by Anthology
“It’s on the house,” he says quietly, still intent on wiping the counter. My brow furrows in confusion. I don’t know what to do. This has never happened to me before. I dip my fingers into my wallet and put a twenty on the bar. Alex, I assume that is his name, pushes it back toward me. “I said it is on the house.” His voice is commanding with a touch of darkness, and his gaze tips down to me. It is the kind of voice that exudes danger. He is the total opposite of the fumbling cute guy from a few minutes ago. His demeanor has transformed.
Flustered, I squeak out a very low thank you, shoving the twenty back in my bag and zipping for the casino exit.
Alex
“What the hell?” Carlo comes up beside me. I ignore him and call Bobby over while watching the sweet little thing who just made my heart fucking jump out of my chest walk away from the bar and out into the night.
“Who was that?” I wonder.
“That’s Meryl.”
“Meryl?” I question.
“Yeah, like Meryl Streep,” Bobby clarifies, loading a few scattered liqueurs onto the back bar.
“Why?” Carlo asks.
“Because I’m gonna marry her,” I state boldly.
“Dude, have you been swiggin’ the bottles?” Carlo thunders.
“Good luck with her, Alex,” Bobby adds. “She just lost her husband a couple of months ago. She is a fucking widow.” He pulls out a couple of beers and flips the caps off for two customers at the other end of the bar.
I’m speechless. She was married. I soak in the news. A pang of grief for her pain hits me—how fucking horrible. Maybe I would have seen it in her eyes if I could have gazed at her longer than ten seconds. What the hell is wrong with me? Shyness is not one of my attributes.
“Before you start making wedding plans,” Carlo ribs, “I need you on the casino floor by the restaurants. A couple of suspicious jackasses are walking around. Gilly’s got them on the monitors in the basement, but I want you to follow them. They look like shit-stirrers.”
“I’m on it.” Absorbing the news of my future bride’s loss, I slip out from behind the bar.
I have met and been hit on by tons of women in my life. Most guys my age have panty-hopped from girl to girl or finally met the one and tied the knot. I have never given it much thought. Carlo and I are the same when it comes to women. He is the head of security here, and the son of the mob boss of Chicago, Ennio Caruso. Security isn’t my only occupation; enforcer for the family is also my position. We have too much shit to do, and finding a mate has never been high on either of our lists.
I navigate the throngs of gamblers filling the floor of La Bella Regale, toward the row of restaurants deeply planted in the casino. I pass the stately line of high-stakes slot machines that are roped off for only big bets. The eyes of the woman at the bar, Meryl, flash in front of my face like they are embedded in my brain. I shake my head to clear it. I question my actions and reaction. Should I have followed her out? No, I need to focus on the job.
I immediately spot the fuckers Carlo was talking about. I have to shove a few people aside roughly because these three guys are getting loud and shit is going to hit the fan soon. I take my earpiece out of my collar and place it in my ear.
“We’ve got a disorderly conduct in progress,” I rumble into the speaker.
“This place sucks!” an abuser of the free drinks for players bellows in a surly slur. Over the tops of the heads of other gamblers, I see more security coming toward the scene for backup.
“This place is fuckin’ fixed!” One of the other guys stumbles, spilling his drink all over the felt covering the roulette board at a game table. “You can’t win shit in this place!”
Customers flick their gazes to stare at the spectacle these three guys are making. Many of the patrons shuffle away from the tirade. I grab the biggest one by the scruff of the neck and he howls in surprise. “Shit!” He starts to fall because I yank him from the group. I right him and shove him forward.
“Come on, jackass. You and your friends are out of here.”
People part like the Red Sea and their faces gape as my security force and I drag the losers out street side.
But not out the front.
We take them out the back way. We don’t want any customers seeing what we are going to do to them.
In unison, we toss the three fuckers onto the back alley pavement. Their bones and flesh slap, thumping on the sidewalk. We kick them into the street. They moan with each shot to the gut.
