by Nace Phlaux
“That’s all right, Mr. Mazzaro, because I have, as far as possessions go, everything I need. The ATM, gloves, and jumpsuits from you and your partner will do nicely.”
Every muscle in my body cramped up at the mention of the ATM—some screeching back in pain. My grip on the pill bottle in my pocket tightened until the lid popped, causing the pills to roll out of my jacket and spill to the floor. Whatever this girl knew, I thought, at least she said “partner” and not “brother.” She could take me down, but you’d be okay. All I could do to respond was to say she had the wrong person.
“We don’t have to play games, Eddie,” she said in this breathy way, like the tone you’d use with a dog that keeps piddling on the rug. “I only need a favor. Just one. Do it well and there’ll be more profitable opportunities for you.” She paused as the conductor called for Eddington, and again I hoped for a chance to send out a secret message. “One bit of blackmail as motivation. After that, we can work out a better deal.”
The Croydon stop came next, which only left Bristol and then Levittown. Was this girl going to follow me to my stop? Follow me to my truck? The complex? And how’d she know about the ATM? “Whatever you’re selling, sweetheart, no interest here. Don’t know what you’re talking about or who you think I am. But if you’re looking for hired help, maybe you should try a temp agency.”
“I’ll give you time to think about my offer and get in touch with you about the specifics,” she said and rose from her seat. The car’s door opened, and the conductor announced we were approaching Bristol. “I want to be friends, Eddie. You have a style my team’s currently lacking.” The train squealed to a halt and opened the doors to the station. “And I’d hate to have to turn in you or your brother.”
She was already halfway down the platform’s steps by the time I reached the right side of the train, and as we picked up speed, I lost any chance to see more details about the girl threatening our lives. For a few minutes there, I’d really thought she somehow missed your involvement in the previous night. But as I headed to my stop and then to the complex, the implications of us getting caught sunk in.
We’d be thrown in jail for grand larceny and property damage, but without any priors except speeding tickets and—let’s be honest here—being two white males, we’d be out of jail in no time. But then news would spread a small business owner robbed from another small business owner in town, and Dad’s business would die off quicker than you can say “disgrace.” Nobody’d hire you, except maybe McCafferty as a part-time porter.
Hayleigh’d be pretty pissed at you, of course. She’d find the whole thing embarrassing—either from the town’s grapevine or the shop declaring bankruptcy—testify against me, and have lawyers showing up with divorce papers before we even got out of prison. As much as I like the sound of you two splitting, I don’t ever want anyone pointing the finger at me as the cause of it. I got enough to burn off in that Purgatory Ma talked about toward the end.
Maybe I should’ve called you about the ATM and the gear, but I thought I knew how the call would’ve gone down. We’d both be casual about it, figuring the other had cleaned up everything. Admitting that neither of us did would’ve eventually led to a screaming match. There may’ve been the chance you’d do something careless. I’m not trying to say you’re the type. But you hiding your worries may’ve made Hayleigh start asking questions we wouldn’t want to answer. To this day, I’m still not sure calling you would’ve made anything better.
Back at home, I paced across my living room until late, only pausing when an especially loud scene stood out from Richter’s TV set droning with historical “facts.” When I realized the apartment had gone dark, I grabbed my keys and headed out to gather enough supplies for one hell of a bender. Like a bad horror movie cliché, I didn’t notice the darkened hallway until the door clicked shut. If it’d been a power outage like before, the backup genny would’ve been pumping away. Someone had to’ve knocked out every light bulb in the hall.
“Eddie, I presume,” a voice called out.
I turned to my left to see two guys backlit by the central stairwell’s lights—the one shorter than me and sporting a dark button-down shirt and dress pants. The other may’ve been Italian or Middle Eastern, taller—he stood back, spreading his lanky body in the doorway as his buddy inched toward me, cracking pieces of broken lights with every step.
