“Damn,” Michael said.
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Around one, Felicia stood up. “You know, this is crazy. I’m going home.” She rolled her head, stretching her neck muscles. “Damned police got nothing better to do than hang out in a diner all night. Hell, Jack don’t even sell doughnuts.”
Michael smiled knowing Felicia wanted the undercover police to hear her. They appeared to do their best not to. Aside from Felicia and Fatso, the police were the only other guests seated in the dining room. He had filled their coffee cups a few times. They were polite and looked bored.
The cop in costume on the corner had only been picked up three times. Michael had to assume the three johns were arrested, and none of them was the serial killer. The woman working the street had to be cold. The sound of the wind caused the building to moan. “It’s a bitter looking night,” Fatso said.
Michael did not want Felicia to leave. It was unrealistic to think she would stay the entire night. He had things in his car and wondered when he might be able to give them to her. As he stood by her, but behind the counter, he tried to talk without drawing attention. Fatso made no game about it. He was not only staring at them, he was anxiously waiting to hear what Michael had to say.
It was an awkward moment. Only Felicia seemed to be enjoying it. She smiled at Michael as he searched in himself for the right words. “When I get out of here, I got something I’d like to give you.”
“I’ll bet you do, kid,” Fatso said and grunted out a laugh. He looked around the diner to see if he had scored one with the undercover police officers. They seemed more like fixtures, rather than people. They barely moved, each looking out the front window, eyes clearly focused on their fellow employee, the streetwalker.
“Fatso, you mind?” Michael asked. “Huh?”
“Hey, sorry, kid.” Fatso picked up his paper. He unfolded it some. He held it up, but peered over the paper’s edge. When Michael continued to stare at him, he lowered his eyeballs and mumbled. “Sorry. Geesh!”
Michael lost his motivation. He felt dumb, foolish like a schoolboy. This was not the image he wanted to convey. He had never considered himself shy around women. Felicia did something to him, though. And yet, part of him wondered about something else. Maybe he felt funny asking her to do something in front of other people because everyone here knew she was a prostitute. It was possible. The fact that she was did bother him. He still found himself very attracted to her. He wanted to spend time with her. Crude as it sounded, there was no getting around the fact that she earned her living screwing guys for money.
“What, Michael?” Felicia asked. He looked into her eyes knew immediately that she wanted him to keep going, to find the strength and ask her out.
“Nah, it’s nothing. Some books I have in the car. I’ll catch up with you. Don’t worry about it.” It hurt saying this. He wanted to say so much more. He had hurt her, too. The look in her eyes changed. She was no longer looking at him in the same way. The longing look had vanished. Now she looked sad, her eyes looked shiny, but wet. “You’ll be in tomorrow?”
Felicia tossed a few bills onto the counter. “Who knows.” She put on her coat, and while she wrestled with the zipper, she did everything in her power not to look at Michael. “Good night. Good night, Fatso, and good hunting officers.”
She pulled open the door, capturing everyone’s attention. As she left, she managed a quick glance over her shoulder to let Michael see she was crying. He was about to say something—though he had no idea what to say—but it did not matter. She left. The strong winds kept the diner door from closing. The bitter wind easily found its way in to Jack’s, and a sudden and violent chill worked its way down Michael’s spine.
As the door slowly closed, Fatso set down his newspaper, once again. “Way to go, lover-boy.”
Michael pulled out his pack of cigarettes. He lit one, ignoring Fatso, and watched Felicia walk by the undercover whore, and disappear around the corner. He had blown it. “Dammit.”
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When his night shift ended, Michael Buzzelli felt like crap. Jack’s Joint remained dead for most of the night. It was almost as if the clientele knew the police had the place staked out and therefore, stayed away. The highlight of the evening happened on the three occasions where the woman, Christine Wrzos came in to get warm. She played her part to a tee. She talked a line of crap, keeping Michael and Fatso entertained. When she was inside, the undercover policemen relaxed. It was a break for them, too.
Jack was pissed when he showed up. The register was bare. Michael left out the back door while the old man was still cussing away.
Michael knew what he wanted to do. He wanted to stop by and talk with Felicia. He knew she was mad at him. She might not want to see him. He could drive home, get ready for bed, write a little or watch some television, but decided against it. If he tried writing, his heart would not be in it. The articles he worked on were very important. If he could not write with all of his heart and concentration, then the articles would need to wait. Though he did not need any heart to watch television, the thought of lying on the sofa watching television did not sound appealing.
After getting his car started and wiping the accumulation of snow off the front and rear windshields, Michael sat behind the wheel and thought about what options he had left. Only one remained.
He pulled onto Lake Avenue and headed for Felicia’s house. It was a beautiful morning. The freshly fallen snow was white—and not yet tainted by car exhaust. As he left the city, the scenery around him became more extraordinary. The snow was several inches thick and sat like white rising shadows on each tree branch. The sight of winter can be exhilarating, and Michael understood this perception to be part of a good omen, a sign reflective of glorious things to come.
What he did not know was that his interpretation of the omen could not be any further from the truth.