Two of them are so drunk they can barely lift themselves up. The loudest jackass rises up on his arms then his hands and shakes it off. I swing my leg back, sending him another, and he crashes back down to the asphalt.
We frisk these guys for their IDs to add them to the casino’s banned list. I rip Josh’s head up by his hair, having learned his name by reading it on his license, which sits in the palm of my other hand.
“I don’t like you,” I say, tugging, tearing his head back. “This is what we do to fuckers who cause scenes in the casino.” I cock my fist back and punch him square across the jaw. Droplets of blood fly from his mouth, landing like raindrops smashing onto the sidewalk. Julius, a security guard and friend, sends an uppercut to our newly banned Lou and his head snaps back, connecting with the concrete with a sickening crunch. Barry, another loser in the trio, does a major skid across the ground compliments of Iggy, another security guard and enforcer. That is going to leave some major road rash. That shit hurts more than a punch in the kidney.
Gilly comes outside from his spot in the basement in front of all the surveillance cameras to collect the IDs of these guys. He’s going to make copies while we fuck them up just for inconveniencing us and agitating the patrons. They picked the wrong casino to lose their shit in. Mafia owned and run. You are in for some shit you ain’t ready for.
“You can’t do this to us,” Josh rumbles, hurting and half-cocked. My guys in their black suits and starched white shirts are standing high above the scumbags writhing on the pavement.
“Really, fucker? We just did.” Gilly hands me their licenses. “Josh, Lou, and Barry. You are no longer welcome at La Bella Regale.” I flick their IDs to the ground and they land haphazardly among their bodies. “We’re done here,” I say to my guys. Carlo is standing in front of the door.
“All set?” he asks.
“All set,” I repeat.
We head back into the casino and slam the fire door, locking them out.
“Julius, stay by the front with Iggy,” Carlo orders. He nods and goes off to stand by the main entrance.
It’s early morning. Carlo and I are outside sipping on our coffees like we do every day. I wish this particular day Carlo had slept in or had something else to do. My gaze trails over the bloody scene from last night that has dried into a black stain spread out over the cement.
“I’m gonna take some time today,” I announce. “You know, an hour or two to myself.” I lift my Styrofoam cup to take a long pull off the hot coffee, waiting for a reaction. I don’t look in his direction.
“Really? Pop got you doing some shit for the family?”
“No. I just have my own shit to do,” I reply as a police car whirls around the corner. Damn it, he’s early.
Carlo chuckles beside me.
The car pulls up, skimming the curb. A plump guy in his mid-forties clicks the button for his window to slide down.
“Eh! Carlo. Alex. How’s things?”
“Good morning, Mike,” Carlo says, and my mouth snaps shut, irritated. I didn’t want to do this in front of Carlo. I plunge my hand into my jeans pocket and pull out a little slip of paper. I transfer it through the window to Mike, avoiding glancing at Carlo.
He opens the folds and takes a good long stare at what is written there and at the three one-hundred-dollar bills peeking through. Mike’s brows wrinkle together, confused. His arm rests on the car door window jamb.
“You got a problem with this lady?” he questions, not sure what to make o
f my request. “Is she a prostitute or somethin’?”
It happened.
I knew it would.
Carlo bursts out in a fit of laughter.
The timbre of his snickering rubs me the wrong way and I fully angle away from him.
“No, there is no problem. I would just like to find her,” I mumble through clenched teeth.
“All right, okay. Let me see what I can do.”
“Thanks,” I comment, grateful he didn’t ask me any more questions.
Carlo leans forward, putting his face squarely down into Mike’s window. “Make sure you find her ’cause that name right there is the name of his future bride.”
What the fuck! I am so pissed at Carlo right now. I have never felt this way and now Carlo has to rub it in.
He straightens. “Hey, he needs all the facts.” A Cheshire cat’s smile runs across Carlo’s smug face.
