The Rooster Club

by N. M. Catalano

  “I think we can do that, but we’ve got to go to my people. I’ll have to call them first, to let them know I’m bringing you. And when we get there, only speak if you are asked to, don’t ask questions unless told to, and don’t piss them off, whatever you do. Understand?” Antoine told them, his eyes wide, looking back and forth between them.

  “Got it,” Paul said, nodding his head.

  “Do I look like an asshole?” Michael snapped, standing up, unable to sit still any longer.

  Paul shot him a warning look, telling him to chill-out and don’t be stupid.

  “Naw man, it’s just my people are very…what you would call particular. I’ll call them, then we can head up there. You guys got a car?” Antoine asked, looking at them over his shoulder as he went to the phone hanging on the wall.

  “Yes,” Michael answered, trying to find a clear path to pace the floor.

  Antoine dialed the number on the rotary phone.

  “Yeah, this is Antoine, I’m coming up with a couple of friends from Brooklyn.” Pause. “Yeah, I know but they need…” Pause. “Ok, I know. We’ll be up in about a half hour.” He hung-up the phone and turned back to Paul and Michael. “We’re good. You boys ready to move?” he asked with a roll of his head to the side, smiling and trying to look important.

  “Let’s go,” Michael said deeply, his hand already turning the doorknob.

  Paul and Antoine followed behind him back down the four flights of stairs.

  Michael took the West Side Highway uptown towards their destination, West 117th Street and 7th Avenue. Harlem.

  Michael parked the car and turned to Paul.

  “Stay with the car, I’m not leaving it alone. Don’t leave my ass. If something happens and you have to move, make sure you come back,” Michael barked the orders, then got out of the car. Antoine was already waiting for Michael at his door.

  The streets were teeming with people, as low-riding cars with rap music blaring from the stereos mingled with the sounds of the city. Antoine walked up to a door sandwiched between a cigarette shop and a restaurant. He hit the button and the buzzer immediately sounded.

  “Yeah, it’s Antoine.”

  The sound of footsteps pounding down the steps was heard before the large black man appeared at the door. The stranger opened it and let them in. Turning back towards the stairs, he took them two at a time, Antoine followed him, and Michael was close behind. They turned at the landing on the third floor and walked to a door. The big man did a series of wraps before someone opened it from inside. Once they entered and the door closed and locked behind them, Michael saw three men in an empty room, who were heavily armed with assault rifles and pistols. And very aggressive, pissed-off expressions.

  The large stranger didn’t stop, but continued to the next door, and did another series of knocks, which was different from the first set. This door opened as well.

  Apprehension filled Michael as he began to breathe heavily and started to sweat. He’d never been in a situation like this before. But he had enough common sense to know, if they think you’re nervous, if they don’t shoot you first or throw your ass out the window, they’ll kick you out. He was very conscientious not to show any feelings.

  The entire run-down apartment was free of any furniture. Except this room. There was a table with a scale on it, and guns sitting beside it. The man who sat in the folding chair behind the table didn’t bother to look up from the book he was writing in when they entered. But the new armed men, who looked like black Rambo’s except for the camouflage, stared at Michael intently. No one said a word for long moments.

  “My friend here…,” Antoine began.

  “Did I ask you to speak Antoine?” the man asked icily from his seat.

  “No sir,” Antoine mumbled.

  “Take him the fuck outside, the stupid little shit!” the seated man spat out.

  One of the guards from the first room grabbed Antione with a vice-grip around his neck and dragged him from the room. The shuffling of his feet being dragged across the filthy bare floor was still heard through the door and walls, as he yelled, “But what about my PC?!.”

  Another long silence passed as he finished scribbling in his journal. Finally, he slowly closed it and looked up at Michael.

  “Thank you for your patience. Now, what can I do for you, Mr…?”

  “Michael, and no problem. I need two ounces.” Michael stated plainly, as if he were asking for a gallon of milk.

