Nick jumped to his feet, so very sick and tired of the bullshit.
“Oliver, Don, whatever the hell your name is, the answer is no.”
The man gasped, his eyes growing dark as he stood too, looking up at Nick as if he’d been deeply betrayed.
“You’re a cop! You are supposed to help people!” He seethed. “I could be murdered right under your damn nose!” he shouted, the veins in his head protruding as if he were choking on his own filth.
“I’m not on the clock right now, Oliver. And…you lied to me. I can’t help someone with something like this who is a liar on top of everything else.”
“Lied to you about what?!”
“It was more than three! I could see it in your eyes and body language. You sat there and lied your ass off! You looked me dead in the eye, and said it!” Nick marched towards the door with the guy hot on his heels.
“Okay! Okay! I lied, but it’s because it’s hard for me to deal with, to talk about! Why do you think I’m here, huh?!”
He stopped and stared at the man, watched a tear cascade down his face. Sucking his teeth, he looked up at the wall clock and then back into Don’s eyes.
“Look, I can’t help you.” He threw up his hands and shook his head apathetically. “You did some shit I can’t co-sign on. I understand that you may be sorry, remorseful. I get it. But I just can’t wrap my head around it. You got these wheels turning; you’ve been getting off easy, never having to really answer for anything. And now here you are once again, skating away from it. I’m not saying you deserve to be dead, Don, or even beaten within an inch of your life… Well, I take that back.” He smirked, causing the man to frown and cross his arms over his body real tight.
“All I am saying is that what we do catches up to us in one way or another.”
“I am sorry!”
“Don’t tell it to me… Tell it those kids and the parents who trusted you.”
“I know that something is wrong with me Nick. Why do you think I’m rarely in the elective classes? Do you know where I am during those times? I’m in therapy! Besides Frieda, you’re the only one that knows about this now… Please don’t tell anyone! I’m beggin’ you!”
“I won’t. I’m not trying to get involved in all of this.”
“Nick.” The guy lowered his head and shook it, then glanced back up towards him. “I know I’m sick, disgusting, all of that… but I don’t want to die… And I will if this man gets a hold of me. He’s out for blood, and I’ll be dead. Dead dead dead!”
Nick took a deep breath, placed his hands on his hips and spun around, hating the man for putting him in this fucked up position.
“Shit. What I will do, is give you a number—someone you can call and alert them of the situation, okay?” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. “Here, take this.” It was a business card of his colleague. “Call the guy on there and tell him that you know me and what’s been going on. Don’t leave out any details. He’ll help you. He works in witness protection, but he has some connections for situations like this. That’s the best I can do. Watch your back, Don…”
…And then, he simply walked away.
Chapter Eighteen
She balled the paper up so tight, the tawny flesh over her knuckles stretched impossibly thin over the bone. Taryn’s eyes narrowed as she searched the room then threw the ball in the damn trashcan. Ambrose had gotten to cleaning again, rearranging things and making new scenes and layouts where they weren’t needed. She sank her teeth into her lower lip as she stood like a professional baseball pitcher and cast the second page of the damn thing across the room. It landed, but she sure as hell hadn’t scored.
“Fuck you, Otis!” she screamed at the top of her lungs, her chest rising and falling with each staggered, ragged breath she took. She was alone inside the place, feeling itchy, crazy, and removed from sanity. For four weeks, she’d gone on modeling agency interviews, updated her portfolio, purchased a wig she didn’t want to slap across her damn head, and even called in some favors that never were returned… Nothing. Zilch.
“When You’re In Love With a Beautiful Woman” by Dr. Hook played softly on the radio.
I can’t even get a low paying modeling gig! If I don’t get some money rolling in soon, I’m screwed!
She slammed her body down onto the sable brown couch, it’s softness eating her up as though she were a delicious morsel. She closed her eyes and sighed as her fingertips danced across her forehead. The corner of her eye moistened, and she made quick action to swipe at the bastard, leaving wetness along the side of her index finger. Her lips quivered as she tried with all of her might to get a hold of herself, to talk herself down off the cliff, pull back from the frothing pain of it all. Yet, the pain smarted and the tears ran too fast to be stopped by the likes of her crushed pride.
