Michael remembered a recent drug bust. The police stormed a known crack house. A gunfight broke out. A nineteen-year-old woman, with thirty-five bags of crack in her pockets, was shot and killed. The woman did not, however, have a gun. The woman also happened to be African American. The people of the city of Rochester cried out injustice and about unfair racial treatment, never mind the fact that the woman should not have been at a crack house. Never mind the fact that she had more drugs on her than most drug dealers carry around at a given time. Never mind the fact that the people crying out injustice are the same people who cuss out the police for not closing down all the city crack houses. No, Michael knew the police operated on a highly Catch-22 policy.
“Damn,” Fatso commented. “Think they got him?”
“They might,” Felicia said. “The bastard.”
Michael wanted to leave, run to his car and follow the police pursuit. Every instinct in his body told him to do just that. He wanted the story so bad he could taste it. His mouth had started to salivate. Matthew Sinopoli, at the paper, would be out of his mind with jealousy if Michael not only covered the story, but also was actually present for the arrest.
Rubbing his hands anxiously up and down the thighs of his jeans, Michael’s mind was made up. The story was important. Out there—out in the city, the climax to a serial killer’s rampage was being uncovered. The identity of a prostitute-murdering madman might be revealed at any moment. Jack’s Joint was a job to get him closer to his career goal. If he stayed behind the counter and Johnny Blade was apprehended, he would no longer need to continue his employment with Jack Murphy. The story would be, in essence, over, and he would have passed on a prime opportunity—a once in a lifetime chance—to witness a notorious takedown.
He leaned over the counter, holding Felicia’s full attention. “You know what? I’ll be right back.”
“Where are you going?” Felicia asked.
“Yeah. Where are you going?”
Michael turned around. Marcus was at the counter. Marcus wanted to know where he was going, too. Marcus’ eyes, like black, beady marbles had locked on him. His brow furrowed. His jaw muscles worked back and forth, sending waves of tension through his cheeks.
_____________________________
Feeling like a re-born child, Martin Wringer drove with both hands on the wheel. After leaving his wife’s house he pulled into a gas station and used the rest room. Like a drunk, he got down on his knees and hovered over the bowl. He inserted his middle finger into his mouth and pushed it back far enough to tickle his tonsils. Gagging on the finger more than once, he eventually forced himself to vomit.
He hated vomiting. It felt terrible. You could not breathe as the surge of chunky, undigested food flowed like water through a fire hose up your throat. He hated the feel of those chunks as they scraped the roof of his mouth and tongue as the liquid mess spewed forth. He hated the wretched sound of retching. He hated the smell, but when he was done, he did feel re-born.
He wore a smile and could not, for the life of him, get rid of it. He felt the way a man feels after drinking a bunch of beers. Not drunk, but tipsy. His smile had warmth about it and the warmth spread throughout his body. The closure he had received today was the answer. Spending all his time wondering had been driving him crazy. Should he go home? Should he move to another state? Should he drive off a cliff? All of those questions and so many more jumbled ones had been spinning around in his head for so long, he thought he might explode.
There would be no explosion. Now, with the closure he needed, he was satisfied he knew what course to plan out for his life.
Canada. He would head up to Canada and see about becoming a Canadian citizen. They offered free health care to their citizens. The entire country is beautiful—even up in those snowy, freezing northern areas. He could be a Canadian. He loved beer and hockey. He could work an occasional ‘eh’ into his conversations. Martin also felt confident the Canadians would love him, too. And prostitution in parts of Canada was legal. Legal prostitution meant the government regulated the women. In regulating the women, Martin could enjoy their services and not have to worry about catching any sexually transmitted diseases.
Knowing that he did not want to move back in with Valerie, the bitch, made everything easier. He was glad they had had the chance to talk things out. Sure, she wanted him back. His girls wanted him back, but it would be better for everyone if he just let them learn to adjust for a while, without him around. They needed that time. Hell, he needed that time. He was only human. Even he hurt sometimes, and pain, he knew, needs time to heal.
