Johnny Blade

by Phillip Tomasso

  “Some.”

  “And you found something interesting in it?” It was a challenge.

  Tentatively, Michael reached over and picked up the fat guy’s newspaper. Keeping his eyes on the man, Michael almost methodically flipped through the sections. The fat guy held his stare.

  Michael laid the paper back down. “Right here.”

  The fat guy looked at the paper and smiled. “The funnies? That’s what you found interesting?”

  Michael leaned his elbows on a napkin dispenser and smiled. “Read ‘em every morning. Every one.”

  The guy laughed and held out his hand. “I’m Fat Joe. It’s a nickname that found me in high school. I never could shake it. Then one day, it sounds like some guy is calling me Fatso—but he’s really saying Fat Joe. Say it fast enough, sounds like Fatso. So believe it or not, my nickname has a nickname. That’s what most people call me. Fatso.”

  Shaking hands, Michael introduced himself. “Michael Buzzelli, and it’s a pleasure to meet you, Joe.”

  “Nah, kid. It’s all right. You call me Fatso. No disrespect taken. As a rule of thumb, my friends, that’s what they call me. Fatso.”

  Michael did not feel comfortable. Calling someone fatso made him uneasy. Regardless of the man’s own testimony, Michael thought in doing so, he would sound rude.

  “Know where that came from?” Fatso asked.

  “Where what came from?”

  “Rule of thumb, the expression. Any idea how it got started?” Fatso asked. When Michael shrugged, he continued. “In England, a long time back, they used to say that a husband could not beat his wife with anything wider than his thumb. Go figure. Rule of thumb, that’s so funny.”

  “Maybe not for those women,” Michael replied.

  _____________________________

  Fatso had retired from a post office job nearly five years ago. His wife had died a year later. They had no children. At fifty-nine, Fatso had suddenly found himself orphaned.

  “What do you think of Old Man Murphy?” Fatso asked.

  “Seems nice enough.”

  “He’s a good man. Hard worker. Man never has a day off. Not that I can remember. Seven days a week the guy goes. He’s had people like you before,” Fatso said.

  “People like me?”

  “Yeah. You know, you come, you go. Hard to find dependable help these days.” Fatso always made eye contact when he talked. Michael figured he liked being observant and aware of his surroundings.

  “See what he’s paying?” Michael asked, smiling.

  “So why you here then?”

  “I need this job.”

  Nodding, Fatso said: “Man’s got to do what a man’s got to do.”

  “My father says that.”

  “Mine did, too.”

  Despite the cold temperature outside, Fatso sweated profusely. He was obese with a fat face highlighted by swollen looking eyes, a pug nose and no sign of a chin bone. His neck resembled one large roll of flesh. The site of him left Michael feeling claustrophobic.

  “You following that case, the prostitute murder story?” Michael asked. There had been some activity around Lyell Avenue the last few weeks. After Christmas and day by day, the news coverage has become less and less.

  “Hard not to. Casey used to stand right here on that corner,” Fatso said. He motioned with his thumb over his shoulder, toward the street.

  “So you knew her?”

  Fatso shrugged. “Get to know most of them when you’re here as often as I am.”

  Michael crushed out his cigarette in the ashtray near Fatso’s coffee cup. “More coffee?”

  “Yeah, sure. I ain’t going nowhere soon.”

  Chapter 3

  The place got busy for an hour before settling down. People came in and ordered a lot of take out, burgers with fries, or hot dogs with a bag of potato chips. Jack’s Joint sold a lot of coffee to go.

  “See that guy there? That’s Marcus,” Fatso said, while Michael topped off his coffee for the sixth time that evening.

  Michael casually glanced at the guy in the smart black suit taking a seat in the last booth in the back of the place. Fatso had the low-down on everyone. Whenever someone entered, Fatso would spew off a synopsized biography.

  Lighting a cigarette, Michael asked: “He looks like a mobster, with the dark suit and the thin tie.”

  “I suppose he thinks he’s in the mob,” Fatso said. Though he spoke with an air of sarcasm, almost mocking, Michael thought he detected a trace tone of respect.

