Part Two
The janitor and the
dressmaker
«Chapter Twenty One»
The janitor strode down the sub-corridor whistling a sad blues tune, a habit he picked up reclining on his bunk bed in his prison cells, bored out of his skull. He was carrying a glossy-ink-black toolbox; a rusty gardening shears jutted out from one end precariously. It was five o’clock on the dot and, officially, his day shift was over; his weekend of sleaze and debauchery began.
Ever since his release from prison, he thought of nothing else but getting laid, visualizing his favorite sexual position: on his knees riding screaming bitches doggie-style for hours. The breed of women he normally copulated with were uneducated, five-dollar, alley-sluts, or underage jailbaits swarming the curbsides of Jarvis Street and Carlton, a red light district downtown Toronto.
Sometimes he picked up potty mouth trashy ladies playing pool in smoky rock’n’roll joints in the east end, cigarettes jutting from their mouths as they bent over to shoot. But he had moved up in the world: Raye Anne Dawkins, the classy business woman who resided in a swank condominium, sensually strip tease in his mind all day long. He felt a sudden itch deep inside his groin. And since she had reappeared in his life four days ago, the amount of times he had ejaculated over his fist thinking of her was uncountable. With that aside, he could not get the large sum of ransom out of his head: money he could do with to pay back his criminal boss who had bailed him out of jail on countless occasion.
Standing in the doorway of the communal laundry room, he fell silent a moment, sweeping his gaze around the white, clinical space furnished with twenty washing and drying machines. The super had informed him of a freak accident and the threat of a lawsuit. Not long ago, a middle-aged dental nurse, Elizabeth Oberman, was found semiconscious and concussed after slipping on sudsy water leaking from a faulty washing machine. And now, it was his duty to check the room for casualties. “Janitor!” he called out, offering blind assistance.
All he could hear was the incessant racket of a washing machine, whirring into action. He continued down the corridor to the janitor’s room. Inside, he set the toolbox down and kicked the door shut with his heel. Another long week had dragged by and he had no idea of where this boring life of his was leading him. Since being out of the prison system, he felt as though he had lost of control of his life. His mundane, domestic, banal existence was so different from his past where he existed on a double knife’s edge: break ins and entering, smuggling contraband, engaged in high-speed pursuit from wailing sirens, red beacons flashing in his rear-view mirror, pulse racing at high velocity.
If it were up to him, he would continue his high-octane, criminal past. However, his worst fear being locked-up again in a box cell with hardcore degenerates with no future, fear of sexual attack was a clear-cut and decisive deterrent.
During the scorching hot day, he had carried out manual labor in section B that was floors 1 - 5; hoovering, polishing panes of glass, waxing brass knobs and fittings, using a stepladder to change extinguished light bulbs in unreachable high places. Then, there was the upkeep of the grounds in the front and rear of the complex: mowing the grass, pulling up weeds and pruning hedges. It was the only part of his job he did mind doing while tripping out on drugs in the afternoon sunshine. In fact hardly a day went by when he was not stoned out of his skull on some sort of intoxicant: cannabis, black hashish, liquid heroine, speed ball, crystal meth or a high potency geek-joint - marijuana laced with cocaine - just to name but a few. It was the only way to blur the stark realities of his boring life: in a distorted mental haze.
After smoking Ganja… Jamaica’s finest… he felt he could eat a stable of horses with sheer gluttony. His last meal at lunch were four honey glazed donuts washed down with a polystyrene cup of steaming black coffee, purchased from Jean’s Delicatessen and Bakery.
The janitor unclipped the utility belt from around his waist and tossed it on the Formica worktop with a loud clamor.
“A chilled Labatts would go down good right now,” he said to himself as he splashed water on his face over a deep sink at the back of the room. “A couple of Wendy’s cheeseburgers, onion rings, some fries, and then hot pussy, uh yeah.”
As he straightened up, he ran wet fingers through his dark hair, and then stopped halfway abruptly. The running water reminded him that he had forgotten to switch off three sprinklers around the perimeter of the building.
“Shit!” He had arranged to meet, Eddie Taylor, an ex-felon, at the Hard Rock Café - located in the heart of Yonge Street - to celebrate being free men. Eddie had been let out early on good behavior. The janitor was aware that consorting with ex-felons were breaking one of the conditions of his parole. But he did not give a damn about that. If he wanted to catch the 5.45 bus, he would have to hotfoot it back upstairs and finish his job.
As he hurried through the pristine lobby, he stopped flatfooted in his tracks. Coarse hairs on the back of his neck sprang up like cocks in whorehouses. He saw the marked target rolling a red vehicle along the frame of the lobby’s four seater sofa, making, “vroom, vroom, vrooom,” noises. The boy was so engrossed he was oblivious to the janitor, standing there watching him.
One hundred and twenty-five grand! reverberated in the back of his mind.
In a split second, the janitor’s mind reverted to his former criminal self, making a conscious decision to break the conditions of his parole. He surveyed the streets through the plate-glass windows that separated him and the boy from the outside world.
There was no one around except for the usual weekend traffic driving by. He looked toward the elevator bank; one of the lit numbers was shifting, flicking downwards.
He had to act fast.
As he approached the target, he racked his brain on how to lure the boy to the janitor’s room. “Hey kid,” he said as nonchalantly as possible. “Where’s your friend you’ve been playing with?” He removed his dark glasses and smiled.
The boy looked up and inspected the strange man in his oil-stained royal-blue jumpsuit and grass-stained caterpillar work boots.
“He’s gone upstairs. He had to use the bathroom.”
“Whatcha got there?”
The boy, wearing a red cotton T-shirt and green shorts, plopped down on the floral sofa, his sandaled feet barely touching the floor. “Um… this?” He held up the red toy as if selling it in a TV commercial. “It’s a double-decker bus. My dad bought it when he visited Piccadilly Circus. That’s in London, England.”
“I heard double-decker was always getting stuck in the narrow streets of London.” JP transferred his weight smoothly from one hip to the other. “Besides, I got a cooler one, a better than that one.”
“Really, mister.”
“Yeah, sure, kid, just like a greyhound bus out on the trans-Canada highway with supersonic speed. The best part about it is, the baby purrs like a tiger without all that vroom, vroom stuff.
The boy's face lit up with joy. “Really mister!” He jumped to his feet. “Better than a double-decker? My dad says they don’t make them higher than double-deckers.”
“I’m not talking about height, my friend, I’m talking about velocity… you know, speed.” He made a fast movement across his chest. “I’ve got it downstairs. Come with me.’ He gestured for him to follow. ‘I’ll show it to you.”
“But my dad says not to go off with strangers.”
“I’m no stranger kid. I work here. Come on… it’s just downstairs.”
The janitor started toward the stairwell, hoping the boy will follow. But when he looked back, the boy was just standing there looking uneasy.
The janitor felt an impulsive urge to bark, hurry up! Instead, he said calmly, “Com’mon kid… trust me. It’ll only take a few minutes.”
“I don’t know.”