With him in Canada, when the girls were ready, they would have a wonderful place to visit. They could tell all of their friends they were going up to Canada for a few weeks to spend time with their dad. What kid would not want to say something like that? It even sounds cool. My dad lives in Canada. And this was why Martin could not frown away his shit-faced grin.
Nothing was keeping him in the States. Canada, if he hopped on the Parkway and headed west, was little more than an hour’s drive away and he would find himself at the Rainbow Bridge. Cross that and he would be in Niagara Falls. The thought of heading to Niagara Falls got him thinking about the casino. It could not hurt to stop in and play some slots, even just twenty dollars worth. He felt lucky.
He felt lucky. He felt like getting lucky—one last time with an American girl before he bid the grand USA farewell.
_____________________________
Immediately he shivered, as if the fingertip of an icicle traced its way down his spine. “What do you mean?” Michael asked Marcus. Everyone in the diner was focused in on the conversation. Marcus’ demeanor demanded that kind of attention.
“I mean, where the hell are you going? Are you going to follow after the police?” Marcus asked. He spoke calmly, despite his choice of verbiage.
Michael wondered what the Mafia-wannabe might be up to. He did not want to deny anything, but neither did he wish to admit to anything. He wanted to plead ‘no contest’. “Why would I do that?” Answer a question with a question. It was the best technique to keep from saying anything. Politicians were notorious for this kind of reply.
“I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me, or us, since we all have a place in your story,” Marcus said. The silence that ensued meant everyone was chewing on that comment. “Well?”
Marcus knew. Somehow the little Guido-bastard had found him out. “What are you talking about?” He knew as soon as he asked that he had made a mistake. Bluffing was futile, but he had played the hand and would now have to suffer through the consequences.
“You want, I should tell everyone? Gladly.” Marcus was getting ready to roll. When he next spoke, he spoke with a grin that frightened Michael. “Michael Buzzelli, our Michael—Jack Murphy’s Michael—works for the Rochester City Chronicle.”
No one gasped, or even seemed surprised. Fatso just shrugged. He had been at the counter when Michael interviewed with Jack. Michael had told Jack he worked for the paper. He would not doubt Fatso overhearing the entire conversation. He also would not doubt after leaving that day, that Jack discussed his resume and application with everyone in the place.
Felicia just smiled at Marcus. “So?”
Marcus smiled back, as if not at all fazed by the placid effect of his announcement. “Maybe he told you that his position at the paper is menial and flat—working as a journalist writing the obituary ads, huh? Sounds right?”
He talked directly to Felicia, his intended target. Michael understood what was coming. He had no idea how Marcus obtained any information, but he knew beyond a doubt that Marcus was armed with bullets and was ready to blast them at Felicia and anyone else in their path.
“Marcus,” Michael said. He did not want to sound like a beggar, but knew in order to get the man’s attention, he would have to appease the situation. “Marcus, please.”
Marcus stopped talking and folded his hands in front of him as he shrugged. “You want to finish? S
ee, if you don’t, I will. I’ll let you have the choice, though, because I can’t decide. I can’t decide if this coming from me will be more damaging, or if it comes from you. See my dilemma?” Marcus spoke using animated hand gestures. His fingers pointed and curled and spread while his wrist rolled and his hands flipped and flopped. Normally Michael made eye contact with people when talking with someone. However, Marcus’s hands, much like his demeanor, demanded attention.
“What’s he talking about?” Felicia asked, suddenly suspicious. Fatso was quiet, but sat at the counter with his back straight, eager to find out what was going on.
Michael, looking at Marcus, faltered. “Felicia I told you I work at the paper, you know?”
“Yeah, I know. What’s the big deal? What’s going on?”
Marcus had left the folder on the table. Michael could only assume what documents it might contain. If he assumed the worst, he was going to be in trouble. The last thing he wanted to do was volunteer more information than needed. If he did not say enough, and Marcus had conclusive evidence to nail his shortcomings, Felicia would be pissed. “Well, writing the obituary columns sucks.”