  “Is he?”

  “Like I said, thinks he is. I can’t say for sure, truthfully, but I wouldn’t count on it. He’s just a two-bit hood, you ask me.” Fatso added a packet of sugar to his coffee and stirred it in. “He’s here nearly as much as me. We nod hellos, very cordial, little else. We talked once.”

  “He always come in alone?” Michael asked.

  “Usually comes in alone, not always. Different people come to see him. I hear he does, how would you put it, odd jobs?” Fatso said, questionably. Michael gave him a look indicating he did not understand.

  “Let’s say the neighbor’s dog keeps crapping in your yard. You try over and over to get the dog’s owner to keep the mangy mutt on a leash when they let him out. Try as you might, they don’t listen and all the while your yard looks like crap and they have a lawn that could be featured on the cover of Better Homes and Gardens. With me so far?”

  Michael nodded, getting the picture. “So maybe you visit with Marcus and explain to him about this problem you’re having with the neighbor’s pet . . .”

  “You catch on quickly, Michael,” Fatso said.

  “Sounds like mob work.”

  “Taking out a dog? Get outta here.” Fatso waved the comment off with a hoarse laugh. “Taking out a dog is not Mafia business, trust me.”

  Michael noticed Fatso’s reaction. The tops of his ears reddened. “Was that the one time you talked to Marcus, when you told him about the neighbor’s dog?”

  “What the hell’s with you, kid? Anyone every warn you about minding your P’s and Q’s?” Fatso asked. “Huh?”

  Michael knew he had just put his new friend on the defensive, so he held up his hands and backed away from the counter. “Don’t blame me if I catch on quickly.” He leaned closer and said more softly: “I ain’t judging you, not by a long shot.”

  “Who the hell would care if you was judging me?”

  “Fatso—you’re telling me a story and I put one and one together. Your story might as well have started with you saying that you have this friend.”

  They stared at one another for several seconds before Fatso smiled. He reached across the counter and patted Michael on the cheek. “You’re all right, Michael. You know that?”

  Michael laughed and wiped his hands on the dishtowel slung over his apron’s tie string. He stood up straight. “I like to think so.”

  “Hey, ever hear that one before—the thing I said about the P’s and Q’s?” Fatso asked. Michael cocked his head to one side and raised his eyebrows, as if encouraging an explanation. “It’s an English saying. They have all them pubs over there. Well, those English pubs sold beer—still sell beer, I’d imagine—in pints and quarts. You know how it is in bars. People get a little crazy and rude. The bartenders would tell the drunk, rowdy patrons to mind their Pints and Quarts, P’s and Q’s.”

  The small bell jingled as the door opened. Michael was relieved some for the intrusion. He turned and was startled to see a beautiful woman enter. She had long, natural looking burgundy-red hair with big, loose curls. Fiery. As she looked around Jack’s Joint, Michael could not help but notice her large gray-blue eyes. The milky white complexion made her striking hair and stunning eyes so much more visually vibrant. She entered Jack’s slowly, almost cautiously, but with a level of comfort that suggested familiarity. She looked like she might only be nineteen years old.

  “One of the whores,” Fatso whispered a little louder than was necessary.

  Mi
chael, annoyed by the rude comment, went to the end of the counter. “Coffee?”

  The woman with dark colored hair and penetrating eyes regarded Michael with an assessing stare. “Please,” she said finally, relinquishing a faint smile made with large lips under layers of lipstick that closely matched the color of her hair. “New here?”

  From under the counter, Michael fumbled with a cup. “First night.” He removed the pot of freshly brewed coffee from the warmer and filled the cup. He put out a napkin with a spoon. “Need a menu?”

  She laughed. “You are new. Unless something’s been added to Jack’s delicacies, I think I can manage fine without one. But for now, the coffee’s fine. Thanks.”

  She took the cup, spoon and napkin and went to the first booth by the front window. She sat with her back to them, choosing to instead watch the traffic.

  “Michael,” Fatso said. “Come here a minute.”

  Michael did not realize he had been staring at the woman. “What?”