Chapter 42
Saturday, January 26
Valerie Wringer stood by the kitchen counter washing the breakfast dishes. A wet, soapy semi ring started around the mid-section of her violet shirt, making the ring a deeper and darker shade of purple. While she washed, she stared absently out the window over the sink admiring the way the day was starting out. The fresh falling blanketed the yard, filling in any footprints. She especially liked the way the trees looked covered with powdery white snow.
As she finished, washing out a glass once filled with pulpy orange juice, Valerie called out to her daughters. “Girls if you’re almost ready, we’ll get going.” On Saturdays, Veronica and Victoria bowled on a youth league. Veronica was twelve, and the oldest. Victoria was ten, and Valerie thought, a much more accomplished bowler. Valerie knew part of the reason. While Victoria was competitive and focused, the boys on the league had easily distracted her older sister.
Things in the house were much more difficult and Valerie often times found herself crying for no apparent reason. But that was not exactly true. There were plenty of reasons to be upset. The thought of Veronica interested in boys was reason enough. In two months Veronica would become a teenager. The girl had begun having periods when she was eleven, and though as mother and daughter they had discussed some of the birds and bees, Valerie knew a much more content-oriented talk would be necessary.
Valerie let the water out of the sink. As it drained, she used her blue sponge to wipe down the sides of the sink. She used a few sheets of paper toweling to dry her hands and wipe down the counter. “Girls!”
“Coming!” The unanimous reply came and was immediately followed with the sound of feet pounding down the hallway and down the stairs.
“I’m not ready, I can’t find my brush,” Veronica said. She stood at the bottom of the stairs, pouting. She had her hip cocked, and for no reason at all was staring daggers at her mother.
Victoria was sitting on the floor next to her big sister, trying to keep her balance on her rump as she struggled to fit her foot into her snow boot witho
ut first untying the laces. “Why are you looking at me that way? I didn’t take your brush—and Tori, untie the boot first.”
“I don’t have too,” Victoria said as she managed to shove her foot into the boot. She reached for the other one and the wrestling process started up again.
“Did you check in the bathroom drawers?” Valerie asked, feeling compelled to offer a solution. They did not have time to argue. It was nearly ten o’clock, and the girls began bowling at ten thirty. Valerie wadded the paper toweling up and tossed it into an overfilled pail under the sink counter. “Let me take a look.”
As she walked toward the stairs, Veronica did not move. She made a harsh face and had no problem sharing it with her mother. Her upper lip was raised, as was her left nostril. The heavy lipstick and thick application of eye shadow and mascara made her look like a simple-minded clown. Though this should have made Valerie laugh, it did not. She was instead enraged. “What is your problem, young lady?”
Veronica crossed her arms over her chest. “Nothing.”
Poor Victoria scooted out of the way on her rump. She stopped trying to get into the second winter boot. Valerie knew that Victoria hated the fighting. However, Veronica seemed to thrive on it. Though she wanted to blame all of this on her ex-husband, she knew to be fair, she could not. She remembered having similar run-ins with her own mother. She also remembered after a run-in with her mother, she would go to her daddy for comfort and an understanding ear. Veronica did not have that luxury.
Knowing all of this did not defuse the situation any. “I was about to go upstairs and look for your hair brush, your hair brush, and you’re going to give me an attitude? I don’t think so. If you can’t find your brush, then tough.”
“Then I’m not going bowling,” Veronica said, as if she were punishing her mother.
“Go on and stay home then,” Valerie said. Inside her heart ached. She hated to fight with one of her daughters. She did not want Veronica to miss a week of bowling. The girls enjoyed bowling, sometimes for different reasons, and it was a perfect way for them constructively to spend a Saturday Morning.
“Veronica,” Victoria said simply in a pleading voice. She had untied her boot and was in the process of loosening the laces. She stuffed in her foot and stood up. “Don’t be this way. Mom didn’t loose your brush.”
“Shut up, Tori!”
“Don’t talk to your sister that way,” Valerie shouted.
“It’s okay, Mom,” Victoria said. She bent forward, and while she tied her laces, said, “She doesn’t mean it, Mom. I know that.”
Again, a pang of needle sharp pain pierced Valerie’s heart. She did not know much about psychology, but she was certain any one-oh-one textbook on divorced families would have a way to categorize all three of their behaviors. “Whether she meant it or not, I will not allow her to tell you to shut-up,” Valerie said, then turned her fury onto her oldest daughter. “Your sister didn’t want you to miss out on bowling, she does nothing but try to look out for you, and this is how you treat her?”
Something in Veronica’s expression softened. Veronica looked past her mother and over at her kid sister. “I’m sorry, Victoria. Mad at me?”
“You know I’m not,” Victoria said, smiling. She shrugged her shoulders. “Still want to miss bowling?”
Veronica looked at her mother. “Mom? I’m sorry.”