The janitor shot a glance at the elevator bank and back at the stubborn
boy, exasperated. “I gotta go. Are you coming or not?”
The boy’s curiosity began to outweigh his caution, dying to see this super sonic bus. “I guess it’s okay.” He neared the janitor with small cautious steps. “What color is it?” He could smell cigarette smoke, freshly cut grass, and BO is emitting from the man. “Does it have like a special engine? Is it hand man… man… manhoovered, or is it like electric, I mean remote controlled?” he asked excitedly.
“You’ll see.” The janitor ruffled his shock of curly, jet-black hair. “All in good time.”
“One day, when I am older, I’m going to London, England just so I can visit Oxford Street. My dad says red double-deckers lined the streets from Marble Arch to Piccadilly. He says it’s a spectacular sight to see.”
“Is that so?”
“You can jump on or off whenever you like.”
“Hmm.”
“But soon, those ones are becoming obsolete.”
“That’s a gigantic word for a small boy.”
“My daddy says it means, extinct… like dinosaurs.”
The janitor heard the elevator ding and felt his heartbeat surge. His first impulse was to wrap his fingers round the boy’s mouth and manhandle him down to his workroom. Instead, he quickly maneuvered him by the shoulder and through the exit door into the concrete stairwell like a professional paedophile at an amusement park. For the first time in a long time, since his freedom from prison, the janitor felt energized, alive.
«Chapter Twenty Two»
The boy tilted his head to read the sign tacked high on the door.
You’re the janitor?”
“Yeah… that’s what everybody round here calls me… the janitor…. see.” He pointed to the yellow italic letters stitched across his left breast pocket, then pushed the door open to allow the boy in.
“What’s your real name?” A waft of ammonia whirled up the boy’s nostril as his gaze shifted around the space.
The janitor closed the door quietly, securing the lock with a firm click. “My name… well… that’s not important.”
The boy was hardly listening. He stared open-mouthed at the posters of skimpily clad girls on a wall. Over the worktable that held an assortment of tools, gardening gloves and flashlights on metal pegs. There were two metallic buckets on wheels with mop handles sticking out; three brooms against one wall, a wheelbarrow, a toilet plunger, used paint cans, bottles of cleaning products and varnishes on shelves; two industrial size vacuum cleaners, stepladders and ratty rags. He looked over at the double stainless steel sinks. Next to it was a white, claw-foot bathtub with a rusty air-con unit resting inside of it.
Nothing remotely looks like fun.
“Where’s this super sonic bus?”
“Over there,” said the janitor, pointing with his stubble chin. “In the supply closet, kid.”
As the boy headed toward the closet, the janitor pounced, grabbing him around his waist, whisking him off his feet, no heavier than a red rooster. His red double-decker crashed to the concrete floor; one tiny red door came loose.
“My bus!” the boy cried, both arms outstretched for it. “My bus! Put me down! Put me down!” He squirmed and thrashed his legs.
“Shut your mouth, kid! And stop struggling!”
“Let me go! I’m gonna tell my dad! Let go of me! Stop, you're hurting me. Let go.”
All of a sudden, they both could hear the sound of heels click-clopping outside in the corridor. The boy attempted to scream, but the janitor clamped his hand to the boy’s mouth, stifling the crescendo. When the footsteps faded into the laundry room, the janitor gave him a flat-handed clap at the side of his skull.
“You little shit! Do that again and see.”
The janitor plonked the boy down on the worktable and removed the grey duct tape from a jutting hook. He secured an edge between his teeth, pulled a strip and taped it over the boy’s mouth, gagging him.
As he crouched to bind the boy’s legs, he kicked out hard with all the power and strength he could muster, throwing the janitor off-balance where he ended up on his blue backside. “You little shit!”
Instinctively the boy jumped down from the worktable and made a mad dash for the door. The janitor rolled over on his belly and, with arms outstretched, caught the boy’s ankle sprawling him forward to the concrete floor. The boy twisted his thin ankle through the janitor’s slight grip, losing a sandal and, seeing the sharp garden shears in the black toolbox by the door, he scrambled to his feet. Halfway there the janitor seized him by the waistband of his shorts, causing the boy to swing like a seesaw. The boy clunked his head on the concrete floor and groaned in pain.
Almost breathless, the janitor lowered the boy to the floor, straddling and trapping him between his legs. JP could see a thin line of blood trailing from a nasty gash above his left eyebrow and into the corner of his eye.
“Tut, tut, tut,” said the janitor. “Now give me your hands.”
Dazed, bruised and bleeding, the boy studied the janitor’s sinister face as his wrists were bound. He believed the janitor would strip off his shorts and molest him.
Pedo, ran through his mind and, for the first time he thought of his friend, Enzo. Will he come and find me?
Standing up to his full height, the janitor pulled his cell phone from his pocket and scrolled through his contacts, feeling a smidgen of guilt. Of all his misdemeanors, kidnap was never his thing.
“Yeah… what?” a voice said, sounding like some tough guy.
“Hey Larry! You’re not going to believe this. We’re in business.”
“And what business might that be? And what’s the matter, you sound like you outta breath.”
“I got the kid.”
“What kid? Wait. You mean the Mandini boy?”
“Who the fuck you think?”
“Where did you grab him?”
“From the lobby.”
“No one saw you do it?”
“Of course, no one saw me. You think I would have done it if I had fucking witnesses?”
“What about security cameras?”
“Larry, this ain’t the fucking Trump Tower. Just hurry up and get the little shit before someone notices he’s gone missing.”
“So you’ve finally found your balls.”
“Never lost them.”
“You took your fucking time.”
“More like opportunity knocked.”
“Wow, Mad Mickey’s gonna be flabbergasted. He thinks you’ve gone yellow.”
“At least I can pay him back now.”
“You think he forgot you owed him money; bail money he posted for you on numerous occasions. If it weren’t for me, you’d be a corpse in the morgue by now. Since you got out he ain’t heard nothing from you. That’s when you became a marked target with a red laser dot at the back of your fucking head.”
“He wanted me dead?” said JP surprised. “Is that what you’re telling me?”
“After I told him about the broad and her lucrative kidnap plan he called it off. Because of me, you lucky son of a bitch, you’re still inhaling and exhaling.”
“You waiting for a thank you?”
“You should suck my dick is what I am saying. Did you call the broad and tell her?
“As soon as you get off the line, gringo.”
“You didn’t tell her anything about us?”
“Of course not! You think I’m stupid?”
“Just protecting our asses on this end. Hey, after we pick up the briefcase, say there was only 50k in there.”
“She’s expecting 250K. She’ll know I ripped her off.”
“Convince her. She ain’t exactly gonna go up to the guy and ask how much he put in there. For fuck sakes, she ain’t dumb!”
“All right, fine. Sounds good.”
“Sounds good,” mocked Larry.
“How we going to divvy it up? I should get more since it’s me that risked my neck.”
“Don’t worry about that; it’ll
be fair. Stay put, wise guy. We’re on our way.”
JP pressed END, lit up a cigarette and made the call.