  “Not for nothing, kid. A word to you, Felicia … she’s a prostitute. She makes her living screwing people. You don’t want any of that. Don’t let yourself get mixed up in that,” Fatso said, pointing his thumb over his shoulder. “She may look good, kid, but she’s pretty well used up.”

  “Thanks for the tip, Fatso. I don’t mean to disrespect your opinion or nothing, but I don’t see it that way,” Michael said. “Anyway, you’re talking like I’m about to fall in love with the girl. She just walked in. And you’re right. She does look good. Beautiful. But I’m not here to get involved. Just looking to increase my income.”

  “Smart, kid. You’re a smart kid. Look at the situation any way you want, but as long as you keep yourself clean, you’ll do all right,” Fatso said, smiling.

  Monroe County possessed strict smoking laws. Jack’s Joint allowed smoking. As the cook, Michael knew it would be against the law for him to smoke while behind the counter. Michael leaned his back to the wall and lit a cigarette anyway. This infraction was serious and Murphy could wind up in a lot of trouble, but during his interview, Michael watched Jack smoke while behind the counter. Monkey see, monkey do.

  Though Felicia sat facing away from Michael. He watched her sipping coffee. Just before the door to Jack’s opened again, he noticed Felicia’s reflection in the front window. She appeared to be watching him, too.

  Chapter 4

  By two in the morning, Michael was feeling the effects of a long day. He knew working two jobs would not be easy. He planned to keep at it. Ambition and desire were the driving factors behind his need for a second job. He could endure this lifestyle for a given length of time. How long might a given length of time be? Michael hoped not too long.

  “Tired kid?” Fatso asked, munching on the few remaining french fries; the burger had disappeared in large bites moments after the meal was set down in front of him. Now, using the fry like a mop, he sponged up the ketchup to clean his plate.

  “Adjusting,” responded Michael. With his hands on his hips, he leaned back and listened for the satisfying sound of a crack. When he heard it, he sighed. “Now that feels good.”

  “Sounds disgusting,” Felicia said. Michael turned to see her sitting at the counter with an empty cup in her hand. As Michael refilled it, she removed a cigarette from a pack and placed the one between her lips. She did not attempt to light it. She watched Michael as he set down the pot. She raised an eyebrow at him. Getting the point, Michael fished his lighter out and did the honors. Then he lit one for himself.

  “My name’s Felicia,” she said.

  “I’m Michael.” He put out his hand.

  She did not shake it. Instead she took a long drag on her cigarette and exhaled. “Michael. Not Mike, or Mikey?”

  “Sometimes. I answer to any of those.”

  “And kid,” Fatso added. “He answers to kid.” He slid off the counter stool, rolled his newspaper and tucked it under his arm.

  “I’m pretty sure he’s not a goat.” Felicia looked over at Fatso, but did not smile. She turned her attention back on Michael, all smiles. “Enjoying your first night?”

  “It’s been all right, kind of boring,” Michael said. “Been talking with Fatso, mostly.”

  “Thanks for the compliment, kid,” Fatso said, fishing in his slacks for a wallet.

  “I don’t mean you’re boring,” Michael said, laughing. “You know what I meant.”

  “We know what you mean,” Felicia said. “Don’t we Fatso.”

  “No offense taken. Still, this place has its moments,” Fatso said, agreeing. “What do I owe you, kid?”

  Michael gave him a check. Fatso paid and left a healthy tip. “Enjoy. It’s big because it’s your first night—and you put up with the likes of me longer than anyone should have to.”

  “I enjoyed talking with you,” Michael responded, putting the cash into the register, his tip into the apron.

  “Sure you did, kid. Sure you did. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

  “You say it like I might not be here,” Michael said.

  “You never know,” Fatso said, pulling open the door and letting a gust of frigid, cold air in. “Take care.”

  Michael felt the goosebumps appear on his arms. A sudden chill tingled its way down his spine. “Yeah, you too. I’ll see you tomorrow night,” Michael said, promising.

  When the door closed, Felicia called Fatso a lard-ass.

  “Why’s that?” Michael asked.

