by Julia Proud
* * *
Those knocks had something unnatural about them, and when Ed finally picked himself up from his living-room floor, and opened the door, he half expected God and the Virgin Mary to be on the other side, ready to shame the twelve year old catholic boy, Ed sometimes felt like, for his sinful and wasteful ways.
Of course, that wasn't the case and standing before Ed was just an old fellow, maybe in his sixties, properly dressed and shaved.
"Good morning, Mister," the man offered his greeting and took off his hat, barely showing his surprise at the unusual sight Ed offered as he stood there, half naked, and with his belt hanging undone and loose over his undid fly zipper.
"Good mornin'," Valenti replied, and he blinked against the bright light of the day that filled the corridor outside his apartment.
The man introduced himself, and said something about needing Ed's assistance. Since he wasn't really listening, the Italian simply stepped back and invited the old fellow inside with a plain hand gesture. Ed closed the door behind his guest, and walked past him, picking up his shirt and jacket from the living-room floor, on his way to the couch.
"Sorry 'bout the mess. Want a drink?" Ed offered not really offering, before he uncorked a bottle he found on the couch.
He poured what little booze it had left, in a smudge covered glass he had picked up from the floor with his shaky, uneasy fingers.
"No, thank you."
"Suit yourself." Ed shrugged and downed the hooch in one swing.
A few deep breaths and a couple of uninteresting things said by his guest later, Ed was feeling more like himself now, and could actually listen to the man speak about his son.
"And this is why I'm here," the man said.
"Your son? You think he's here? Why?" Ed tried to make sense of what little bits he had put together from his guest's speech.
"His car. It's parked in front of this building. I asked around and you're the only one frequenting the same kind of places my son goes to . . . You know, drink? You people . . ." the man mumbled the last part, and smacked the top of his hat in frustration.
Ed knew what his guest meant by that. Drunks. You people who drink your life away. What of it? Ed shrugged and looked around for his pack of cigarettes.
"Listen 'ere, pops. If your son has bad habits ain't my job to help you mend him. Capisce?" Valenti said tapping a cigarette out of his pack before placing it between his lips, now looking for a match.
"Yeah. I get it. But how do you explain his car being parked right outside this building? Don't you even remember meeting a young fellow called Jake?"
"Jake?" Ed mumbled exhaling the smoke. "Oh, the kid," was his revelation, and he then continued obviously puzzled, "what do you mean his car is parked outside?"
Ed and the old man were standing on the sidewalk, staring at the old Model T Ford parked right in front of the building where Ed lived. There was no doubt, the man was sure that that was his son's car. The flivver did look like the heap Jake had offered Ed not too long ago.
"A man of his word - mostly," Ed concluded and puffed at his cigarette amused by the kid's stubbornness.
It had been three days since the poker game at The Robin Club where he had met Jake, and Ed only knew that because the old man had said it was now Wednesday, January the 19th and Big Jesse played poker only on Sundays.
"I have no idea where your son is, Mister . . ." Ed confessed and felt a little sorry for the concerned father whose name he hadn't even bothered to remember.
"Mister Barnes."
"Ed Valenti. Call me Ed."
And they shook hands.
"May I have a cigarette," Mr. Barnes asked and Valenti was happy to oblige.
It was cold and the dry silence that settled over the dirty, mush-covered street raked at their nerves, and Ed was gradually becoming more and more aware of the man's distress.
"Do you have any kids?" Mr. Barnes wanted to know, and since he received a firm head shake in response, he went on to say, "then I suppose you can't understand what it's like to want to protect someone from themselves, but not be able to even keep tabs on them, despite your best efforts."
Ed Valenti allowed Mr. Barnes' words to sink in a little too long than he would have liked, and his mind started to wonder to a past that he had been trying to ignore.
"Let’s get inside. I'm freezin' my ass off," the Italian suggested.
"No, thank you. I'm sorry for disturbing you, Ed. In case you hear from Jake." The old man gave Ed his card and tipped his hat as a farewell.
Mr. Barnes walked away, taking deep drags from the cigarette, and he coughed louder and harsher, with every breath of that deceitfully pleasant tobacco smoke that he inhaled.
Ed felt stuck there, standing alone on the sidewalk, with only his coat to cover his bare torso, but too lost to realize how cold he was.
It had been months since Ed had last let his thoughts linger so - on the image of a pretty, young redhead girl he had called his, but only in hushed sweet whispers.
My Billie.
Ed didn't want to admit it, but not a day had gone by without her image haunting him. So he drank just enough to stifle those fiery locks and that green enticing gaze away from his memory.
From the moment he had seen her, Ed had wanted to keep Billie safe. She had been a lively young kitten who laughed whenever he worried, and who recklessly gambled with her life on more than one occasion. Ed had been right to worry about her, but just as helpless as an old father trying to protect his rebelling, grown-up child. Last fall, October the 12th 1926, Billie had gone missing, and after a few weeks spent trying to find her, Ed had no leads and no ideas, so he had simply given up.
More often than not, Ed was telling himself that that wasn't the case. That he hadn't given up. That he was actually just postponing resuming his search. That was it. Eventually, he was going to start looking for her again, just not that day - that day he would be spending with a drink in hand, enjoying the bliss of indifference.
And that is how he had gotten through the past three months - drowning in lies, gradually forgetting his Billie, and not giving a damn anymore.
Just as he was about to go back inside his apartment, Ed stepped on his welcome mat, and it slid to the side making a scraping sound against the floor. The old Ford key had been hidden under the mat, and to Ed's surprise, Jake had also left a note written in pencil.
'My flivver may not be worth 600, but it's a good car. I told you it would start. Take care, Jake.'
The note said, and written at the bottom, in a pencil trail filled by hesitation was: 'Please don't tell people I cheated.'
Ed smiled despite himself. The kid was really afraid that his reputation among seasoned gamblers would get ruined, which would have been the case if Ed had cared enough to blab to other gamblers about Jake, the kid who tried to grift Big Jesse and Eddy Madman.
Once inside his apartment, he closed the door, and left the note and key on the small table, where he usually placed his newspaper on the days he returned from the corner store with groceries. Those days were becoming scarce.
Hunger finally hit him, and Ed wondered when he had last gone shopping for anything other than moonshine.
He went back out and took the flivver's key with him.