  The lack of all the information the man had asked for did not go unnoticed.

  “Now, what is a nice boy from Brooklyn going to do with all of that?” he asked as he steepled his fingers in front of him and a slow smile curved his plump lips.

  “Same as you,” Michael replied simply.

  Surprise shot through Michael at the man’s knowledge. He knew he was from Brooklyn.

  The man studied him as he glared into Michael’s eyes. Michael didn’t flinch. His years as a boxer taught him well how not to be intimidated by his opponents.

  “Fair enough. Forgive me for having to ask, but you are prepared with the necessary funds, aren’t you?” he questioned, tapping his fingers together, moving for the first time.

  Michael lifted the brown paper-bag he’d been holding in his hands.

  “May I?”

  “I’ll take that,” one of the civilian militia standing against the wall stated.

  “Of course.” Michael slowly handed the satchel to him. “There’s $1,200 in there, assuming the rate was $600 for one.”

  “The man is smart,” bossman said, with his eyes still fixed on Michael.

  The big man placed the bag on the table and laid out the money in stacks.

  “1.2k here,” he confirmed.

  “Excellent. Then it will just be a moment while we get your purchase together.”

  He stood as two of the armed men moved to his side while the third remained where he stood. The three of them left the room with the money. Michael didn’t move for what seemed like an eternity, as he and the other goon who’d remained in the room stood staring at each other.

  A loud bang followed by glass shattering was heard from downstairs, followed by yelling and screaming. Pistols and machine gun firing blasted through the air. Both of them instinctively ducked in reaction to the sound of gunshots.

  “Get your ass in here!” the goon shouted, grabbing Michael by the arm and throwing him in the closet, then he slammed the door shut on him.

  The sound of mass, riotous hysteria surrounded him, as hundreds of feet ran, guns fired, and destruction exploded.

  Michael sat frozen as running footsteps, yelling, and cursing were followed by what sounded like a war-zone in the building. A door slamming somewhere close-by made him jerk as he pressed himself against the back wall. Fear gripped him more and more with every shot, every scream, every sound of smashing wood and glass.

  ‘I’m going to fucking die!!’ his mind screamed.

  The thud, thud, thud of running through the apartment made his heart slam against his chest.

  They were gone just as quickly. He heard the footsteps pound down the stairs. Then there was silence.

  The cries of babies wailing and women screaming floated in through the door. He didn’t know how long he crouched in the darkness. It might have been one hour, or two, he had no idea. He had never hated himself as much as he did sitting in that closet, as fear closed in on him, tighter and tighter. He hated himself for every opportunity he hadn’t taken, and for every opportunity he had taken that was incredibly stupid.

  Like this one.

  ‘How the fuck did I get to this? What the hell happened?!’

  A deep sadness engulfed Michael as he sat in the pitch black solitude. Images of the lonely eight year old boy he’d once been, cold and hungry, waiting for someone to come so he could shine their shoes. Going home to a mother he’d loved with every breath he took, proud of the money he’d made, only to be greeted by a woman who was so drunk, he didn’t think
she cared if he was home at all. And the man he’d become who felt whatever he did was never good enough, worthless, his soul still yearning for the acceptance he’d never received.

  He finally realized he couldn’t blame himself for what happened here tonight, and the shitty circumstances of his life, he had nothing to do with it. But if he got out of there alive, what he could do was make sure that he lived his life with purpose.

  He silently prayed in the darkness of his hiding place for salvation, hope…and just one more chance.

  Finally, Michael heard a lone pair of feet enter the apartment and head straight for the closet door.

  The door jerked open. It was the big man who’d shoved him in there.

  “Here’s your package. Go down the fire escape,” he told him tersely.

  He threw Michael’s bag back at him then turned and quickly walked out, leaving Michael alone again.

  Michael grabbed the bag and left the closet as his eyes scanned the room. He opened the window and climbed out, then ran down the fire escape.