«Chapter Twenty Three»
“Hello.” She sounded exhausted, dejected after arriving home from her dress shop, no doubt, spending the evening alone.
“Hello there sweet cakes, it’s me.”
“What! Who is me?” said Raye pretending not to recognize the voice. After Monday’s awful shame and humiliation, making a complete idiot of herself, acting like some classless tramp, the embarrassment had barely worn off.
“Babe, stop playing.”
“Fuck off, JP! I’ve got nothing to say to you.”
“Wait! Don’t hang up.”
“What do you want, JP? I thought I told you to lose my number.”
“You still mad, sweet cakes?”
“So what is it? Have you reconsidered my proposition?” She could hear him dragging on a smoke. “Well?”
Excited by the news he was about to deliver, JP scratched a sudden itch in his genitals. “I got the boy.” There was absolute silence for a long moment. “Sweet cakes, are you there?”
“Did I hear you right?”
“Yup.”
She gasped softly. “Oh my God!”
“Yup, I got him.”
A short, sharp, shrill came down the line, which sent a tingle down his spine.
“Wait a second. Is this just some ploy to see me again?”
“Seriously sweet cakes. I got him.”
“Really, when?”
“Just now. I’ve got him here with me.”
“Here, where?”
“At work. In my workroom.”
“How did you do it?”
He told her every detail.
“Are you sure no one saw you? I mean, it’s broad daylight.”
“Calm down babes, nobody saw me.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure! You think I would risk abduction on my record.”
“What made you change your mind?”
“You.” He hesitated for effect, summoning up his true feelings. “I want you to be happy.”
“Well, you’ve definitely made my day!”
“I’m going to hide him at my Aunty Zena’s place.”
“Your Aunt. Do you think that’s wise?”
“You got a better idea?”
Raye did not answer straight away, not wanting to provoke him any further. He already sounded annoyed.
“Don’t worry, sweet cakes, she’s cool. But make sure you get another ransom note ready.”
“You bet. I have been dreaming about this for months. Listen, call me later. I’ll have one by then.”
“Okay sweet cakes. As soon as I drop him off, I’ll call you.”
“And for God sakes JP, be careful”
“Don’t worry, I will.”
The evil grin disappeared from his lips. “What the fuck!” He was standing in a yellow puddle. The boy had peed himself; his shorts had a darkened wet patch around the crotch of his shorts. JP glanced at the boy’s face and saw the terror in eyes, his lips colorless. “It’ll be over soon kid. Be cool.”
JP pressed END and shoved the cell phone back into his pocket. He hauled the boy to his feet, scooped him up and carried him across the room. Urine trickled from the boy’s shorts and dripped onto the janitor’s boots.
Carefully the janitor lowered him into the disused bathtub.
The boy adjusted himself for some comfort, feeling frightened and alone. He yearned for his mom and dad to rescue him and prayed for his friend Enzo to come and find him.
The janitor filled a bucket with hot water, poured in a generous glug of ammonia bleach in, and mopped up the urine and the blood trail. When he was done, he rinsed the mop, sluiced disinfectant in the bucket and poured it down the drain. Carefully, he inspected the floor for broken hairs, loose buttons, fibers, threads... just about anything incriminating that would suggest the boy was here.
Looked spotless.
Satisfied, he unzipped his jumpsuit and stepped out of them. Underneath he wore a black T-shirt and faded blue jeans; tanned arms and chest, ripped with muscles and tendons. He hitched his jumpsuit on a spare hook inside the door and sat down at his worktable with his feet up on the worktop. He picked up a porno mag and flipped the pages. However, he was not drooling over the naked women as usual. He was anxious and thinking of the boy duct taped in the bath. He looked over at the tub, but it was like he was not there; the boy was curled up, frightened and scared out of his wits.
«Chapter Twenty Four»
The janitor heard a soft knock outside in the corridor. Somewhat startled, he dropped his feet from the worktable. He wondered if it was a resident or Larry here for the boy.
He hoped to God it was Larry Parrata and slowly he got to his feet. He looked over at the bathtub to make sure the boy was out of sight.
Cautiously he walked over to the door. “Yeah.”
“Here for the boy?” said a male’s voice.
Feeling relief, the janitor slid the deadbolt and opened the door. A medium height man in his mid-twenties stood there in full leather gear: black bomber jacket, tight dark jeans and steel-tipped Doc Martens. The visor on his black helmet was open to reveal aquamarine blue eyes and a prominent nose. He was holding a spare black helmet under his arm.
“Fabrizzi, what the fuck are you doing here? He looked pass the biker. “Where the fuck is Larry at?”
“Nice to see you too Pandolfi. Larry’s waiting in the car park, keeping an eye out.”
“What the fuck took you guys?”
“Calm down. We’re here now.”
Fabrizzi looked over JP’s shoulder expecting to see the kidnapped boy. “It seems to me your job title is forever changing. One minute drug smuggler, the next janitor. Now all of a sudden kidnapper?”
“Just so you know, it’s a one-off.”
“A one-off, eh?” Fabrizzi sidestepped the janitor and went into the janitor’s room.
“Yeah. I’m not planning on going back to the slammer. What’s it to you anyway?” JP closed the door and fired up a cigarette.
Fabrizzi darted his eyes around the space. “You just got out and now you’re abducting children? I mean… what dragged you out of retirement? The system didn’t teach you anything?”
“After I get my money, I’m getting out of here.”
“First off JP, no one told me we were in the business of kidnapping children. That’s not right, man.”
“It’s a big pay day, my man.”
“Oh yeah.” He paused. “What’s my cut, eh?”
“This job has nothing to do with you.”
“I’m here ain’t I?”
“Listen, I don’t have time for this shit.”
“Who’s the kid?”
“Larry didn’t tell you?”
“Nobody tells me nothing, man. All Mad Mickey said… I quote, ‘tailgate Larry to pick up the merchandise.’ Larry tells me the merchandise is a kid.”
“Well, if that’s all they told you, that’s all you should know.”
“You’re not going to enlighten me either.”
“Nope… it’s confidential.”
“You know man, the way things have been panning out, I’m thinking of moving on.”
The janitor watched Fabrizzi chew on his lower lip. “Sounds like you have a death wish? Mad Mickey don’t just let his employees walk away. This ain’t no nine-to-five fucking job with the option of quitting.”
“Why the hell shouldn’t I quit. No one takes me seriously.”
“Fab, when I started out in this racket, I wasn’t told nothing before a job went down. I just tagged along for the ride. It was like I was being tested… to see if I would snitch… or stupid enough to get arrested. I never saw a dime from it. So you see, you too have to prove yourself.”
“Prove myself? I’m twenty-seven and I’ve never been arrested… not once. Countless of times I ran drugs worth millions of bucks pass the
Niagara border through Buffalo to Upstate New York and never got caught.”
“By yourself? Or did you have clued up company with you that knew the ropes.”
“At first, yeah… I must admit. But after that… it was just me doing the run.
They wanted one man that they could trust. And that was me.”
“Really eh? You carry a gun?”
