by Nace Phlaux
The next morning, I called in sick at Havis and drove over to the steel. Gaunt had expected me to start that new position that day, but I figured he’d understand. George or Derrick—whichever was which—walked around the front perimeter of All-Lite, but his cohort was nowhere to be found. Once he turned the corner, either to go down the length of the building or—more likely—to go to the hoagie shop next door, I went through the front door, probably for the first time since I interviewed at the place.
Evelyn sat at the receptionist’s desk, typing who knows what into her computer and giving me a smirk when she caught my eye. She took off her glasses as I approached and unzipped my jacket, pulling out a box of Little Debbie Zebra Cakes and sliding them across the counter. “Looking good, darling,” I said. “Getsinger treating you all right?”
She slid the box into a drawer all stealthy like I’d passed her a baggie of cocaine. “Nothing I can’t handle. Security’s still around and may not take to you being here. Unless you brought snacks for them too, perhaps.”
“Only here for a minute, sweetness. Only for you. You remember a guy by the name of Milnes working here? May’ve been a floater from what I hear. Where can I find him? Anything at all you know about him, I’d be willing—”
“Eddie,” I hear from behind me. “So nice of you to visit. Is there something I can help with?” I turned around to see Getsinger standing there in a nice business suit. Layoffs must’ve been going well. “Need a referral, perhaps?”
“Just here to ask Evelyn something. I’ll be out of your hair in a—”
“You’ll be out of here now, Eddie. Unless you want me to get Derrick and George in here. You two can catch up off hours.”
“There’s a lovely split-level over in Croydon I’d care to take her if you like.” I rattled off the address of the hooker’s house and relished in the sheer width of his eyes and the blood rushing to his face. “Or we could finish this quick conversation right now, hmm?” I gave that Mazzaro shit-eating grin, and he stormed off. We only had a few minutes at best before two large black men came in to hurt me.
“Oh, hon, you need to get out of here,” she said. I was about to object when she goes, “But if you’re looking for Milnes, he’s probably where he’s been as long as we’ve know him: behind the Pathmark in Bristol. His paychecks go to the PO box near there, but as far as where he wakes from? The shantytown behind the grocery store.”
* * *
I’m guessing you haven’t been back to the shantytown since we were kids. Well, not that you actually went in, but you at least got up to the entrance. I hadn’t been back there since that little punk who used to live across the street dared us to venture in. What was his name? Jim Armasomething or other. Goddamned neighborhood bully. He wasn’t even that bad yet, but I guess this is where it was starting. Making fun of the two of us and calling us little “shits for brains.” That was his phrase of the week. Called everyone and everything it for a while there.
So Whatshisname was busting your balls about going in, and you, being the gentle giant you’ve always been, sat and took it. Me, on the other hand, I got tired of hearing his voice, so I offered to take the dare just to shut him up. “You gotta bring something back too,” he says before I headed in. “Ya know, to prove you didn’t just turn the corner and wait.” Well, what am I supposed to bring back from a community of hobos? A signature? Cash? A poor man’s thrilling sense of adventure? “You’ll think of something if you’re not chicken.”
And what terrors and wonders did I find? Trash. Boxes. Every mattress and waterlogged sofa we’d be dragging into the woods for parties when we were teenagers? Once they were too wrecked for our drunken sexcapades, they somehow traveled to Hoboville. It was a small village of cardboard and plywood and worn blankets. I remember it was a day in late Spring, maybe early Summer, and I couldn’t figure out why there were so many piles of blankets everywhere. It wasn’t until we were older that I realized there were people in them, like the saddest wontons you’ve ever seen.
Burnt spots in the grass suggested there’d been fire pits lit since the last rains. Beer bottles littered the area, and I kept expecting to see needles. Bad crime dramas had taught me to expect needles. Everything was bleached by the sun. There didn’t seem to be any organization or central point of congress like cartoons had told me there’d be in primitive societies. There also didn’t seem to be anything that screamed “Take me!” I wound up grabbing a soup can laying against the wall of the shopping center. Jim Whoever seemed satisfied and considered me a badass for the following week.
