“You lookin’ for someone?” the woman said, strutting up to them, her hips bouncing from side to side. Her arms were muscular and Cynthia guessed they could press a hundred pounds or more; strong enough to toss both Cynthia and Effie out if need be.
Cynthia met the woman’s gaze and hoped she didn’t look intimidated. “I have an appointment with Jeff Watson.”
The woman rested her hand on her hip. The way she looked Cynthia up and down made Cynthia happy she had changed from the hideous blue jumper into a pair of jeans. “Jeff said he was expectin’ one woman. Not two. Who’s she?”
Cynthia followed the buxom blonde’s gaze to Effie. “She’s with me.”
“That’s not what I asked. I asked you who she was.”
“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.” Cynthia tried pushing past her but the blonde proved to be a brick wall. “Jeff said we were to meet him in the office.”
The woman hesitated, then tossed her stringy, bleached hair. “Yeah . . . okay . . . follow me.”
Machines on both sides of the aisle whirled and sloshed as the three women walked to the tiny office in back. Without saying another word, the blonde gestured for the two to go in, then closed the door, leaving them alone.
Cynthia looked around. One corner housed a small safe, the other, a door to a tiny bathroom. A small, cluttered desk took up the center of the room. Next to that, an overflowing garbage pail. There was barely enough space to walk.
On the far wall, a calendar and map partially obscured a giant, talon-like crack. To the side of that were pinned what appeared to be schedules and phone numbers. The next two walls were bare except for a little furniture—a two-drawer filing cabinet and a small, brown vinyl chair. It was the fourth wall that grabbed Cynthia’s attention. A huge painted salamander stretched end to end, and reminded Cynthia of the other salamanders she had seen among the graffiti. Did this small office serve as their headquarters? She shuddered at the thought and glanced at Effie who was inspecting the miniscule bathroom.
Any minute Jeff would be coming through that door. Without a word, Effie stepped into the bathroom and closed the door. A few seconds later, a thin, tired-looking boy with burning, frightened eyes walked in. He seemed so young, so vulnerable—not at all what Cynthia expected. It took a few seconds for her to recognize him as the Salamander who had come to her defense the day she went shopping for Daisy and the other children.
“Hey, I know you,” Jeff said, strutting like a rooster over to her and stopping just short of her face. “You were that lady on the street, with all them bundles—toys and things for the mission—the cook. Hey! What you doin’ here? Huh? You ain’t no reporter.”
Cynthia stood her ground, feeling moved by this young, frightened boy who would be a man, a boy brave enough to stand up to his leader on her behalf. “I am a reporter. I’ve been working undercover.” Cynthia could tell she had said something Jeff didn’t like.
“So, you are that lady. That reporter lady who’s been causin’ all the trouble. Maggot said you were the one.”
“Maggot? What’s a maggot?”
“You watch your mouth! In case you ain’t noticed, you’re on our turf, now. So you better show some respect.”
“I thought you agreed to do an interview.”
“This ain’t no interview, lady. Wise up. I was sent to check you out. And if you were that troublemaker, then you weren’t never gonna get outta here. Know what I mean?”
Cynthia shook her head. “Why would you go to all this trouble to check me out? Why would you care that I was writing a story about two homeless men? Skid Row isn’t even your territory.”
“Don’t go tellin’ me what’s my territory. You just sit down and shut up. I’ll be the one askin’ the questions.”
Cynthia took the small vinyl chair, leaving the chair behind the desk for Jeff. She wondered how much of this conversation Effie was hearing and what was going through her mind. “If you kill me, you might as well kiss the rest of your life goodbye, because you’ll be spending it in jail.”
“There you go again, poppin’ off your mouth. Did you hear me askin’ you anythin’? And don’t pretend you’d care where I spend the rest of my life.” Jeff dropped into the chair like a flour sack and hung his arms over the sides.
“I do care. Because I care about your mother, and she’s sad that you’re here with the Salamanders and that you could destroy your life if you’re not careful.”
Jeff jumped to his feet and did what looked like a belly flop on the desktop. “You keep my Mama out of this. You hear? Don’t you even mention her! What right you got, anyway? Talkin’ about her? Bringin’ her up like that?”