“I imagine it would,” Fatso said.
“Shut up,” Felicia ordered. “Go on, Michael.”
“I didn’t go to school to write an obituary column for a paper. I went and earned a degree so I could become a reporter, a real journalist,” Michael managed.
“Well no kidding,” Fatso said.
“I said, ‘shut up’,” Felicia repeated her order. Michael noticed the fearful look in her eyes. She could not anticipate his next words. Everything right now, for her, was a dark mystery.
“I took this job, here at Jack’s, to get closer to the Johnny Blade story.”
Confused, keeping her emotions at bay, Felicia asked, “What? Like undercover work?”
Michael had been watching Felicia’s reaction, but turned to study Marcus, to see if he was happy with the anguish he was inflicting. “That’s right, undercover work.” He wanted to explain more. He wanted to tell her that he knew Johnny Blade would come back and strike again, but refrained. Revealing that thought would serve no purpose.
Felicia sat deadly silent on the counter stool, obviously assessing her feelings. “I guess that’s kind of exciting for you. Ambitious,” she said cautiously. She sounded leery.
Marcus cleared his throat, catching everyone’s attention. Felicia looked at Marcus with one of the hardest, most evil looks Michael had ever seen. He thought she might be able to kill him at that moment. She knew Marcus’ intent. To crush Michael, and ultimately destroy her new found world.
Strolling casually back to the table for his folder, Marcus said, “Pretty close, Felicia. You seem to have a good grasp on handling the situation—that is, if you had all the facts.”
Felicia turned on Michael. “What other facts? What else is there?”
Michael was looking directly at the folder in Marcus’ hand as he walked back to the counter. He set the folder down on the counter. In black marker, in big block letters, someone had written OBITS. That was the name of the file on Michael’s work computer’s desktop. It was his personal file, one he thought would be safe. If Marcus had obtained the documents from that file and had hard copies in his folder, all Hell was only seconds from breaking loose. He had written drafts of personal pieces on nearly everyone in the diner and now it all made sense.
Maybe Marcus did some background checks on Michael. Maybe he found someone at the paper with access to his work computer. Obviously he had been able to get documents from that computer. Maybe Marcus would not have cared if there had not of been a piece written about him.
Michael knew what he had written about Marcus had been harsh, but had to be because it was the truth. Marcus was a mystery man, and that was how the piece was built. The man, a loner, had to have a concealed past. The incident with the robbers the one day in the diner should have thrilled Marcus. For that portion of the piece, Marcus was displayed as a hero. However, Marcus did not want any noted involvement and had fled when he had had the chance, before having to talk with the police.
Michael knew the problem. He had invaded the privacy Marcus had so carefully constructed around himself that this was a way for Marcus to get back at him. Exposure. “Marcus, come on,” Michael pleaded.
“It’s been fun watching you squirm, but you take too long, see? So forget about it. I’ll take it from here.” Marcus moved to open the folder. Michael slapped his hand down on the folder. Marcus, through clenched teeth, said, “Move it or I’ll break every bone in your stick-like body.”
Michael knew he was not being threatened. Marcus was only saying what would happen. Reluctantly, he removed his hands. Marcus opened the folder and handed out copies of documents to Fatso and Felicia. “Speed’s not going to be able to enjoy the article Mr. Buzzelli has written about him, but maybe I can send him his copy.”
“These aren’t going to be published in the newspaper,” Michael said. He knew he sounded extremely defensive. “I’m a writer.”
No one was listening, each engrossed in reading what had been handed to them. Silently Felicia was crying. Fatso kept sighing.
“What the hell is this, kid? I thought we were friends.” Fatso slapped his document down on the counter. “You put a knife in my heart, kid. Right in my heart.”
