table and customers at the adjoining two joined in on the joke. The front door barely closed before a new couple yanked it open again. The customers wore the battered ball caps and faded jeans of the working class. The streets were near empty on Pete’s way here. Now all of Atlantic City chowed down at DiStephano’s.

  He dashed down the steps and through the black swinging doors to the kitchen. A white cloth apron hit him square in the face. It smelled of bleach and cheap detergent.

  “Petey!” Papa DiStephano said. “Whatta you not understand about ‘already late’? Hit the pots before you lose whole day pay.”

  The tight kitchen bustled with activity. Papa D wielded a chopping knife over a wood-surfaced prep table at lightning speed. To his rear a bank of ovens and stoves that dated from the 1930s baked and boiled and sent a plume of steam into the ceiling vents. To the right of the kitchen, a huge stainless steel table led to an industrial dishwasher.

  Pete was familiar with the type. A rack of dishes went in on one side and a conveyor pulled them out the other, hot and clean. The table overflowed with huge empty pots and pans, each encrusted with tomato-based residue that had been burned to a charcoal solid. Those were a bitch to clean.

  He slid the apron over his head and moved to the loading end of the dishwasher. He grabbed the hanging spray nozzle and shot a rinsing spray at the pots. The stream splashed back and soaked his chest in water and marinara sauce.

  He looked down at the dripping mess on his apron.

  “Welcome again to Atlantic City,” he whispered.

  A commanding woman in black walked into the kitchen to post two paper order slips at the prep table. Her long black hair was swept up in a bun and secured with a tortoiseshell clip. She eyed Pete in the corner dishwashing hole.

  “So,” she said to Papa D as he stirred the world’s biggest pot of minestrone, “where’s Stevie?”

  “He call in. Again. He no work here no more.”

  “Who’s this?” She pointed over at Pete with her thumb.

  Papa D looked guilty.

  “He’s the new boy, Mama” he said, as if it should have been obvious to her. “He take apartment, too.”

  Mama D raised one penciled eyebrow as she inspected Pete. Even through the cloud of steam from the dishwasher, Pete could see she was not happy. He might have passed Papa’s cursory interview, but he had not passed his hers.

  “You checked him out?” she asked Papa D.

  “Va bene,” Papa D replied, turning back to the bubbling soup. “He check out okay. He work hard.”

  She rolled her eyes, shrugged, and went back out the kitchen door.

  She had to be the wife. Who else would treat Papa D as an equal? And apparently new dishwashers in the kitchen were a common thing. A tribute to Papa D’s management style, no doubt.

  Pete blasted a pot with the sprayer hose. He would not see the outside of the kitchen again until 1:00 a.m.

  Chapter Six

  Eight tired cabs parked tail-first in a darkened warehouse on Atlantic City’s west side. A ninth was in its final resting place, missing doors and an engine. The sign on the outside of the building read the same as the stencil on the cabs’ doors: ISLAND CAB CO. The mottled concrete floor bore witness to the fleet’s myriad non-fatal fluid leaks.

  Seven dri
vers leaned against fenders or sat on hoods. Two passed some small talk about the Knicks and the weather. Most stared at the floor or off into space. No one mentioned Manuel, the eighth driver. Each cabby cast an occasional furtive glance at one of the two adjoining rooms at the rear of the building. The one on the left, with Dispatcher painted over the scratched picture window drew no interest.

  The windowless room on the right was their focus. One dented, black, steel door opened to the shop. Gold letters on it spelled PRIVATE. The seven men on the shop floor were willing to keep it that way. Manuel was in that room now for an audience with Jean St. Croix, two beefy goons, and The Chair.

  A seat in The Chair never ended well.

  Manuel’s view consisted mostly of the soles of St. Croix’s boots. He sat in The Chair facing a rough wooden desk. St. Croix sat on the other side, leaned back, fingers steepled, snakeskin boots propped up before him. He stared up at the ceiling in calm contemplation.

  St. Croix hadn’t said a word since entering. Manuel hoped this was a good sign.

  Tiny and Stoner stood behind and out of Manuel’s view. St. Croix never went anywhere without them. Manuel sensed the two burly bodyguards were there, the way someone knew a dark cloud blotted out the sun without looking up.