I just can’t get ahead! I’m trying so hard, and nothing is changing! I don’t even want to do this, but I have to, because what I want to do I know will be a long battle. I don’t have time for long battles; my bills need to be paid NOW! I refuse to go to Dad or Mom, no…that would make me indebted to them. Nick, I wish I could talk to you. I miss you so much!
She swiped another tear away, then another, and then, on a dime, her pain morphed into misery before transforming into heated anger. She jumped from the couch and rummaged through her purse. Locating her cell phone, she made a much-needed call…
“Hey, where are you? Yeah…it’s been a long time. Look, where can I meet you at? I need some Percodan. I want some Vicodin, too.” She huffed as she rummaged once again in her bag, filtering through the damn thing until she found her wallet. She pulled out a small wad of cash and counted through it, making sure she had enough. “Yeah, okay…see you in thirty…”
…And then, she hung up…
A thin layer of sweat collected along his dewy flesh as the nightlight came and went.
The bulb must be dying…
Nick slowly rose up, causing an avalanche of books to tumble this way and that from his lap. He reached down and plucked the dark red, hard bound book from the floor, placed it back on the bed, and took in a few deep breaths. The clock marked five AM, yet his body felt like an inferno on the cool, Monday morning. Feeling the dull pain in his mouth, he was soon reminded about the chicken noodle soup he’d tried to taste the evening before. It had been far too hot, scorching the tip of his tongue and leaving his taste buds a bit impaired. After a few moments twirling inside of daydreams, he reached for the floor once again and placed all the books back onto his bed. Pilfering through them, he drew one from the fold: ‘Addict In The Family: Stories of Loss, Hope and Recovery’ by Beverly Conyers. He’d almost finished, and found it to be an interesting read. It proved rather odd reading about the families of addicts, for he had no family, and his addiction didn’t cross the radar of his friends or loved ones.
Nick realized he was a strange bird indeed, and perhaps through his carefully crafted escape plans to never be discovered, he’d inadvertently made himself less accountable, thus, turning into the hypocrite that he abhorred. Just the other day he’d yelled at Oliver, AKA Don, made the man confess, admit he’d slid his hands all over young children, groped them, and robbed them of their innocence. And yet, here he sat, a man who hadn’t touched a child in a sexual manner a day in his life, but he still lived a lie while being protected by his badge of honor.
The same job he coveted, wanted to return to, had inapplicably allowed the likes of Oliver to wiggle his slimy self through the slippery cracks of the legal system, all because his father was some big shot with a lot of clout. He’d heard the stories before, but this got far too close to home. To add to the issue, Oliver had apparently become sick, holding up in his room, more than likely praying to a God he seldom believed in. This time, the twisted son of a tycoon had messed with the wrong little boy…
The youngster’s father was no one to scoff at. After delving further into the issue, out of mere curiosity, Nick soon discovered that
the victim’s dad was a member of the Mac Baller Brims. Shit had just gotten serious. He’d had extensive run ins with them, and their ruthless behavior was the thing nightmares were made of. The man in question, known as ‘Temper’ but his legal name was Trey, had tried to make a better life for his son—sent him to places to get a good education, see the world. He’d enlisted him in a program that gave free music lessons, and Oliver happened to be enrolled as one of the mentors…
But in moments like these, a gangster may lose faith, and have to kill a man…
Nick sighed, yawned, and swiped his hair out of his face. The shit was starting to itch as it reached his damn shoulders, swaying to and fro. He kept it in a ponytail, but the damn thing had come undone from all of his tossing and turning during the night. He missed her…
His dreams consisted of them lying together, talking, caressing one another, making love. He wanted to know what she was doing at any given time. What she was thinking, wanting and needing… he hoped it was him. He tried to maintain his composure, keep busy, but as each day passed, the worse it became. Her little letters helped, and he stayed the course… but damn, he missed her listening ear, her perfectly timed jokes and sensibilities.