If it wasn’t for the cracking, I wouldn’t have even noticed the guy on my right. He crept up from the other stairwell—this one a tall asshole with that “I’m stronger than you and I know it” walk. Real military stereotype. Officer Buzzcut had on this black sweatshirt with a skeleton design all over the arms and torso that seemed to glow in the dark. I half-expected him to try the intimidating neck cracking trick. All of them were kids—maybe in their early 20s, if I had to guess.
“You spoke with our employer earlier today, yes? About a job offer?” I took my keys in my weaker left and weaved my fingers through the holes of the keychain. “Have you had time to consider our employer’s offer?” The tinge of a terrible, fake British accent on him just made me want to punch him more. “Did you need any assistance coming to the right decision?” Skeletor snorted at the limey dwarf as they stepped nearly close enough to grab.
“Is there something my associate and I–” he began, both of them almost on top of me, but I twisted around and gave a right jab to the army dick in his throat, which is where I was aiming for if anybody asks. I turned back to use the fist of keys on the British snot, but he slammed me into my front door and got a few good punches into my gut. The punk was little but vicious.
I backhanded him with my left, and one of the keys must’ve given him a good slice across the face ‘cause he backed up and hunched over, covering his cheek and practically sobbing. I moved toward him with an arm across my stomach, my breath all out of whack and my insides cramping up, and as I was about to clobber the prick again, a pain like I’d never felt slammed into my back, and I was on the ground, the shards of broken lights digging into my skin.
A kick came into my side and then another into my stomach, but the second was mostly blocked and absorbed into my wrists and forearms. Everything between my neck and waist screamed in pain, and I couldn’t stop coughing as I struggled for breath, the spasms making every pain flare out. I forgot how to open my eyes, and my ears hummed and throbbed my heartbeat. Where was Richter? Where were any of my neighbors?
I struggled to crawl to Richter’s door, my legs doing most of the work as my face scraped along the carpet. They must’ve been watching me, letting me writhe around for their entertainment. I eventually got within reach of the door and weakly tapped, forgoing any of the Morse code. Instead, I begged—calling my neighbor’s name at who knows what volume, asking him to forget the prosigns and to just open the goddamned door—all for nothing.
A body straddled mine, and somewhere through the pain I heard a voice say, “Do you understand, Eddie? Are you getting the message yet, you uncouth sack of shit?” He was one of those assholes who had to emphasize the curse words. At that moment, I really hoped I left a scar. “Whatever our employer suggests you do, you do, all right? Do not—I repeat, do not—fuck with her.”
* * *
I’ve been banged up a couple times in the past. God knows there were enough scrambles at Indian Creek and sometimes on the floor of the steel after lunch. There was one time I took the train into Center City, and somebody started following me. I headed through a no-name alley and then turned down the subway. The guy must’ve thought I was some sort of tourist, and at the bottom of the stairs, he took out a knife and demanded I empty my pockets. When I punched him in the face, swear to Christ, he cried, “I didn’t know, man. I’m sorry; I didn’t know.”
The last time I’d really gotten my ass handed to me, though, was a couple years back when one guy from the steel stole the wife of another guy from the steel. My buddy Disandro and I got some liquid courage after our shift, but we made sure not to drink as mu
ch as Gesualdi, the guy who’d stolen Disandro’s wife. We followed him back to his place from the bar, and when Disandro saw the wife’s car in Gesualdi’s driveway, he just freakin’ lost it.
Well, we get up to the house and pound on the door, only to find Gesualdi’s cousin’s there too, and he’s as big as you. Figuring I’m used to a guy that size—not to mention Disandro should’ve been the one pounding on Gesualdi—I take the brick shithouse. I didn’t have to win, I guess, as long as Disandro got a chance to do his thing. Five minutes and a short drive to Lower Bucks later and I’m nursing a swollen eye while Disandro’s gripping a pile of teeth. I think he misses eating a thick steak more than he misses the ex-wife.