“Asshole,” I retort.
“Well, I’ll let you two get back to work.” Mike notices the tension between us. “I’ll check into this for you, Alex.” Mike’s car turns away from the curb and he makes a U-turn in the alley.
I punch Carlo in the shoulder.
“Dude, I’m serious about her. Knock it the fuck off.”
“You don’t even know her!” he roars through a chuckle. “And she’ll probably come back. Bobby said she’s been a regular for about two weeks.”
“Stay out of my business,” I seethe and start back into the casino through the alley door. He doesn’t understand.
“Come on,” Carlo pleads. “How can I let this go? I have to bust your balls.”
I spin on him, showing my true colors on this issue—fuming.
“Don’t fuck with me about it.”
Meryl
My new boss here in Chicago hands me a stack of claims dated back from a year and a half ago. Perfect.
“I need you to check on this. Dr. Meyers is waiting on a large settlement from an HMO. This has gone on for too many months. This is your priority today. I want answers on what is holding it up,” he says before walking out.
The people who knew anything about this probably weren’t even employed there anymore.
“Problem solving, it’s what I do,” I mutter to myself through a sigh.
I tap the enter button on my computer, bringing it back to life. I flip through each hard copy of the pile, examining every one. It takes the entire first half of my day to sort and organize the mess that has accumulated for all the months that have passed, leaving the claims harder and harder to get the funds for.
“Meryl? Do you want to do lunch?” Derek, a guy from the processing department, pops his head over the top of my cubicle. I pause and feel my stomach rumble. I have been so engrossed in the jumble of unpaid claims I didn’t realize I was starving. I decide lunch is what I need for a recharge.
“Uh, sure. Let me log out.”
Derek has been very nice since I moved here. He has shown me around the company, takes his breaks with me, and generally made me feel welcome when I started a few weeks ago.
I go into my desk drawer for my purse and stand.
“Ready,” I tell him.
“Do you mind if Mariah joins us too?”
“Sounds great.”
Most of the employees here are either right out of college, haven’t been in the work force too long, or are very cliquish. I appreciate the offer of lunch.
Java John’s is a coffee house, but they have great sandwiches and are located within walking distance from the office.
The three of us walk and the air feels good after being stuck behind a desk for the past four hours on a very futile endeavor. I am thinking about who I need to call when I get back while I half-listen to Mariah and Derek’s conversation.
“You should totally come with us, Meryl. The place is unbelievable and it is ladies’ night on Tuesdays.”
Zoning out is typical for me. I focus my attention on Mariah, who notices my inattention and places a comforting hand on my shoulder. I told Derek and Mariah the reason for my move, and they have been very sensitive to it. Whether they believe it or not, I am engrossed in thought about the claims I am working on.
“Oh, where?” I ask out of courtesy.
“It’s the hottest club in Chicago. Club Bellissima.”
I ponder for a short few seconds and decide.
“Okay. I’ll go. Sounds like fun.” Going out with people is probably what I need. After the awkward fiasco at the casino bar I’ve been going to a few nights a week by myself, I should shake things up.
“Great! Text me your address and we’ll pick you up at eight o’clock.”
I pull out my phone and scroll to contacts to exchange info with Mariah.
“What is your number?”
Beside us, a car slows down. I wouldn’t have even noticed if I hadn’t been looking directly at Mariah, who is walking nearest to the street. I take a closer look past her long, wavy auburn hair.
The car is gray with black lettering on the side, which reads Chicago Police, the unmistakable colored lights on the roof. The car is pacing us, moving very slowly. Derek and Mariah observe it as well, and the three of us keep walking straight ahead but are watching what the cop behind the wheel is doing through the corners of our eyes. Our conversation has come to a screeching halt and I drop my phone to my side.
At an intense moment, Derek decides to say, muffled through tight lips, “Is there something you’re not telling us, Meryl?”