“I miss your lips, baby…” he whispered aloud in hopes that the words would somehow miraculously reach her ears and warm her heart. He slowly got to his feet, washed, and dressed. As he stared at himself in the mirror, running his hand over his clean face, he admired his reflection for a change. His skin no longer donned a sallow complexion. He’d traded that in for the light kiss of a faint tan with peeks of ruddiness across his cheeks. He’d gained about ten pounds in muscle, and though he was still quite lean, he liked how all of his hard work was paying off. He straightened his green and black striped shirt, turned away from his likeness, and plucked a piece of lemon colored paper out of the basket. Unwrapping the thing like a candy, he slumped down onto the bed, and read the words from his sweetheart for the given day…
You are almost at the top of the mountain. Don’t lose hope, don’t lose sight. When you get discouraged, think of how far you’ve come and then remember that when you reach your goal, baby, the view is spectacular!
“I want you to look at this.” Frieda handed the paper to him as he sat in the room, surrounded once again by his peers. Several fellow residents had graduated over the past few weeks and there were some new faces, too. They’d done their introductions, and went on as usual, but today, something had changed; he could almost feel it in the air. He unfolded the thin, white piece of paper she’d handed to him, and quickly scanned the date and signature. It was from his commanding officer, Captain O’Sullivan.
“Go on, read it aloud.” Frieda smiled at him while providing encouragement. He cleared his throat, and began…
73rd Precinct
1470 East New York Avenue
Brooklyn, New York 11212
My name is Captain O’Sullivan of the 73rd precinct in Brooklyn, New York. Officer Nicholas Vitale has been a member of this police department for almost ten consecutive years. He is a patrol and service officer serving the area of Brownsville, New York. He has an exemplary record, an excellent rapport with the community, and is a trusted member of our team. I will admit my bias up front, however. I see him like a second son. That notwithstanding, I say, in complete truth and integrity, that I was not made privy nor had any inkling that Officer Vitale was engaging in illegal drug activity in any way, shape, form or fashion. He did not tell me or anyone else, to my knowledge, of his deeds regarding the abuse of alcohol and narcotics. I am not surprised, however, that he came to me about this right before enlisting himself into a treatment program. He earnestly wanted to stop the downward spiral before dire consequences arose, and for that, I applaud him.
He cares about the officers he works with, the community, and the people that he serves. I have been updated of his progress while in treatment on a bi-weekly basis, per his written/signed permission that his records be submitted to me as well as members of the board. It is more than apparent that Officer Nicholas Vitale is working the program laid out there for him as it was intended, and making the best of his situation to become a successful person in his personal life, as well as to ensure that he is the best officer that he can be, vocationally.
I know Officer Vitale personally, and can say that I am quite proud of his progress. Therefore, I highly recommend that Officer Nicholas Vitale rejoin the 73rd precinct after successful completion of his inpatient drug rehabilitation at Firststone in Fresh Meadows. A copy of this recommendation will be sent to all parties involved in the decision process regarding Officer Vitale’s occupational future. I have spoken to the committee, and it has been voted unanimously that Officer Vitale be reappointed upon his return. That signed paperwork is enclosed along with this letter.
Kind Regards,
Capt. John O’Sullivan
The room burst in applause, the faces bright with vibrant, hopeful smiles, and the volume of robust whistling loud and amplified. He nodded as he reclaimed his seat, felt the warmth flood his body from the words typed upon the paper, his boss’ emotions leaking through each sentence. Here he was embracing the future, the promise that lay ahead, waiting for him with wide-open arms. He could see it now; the view that his sweetheart claimed had been there all along. He had almost reached the mountaintop. Just a few more steps…
Careful now, so very careful…
The last miles were often the most cumbersome, as well as the trickiest. But problematic, thorny things with fractured puzzle pieces and a good old fashioned game of hide-and-seek was what he found buried deep down in his soul, and what he appreciated and navigated best of all.