Valerie wanted to hold a grudge. She found it a real challenge to switch on and off her emotions. She needed to remain levelheaded. All three of them were stuck going through major changes. The girls were without a father, and she was without a husband. None of this was easy. Valerie took a split second to remember one thing. Right now, all they had was one another. Valerie knew she needed to be a mom and a dad to these girls, but she would also need to be their friend. They needed to trust her and feel like they could come and talk to her. She did not want them to think that she was unapproachable. This argument was silly and hardly worth battling over. Veronica had sincerely apologized to them. “Okay dear,” Valerie said as the two embraced.
There was a knock at the door as Valerie ran up the stairs. “One of you get that, and I’ll look around for the brush.”
In the bathroom, in the drawer, under a wad of hair-scrunchies, Valerie found Veronica’s brush. She looked at herself in the mirror and saw the woman behind the façade. Who was she fooling? No one. Here she was a single mother of two and forced to go back to work. What did she know how to do? She was without any kind of training. She could barely use a computer. She was this close to applying for help from the state. It was a last resort and she dreaded the need to turn to it.
Taking a few squares off the roll of toilet paper, Valerie dabbed at her eyes. She was not going to let herself start crying. The girls were waiting for her. She had to take them bowling. She could wait in the car while they bowled and cry for as long as she wanted, but she would not start crying now. Not now.
“Silly daughter of mine, your brush was right where I said it might be,” Valerie said, rounding the hallway corner and starting down the stairs. She stopped in mid-step when she saw her ex husband sitting on the sofa with one daughter bouncing on each knee. Both girls stared expectantly up at their mother. They looked confused, yet happy. They missed their father so much. They knew that mom did not want them talking to their dad, they knew that mom would not let daddy near the house. They knew all this, but they did not really know why. Why did mom want to keep them away from their daddy?
She could not tell them that their daddy was not a good man and that he had a severe drinking problem. She could not tell them that their daddy beat up his supervisor at work. She could not tell her daughters that their daddy was having sex with whores and contracting diseases. They did not need to hear all that, not now, and maybe not ever. Regardless of all his wrongs, he was still their daddy. Valerie loved her own father so much. When he died, a part of her had died. She had been daddy’s little girl—and being daddy’s little girl was one of the strongest and best emotions she brought with her from childhood into adulthood. The experience was so strong and positive that if her daughters could know even a fraction of that kind of love, then she did not want to be the one to spoil it.
“Valerie, my dear, how have you been?”
Forcing a smile, and perhaps wishing the brush in her hand were a knife, she answered his question with one of her own: “Martin, what are you doing here?”
Chapter 43
“You know, I feel like I can’t get rid of you,” Felicia said. She sat down across from Michael at the kitchen table. She rested an elbow on the table, kept her eyes focused on her cup. The coffee was freshly brewed and she reluctantly poured him a cup. He had a big bag filled with books, but had yet to explain why he chose to bring them into the house. He knew she was not glad to see him. He could tell by the look in her eyes. They looked dark and beady. He kept on smiling. He wanted to get over this hurtle, to work past this block in their relationship.
“I’m sorry about today,” Michael said. He did not want to avoid the issue. He was wrong, and knew he was wrong. Ignoring that there was a problem, that he had a problem with Felicia’s profession, would not solve anything. Apparently his feelings on the subject were stronger than anticipated. He wanted to see the relationship progress, but did not think that was possible, not with Felicia still working as a prostitute. A part of him knew it would be unfair to ask her to change her life for him. The other half knew changing her life around could be the best thing for her. What kind of future did she have to look forward to?
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Felicia said sternly, leaning over the table as she spoke. “The only thing I know for sure is that you’re a class A jerk. You haven’t got balls enough to be a man. What would have been so difficult, Michael, about asking me out, huh?” Felicia asked. Now her voice trembled. “I am still a girl.”
The fierceness to her was gone. Tears where just blinks away from being shed. Michael did not want to upset
her. The time for speaking the truth was now. He needed to explain his feelings, but more than that he needed to share his intentions. If he backed down now, then he knew he would have no right to bring this subject up again in the future. “Felicia, I think I might love you.”
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Valerie Wringer felt every muscle in her body tighten. Over the years, Martin had gradually changed as his drinking increased. He had become progressively more mean and resentful. He spent more time alone, watching television up in their bedroom and working in the shed out in the backyard. When she learned he had lost his job she had not been surprised. He had been going into work inebriated for many months. She knew it was just a matter of time before it all caught up to him. She made the mistake of warning him once. That had been the first time he struck her. It was a hard openhanded slap. She had said, “Martin? Martin do you think you should drink so much before work? I mean, you know you can get in trouble, you can lose your job if you show up to work drunk.”
He had stared into her eyes, and she had watched any warmth drain from them. She was so intent on staring into his frigid, icy eyes that she never saw the slap coming. It rocked her, knocking her off balance. The stinging in her cheek burned as if on fire. She used both hands to cup her face. The tears came immediately, almost on contact. She could think of nothing to say. He did not defend his actions, or apologize for them. Instead, Martin had left the house, slamming the door on his way out.
In hindsight, that day had been the beginning of the end. And now that it was over, she wondered why this man—this stranger—was sitting in her living room holding her daughters on his knees. “Martin, what are you doing here?”
Johnny Blade Page 19