  The Chair was a sturdy affair, straight-backed and handmade of oak thick as a forearm. Word was St. Croix brought it with him from Haiti. Manuel squirmed in the seat. Half-inch white rope bound his wrists to The Chair’s arms and his ankles to its legs. Burgundy drops of previous guests’ dried blood specked the rope. Sweat beaded on Manuel’s bald head and rivulets of it ran down his scrawny sides.

  He prayed for a show of mercy.

  “So, Manuel,” St. Croix said, brushing a dreadlock back from his face, “you’ve worked for me for how long?”

  The Creole cadence in his Haitian accent was almost encouraging, as if Manuel was here on an interview. A spark of hope ignited.

  “Three years, Mr. St. Croix,” Manuel answered. It was actually two and a half, but more seniority might buy him something here. Perspiration dripped from his eyebrow and stung his eye.

  “The boys and I treat you well?” St. Croix circled to the front of the desk. He stood between The Chair and the desk and leaned back. “I put food on your table. I keep your parole officer off your back, no?”

  As if on cue, one of the human walls behind Manuel stepped up behind The Chair. He wrapped his meaty hands around The Chair’s back and braced his feet against the legs.

  Manuel’s mouth went dry. He nodded jack rabbit quick and exhaled tiny sharp breaths that were supposed to say “Si”.

  “Yet,” St. Croix continued, his voice pond water calm, “you delivered a few grams short, no? You see, our customer is smart enough to know what a half-kilo should weigh. He checks these things at the price he pays for heroin.”

  Manuel looked down at the floor, unwilling to meet St. Croix’s eyes, fearing they would burn right through him. St. Croix leaned forward and lifted Manuel’s head by the chin.

  “You keep a little commission, no?” St. Croix’s voice rose, like wind before a thunderstorm. “A little service charge for you to take home to that Spic whore who shares your bed? Admit your mistake, Manuel. The truth is always best. After all, mistakes happen.”

  Manuel felt a door to survival open. St. Croix was just scaring him straight. Own up to his screw-up and it would all be okay.

  “Si, Seňor St. Croix,” Manuel said. “I took a little. I never did that before. I never do it again. My girlfriend is pregnant and—”

  Rage swept across St. Croix’s face. The bodyguard leaned into the chair in preparation. The color drained from Manuel’s cheeks. St. Croix sat up on his desk. His right leg cocked and shot forward with lightning speed. The thick heel of his boot buried itself in Manuel’s crotch.

  His testes burst. Pain exploded like an atomic blast below Manuel’s waistline His surprised, primeval scream echoed off the walls. An expanding pool of blood and urine covered the seat and dribbled on the concrete floor.

  “You lying sack of shit!” St. Croix bellowed. “You steal from me for weeks, humiliating me to customers, ruining my reputation. Only a punk is jacked by a nobody like you.”

  St. Croix plucked the tire iron from on top of his desk. He raised the metal rod over his head. Manuel whimpered for mercy through his tears.

  With a full overhead swing, St. Croix brought the iron down on Manuel’s right hand. The sickening sound of snapping bones filled the room. White, sharp shards punctured his skin. A wave of new, sharper pain washed over the first. He screamed again.

  “You stole from me with that hand, you cowardly bitch,” St. Croix screamed. “How about this one?” He raised the tire iron again and bashed Manuel’s left hand. The iron struck at an angle and severed Manuel’s pinky. The digit hit the floor with a wet splat. Manuel screeched and then sobbed, unable to look away from the finger that pointed back at him from the floor.

  St. Croix ripped the front of Manuel’s T-shirt to the waist. He flipped the tire iron around in his hand. St. Croix pressed the flat, pointed end between Manuel’s ribs. Blood seeped around the tip as it scraped his skin.

  Manuel’s pain was beyond comprehension. His mind went numb and his head sagged in surrender. Drool dripped from the corner of his mouth and stretched to his chest.

  “The penalty for theft is very large, Manuel.”