  When he finally got to 7th Avenue, the Gran Torino and Paul were nowhere to be seen.

  “FUCK!” Michael cursed.

  Michael began walking. Fast.

  His eyes shot around as his feet moved quickly over the cement of the sidewalk, taking in every face, every sound, and every movement. His survival instincts were raging inside him, taking over, and leading him out of that fucked up place. He felt filthy, the kind of filth that permeated every cell of his being, and it made him sick.

  It was ten blocks before Paul finally pulled up beside him.

  “What the fuck happened man?”

  Paul’s eyes were wide with fear.

  “I don’t fucking know! I think it was a bust. Get out, I’m driving!” Michael growled, still shaking.

  Paul slid over to the passenger side as Michael got behind the wheel. The bag filled with the cocaine was tucked safely in the inside pocket of his jacket. He pushed the gearshift into drive, slammed on the gas, and took off.

  He headed towards Greenpoint.

  His comfort zone, a place where he could hide in the shadows of his past.

  They pulled up in front of the pool-hall they used to hang-out at. The familiar surroundings eased a false sense of safety through both Michael’s and Paul’s bodies, wrapping around them like a security blanket.

  As they stood at the bar with a pitcher of Kamikaze’s in front of them, the sour sting of the liquid calmed their shattered nerves.

  “They pulled Antoine out for talking. I had no fucking clue where they took him. Then they took the money and left me alone with some Rambo looking dude, who had more firepower on him than a freakin’ marine. That’s when all hell broke loose,” Michael was recounting what had happened to him. “The dude threw my ass in a closet and took off! I sat in there until he came back, threw the bag back at me, and told me to go down the fire escape, which was just about when you found me.”

  “Holy shit!” Paul laughed with nervous excitement. “I was sitting there, listening to the radio and smoking a cigarette when it started to go down. First, I saw all these DEA guys dressed in black clothes coming out of nowhere, like cockroaches. One of them turned and looked at me as they stood at the door, and he waved for me to leave. That’s when the shit hit the fan. Fuck, it sounded like everything exploded at the same time,” he said, sitting up straighter. “You should have seen me going down 7th Avenue, crouched down behind the steering wheel,” he mimicked the posture with his hands clutched in front of his nose, “I was barely looking over the dashboard. Me and my big body, squished in the seat!”

  They both laughed as the tension began to leave them.

  Michael filled their shot-glasses, over and over again, as they poured the liquid down their throats.

  “Come on, bro, I think I know just what we need,” Paul announced as a sly grin spread across his face.

  “Let’s go,” Michael replied and raised his hand to the cocaine still nestled safely inside his jacket.

  Paul directed him to an apartment building. Michael recognized it and remembered being there before.

  “Susan lives here,” Michael said as he parked the car across the street.

  “Yes, she does,” Paul replied rakishly. “Let’s go up.”

  Michael touched the bag before they approached the building and Paul hit the buzzer. It was almost midnight on a Friday night, it wasn’t likely anyone was home.

  “Yes?” came the gritty sound of a female voice through the intercom.

  “Susan baby, its Paul,” he said.

  “Paul!” Her happy squeal of excitement could be heard through the static.

  The buzzer sounded and unlocked the door for them to enter. They took the elevator up to the sixth floor, then headed to her door. It was opening as they neared.

  “Hi!” her voice shrilled as she threw herself in Paul’s arms, dressed in tiny little gym shorts and a tank top.

  Susan was a pretty girl with a nice figure. She had her own place, and a good job as a secretary in a large office in Manhattan. She was a good girl, who let herself be used by bad boys like Paul, who lived with rose-colored glasses on, believing that if she had sex with them, they must really like her.

  “Come in. Hi Michael,” she said when she noticed him. She couldn’t stop the blush that spread over her face.

  “Thanks for letting us up, baby,” Paul said as he pressed his face into her neck and pulled her body against him.