Michael felt so ashamed. No words would come to him, so he stayed quiet. He watched Fatso slide off the counter stool. He left his paper, he left the piece Michael had written, and left.
Felicia, done reading, cradled her forehead between the web of her thumb and finger. Mascara streaks made a path down her cheeks. “Is this what I am to you? Am I something for you to study and psychoanalyze? Was this whole thing, us, were we—was I part of your study? All of us here, us poor people, we were a stepping stone to you? A freaking stepping stone!”
“My editor never even saw those. He doesn’t know I wrote them,” Michael managed to say on his behalf.
“You think that’s the point? I don’t care if your editor assigned you to write them. You wrote them. You watched us, you took notes,” she said softly and threw a trembling lip. “I have no idea who you are. You fooled me and let me tell you something Michael, I don’t fool easily. I never let my guard down. Never. But you, you got it down. You got to me. And now I have to question everything that has happened in my life these last few weeks. I thought everything was so wonderful, sunny—changing. I can’t believe how wrong I was. I can’t believe how cheap you’ve made me feel.” She laughed. “Imagine that, you made a whore feel cheap.”
Michael found it difficult to swallow. He could not even be angry with Marcus, because he knew everything Felicia said could not be far from the truth.
Felicia set down her document. She stared at Michael for a several seconds, long enough for a black tear to drop from her cheek and splash on the front page of the piece. “I thought I loved you,” were her last words before standing up and walking out.
Michael wanted to go after her. He peeled off his apron and ran around the counter. Marcus, an obstacle, stopped him. “I don’t want you doing articles on my life, you got me?” Marcus asked giving Michael a shove. “I don’t know who you think you are coming in here, pretending to be—what? A low life piece of crap like Fatso, like Felicia there, like me? You think I’m a low life piece of crap, Michael? Is that what you think about everyone here? You went to college, landed a cushy job on a big city newspaper, so you’re better than me? See my car?” Marcus pulled out his keys and dangled them in Michael’s face. “See the car I’m driving? I seen the car you drive. I seen the piece of crap car you drive, Michael, and you’ve got to ask yourself who’s making the better living here.”
Michael heard Marcus, but was distracted. Felicia was by the pole, her head hung low. She was hurting and he knew he needed to get to her. “Please, Marcus—can we discuss this later?”
“Later? What, like we should check our calendars?”
When the
white van pulled up to the curb, Michael’s heart stopped. Felicia looked back, into the diner, and then at the van. She went up to the passenger window.
Michael’s heart sank. He did not want her to go back to being a prostitute. Despite everything that transpired, he was not phony with Felicia when it came to his feelings. He wanted to help her—he loved her.
When she got into the van, and the van pulled away, Michael felt as if he had stuck his finger in an outlet. A shock of recollection sped through him and charged his brain. In his mind he could see Vanessa. She was out by the corner. A van stopped and she climbed in. It was the last time he saw her. The van Felecia just climbed into was identical.
But the police were in the process of apprehending Johnny Blade. Or were they?
“Marcus, I need the keys to your car. Now!” Michael felt a surge of energy, emotion and adrenaline race through his body.
Marcus, smiling smugly, shook his head. “What kind of drugs are you on?”
Michael sucker punched Marcus in the gut. As the Mafia-wannabe bent over, Michael snatched the car keys from his hand. “Call the police, Marcus! Call the police!”
Chapter 57
Martin Wringer pulled away from the curb. He had only stopped because he recognized the whore. “What was with that girl the other night? She didn’t seem right,” Martin asked.
“Very perceptive,” the American whore said flatly. “She was an undercover cop. They’re looking for that Johnny Blade guy. I think they got him tonight, though.”
Martin grinned. “Is that so?”
The whore was looking at him. He could feel it. He kept his eyes on the road.
“You know what? I’ve changed my mind. I’d like to get out,” the whore said. Martin did not think she sounded afraid. Maybe she suspected he was the infamous Johnny Blade, but he did not think so. She just sounded disinterested.
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