My eyes widen. “Me?” I question in whispered shock, but don’t move my head an inch from facing forward as we make our way to Java John’s.
“You’re the mysterious one,” he mumbles. “Moving halfway across the country…” He stifles a laugh and the three of us quicken our pace.
The double doors to Java’s are right in front of us and the three of us squeeze through, quickly stunted from continuing on because of the long line of people ordering lunch. I glance over my shoulder as casually as possible. The police car speeds up, leaving.
Mariah tosses a look over her shoulder too. “What was that all about?”
“Meryl’s wanted by the Feds,” Derek jokes. “She’s a rogue CIA operative.”
Mariah smirks at him. “If anyone out of the three of us is in trouble with the law, I guarantee it’s you.”
Derek clutches his chest in a faux horrified expression. “Wow.” He gives it some thought and points. “You thinking I’m a bad boy, does that make me any more desirable?”
“Nope,” Mariah answers way too fast.
“Damn it,” he retorts playfully.
We move forward in the line, and I scan the menu board above the registers, forgetting all about the weird cop following us here because I’m starving.
I sit back down at my desk. The stack of paperwork is overwhelming. I toss my purse back in the drawer and slam it shut, annoyed at all the work I have in front of me.
“How are you making out, Meryl?” My boss hovers over me.
“I have sorted through by date, and I’m going to start with the newest. That one has the best chance of me reaching out to someone who knows what happened with the claim.”
“Do whatever you have to do. It sounds like you’ve got it under control.” He walks away and my desk phone rings.
“Thank you for calling Ace’s Billing, Meryl speaking. How can I help you?”
“This is, ah—”
A sweeping nausea barks up my esophagus. I whip my hand to my mouth, slamming the phone receiver down. I jump out of my wheeled office chair, letting it slam into the wall, and race to the ladies’ room down the hall past all of my coworkers’ cubicles. I accidentally jab my shoulder into Marc, one of the other bosses in charge of accounting, and mumble sorry behind my hand.
The door to the bathroom is in my sight, and I fling it open, rushing to the closest stall and retching as I watch my entire Java John’s chicken salad with a side of cole slaw dump into the toilet. I scramble for the toilet paper holder and unrol
l it into a huge bunch, using it to wipe my mouth. I slump against the stall wall to take a little rest and catch my breath.
Knock, knock.
“Meryl?” Marc calls out. “Are you all right in there?” The door opens a crack, hinges squeaking.
“I’m fine,” I call back. “My lunch didn’t agree with me.” I hold the wad of paper against my mouth waiting for another wave of nausea, but it doesn’t come.
I clean myself up the best I can, thankful nothing splashed onto my shoes or clothes. I wash my hands and dab my face with some cold water using a paper towel. I lean on the sink, making doubly sure I am not going to be sick again.
I straighten and fix my shirt in the mirror. I take another paper towel and wipe my face one last time. I step back out into the main office and walk instead of practically running back to my desk. I slip into my desk chair and immediately reach for my purse in my desk drawer. I rummage around for a mint.
“Are you okay?” Mariah is standing behind me.
“Oh yeah, I’m fine.” I brush my hand in the air, waving the whole situation off. “Sometimes my stomach acts up.” My voice drops an octave. “Since Jim died. Grief can do a number on your body too. You just never know when it’s gonna show up.” Or so the psychiatrist I saw a few times told me.
“Is there anything I can do? Maybe you should go home.”
“No. It happens. I deal with it.”
“Do you want to cancel tonight?” Mariah is thoroughly concerned.
“No. Absolutely not. Going out is better than staying home,” I tell her matter-of-factly.
“Your phone rang a couple of times.”
“Thanks.”
Mariah slips away, and I pick up my phone, pressing the missed calls button. There are three missed calls with no caller ID. No voicemails either. Oh well, that solves that. I can’t call someone back without a number. I dig into my pile for the claim I’m starting with and get to work.