I have no idea when I woke up after the hallway beating or how long it took to gather the strength to knock again, but Richter opened up, blaming drug-induced napping for his ignorance. Once I was up and aware, I found out it was a fire extinguisher Skeletor used to knock me on my ass. Once he got over his throat issue, he must’ve found it farther down the hall. Richter gave me an ice pack to put on it, but I still feel a tinge of pain whenever I try sleeping directly on my back.
He gave me plenty of pills that night, too, along with booze he must’ve hobbled out to get at some point. All the while, he asked me about what happened, and I told him as much as I could without getting into our weekly shenanigans. The funny thing is, he goes, “Do it. Do whatever she asks.” And when he saw the look I was giving him, he added, “How many chances do you get to see into the conspiracy? Take it down from the inside if you have to. Take her for all she’s worth if you can. For now, be her little puppet.”
* * *
I spent that Thursday trying to relax, despite my heart racing every time I heard footsteps outside my apartment. Sometime late in the afternoon the temp agency called, asking if I’d be interested in a quick job the next day. When I mentioned being under the weather, the girl was quick to point out the position didn’t require any strength. Standing at a copier for a couple hours kind of task, she promised.
The next morning, I walked through the front door of a building down on Mill Street in Bristol, right across from where Ma used to buy us shoes. Almost the entire storefront was made of glass, but sheets of newspaper covered every square inch of the panes on the inside. Turned out that’s what the place made. Inside, they had these tables with big layout templates, rulers, and grids. Various plaques for journalism awards and enrollment in local business groups hung on the walls.
There was a girl working near the back of the room who I wouldn’t’ve kicked out of bed, but when she looked up and saw me, she called out to someone named Glen. A minute later, a tubby mama’s boy—’cause sometimes you can just tell—comes walking in with thick glasses, a dark blue button-down, and almost-black hair plastered to his head. “Eddie, I presume?” I tried to suppress a shudder as I shook his hand, but the phrase got the better of me. “Follow me on back here, and I’ll be with you in just a sec.”
He led me into the cramped backroom and motioned for me to take a seat. After a few minutes, the door opened again, and the room filled with the scent of church and nicotine. I was on my feet in an instant when I saw the source, knocking the chair to the ground and wishing I’d scoped out the room better before I got comfortable. There were doors behind me—to where? The bathroom? An exit? But as the girl entered, she cooed and headed toward me like you would to a fallen toddler or kitten.
“I told them to avoid your face,” she said, caressing my cheeks and forehead in an almost motherly way. “I wanted to send a message, not scar you for life.” She scanned the nicks and bruises, and when she was satisfied, she stepped back and leaned against the wall. Looking her over—everything blacks and grays and fishnets and piercings, combined with that insultingly fake magenta hair—I kept wondering if there was a mother out there rethinking her life’s decisions.
She grinned the wide smile of someone primed in customer service and said, “Glen’s the owner and editor of the Express series of newspapers, which formerly covered the hamster cages of Levittown, Bensalem, and Bristol. A recent string of leaks involving Bensalem Township’s school district inspired a spike of readership, and I hear his next big story involves ATM thefts.” I began to open my mouth—maybe to claim I didn’t know anything or maybe to crack a joke. But she waved a finger and clicked her tongue.
“Aiming his paper at small to medium business owners and their advertisements, he’s not as interested in the crimes as he is in helping susceptible locations increase their security systems.” Her eyeliner-heavy eyes drilled into me as she spoke, and I got this clammy feeling all over my body that woke up all my sore joints and muscles. “The story’s still in its fact-compiling stage, but Glen’s been kind enough to offer the map he’s made of potential targets.”
I opened my mouth and, not getting the finger again, said, “I know you. The mousy girl at the temp agency. The wallflower who tested me on the computer.” Her eyebrows perked up in this “Your point?” kind of way, but she didn’t say a word. “This your side hobby? Got your boyfriends outside the door ready to finish the job they did on me? What do you want from me, princess?”