Before I could step foot in there again, I had to learn the why of the hunt for Milnes. No one seemed to’ve seen him in years. The girl’s crew couldn’t even find him, and they had intel on everything. They had the why, and I had the where. The one thing we both had was a deep, violent hatred of each other, at least the ones I knew of.
But that wasn’t true, I realized. There was the silent partner. The only one I hadn’t beaten or been attacked by yet. Every time I saw that nightmare, that kid with the enormous Adam’s apple wasn’t far behind. It was a long shot, but maybe he knew what was going on. I had to find the freak, but I couldn’t wait for the boss lady to show up again. I had to gamble on the guess that the kid stalked or guarded her wherever she went.
Around five o’ clock, the office workers from the agency’s building trickled out. The mall and its courtyard were pretty dry on a cold Monday afternoon, except for an oddly high amount of Catholic schoolgirls. A lady I thought I recognized from the agency got off the elevator, and after a few more minutes, the girl came out too, caught my eye, and began to head to the bench I waited on. Instead, I got up and held open the door, following her as she pulled out her cigarettes and a lighter and walked toward the parking lot.
“Oh, Mr. Mazzaro, the boys are not too happy with you, sir.” She smirked as she said it, so while it might’ve been true, she didn’t seem too concerned. Instead, she lit her cigarette, making me wonder if she did it on purpose to mock or tease me.
“Just following orders.”
“Except you were supposed to attack Ashish. He owed me for being insubordinate a couple weeks back.”
“And the military asshole owed me for hitting me in the back with a fire extinguisher. So now everyone’s even.” As we talked, she led me toward a nice Sebring in the parking lot, unnaturally clean inside. “So what about this Milnes guy? What should I know?”
“His location. That’s all anyone needs to know and needs to get me. Since you completed your first mission for me, I’ll reward you: The next time the boys are begging for the address to your parents’ grave? I’ll lie to them. Bring me Milnes and I’ll tell my surveillance to stop following your brother. Anything else?” She’d been nice enough to exhale her smoke away from me, but the scent still got to me. My stomach turned into knots the longer we stood as close as we were and the more I thought of her so-called rewards.
“On it, ma’am,” I finally said. She gave me a look and got into the car.
“Don’t make these visits a habit, Eddie,” she said before closing her door and driving away. As she did so, I scanned the cars close to us in the parking lot and noticed a car with someone in the driver’s seat using binoculars pointed in my direction. I couldn’t confirm the car or the throat, so I made my way briskly in the driver’s direction. The car started as I approached and began to pull out of its spot.
As it headed out, I ran as fast as my aching knees allowed me, reaching the passenger door and wrenching it. Once I swung myself into the seat, I wrapped my hand around the terrified driver’s throat. “Stop the car, asshole,’ I told him, his eyes almost comically large. “We need to talk. You and me? We’re going to become best buddies real fast.”
Horrible goth music droned from his phone hooked to the car stereo, and I tried to avoid staring at that disgusting throat protrusion, noticing instead the hair gel that formed into a short but thick helmet. Basically everything about this kid wanted me to n
ot touch or look at him.
“Friends don’t typically choke each other. Unless it’s their sexual proclivity.” His voice was surprisingly deep but soft, forcing me to lean in closer. “But I have to admit, Mr. Mazzaro, while curious, I’m not currently interested.” That’s around the point I released my grip and chose instead to scratch my brow. A horn honked behind us since the car was still in the middle of the path in the parking lot. “Should I continue following the Goddess or are we done here?”
“The Goddess?”
“Christina Wight. Christy. Ty.” I stared at him blankly since he seemed the type to be drawn into the game that way. Sure enough, after a moment of silence, he continued. “Her coworkers call her Christy. And women she’s trying to befriend or coax. Ty’s more for her friends. Or the people she called an acquaintance before the accident. But to me, she’s the Goddess. Because she is one. She’s going to be my first.”