I will count to ten, and then…
Ready or not, here I come…
It had been a long time since she could actually recall the feel of sweat collecting in her thick tresses. She paused, ran her fingers through the damn curls, then plucked her ebony drawing pencil back up, gave it a careful sniff. The scent of freshly purchased art supplies did something to her, sent her into a tailspin of glory. Her hand took flight across the page, as if she knew exactly where she was going, but the human body’s natural lag was cramping her style. She grunted a time or two, as though in a one-woman tennis match, and in a way, she was. She’d laid low for a few days, trying to regroup and cast a spell across her bad luck. The notion that she could reinvent herself had come and gone like weight loss and gain for a bulimic ballerina, yet, she couldn’t shake the shit free. Needing some new scenery, a new pace and place, and not wishing to overstay her welcome, she’d left Ambrose’s chic brownstone and now surfed on another friend’s couch. It was her lucky day, for Ricki happened to be in San Diego for a shoot, and she had the whole place to her damn self for three days. All she asked in return was that she pick up her favorite grocery items and store them in their appropriate places in her apartment for when she arrived.
Luckily for Taryn, Ricki had champagne taste in clothing and make-up, but her eating and drinking style was totally beer budget. Despite the woman’s very thin frame, the sparse weight of an emaciated Goddess, the woman could suck down food like nobody’s business. Ricki dined on cheeseburgers and thick slices of pepperoni pizza, along with cheap box wines, greasy fries, and a side of dark chocolate. To make matters even more bizarre, the lady didn’t have an eating disorder, nor was she exactly a glutton. She simply ate like a child, and that was her ‘thing.’ Now, Ricki’s strangely decorated apartment filled with pops of bright shades of pink, and art with bold curse words framed in silver and red teemed with Taryn’s virtuosity. The thick purple carpet was covered in art sketches from hers truly. Taryn simply couldn’t help herself; she felt fucking inspired. What had gotten into her? Whatever it was, she wanted to work it to the bone.
She cast her sight toward the corner of the living room, gave a sly grin at two drawings in particular that she rather fancied, then began a new sketch, and then another and another. Nothing would spoil her mood, not even the
textbook morning she’d had. Much to her chagrin, earlier in the day, dear ol’ mom had sent funds. Word must’ve spread faster than the divorce rate in Hollywood that she was down on her luck, and though she considered her mama to be a kind-hearted woman, the lady was also very particular about appearances. No daughter of hers would be walking around the streets of New York with a dusty duffle bag filled with last year’s fashion trends and no place to call her own.
Since she wasn’t allowed to help, the lady helped herself and did what many who had birthed their best friend would do: she wrote a check and dared her stubborn daughter not to cash it. Taryn had not deposited it, though it sickened her that it had indeed afforded relief should she run out of money and friends to help her until she got a paying gig. She kept a tally of everyone she was going to pay back, despite their constant reminders that she was loved, it was okay, and she’d done so much for them in the past, yadda yadda yadda, blah, blah, blah…
She had big, towering plans! She’d use that first pay check she earned and put it down on an apartment, move in, get settled, and do whatever she needed to do to make her true dream materialize… yet, it was still a mystery, kept under lock and key. No one, with the exception of Ambrose, knew of her aspirations, for she feared if she told them to another soul, the damn things would evaporate like hot breath on a window in the dead of winter.
I just need one good modeling gig, just one… Shit, maybe not. Maybe I’m not even supposed to be considering that any more, even in these times of desperation. Maybe this is some sort of a sign….
She looked at all the pictures she’d sketched, scattered about the room, and then, returned her attention back towards the corner, where she’d placed the two she loved the most.
Is it a sign, Nick?
She walked over to that corner and drew the curtain back, allowing the last stingy streams of sunlight to enter the dwelling. The mellow rays cast themselves across the thin, shaved canvas, making her drawings come to life, breathe in a new look—the appearance now changing right before her eyes. She bent low, picked up the illustration, and looked at it closely, going over the thing as if she were to assign it a grade.
In the Nick of Time Page 38