“Of course I carry a gun! Don’t you?” Fabrizzi reached behind his back to pull his gun from his waist.
The janitor stuck out an arm to stop him. “No. I don’t want to see it. And no I don’t carry one.”
“Didn’t you hear, when you were inside, I smoked a guy trying to cap my boss. Man, the feeling was exhilarating, got the biggest buzz ever.”
“But ain’t your boss dead? Isn’t that why you came to Mad Mickey looking for work.”
“Not on my watch.”
“The fact is, your ex boss got popped. That’s what Mad Mickey remembers.”
“You think?”
“Wise up, kid. Of course.”
“Man, I just wish I was an equal player in this Mad Mickey Mouse outfit.”
The janitor chuckled a little realizing he was in the company of a little boy that grew up aspiring to be a gangster. “You’re still a pup, give it time. If you play your cards right, Mad Mickey will probably let you chauffeur him around. That’s when you know he’s beginning to trust you.”
“Oh, so for now, I’m just a gofer.”
JP checked his watch: 19:25 p.m. “Listen, when you get back, pick up your beef with Mad Mickey, not me.”
“Sorry man, don’t go saying nothing to Mad Mickey. Just using you as a sounding board. Thanks man.”
“OK, buddy. Let’s get this thing over and done with. I’m beat, I’m hungry and, and, I got a hot date tonight.”
“Anybody I know.”
“Nope.”
Fabrizzi scoped the room again. “So where is he?”
“In the bathtub over there.”
Fabrizzi chuckled. “What… he’s taking a bath at a time like this?”
“You know Fab, you’re a real stand-up comedian. Just a laugh a minute.” The janitor eyed the spare helmet. “I suspect the spare’s for the kid?”
“Yeah.”
“Larry’s idea I bet… to take him pillion,”
“No. It’s my idea. Easy get away.”
“You idiot, if the cops see the kid on the back of the bike, they’ll haul you over.”
“How are they going to catch me. Besides, he’ll look like a rucksack on my back.”
“Whatever man, I’ll go check the coast is clear. You get the kid geared up. Watch it though, he’s a little tiger.”
Fabrizzi walked over to the old bathtub to see the kid lying in a fetus position; frightened eyes looked up him. Fabrizzi noticed the goose egg over the boy’s left eye.
“What the hell happened to his head?”
“He had a little accident.”
“A little accident. C’mon man, he’s just a kid!” Fabrizzi leaned down and reached out his hand to the boy. “Hey don’t be scared, kid. I’m not going to hurt you.”
The boy did not move a limb.
“Come on kid, I’m not gonna hurt you. Go on… take my hand. I’m gonna get you out of here and get you something to eat. You hungry?”
Tentatively the boy nodded vacantly and offered his bounded wrists. Fabrizzi hauled him up and out of the bathtub, and to his feet.
The boy could barely stand: pins and needles rampaged behind his knees to the balls of his feet. It took him a moment to steady himself.
“I’m going to take this off, so don’t scream.”
Fabrizzi ripped the duct tape with a quick, sharp pull, leaving a red blotch mark around his mouth. The boy gasped for air, his mouth burning. “I’m not…” he half blurted, then stopped, realizing the implications.
They will kill you if you tell them you are not Enzo! an inner voice warned him.
“What kid? You’re not what?”
“Um … wa …,” he swallowed hard, putting his hands to his throat. “Wa … water please.”
Fabrizzi rinsed an empty beer can and filled it with water from the tap over the sink. He fed the trembling boy, water dripping down his chin.
“What were you trying to say, kid? You’re not what?”
“I… um… I’m not rich! I want to go home!”
“Don’t worry kid.” Fabrizzi looked around at JP. “He’s gonna need a plaster for that cut. You got a plaster?”
The janitor found a box of Band-Aid in the first aid kit and chucked it to Fabrizzi. JP watched the tender scene as Fabrizzi removed the sticky strip from the plaster and applied it to the wound.
JP gave an exaggerated shake of his head.
Professional my arse, more like a fucking sissy nurse.
In the far background, three short honk of a horn could be heard from the underground car park. The janitor presumed it to be Larry warning them to hurry up. He watched Fabrizzi finish adjust the helmet strap under the boy’s chin, then said, “Okay, let’s move it!”
«Chapter Twenty Five»
In the vast underground parking, Fabrizzi swung his leg over the high-powered machine, a 1,000-cc black Yamaha parked by the service entrance. The janitor lifted the boy into the pillion seat as Fabrizzi revved up the ignition. The janitor pushed the boy’s helmet-head firmly against Fabrizzi’s back. “Keep your head close kid. Pretend he’s your favorite teddy bear and hold tight.”
“JP… get your arse in here,” a huff voice came from the waiting car.
JP jumped into the passenger seat of the red Mazda and slammed the door shut. Larry Parrata, a burly giant of a man, was sweating from his hairline from the high octane energy of nerves. He glared at JP with dark menacing eyes. “I have been sitting here shitting bricks for fifteen minutes. You wanus to get caught?”
“Sorry man,” said JP, fully aware of the nature of the business. When things were going perfectly well it could all come apart in a nanosecond. “Oh shit man.” JP opened the car door. “I gotta go back.”
“Why? What for?”
“I forgot my clothes, my uniform. The kid got piss all over me.”
“Well fucking hurry up and get them.” Parrata watched the janitor pull the service door open and disappeared behind it. ‘Dopehead.’ While he waited, he switched on the aircon and then fiddled with the radio dial. He tried to find a station that did not play rap music or anything Eggplants banged out for that matter. For a thug, he loved classical music. One of his guilty pleasure was Maurice Ravels’ classical masterpiece Bolero.
Fabrizzi revved up the bike engine, making a ruckus in the underground. He was getting impatient with the frightened boy fidgeting on the back of his bike. He beckoned to Larry with a gesture of his helmet-head.
“Aspetti!” said Parrata, simultaneously banging the steering wheel with an open palm, leaving his hand suspended in the air like a real irate I-talian.
Finally, JP reappeared and climbed into the passenger seat with a stuffed black bin bag. He threw it in the back seat and slammed the door closed. He sneezed in quick successions and rolled down the passenger window.
“Roll it back up. The air-condition is on.”
“It’s a fucking icebox in here, man.”
“I don’t care just roll it back up.”
The janitor did as he was told.
Larry tailgated Fabrizzi up the winding ramp, his headlights illuminating the boy on the motorbike ahead. As a car passed them on the way in, the janitor sunk into his seat. He didn’t want to be seen by the driver or any of the residents.
In the humid evening, they merged with traffic on Scarlet Avenue. The motorbike came to a red light at the four-way intersection at Eglinton Avenue. Parrata pulled up beside the grumbling machine.
“Follow me,” gestured Parrata to Fabrizzi with a back and forth finger.
When the lights changed from red to green, the powerful machine took off like a shot, tu
rning left on Eglinton; swerving through slow moving traffic, vanishing.
Parrata banged the steering wheel. “Fucking moron!”