Jesus, I cringed so hard at that one. I started to ask what accident he was talking about, but another car horn blared instead. “Fine, follow her. You know where she’s going?”
“Of course. It’s nearly five thirty. Time to go home.”
Candy 3
1526 Marsha
Yardley, PA 19067
January 28, 2013
Dear Dorothea,
I hope you can read this better and forgive me and my early drinking in my last letter. Lack of proper decision on my part. Bless you for putting up with me lately. Oh, the whole situation is just getting so difficult to handle, you know? I remember you going through a rough patch yourself a few years back, so I know you’ll understand.
If I recall where I left off right, it was Monday at the hotel, and I still hadn’t heard a word from anyone at home. None of the boys deserved my acknowledgements or yelling, but the need to know how my family reacted itched at my soul, so I visited Helyne at work at the Golden Eagle. She wore a simple black dress with opal earrings, making her look much older, and when she saw it was me, she said, “Oh, let me get you somewhere nice, Mrs. D.”
There was a couple waiting to be seated behind me, but once they were taken care of, Helyne came over to the table. “I’d love to sit with you, Mrs. D., but that’s all they need to see. The waitresses already have it out for me since I’m the owner’s daughter. They look for any chance to get me yelled at. I get off at four. Can we meet at the pier then?”
I told her that’d be fine. It meant I’d eat and have about an hour to mosey down the street and wait. It’d been a while since I checked out the main strip in Bristol Borough, so I didn’t mind. Seeing her working—her style, ethic, and constant smile—just reinforced what I already thought of her. A voice told me the boys would be in good hands if I chose to leave, but a dozen other voices hushed the first up right away.
Poor Helyne worked harder than anyone in that place. Situations like that, you have to work twice as hard to prove you’re not just there thanks to family. Otherwise, the other workers can treat you like dirt. Keeping a pace like that inspires the rest of the crew too. There’s always those waitresses that’ll treat you like crud, of course. It is what it is.
The walk after lunch to the pier just depressed me. I hadn’t been down to Mill Street in Bristol since the fall, when Jerry took me to a car show they had behind the stores. When there’s a show or one of the Celtic or Italian Day festivals, it’s all about the people and the food or whatever they’re trying to sell or show off. But without anybody to liven up the town and with another gray winter day in Pennsylvania, it all looked like a dead shell, like a skin molted off by a better city.
Oh, the gray. A terrible friend shattered that illusion for me, like that episode of How I Met Your Mother. You ever watch that? It’s cute and syndicated on everything. But a girl I did the craft shows with moved down to Florida a few years back, and when she came up for a visit, all she could do was complain about the gray PA days, saying how blue it always is farther south and how the sun doesn’t set so early and on and on. From there on out, I couldn’t not see the monochrome skies every day. Heck, when I was walking down Mill Street, it seemed the sun was already setting.
Did you hear the stories way back when about the homeless father and daughter in Bristol? They walked up and down Route 13 every day panhandling, and the Courier Times planned on a fluff piece about them, maybe even had a charity in mind. But when they looked into their history, it turned out that they weren’t poor at all. They just made better money mooching off the shops and the shops’ customers. When the community found out, they ran them out of town. For all I know, they moved their tricks west. Or here’s hoping the poor things found jobs elsewhere.
They came to mind when I saw what looked like a homeless fellow leaving one of the Mill Street apartments, with what may have been a prostitute standing at the doorway, stuffing money into her cleavage. She gave me a look as if I was the offensive one. The nerve. For all I know, it’s a harlot like that who stole my husband from me. And what do I have to compare with that? I’m not eighteen anymore. I don’t have that energy and drive. Or even the interest.