“She’s my friend.”
“Yeah . . . so? You think that’s gonna cut you some slack?” Jeff straightened and pulled out a switchblade then snapped it open. “You think that’ll keep me from usin’ this? Besides, I don’t believe you.”
“Then ask her yourself. Effie. Effie!”
Jeff dropped the switchblade when he saw his mother step out of the bathroom. “You brought her here? You crazy? Do you know what you did? You got any idea what you . . . ?”
Effie was all over him, hugging and kissing and squeezing. And Cynthia watched as Jeff yielded to her love, as he softened and warmed, and for a fleeting instant, looked like a little boy. Then she watched as he pushed Effie away. But his face was no longer hard or menacing. It was fear-filled.
“They’ll kill you, Mama, if they even think you’re mixed up in this. And they won’t think twice about it, neither.” He looked at the door and frowned. “Did you tell anyone out there who you were?”
Effie shook her head.
“What did you say?”
“Nothin’. Cynthia did all the talkin’. And she said nothin’.”
Jeff glared at Cynthia. “I oughta kill you right now for doin’ this to my Mama.”
“She didn’t do nothin’ except be a friend. I was the one who begged her to arrange this meetin’. I was the one. If you’re gonna be mad, be mad at me.”
“I could never be mad at you, Mama.” His tone softened. “You’re my best girl, remember? You’ll always be my best girl. You know that.” Jeff put his cheek against his mother’s, lingered there a moment, then broke away. “But you don’t understand how it is. You don’t understand what’s happenin’ here.”
Cynthia rose and made Effie take the small vinyl chair. She could see by Effie’s face she was about to cry. When she had Effie settled, Cynthia turned to Jeff. “Why don’t you tell us what’s going on?”
“Somebody wants you dead.” Jeff pointed a finger at her as though accusing Cynthia of this all being her fault. “The order’s been given. That’s all I know. I was supposed to play along with you, pretend to do an interview and try and find out how much you knew, what your angle was. Then I was supposed to give a signal—and some guys in one of them alleys would be watchin’ for you. You were never gonna make it out of the Projects alive.”
“Because of my article? There’s nothing in it that would hurt anyone.”
“Well, you ticked somebody off. The contract’s big—fifty grand. Maggot said earnin’ it would be like takin’ candy from a baby. And when a contract comes down, you don’t ask ‘why’ you just do it. It’s nothin’ personal.” Jeff shot a worried glance at his mother. “But I didn’t get the contract on account of I’m new and Maggot said it wouldn’t be fair to the guys with more seniority.”
“I just wish I knew why,” Cynthia said with a frown. “It doesn’t make sense.”
“You already know, lady. You already said the reason. It’s your story. Somebody don’t want you diggin’ around.”
Effie rose from her chair and walked over to her son, then cupped his chin between her hands and looked hard into his eyes. “You can’t do this, Jeff. You can’t let ‘em kill Cynthia. You gotta help her.”
There was a wild, frantic look on his face before he broke free. “You don’t understand, Mama. It don’t m
atter what I want or don’t want. It’s outta my hands. I don’t even know how I’m gonna help you! Don’t you see the fix you’re in? If you’re with her, you’re goin’ down. And there ain’t a thing I can do to stop it.”
“Then pray with me. We’ll ask the Lord to protect us. He’s our only hope, now.” Effie reached for Jeff’s hands, but he pulled away.
“If I don’t give that signal, Mama, I’m a dead man.”
“And if you give it, you’re a different kind of dead man.” Effie poked her chest. “In here. That’s where you’ll start dyin’. Piece by piece. Just like your daddy.”
“Don’t go talkin’ about him! Him and me, we’re miles apart! I ain’t never gonna be like him!” Jeff cursed loudly. “He’s a loser . . . a loser, Mama, and I’m gonna be somebody. People are gonna pick up their heads when I walk by. They’re gonna know who I am.”
“Yes, boy. They’re gonna say there goes that punk the police are after; there goes that boy who’s headin’ for jail. If you keep with this crowd, there’s only two endin’s for you—bars or bullets.”
“I can’t believe what I’m hearin’ from my own Mama. My own Mama!”