“Relax Larry man; he just wants to prove he can do this.’
“When I need your fucking comments, I’ll ask,” said Larry, moving into the intersection behind a slow moving jeep. “He just better deliver the merchandise intact.”
JP drummed the dashboard and started to sing Meat Loaf’s, Bat Out Of Hell, to annoy Parrata even further. Outwardly, he seemed pleased with himself about his afternoon evil doings – finally kidnapping the boy, but particularly back in Mad Mickey’s good graces.
Edgy, annoyed, Parrata stared at JP’s profile for several seconds. “Do you mind, Jimmy?”
“Whatever man.” The threat of violence was imminent with Larry after being Mad Mickey’s avid protégée for many years. Therefore, he stopped drumming and lit up a geek joint to chill. He felt it kick in his brain almost immediately. “Did I tell you, when I was I teenager I use to dream of being lead singer in a rock band. I used to drive my aunt Zena crazy playing air guitar, bopping my head with my long hair flying everywhere. Thirty five years later, here I am, a fucking janitor.”
“And? I wanted to be the fucking Godfather, Don Coreleone, so? I could shoot you in the nuts right now, open the door and kick your yellow ass in a gully.”
They lapsed into silence, both thinking of all possibilities.
Parrata’s cell phone went off. With an eye on the road, he reached for it on the dashboard and pressed the phone to his ear. “Yeah.”
“The boy’s safe and sound.”
“You prick. Take a picture of the kid and meet me outside in fifteen minutes.” And, without so much as a good-bye, he snapped the cell phone shut.
Half an hour later Parrata headed south on Yonge Street, traffic bumper-to-bumper. JP took in the bustling street life, leering at three innocent high school girls dressed like bad-assed hookers. They appear to have escaped the doom and gloom of suburbia looking for nightlife thrills. As they whooped up noisily adding to the din of the city, JP smiled raunchily, his tongue drooling.
“JP.” Parrata nudged his arm hard. “Hey… JP.”
“What!”
“Make sure you show up to work tomorrow as usual. If this guy calls the cops, you’d be the first person they’re going to pay a visit to.”
“I know that.”
“That’s just in case you forgot.”
Parrata stopped the car outside Kentucky Fried Chicken, wound down the window and stuck his head out. “Hey, Fabrizzi.”
Fabrizzi dropped his cigarette, grinding it out with his boot and approached the red Mazda. He plucked the photo from an inside pocket and proffered it to Parrata. Parrata snatched it from his hand. “Don’t ever play that wise ass shit again,” he said, “we work as a team.”
“Get over yourself, big guy. The kid’s upstairs watching TV. I’m getting him some food.” He turned and walked into the open door of Colonel Sanders.
Parrata crawled further up Yonge Street toward JP’s lodgings and parked in front of Joe’s repair shoe shop. In the front window, a blinking pink neon advertised unclaimed shoes at cheap prices.
Parrata stared at the boy in the Polaroid, his little face full of terror and weepy. Larry felt something wrenching his gut, but shoved it back down.
He handed it to JP. “Make sure you wipe it for fingerprints before you stick it in with the ransom note,” he said somberly.
“Don’t need you to tell me that, Lar. I know what I’m doing.”
“And don’t go getting blitzed face, shooting off your big mouth. Remember Bogotá. You lost it. You lost your nerves. You cost us big.”
“Fuck off, Larry! I took the rap, kept all your asses out of prison. Remember that.” JP pocketed the picture, grabbed his black garbage bag, got out and slammed the door shut. He marched down the dark, dead-end alleyway to his bedsit.
«Chapter Twenty Six»
JP’s squalor was a hole in the ground of Joe’s Shoe Shop. Through the side doorway, a short flight down led to his private quarters. At the bottom, it took only two steps to his rickety door. On the right was the boiler and a laundry room. There was a lingering smell of bleach as if someone had just done laundry. Underneath the slope of the staircase was a built-in bathtub and toilet, an epiphany afterthought by the owner, no doubt, a real eureka moment.
The dank bed-sit was poorly lit with a very low ceiling, the carpet rank and filthy. Thirty bucks a week came out of his weekly salary of $110.00. The rest could barely cover his utility bills and necessary expenses. JP sat on a brown vinyl-covered sofa, the telephone receiver pressed to his ear. He leafed through a porno rag resting in his lap, while smoking cannabis and drinking.
On the ash-burnt wood coffee table was a six-pack of Miller beer, a stuffed polythene bag of marijuana, and packets of Rizlas: red, green and blue. An overstuffed ashtray glowed with a blunt and two losing Lottery tickets scrunched up in a polystyrene cup. Right there was his brass knuckle dusters and a modified shank - tools once used to get the job done in his younger days.
“Hi there sweet cakes,” he said, and then guzzled a mouthful of beer.
“JP, hi,” said the female voice excitedly. “How did it go?”
“Fuck me man. The adrenaline was pumping!”
“Is the boy safe?”
“Don’t worry sweet cakes…” he took another swig of his beer “… the boy’s secure.”
“Where are you now?”
“Home. You did the ransom note?”
“You bet.”
JP belched without restraint into the mouthpiece. “Well…”
“Well, what?” she snapped, disgusted by his insolence.
“So? Did you deliver it?”
“No, not yet.”
“Don’t tell me you got cold feet.”
“Of course not. I’m waiting until the coast is clear in the foyer, and then slip it into his letter-box.”
“Sweet cakes just go across the corridor and slip the damn thing under his door.”
“Wise guy, if I do that it’ll look like an inside job.”
“Inside job. Listen to you,” he said, smiling. “For an amateur, you sure seem switched on.”
“Trust me, JP; I know what I’m doing.”
“Let’s hope so.”
“Meet me at the Eaton Centre within the hour. We’ll go over the plan in details.”
“Man, I’m too stoned to move. You come over.”
Raye fell silent a moment. She was afraid of being alone in his company again, after losing her mind on two occasions. He had humiliated her; debasing her character by calling her a cock sucking whore like the rest of them.
“Hey, you there?”
“I would prefer the Eaton Centre or…”
“Why can’t you come over?” He moved his hand to his swelling cock. “I haven’t seen you for a while.”
“This isn’t a social call, JP. This is business.”
“C’mon, I just did a geek-joint and it’s making my head spin.”
“A geek-joint! What the hell is that?”
“Drugs,” he said laconically.
Raye knew he could handle it. She once joked his body was more toxic than Chernobyl.
“JP.”
“Yuh.”
“What proof do you have that you actually have the boy, eh?”
“What? You want proof. All of a sudden, you want proof. Honest to God, sweet cakes, sometimes you can be one hell of a ball-breaking bitch. Tell you what, how about knocking on your ex’s door tonight and ask him where his kid’s at?”
“All right! All right. Can we at least meet at Fast Mini’s next door?”
“No!” he barked on the top of his voice. “Not the Eaton Centre, not Fast Mini’s. Listen here sweet cakes; I fucked my parole for you. Be here within the hour or I'll let the kid go.”
“Don’t freak out on me, JP. I just thought…”
“Thought what?”