If you remember that area, you have to walk through a short stretch of a neighborhood right behind the diner before the Mill Street shops begin, and as I went through it, I passed a group of young men. Not a single one glanced at me. I used to turn heads, Dottie. Oh, I turned heads in my day. But that was long before the boys were born, long before age caught up with me. I just don’t care about that side of life anymore, you know?
Maybe Jer has a right to do what he’s doing.
I lit a smoke on my way to the pier. If anything, there was one good thing about being laid off from the warehouse. The girls at every break had a habit of smoking two cigarettes as fast as they could in the fifteen minutes we had. Doing that every day, multiple times a day, had me doing the same at home, with or without the time constraints, so at least the layoff helped with something.
Helyne joined me down by the old green flame installation that hasn’t lit right since it premiered. Is it supposed to light? Is it a memorial for veterans or a war? Why is a flame green? Never made any sense to me. But anyway, when she showed up, she asked, “So where’ve you been, Mrs. D? I was getting worried.” She noticed. Bless her heart, she noticed.
“Did the boys even care? The only message I got from any of them was asking me to pick up milk. I never did, but I got another text thanking me later that night.” I choked back tears, part from them ignoring I was ever gone and part from her being the only one who even regarded it and part from why I’d left in the first place. It’d been a long few days.
“Are you coming home?” she said, completely ignoring my question. I’m sure she was trying to avoid hurting me, but it only made me feel worse.
“I’ll be back tomorrow,” I told her. “I want to clear some things up before I return.” Those things came down to my stranger. I wanted one more chance to see him. One last chance to have a conversation with someone just so...disconnected from the rest of my life. Helyne was close, but she was like talking to a politician, always trying to keep the constituents happy and peaceful.
“I’m holding you to that. You promised to show me that turkey lasagna cupcake recipe, remember.” I let out one of those sob/laughs at that—it made me that happy. I don’t know what’ll happen with that girl and Dommy, but I hope he keeps her around and doesn’t dump her once college starts. Now that I think about it, I’m not even sure what grade Helyne’s in or what her college plans are. I’ll have to ask her when I see her next.
The night passed slowly, but I stayed at the hotel bar until nearly closing, the ice cubes watering down a barely touched whiskey sour that sat in front of me to keep my hands busy. I chugged it just before last call and asked for another, drinking that one quickly as well and heading off to my room. The hotel channel describing the local attractions—this time of year, mostly museum exhibits down in the city—lulled me to sleep.
I remember when all you could find on TV that late at nigh
t was televangelists and psychics. What did that say about us in the 80s and 90s? Everyone looking for guidance or someone to interpret their sins. Billy Graham and Jim Bakker and Miss Cleo. Honestly, I called one once. When I’d just learned I was carrying Dommy, I gave one of those psychic networks a call, and she told me I’d travel and meet a handsome stranger. The farthest I traveled was Jersey, and an exotic stranger in an Exxon jumpsuit pumped my gas. Never tried again. No thank you.
In the morning, I reluctantly packed my bags and took a shower. While I was getting ready, someone pounded on my door, scaring the living daylights out of me. I turned off the television set and looked out the peephole since I hadn’t even ordered any room service. A short, scruffy looking guy that looked like he would’ve fit in with the forklift crew at the warehouse stood away from the door, holding a bright pink Hello Kitty bag. But no one knew I was in the hotel except Christy.
And my stranger.
Christy was the most likely choice, of course, but Jill had seen me when I first arrived. But I hoped, Dottie. A silly part of me hoped. Another part of me knew not to be too cocky. So when I opened the door, I said, “My husband’ll be back any minute.” It could’ve been true. How many women take a hotel room for themselves?
The surly man, with his sullen face making him look anywhere between thirty and sixty, said, “Christy sent me to give you this,” and handed me the Hello Kitty bag, which was filled to the brim with cash. I fell to my knees in shock when I opened it, and by the time I looked up, the man was gone. At that moment, I figured that the Lord was trying to balance my life. Or maybe He was paying me back for the suffering I’d endured.