  “When he gets here tomorrow, ask what he does during the day.”

  “Do you know what he does during the day?”

  “Sure I do,” Felicia said. She had not looked away from Michael’s eyes—or he could not look away from hers. They captivated and demanded his attention.

  “So why should I wait until tomorrow, if you can tell me tonight?” Michael asked.

  “It’s much more rich coming from him,” she said, and went back to her booth. She went back to staring out the window. Their conversation ended.

  Chapter 5

  Martin Wringer hated his new job, hated everything about it. The foreman was an asshole. He seemed to be standing over Wringer’s neck all night just watching him work, as if waiting for him to make a mistake. For a few dollars over minimum wage, screw it. He did not need it. Wringer knew he could find another job making the same crap pay, but with none of the management hassles.

  “How those parts coming, Martin?” The foreman handed Wringer an envelope.

  “Good, boss,” Wringer responded. “What’s this?”

  “You’re first pay check, for last week.”

  “Right, thanks,” Wringer said, folding and sticking the envelope into his back pocket.

  “I want to tell you, you’re doing a very competent job, but some of the parts sent down the line are questionable. None of the parts have been rejected, mind you—but they’re questionable. We’d appreciate if you could, maybe, just take a little more time double checking the quality of your work. Your quantity is great, no problem there. You clip along like a pro. Still, the company strives to be recognized for the quality of its products. All right?”

  “Sure boss. You want me to slow down and concentrate on the quality aspects of the job. We want these parts to last and last. If bad parts are assembled into the machines, and the machines crap out after a week of operation, customers will not be happy. The last thing we want is unhappy customers,” Wringer said, tilting his head to one side and smiling. “So, if I focus my attention better, and build high quality assemblies, the machines might last a lifetime. Am I on your wave length here, boss?” Wringer asked. He noticed the odd look the foreman was giving him, the way he furrowed his brow and wrinkled his nose. “Did I misunderstand you?”

  “No. No. You understood me,” the foreman said. He backed slowly away from Wringer’s workstation. As if forcing himself to smile, he said: “Keep it up, and thanks.”

  When the bells rang, signaling break time, Wringer took his coat, keys and left the building, walking by the peo
ple forced to smoke outside. “Hey, where you headed?” Someone shouted.

  Wringer did not respond. Why should he? He climbed into his van and pulled out of the parking lot without taking the time to brush the snow off his windows, and instead ran the windshield wipers on high. “Screw that place,” he mumbled.

  The digital clock on the dash displayed the time: 3:00 A.M.

  More wound-up than tired, Wringer wondered how he might spend the day. In the deeper recesses of his mind, he knew he needed another job. For now he just needed a place to cash his paycheck and find an open liquor store.

  Chapter 6

  By three in the morning, Michael thought he might fall asleep standing up. He had hoped to talk more with Felicia. She spent most of the last hour in the back of the joint on the pay phone, while the rest of the place became empty. At some point, Marcus, the mob-wannabe, had slipped out. Though the man had left enough cash at the table to cover the bill and a generous tip, Michael felt slighted for not noticing the man leave. He knew he would need to become more observant.

  The door opened and two women stumbled in, giggling obnoxiously. They staggered up to the counter. The one to Michael’s left was an attractive black woman with a heavy layer of blue make-up covered her eyelids. The brows were drawn on. Her lips were full and alluring. When the woman smiled, all was lost. The incomplete rows of teeth, an even shade of Post-It yellow, stood crooked and uneven in her mouth. “Hey, sugar,” she said. “I’m Vanessa. Johns call me Venus. What do you want to call me, sexy?”

  Michael smiled. He reached under the counter and produced two coffee cups. “Coffee, Vanessa?”

  The other woman with Vanessa laughed and jokingly shouldered her friend. “Stuffed!”

  “Stuffed, my ass,” Vanessa said, attempting to produce a seductive smile for Michael’s benefit. “Night’s young. And what is your name, cutie?”

  “It’s Michael,” Felicia said. She was off the phone and making her way to the counter. “Not Mike or Mikey. Anyone calls him kid, and I’ll knock ‘em upside the head.”