<
br /> She said nothing, just deep breaths came down the line.
“C’mon baby.”
“Okay,” she surrendered. “I’ll come.”
“Good girl. Hey, I got the munchies something awful. Pick me up some grub on your …”
The line went dead before he finished his request.
«Chapter Twenty Seven»
An hour and a half later, the janitor was sprawled cock-and-balls naked across his single mattress, sweaty and panting with satisfaction. His blue boxer shorts and blue jeans were bunched around his ankles over his work boots.
As he laid there contented on his back, he held a joint close to his lips.
“Damn! You were real good sweet cakes. We’ve got to do this more often.” He took a long toke, trapping the carcinogenic smoke deep into his lungs, tiny seeds cracked under the intense heat. He blew a plume of smoke toward the ceiling, expecting a bit of banter to pass between them.
However, Raye did not answer.
He propped himself up on both elbows to see her fastening her lacy white bra in the hook-and-eye, before twisting it around her back and fixing her breasts into the 42 D double cups.
He studied her sullen face in silence for a moment, trying to read her mood.
“A penny for your thoughts.”
Raye ignored him, straining to hook the eye of her skirt over the dome of her belly.
“What’s the matter with you?”
She shrugged, feeling hot with shame.
“I asked you a question, what the hell’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing,” she said, her voice barely audible.
“What do mean nothing? Why are you in such a stinking mood?”
She finally looked up and held his bloodshot slit gaze. Deep down she was morbidly ashamed of what had just taken place, utterly disgusted by the foul taste in her mouth. “I’m not in a stinking mood. I… I…,” she said, tongue-tied. “… I’m good.”
Fondling his sticky genitals, the janitor watched as she picked up her white silk blouse from the back of the rickety sofa and slipped into it.
“Do you mean, the fuck was good? You feel good… what?”
“What do you want me to say JP,” she said, pushing her messed-up platinum hair away from her hazel eyes. “It was all right, alright?”
“But…” he prompted her, while using the crumpled sheet to wipe himself clean.
“I agreed to come over to go through the plan.” Her tone wallowed in disdain. “I never expected you to jump me!”
Sure you did, an inner voice contradicted her.
The janitor stood up, swaying slightly, hindered by his jeans shackling his ankles. “C’mon Raye. I know you haven’t had it for a while. And I didn’t rape you, did I?” he said, breathing putrid sex stench in her face.
She feigned a smile. I’m using you, you pointless idiot. “No JP, you didn’t rape me.”
“Co’mere.” He pulled her toward him, and snaked his skull-and-bones-tattooed arms around her thick waist. “So this is the real Raye when you’re stone-cold sober… uptight! I like it a lot better when you’re shit-faced drunk. You lose all your inhibitions.” A flash thought entered his mind. “Hey, I got Eees, you want an E?”
“I think I’ll pass, thank you. I don’t do drugs.”
JP kissed her, pushing his wet, fury tongue into her mouth, playing with her tonsils.
“Hmm, hmm,” she murmured, twisting her face away from his, but he had her in a lip lock. “Hmmmmmm.”
He let up for a second. “C’mon, babe,” he said in a hot whisper, “kiss me,” and resumed kissing and mauling her.
With all her physical strength, Raye disengaged his forearms from around her waist and held them down firmly by his side.
A stark indication for him to stop.
“What?” he said aggressively.
“That’s enough!”
JP dipped his head to study her staid expression. “Are you playing mind games? Why are you running hot and cold?”
“Can we please just get down to business?”
“God you’re edgy. What the fuck!”
She sat down on the edge of the sofa and strapped her white pumps on her bare feet.
JP watched her, waiting for her to say something. “Well… what’s the plan?”
She stood up three inches taller and faced him. “Are you sure you’re ready to listen.”
“Speak already.”
“Aren’t you going to write this down, or are you going to commit to memory?”
“Skip the bullshit and just tell me.”
“Okay, the drop will be in Griffith Park Sunday morning by the Curling Club, eleven o’clock sharp. Eric will put the briefcase in the only garbage-can by the side of the building. You know the club, don’t you?”
“Yuh, I do.”
“Good. When the coast is clear, get it out and come straight back here.” She jabbed a finger in his hairy chest. “No bar hopping for premature celebrations, bragging to your barfly buddies about your sudden windfall. You never know who might be eavesdropping, pretending to stare into their Steins, and then jump you in some dark alley when you leave shit-faced drunk. So come straight back here, I’ll wait at home for your call. And make sure it’s from a pay phone. Do not call my cell phone, JP. Those can be traced.”
“Says the amateur to the pro.”
“Fine. Then don’t let me down. Everything must go as I planned. The minute you stray from it, we’re fucked.”
“Do I look stupid?”
“Honest answer?”
“You can be a real bitch when you want to be.”
“JP, I’m not a silly school kid in the playground coming up with some half-wit prank. I actually put a lot of thought into this. This is real. I mean it…”
The janitor was hardly listening; he buried his face in her sumptuous décolletage, his unshaven chin, scratchy against her warm flesh.
Raye rolled her eyes, seriously annoyed. She grasped two fistful of oily hair and hiked his face up. “Listen JP, this is important.”
“Sweet cakes, it ain’t brain surgery, I believe you. I got it.” He strained his hair from her fat fingertips to her ‘buttermilk mountains,’ as he once described them so poetically for a street vermin. There, he made wet kissing noises and moaned as he did so.
Raye wished he would stop, but the last thing she wanted was to ruin their sham relationship before it all went down on Sunday morning.
“Come on, JP, let’s do this.”
Without warning, he came up and thrust his long tongue deep into her mouth, his hands all over her.
“Hmmm, hmmm,” she protested. She shoved him so hard he collapsed onto his elbows onto the thin mattress. “Jesus stop, God!” She dragged her sleeve over her mouth to rid it of his gooey spit.
Putrid! Revolting! Yuck! an inner voice said in disgust.
“Whyja do that for?”
Your saliva is not exactly nectar, she was thinking. “Do what?”
“Wipe your mouth like that.”
“I donno.”
“You’re being childish.”
“Can you be serious for one minute? How did you explain the boy to your aunty?”
The janitor’s gaze wandered off to one side, quickly thinking on his feet. “I told her he’s my girlfriend’s kid. I said we’re off to Niagara Falls for the weekend, for a bit of sightseeing and gambling. I made her promise not to let him out of her sight. An... and not to listen to what he says cause he’s got a real screwy imagination. Good eh!”
Raye shrugged imperceptibly, digesting the information. Meanwhile, the janitor observed her pensive demeanor, wondering if she believed him or not.
However, the conniving woman had no idea of the truth. The boy was holed up in a nondescript second floor hovel on Yonge Street, under the watchful eye of his criminal buddies, who worked for a nasty little outfit called Marble Balls and Associates, ran by their small time Drug Lord, boss, Mickey Mechoso.
&n
bsp; Mad Mickey Mechoso.
«Chapter Twenty Eight»
“And she believed you?”