  “I’m glad you’re here. I was just hanging out with my new roommate, Angela. She needed a place to stay, and moved in a couple of weeks ago.”

  The three of them entered the cozy, and clean, apartment. Susan had it nicely decorated in a modern Art Deco feel, with large floral prints in silver frames on the walls, a sectional sofa, and glass tables.

  “Come in, sit down, and make yourselves comfortable. I’ll get some wine,” she told them as she went into the kitchen.

  A door opened and an attractive woman came out, with brown hair and long, slender legs, who wore a similar version of Susan’s shorts and T. Her steps faltered when she spied the two men standing in the living area.

  “Hi, you must be Angela, Susan’s roommate. I’m Michael,” he introduced himself.

  Adrenaline was still pumping through his veins from the events of the night. He needed to blow off some steam, the alcohol just wasn’t cutting it. He had to lose himself, and find an outlet to pour all of what was bursting within him, everything that had welled-up inside him, from the shit-hole in Harlem, to the places his mind had visited when he was sitting, scared for his life, in the dark.

  Echoes of Natalie’s soft moans of pleasure, the way she said his name, and her scent, sent shockwaves through his body. Then her image mingled with a faceless man touching her, kissing her, taking her, and he almost snapped.

  He blotted everything out, buried up to his balls between Angela’s legs, over and over again, until the demons inside him finally quieted enough to give him some peace.

  9 CHAPTER NINE

  Present day…1 year later…

  Michael was sitting at his desk at home. The email invitation to this year’s annual furniture convention was staring him in the face. The only thing he remembered from last year’s event was seeing Natalie again. He loved his job, and he was damn good at it. He must be, he was made Vice President of the manufacturing division of Elegant Comfort furniture while still holding his position of Northeastern Division Manager. He travelled constantly, all the way up to Maine, throughout New York and New Jersey, Pennsylvania, and down to Delaware. He opened the email on his phone and sent the invitation to Natalie.

  I can’t make it, my dad’s sick, came her instantly reply.

  What’s wrong? He typed out.

  There was a long pause.

  He was typing again, after checking his message repeatedly saying it was delivered.

  He’s got cancer.

  I’m gonna call, he typed. ‘I’m not doing this te
xting,’ and thought.

  It seemed like forever before Natalie replied, Ok.

  “Hi,” her voice was like a gentle breeze, soft and breathy.

  “Hi, what’s going on?” he asked as he sat back in his black leather chair.

  She took a deep breath, “He’s got prostate cancer, the doctors found it a couple of months ago.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me? I’m so sorry Natalie, how is he?”

  Michael genuinely liked the man, and he respected him even more. Natalie’s father was the picture of the American dream. He’d started with absolutely nothing, no education, only what he’d learned from life, and had amassed his own fortune, meager to some, massive to others, with nothing but his own hands and sharp mind. Michael thought he was a great man, and a good father.

  “He’s doing good. He’s scheduled for a procedure. But it’s been like we’ve had to fight for everything. Nobody wants to see an old man, they just give up. I guess they think he’s old, and he’s going to die soon anyway.”

  Michael could hear how strained her voice was, and the pain she was trying to hide. It made him feel frustrated because he wasn’t there to comfort her.

  “I know you’re not letting them get away with that, they wouldn’t mess with you, if they know what’s good for them.”

  That made her laugh, and he smiled. His heart hurt for her, and it made him feel helpless.

  “I did go off on them a few times, I’m surprised they keep letting me in the office.”

  “Get ‘em, Natalie,” he chuckled. “Where is he?”

  “He’s home, Sylvia’s been living in the house since my mother was sent home from the hospital, when she was going through cancer…,” her voice broke.

  “It’s going to be fine, Natalie,” Michael tried to soothe her. “Your dad’s a tough guy, and he always lived well.”

  “I know, but still, it’s like he’s turned into an old man overnight, right before our eyes. The hardest part is, he knows it.”