“You’re hearing love words, Jeff. Love words. I love you, baby, and want what’s best. You stay with the Salamanders and they’ll eat you up, and leave you nothin’ for yourself. No life, no future. You gotta come back with me.”
“And live in a homeless shelter? No way. I got dreams, places I wanna see. You think I’m gonna be a bum like my old man, a drunkard who beats the stuffin’ out of his wife and kids so he feels bigger than he is? So he feels like he’s got some power over his life? No, I’m gonna have money in my pocket. I’m gonna get outta this hellhole and be somebody. Get me some respect.”
“How? With that?” Effie pointed to the switchblade on the floor.
“If I have to.” Jeff picked it up, closed it, and slipped it into his back pocket.
“Then I’ve come for nothin’.”
“What . . . what you mean, for nothin’?”
“For weeks I’ve known, in here,” Effie placed her hand on her chest, “in my spirit, that Satan had his hooks in you and that if I didn’t see you soon, that you . . . that it would be too late.”
“You’re talkin’ crazy, Mama. I’m my own man. Nobody’s got their hooks in me. Nobody.”
“Then prove it by walkin’ out of here right now and comin’ back to the mission with me. Prove that the Salamanders don’t own you.”
Jeff looked over Effie’s shoulder and glared at Cynthia. “This is all your fault. Things were fine ‘til you came around and started meddlin’—started stirrin’ things up. Now look at the mess you made! You’re just what they say—a troublemaker. And you got me in a real fix. If I don’t help you, they’ll kill my Mama. And if I help you, they’ll kill me.”
Stubby leaned into the shadow of the building wondering why Cynthia and Effie were taking so long. He tucked his frayed shirt into his dirty khaki pants and almost gagged from the odor. It seemed like ages since he had smelled this bad. But this time, it didn’t come naturally; it came by way of hard work. He had found the shirt in the dumpster behind the mission, had put it on, then smeared garbage all over himself, including the fringe of hair around his bald head. That was the worst part, having his hair clumped and sticky with this tonic of rotten fish and curdled milk. No matter which way he turned, he couldn’t get away from the smell.
He clutched a small paper bag-covered bottle of gin and took a swig, swished, then spit it out. It smelled and tasted like rubbing alcohol, and Stubby wondered if the liquor store hadn’t cheated him. He capped the bottle and stuck it in his shirt, all the while keeping an eye on the laundromat across the street.
Where were they?
Above the tall buildings, Stubby saw a reddish glow telling him the sun was setting. There was still time to get out of the Projects before dark.
But not much.
He wished he had gotten to Cynthia before she left, to tell her about the striped shirt . . . about that tattoo. It was news she’d want to hear. But earlier, when Effie told him her plans, he knew he’d follow because what she and Cynthia were planning was just plain crazy. He’d be their backup in case anything went wrong, though he didn’t tell them because he hadn’t wanted Effie to say, ‘no’. And now something had gone wrong. He was sure of it. Effie had promised she’d be back before dark. He looked up at the sky again.
Where were they?
Three youths in red bandanas walked by without giving Stubby a glance. A dirty, drunken man leaning against a building in the mouth of an alley was a common sight in the Projects. And that was an advantage. It made Stubby invisible. But that would change soon enough. He glanced upward again. He couldn’t wait much longer. He closed his eyes and prayed, then stepped out of the alley.
As he staggered across the street, Stubby took note of everyone on the sidewalk. It looked like the Salamanders were keeping their distance. No stakeout, no surveillance, and no trace of the three thugs who passed him earlier. He edged his way around the side of the laundromat and toward the back. Then he pulled out his bottle and pretended to take a swig before rounding the corner of the building. From there, he saw one small window. He inched toward it and peered into a bathroom the size of a closet. The door was open and through it Stubby could see into the other room. He squinted, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the different light. A woman stood against the wall talking to a skinny kid. Cynthia. Thank God!
He studied the window and decided it was too small to crawl through. He’d have to find another way. He backtracked until he stood by the front door, said another quick prayer, then entered. Half a dozen women were loading or folding clothes. He headed for the back, but was stopped before he got half way.
“You lookin’ for someone?” said a buxom blonde with a tattoo across her chest.