“Oh God, yeah, as long as you bring her a bottle of Jack’s, she’ll believe anything you tell her.”
“Okay - good. I just hope Eric comes flying into my arms when he discovers his precious little Enzo is missing.”
JP squinted hard, drawing his neck in simultaneously. “And what makes you think he’ll do that, sweet cakes. You guys ain’t together anymore?”
Raye shrugged, as if it was no skin off her nose. “Well… if he doesn’t, I guess I’ll have one of my problems solved. I’ll have his 250k.”
“We’ll have his 250k.”
Raye threw both hands up in defeat. “I stand corrected.”
“If he doesn’t pay, you want me to kneecap him and kick the living shit out of him?”
“No!” Raye thumped his muscular pecs, giggling.
“Seriously, if he doesn’t pay… what do you want me to do with the kid?”
Do I have to spell it out? Annihilate him after I’ve double-crossed you… you idiot, she was thinking, yet quite startled by it. “Ahm…,” Her hazel eyes shifted in their sockets, stumped for words, “I haven’t quite thought that part through yet,” she finally said, the words came out staccato. “I’ll think of something if when we cross that bridge.”
“You’re not just going to let him just waltz back home to daddy? Hell, he’ll squeal like a canary.” JPsighed with inner dread. “Oh man, I just hope this all works out. I owe lots of people money. If I don’t pay back, I’m good as dead.”
Raye squinted quizzically. “How is it that all of a sudden you’re in dire need of this money… a life or death situation?”
JP casually scratched an intangible itch behind his ear. It seemed the barefaced lies were making them both fidgety. “Are you sure this amateur plan of yours is doable?”
“Of course it’s doable! And don’t worry, Eric will pay. Enzo is his life.”
“And what about me?”
“What about you?”
“After all this, is that it for us?
“JP please, don’t start. Just think about the money. Split it fifty-fifty… right down the middle. Do the arithmetic.”
“Why do you have a problem being with me?”
“Have you not been listening? I’m in love with another man.”
JP threw back his head and sighed with frustration.
“C’mon, JP, look at me.” He obeyed and looked into her hazel eyes. “Be truthful. How does that make you feel? Me, in love with someone else.”
The janitor laughed bitterly. “Read my lips, this Eric guy don’t love you. His kid will always be numero uno.”
The harsh sting in his words wounded her heart. “But he does love me!” she declares, feeling pathetic by her own words.
“Wake up. All the jerk does is make you cry. Then you get plastered to drown your sorrows. For fuck's sake, he broke up with you by email, goddamn it,” he added spitefully.
“You don’t get it. We would have had a life together if that little brat had accepted me.”
“But I accept and love you, sweet cakes. Just give us a chance. Someday you’ll grow to love me too.”
“Someday you’ll grow to love me too,” she echoed, her voice mocking. “Grow up! What are you, some sort of masochist?”
“Sweet cakes, can’t you see, I’ll do anything for you. We could have a good life together, a family.” JP was staring into her eyes.
Raye dropped her gaze to the threadbare carpet as if she had been caught off-guard by his overt feelings.
Very slowly, with his fingertips, JP tilted her chin up to face him. “Or are you too high society for a small time janitor like me.” His reptilian eyes searched her eyes for the truth.
Raye slapped his nicotine, callous stumps from her chin.
The answer was a resounding yes, but she did not know how to reply to his question. And she felt trapped in hell’s dungeon. From the moment she had agreed to meet him she had been dreading being here alone with him.
She shifted her gaze to the small window. It had no curtains just four rusty, iron bars on the outside for security. Across the alley was the brownstone wall of Fast Mini’s Tavern. By a stuffed orange Dumpster, a black garbage bag had fallen out and split open. In the dead of night, fat alley cats, squealing vermin, feasted on the nightly buffet of decaying food.
Raye took two steps to the window, twisted the latch and pushed it open a crack to let fresh air into the dive.
She winced. Sneezed hard, twice and rubbed her nose. The last thing she’d expected was the unbelievable rancid air that wafted in, stirring dead brown moths and dust mites on the windowsill.
Conscious of JP watching her, awaiting her response, she wished she had the gall to speak her mind. You repulse me, she could hear herself say. Your whole bonehead existence repulses me.
She turned to face him, subconsciously soothing an itch at the corner of her lips with her tongue.
Still, nothing came out of her mouth.
“Relax sweet cakes, you don’t have to answer. I’m not stupid. And you should leave that cold sore alone to dry out.”
Only she was just listening. Her gaze had drifted to the single bed without a headboard, pushed up against the wall with scores of etchings - etchings from previous lowlife tenants.
An epitaph of their existence.
With various instruments, they had carved their names, dates, depicting their occupancy: Cockeyed Eddy 4. 2. 91; Jake the snake, 11. 11. 94; Tommy the mouth, 7, 8, 01; Dick Nixon 6. 10. 74; just to name a few.
JP had carved his name with a pocket penknife, his tenure not etched.
Her gaze moved to the frowzy, lumpy mattress where he and his venereal diseased trollops had sullied it with their infected juices. Only an hour ago in that same foul bed, JP had pushed her thighs wide apart eating her out until she came. She had imagined it was Eric’s head, his lips, his tongue.
After rough sex, JP slumped his full weight on top of her. She did not squirm, shift nor complain; her eyes fixated on the nicotine-stained ceiling, despising this part of the bargain. A woman of her background, sucking off - with mock passion - a slimy low life degenerate in this cockroach, mice infected dark hole. She wondered how she had ever found herself in such a predicament and had the courage to face the truth mentally: low self-esteem, unrequited love, her business heavily in debt.
She could not wait to arrive home to brush her teeth until her gums bled, scrub her tongue until she gagged, rinse her mouth with a capful of bleach, then immerse herself - head to toe - in scalding-hot water blended with a good Klug of antibacterial detergent to wash his slime off her.
Aggravated by an itch, she doubled over to inspect a black speck on her ankle and, as she reached to remove it, it leapt off vanishing. “Damn fleas, JP!” she screamed, scratching the nasty bite.
“They gotta eat too, sweet cakes.”
“Real funny JP. I hope I never have to set foot in this cesspool ever again, God.”
Just as she grabbed her purse, JP grabbed her arm. “Had enough Princess.” He stretched his neck out and puckered up for one last kiss. Platinum hair lashed his face as she turned her head quickly, heading for the door.
Her sham business here was done.
“Sweet cakes, com’mon, don’t leave just yet.”
“Gotta go JP. Got things to take care of.”
“Oh com’mon. I was supposed to meet a buddy of mine earlier… before all this. He's probably long gone by now. I have no one to hang out with anymore. Let’s go for a drink? Just you and me.”
“Not tonight JP.”
“One drink.”
“JP, the crucial part of the plan is to stick the ransom note in Eric’s letter-box before he gets home.”
“Just one lousy drink?” He pulled up his jeans from his ankles and zipped it up in a hurry. “We’ve never ever been out together before.”
“Are you deaf?”