  St Croix thrust the iron into Manuel’s chest. It felt like a hot poker. It punctured Manuel’s lung with a pop and exited through the slats in the back of The Chair. St. Croix gave the iron a twist and left it there. Manuel babbled in snippets of whimpering, unintelligible Spanish. St Croix leaned in close.

  “Now, I’ll tell you what happens here,” St. Croix said, his voice back to normal. “When I pull this out of your punctured lung, it starts to fill with blood. Slowly, agonizingly, you will drown in your own fluids. You will have plenty of time to realize how foolish it is to steal from Jean St. Croix.”

  He removed the tire iron with one slick pull. Manuel inhaled. His chest slurped a sucking sound. With each subsequent pained, choking breath, his head made a bobble-headed jerk.

  St. Croix returned to the other side of the desk. He looked over Manuel’s shuddering head at the two enforcers.

  “Take him out for the men to see,” he said. “When he dies, take him ten miles out and feed him to the sharks.”

  The two men lifted The Chair off the ground and carried it out the door like a nightmarish sedan chair. Manuel mindlessly gurgled and coughed up bright red blood. The door closed behind them with a thud.

  Chapter Seven

  St. Croix understood the importance of fear. Respect worked for Boy Scout leaders. Admiration worked for soccer stars. But with the criminal element, nothing worked as well as sheer terror. When the occasional expendable crossed the line, he made him an example for the remainder. Now no one would dare lighten their deliveries for at least a year. And then, he’d cull the herd once more.

  If the men knew his true nature, he could dispense with these shows of force, enjoyable as they might be. Knowing he could touch them anywhere, awake or asleep, none would challenge his authority.

  But once they knew what the outer shell of Jean St. Croix hid, their fear would make them spread the word. Then the world he had woven around him would unravel, perhaps both worlds in the end. He was safer behind the mask, his stay here extended the longer no one knew about the moonlit night of spells in Haiti all those years ago.

  Jean St. Croix’s life turned onto the path to Atlantic City when he was seventeen. It was the last choice he ever made alone.

  Decades before the devastation of the 2010 earthquake, Haitian society had imploded. The slums of Port Au Prince were as close to hell-on-earth as the Caribbean ever saw. They surrounded the city’s pockets of affluence like beggars waiting to gather the wealthy’s cast-off crumbs.
Shanties of tin and concrete block lined the narrow streets. Hundreds of thousands scrambled each day for the means to survive until nightfall. The thick, humid smell of decay filled the air, a constant reminder that people and their futures came here to die.

  Jean repaired mopeds in a lean-to behind the tiny home of Celanie Cerat. The withered old woman was a practicing priestess, a mistress of a darker art. For the true power in Haiti did not rest among the corrupt officials of the government or the overwhelmed clergy of the Catholic Church. The true power lay in voodoo.

  Voodoo had been part of Haiti since the first slaves were forced to work the land. A mix of African and Native American beliefs, the rituals were the conduit for contacting the spirits, or the loa, who could influence actions in the corporeal world. On the island, voodoo was no act of faith. It was a science. So accepted was the reality, and the danger, of voodoo, that until 1953 it had been banned by law.

  This last full day of Jean’s life, he sat under a window in the back wall of Celanie’s home. He absentmindedly ran a brush through the bore of a carburetor as he eavesdropped on the business being transacted within.

  A woman came for Celanie’s intervention, to call the power of the loa to fight her son’s recurrent rash. Celanie performed the ritual of calling upon the loa to intervene. As she did, St. Croix mouthed the words he had memorized in perfect sync with her incantation. Coins jingled as the woman paid her fee and departed. Jean whispered the priestess’s words to himself one more time, focused on delivering the proper inflection, the tone that the loa would find appealing.

  “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing,” Celanie’s voice sounded from above him.

  Startled, Jean dropped the carburetor into the dirt. He whirled to see Celanie. Age had tightened her skin to a corpse-like fit, and her hair was a short mass of wiry gray strands. She stared down with eyes that offered no quarter.

  “I’m just working here,” Jean said.

  “I am old, but not foolish.” Celanie had the raspy voice of a chronic chain smoker. “You offer me rent you cannot afford for this space. You only work the hours when I see clients. Your back has worn the paint from the wall beneath my window. You seek to speak to the loa.”