“Use the list for one more job—the bigger, the better. All the cash will go to an associate of mine, and you can use the rest of the list to do with as you want. Think of it as compensation for your troubles.” She stepped away from the wall, right in front of me. Within kissing distance. Her throat within reach of my hands. “Once done, we’ll give back the evidence, and you can either use the list, continue working with us, both. Your choice, sweetie.” Again, that customer service smile. “Questions?”
Richter’s advice came to mind as I stood there thinking, stretching my fingers and making a fist over and over. I finally suppressed the sneer on my face and replaced it with the fakest salesman grin I could muster. “When do you need the cash?”
The Express - Public Safety Log
Friday 01/11/2013
BENSALEM
Arrests/Citations
Jason Mann, 19, Ivy Hill Rd., Bristol Township, 12:11 a.m. Mon, outstanding Pa. state warrant on 4800 block Oxford Ct., sent to county prison.
Kenneth McKloskey, 28, 700 block Kleckner Rd., 9 a.m. Sat, simple assault, disorderly conduct, harassment on 700 block Kleckner Rd., released on $25,000 unsecured bail.
BRISTOL TOWNSHIP
Theft
1000 block Anne St., Croydon, time and date unknown, cellphone, $200 value.
3000 block Bath Rd., sometime Dec 19-26, 2 leather fire helmets, flashlight/charger, $1,250 value.
BRISTOL BOROUGH
Theft from vehicle
200 block Harrison St., overnight Sun, Nokia GPS unit, $125 value.
300 block Market St., 12:33 p.m. Mon, Blu 1000 cellphone, phone charger, no value given.
100 block Taft St., 4:30 p.m. Mon, change, sunglasses, $35 value.
LOWER MAKEFIELD
Arrests/Citations
Male, 39, New Hope, name not released, 7:01 a.m. Jan 3, at Taylorsville and Woodside rds.
Female, 48, Morrisville, name not released, 11:12 p.m. Jan 4, at Stony Hill and Heacock rds.
Manny 3
From: Emmanuel Quinn ([email protected])
To: Ro Ortiz ([email protected])
Sent: Friday, January 11, 2013 9:18 AM
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Hey
> > After the past week, I thought you’d be sick of me.
>
> “If you fly by night, that’s right, I’ll let you make a wish, eat you up like a
> favorite dish”
“My life is an open book, you had a chapter but will it end happily ever after?” Love Talib. I got the Mos Def and DJ Shadow station you suggested playing on my cell in one ear and a conference call going on in the other. Makes the old white biddies talking sound like a sample in a Wu track.
> My crew used to have this Brazilian fucker in it, and we were pretty tight
> there for a bit. Not dat
ing or anything. He said he was straight, but you know
> what that ish means. He used to always say, Uma só língua nunca basta. One
> language is never enough. So me and the boys’ve picked up his old
> sayings like saying Tudo bem? for How’s it going? Or legal. If everything’s
> cool, everything’s legal. Idk what that says about Brazil, right?
Yeah? Ask him for sweet sayings to call me. I looked up mariconcito, and it’s not as cute as it sounds. Jerk.
> > I got videos that say a little something about you, sir. Just FYI.
>
> You keep that to yourself, mi mariconcito, ok? If I ever run for office of
> something, I don’t need that spreading around. Unless my ass looks cute in
> it. Then maybe it’ll boost my ratings, right?
See? Right there, sir. Right there. But your ass is pretty cute, I guess, so you get off this time.
> We lost one of our servers this week. Working restaurants is like incestuous,
> ya know? Not in a dirty way, but everybody’s working from place to place,
I feel ya. Happens in the temp world too. After the incident at the gas station, I signed up with the agency and bounced to a few places, never for long. I used to eat lunch with this lady Miss Meechie where we did data entry for a moving company, but I ran my time and had to leave. She showed up here a little after me, but one day she showed up in Crocs and a t-shirt saying in big letters JESUS LOVE ME. Boss lady didn’t have none of it. Told her to turn around and come back appropriate or don’t come back. Never seen her since.