/> “Holy cow, sweet cakes! All right! Have it your way.” He pulled a black muscle shirt on and picked up a rolled spliff and Zippo lighter from the coffee table. “I’ll walk you out.”
JP followed her out into the stairwell and slammed the shabby door behind him. Ray winced, seeing a cockroach scuttling up the wall, a burnt tablespoon and two blood stained syringes discarded in a corner. “When this is all over, just think about what you could do with your cut.”
“What?” JP eyed her big backside as she climbed the stairs.
“Get the hell out of this subterranean derelict shit-hole.”
“You mean buy some Deluxe penthouse in the sky.”
“Yeah, why not.”
“You snobby bitch. How would I explain that one to my probation officer?”
Raye giggled, half-amused and half-disgusted. “Yeah, that’s a good point.”
At the top of the stairs, she pushed the heavy black door open to freedom into a humid night air. The relentless noise of Yonge Street bristling with life caused her to look down the long alley. Across the street was, G-Spot, an adult video shop and the sex den, Kitten Trap. A group of horny teenage boys huddled under the throbbing pink and blue neon lights of the doorway, chain-smoking and laughing with two curvy harlots in red bustier, black fishnet stockings and vertiginous chopstick heels.
Raye got behind the wheel, started the engine and lowered the window. “JP, pretty soon you’ll be living high on the hog.” Not! Good riddance.
“Fucking eh!” He banged the car roof showing his jubilance.
Raye reversed, screeching to the main road, fed up of leading this sordid, double life - as if she had stepped into a parallel universe of decay and depravity, which held her captive mind body and soul. Her prominent family would be horrified by the sort of character she had associated herself. They would certainly crucify her if they found out, if not disown her
«Chapter Twenty Nine»
JP stood in the alley, mulling over the eventful day of abduction, subterfuge and sex. He lit up his joint, held the smoke in his lungs, and then blew it out through his nostrils.
Suddenly two orbs of light flooded the dark alley. The driver parked at the mouth and switched off the engine.
The passenger door flew open.
A scantily dressed young woman in pink practically fell out laughing. A burly young man in a well cut dark suit emerged from the driver’s door. He shoved the young woman up against the bonnet attempting to kiss her while he mauled her with his groping hands. Somehow, she broke free, put both hands up against the wall of Joe’s building, and put her head down. Seconds later vomit gushed from her mouth, splashing her pink stilettos... a concoction of booze, party drugs and last meal.
Disgusted, the businessman jumped back in his car and reversed out, leaving her to purge.
JP smiled, taking in the sordid scene with sick pleasure. He came across drunken floozies like her on a regular basis. If he was the John, he would not have hightailed it so quickly. He would have hiked up her skirt up to her waist and humped her as she puked.
Hearing the phone ringing in his bed-sit, JP galloped back down the stairs and picked up the receiver. “Yeah.”
“Hey Jimmy,” said the disembodied voice down the line, “You contacted the broad yet, Mad Mickey is getting antsy.” It was Larry Parrata, one of Mad Mickey’s minions.
“Yeah man, she just left here two minutes ago.”
“Well.”
“The chick is serious.”
“Good. When?”
JP explained to him in details Raye’s insidious plan.
“Ok, I’ll be there.”
“Nononononono, I’m doing the pickup.”
“No, I’m going.”
“For fuck's sake, Larry, I’m going. This is mine.”
“Dipshit, Mad Mickey wants me to go.”
“Whatsa matter, he don’t trust me?”
“You’ve been out of action for a long time, Jimmy boy. You lose the edge, you lose the game.”
JP dropped his hand by his side out of earshot. “Son of a bitch!”
If Mad Mickey wanted Larry to pick up the ransom, he had no say in the matter. And that was that.
JP put the receiver back to his ear. “Okay, okay, you get the fucking briefcase. But just fucking make sure I get my fucking cut. You hear me?”
“Don’t you worry, big guy, you’ll get what’s yours.
“Okay, I’ll come by round one to col ...”
The line went dead before he could finish his sentence.
“Larry? Larry!” Cursing, JP hurled the phone across the room, leaving a fresh dent in the back wall, and then he kicked the pile of accumulated dirty laundry on the floor at his feet. He snatched up a vial of coke from the coffee table, keys from a brass hook and flooded the bed-sit in darkness. He headed down the alleyway, fresh with sick. Adorned with hundreds of giant billboards and neon signs, Yonge Street was the busiest, longest street in the city. Random vehicles pumped out heavy base rifts; some techno.
JP loved the weekend nightlife. People stuck in dull, dead-end jobs all week, were gagging to unwind and let their hair down in all kinds of venues.
Whatever excitement he was looking for he could find it on a whim.
As Jimmy Pandolfi walked south in no particular hurry, his felonious ears tuned into the blare of sirens in the distant. He told himself to relax; he had been on the straight and narrow for almost eight months now. He snaked by perfumed young couples hand in hand. Glamorous transvestites tottering on stilts. Intrepid prostitutes poking their heads in the open windows of the intermittent car parked by the curb. An untalented squatter sat on a shabby blanket with a begging bowl, a limp dirty dog for company. Four old timers played chess at a wooden picnic-type table. Street touts selling knockoff designer handbags, drug dealers selling $5.00 bags of weed, hash, pills. Serious-faced loners, hands deep in their pockets, absorbed the bustle and hustle of Yonge Street scene, afraid of loving or living a meaningful life.
As JP kept a steady pace he thought of ducking into drug dens and sex shops for immediate prick stimulation. He thought of mingling and drinking in bars where everybody knew him, shoot the bull with other lowlife’s, see if anyone wanted to play.
Stay out of trouble, he heard the warning words in his head. If the police pick me up tonight, I can kiss my future goodbye.
“Fuck that shit,” he muttered to himself. “Since when did Jimmy Pandolfi play by the fucking rules? To hell with the motherfuckers!”
All of a sudden, halfway down Yonge at the intersection of Dundas, he decided to double back on himself weaving north with deliberate strides. In the back of his mind, he had been thinking about his meeting with Raye and their relationship - one-sided relationship devoid of any passion whatsoever on her part. And he despised being elbowed out of picking up the ransom money on Sunday.
Ten minutes on he passed the second-hand music shop, the 24/7 tattoo parlor, the amusement arcade - packed and noisy - Starbucks, Pizza Primo, Joe’s shoe repair shop, his entrance alley, passing Fast Mini’s Tavern.
Four blocks on, elbowing his way through the weekend revelers like a man with a mission. He crossed the busy intersection of Yonge and Bloor, lumbered down the flight of concrete steps, through the shopping mezzanine leading to the Yonge and Bloor subway entrance. He dropped a token in the receptacle, went through the turnstile and, hearing the subway train thundering and screeching into the station, he double-stepped down the stairs into the belly full of party bound commuters on the eastbound platform.
Panting a little, he shouldered his way onto the packed car and held on to an overhead grab rail. His destination: Etobicoke. His sole intention: tamper with the ransom note Raye would put in Eric’s letter-box.
Vengeance of a Jilted Dressmaker Page 4