Stubby pretended to teeter on his feet and noticed the look of nausea on the woman’s face when she got a whiff of him.
She cursed, then grabbed him by the arm. “You got no business here.” She began pulling him towards the front door. “I won’t have you upsettin’ my customers.”
“Wait! Now just hold on.” Stubby said, slurring his words. “You don’t understand. I got big trouble. The old battle-ax is gonna skin me alive if I come back without ‘em.”
“Make sense, old man.”
“I been out with some business . . . associates,” Stubby pulled the bottle from his shirt. “Been gone three . . . maybe five days, and she’s plenty mad.” He removed the cap and offered the bottle to her. “Want some?”
The blonde slapped his hand away, almost knocking the bottle to the floor.
“Hey. I’m just tryin’ to be friendly.”
“You’re smellin’ up the place. Get out.” She clamped onto Stubby’s arm again, but this time he was ready. In a flash, he shoved a ten dollar bill into her other hand.
“If I don’t come home with that laundry the witch ain’t gonna let me in. See?” He reeled back and forth so his hair brushed against the woman’s face. Finally, she let go and backed off.
“Which stuff is yours?”
Stubby shrugged. “Search me. You think I know? Maybe you remember where she put it. She was here a while ago. About five feet, gray hair, walks with a limp.” Stubby was describing a woman he had seen coming out of the laundromat earlier. “If you find it, that ten in your hand is yours. And if you fold it up real nice like, I’ll give you another just like it.”
“Now, where did an old drunk like you get so much money?”
“I told you. My friends and I were doin’ business. And I was real lucky. I keep tellin’ the battle-ax that five-card stud’s my game.” Stubby lurched forward, clutching his stomach. “I’m gonna be sick. I need to puke and get me to a bathroom, quick.”
The blonde eyed the ten-dollar bill in her hand then pointed behind her. “Down the hall and to the right. You’ll see the sign on the door. And don’t miss the bowl. Otherwise, y
ou clean up. Understand?”
Stubby staggered down the hall. When he turned his head, he saw the blonde open a dryer door and pull out some clothes. He wouldn’t have much time. Instead of going right, Stubby went left, opened the door and quickly closed it behind him. Both Cynthia and Effie’s mouth dropped when they saw him.
Jeff pulled his knife.
“Put that away,” Stubby said. “I’m a friend.”
Effie went to Stubby, as though verifying his statement, and gave him a hug. “We got trouble here, and if you don’t get out now, you’re gonna be in the middle of it.”
“Listen and listen good,” Stubby said. “I got Jonathan’s car. It’s parked right outside the Projects, about a fifteen-minute walk from here. I can be back in twenty. You be outside and waitin’. I’ll come and pick you all up.”
“Jeff won’t stop us,” Effie said, looking sadly at her son. “But he won’t go with us, neither. Tell him he’s got no chance if he stays.”
Stubby glanced at the knife in Jeff’s hand. “I’m glad you ain’t intendin’ on usin’ that. I bet you’re pretty good with it.”
“You got that right,” Jeff said, his chin jutting. He ejected and retracted the blade several times, then twirled it between his fingers and ejected it again. Even so, Stubby could see the fear behind the young boy’s eyes.
“I lived your life. I been where you are.” Stubby unbuttoned the top buttons of his shirt. On his chest was a tattoo of a salamander. “When I was your age, I woulda given anythin’ for someone to have told me there was a way outta all this. That I could have a life that meant somethin’. Well, I’m tellin’ you that, now. Only, you gotta come with us if you wanna live it. Otherwise, take a good look. Take a good whiff. If you don’t leave and if you live long enough, this is gonna be you.”
Suddenly, the door flew open. “Hey, what’s goin’ on? What are you doin’ in here, old man?”
Stubby turned to see the buxom blonde filling the doorway. There was fire in her eyes. He swayed and pointed to the tiny bathroom on the opposite wall. “What kind a place you runnin’ here, anyway? I gotta throw up and you send me to wait in line? Then this punk pulls a knife. What did he think I was gonna do? Cut the line?” Stubby followed the blonde’s eyes to Jeff’s knife.
Mercy at Midnight Page 31
