JOSEPH
M. FARIA
was born on the island of Sao Miguel, in the Azores. He studied Creative Writing
at Roger Williams University. His first book of short stories, From A
Distance, was published in the Azores in June 1998 by Nova Grafica, Lda.,
and a book of poetry, The Way Home, was published in October 2003 by Lit
Pot Press, CA.
His work has been published in numerous venues, print and on-line. He is
also the Contributing Editor of NEO, a literary print journal published in
Europe. He lives in Warren, RI.
Contact Joseph
Chapter One
I was ready to sit down after a grueling day at the sweat shop and make myself comfortable on the couch to watch a movie on TCM when I realized I was out of my favorite snack, potato chips. I liked the salt and vinegar ones. I hated watching a movie without something to munch on.
I rummaged through the cupboards, the closets, under the bed, behind the couch, even inside the oven, and came up empty except for a couple of bags I forgot to throw out. I shook the crumbs out, but that didn’t help. It was mostly salt, and that stuff can kill ya.
So I locked the door and went out. The street was still slick from the morning shower. The streetlights made yellow stains in the puddles.
A fat moon followed me up two blocks to the all-night Dairy Mart on Elmwood Ave. They served gas, too. It was the only place open after nine, and the only place not run by Guatemalans. Not that I cared, mind you. It made no difference to me. I mention it in case you ever have a need to come out this way and you don’t speak Spanish.
The Elmwood district was not the best place to live, but the rent was cheap, and if you needed to be lost, and stay lost for a while, this was the place. No decent-minded citizen comes out this way unless they miss a turn, or they have relatives here. Usually the ones with relatives beat it before dark.
The Dairy Mart was empty when I got there. Old Bill Conner was sitting behind the counter, reading a rag. I crooked my head to the side. The cover photo was of a two-headed woman sitting on a porch step. She had two big smiles on. I guessed they were enjoying all the attention.
"Hey, Bill," I said, and walked straight to the third aisle. He didn’t answer. I didn’t expect him to. Not when he was reading one of those rags. Once he got hooked on a story, the place could burn down around him and he’d never know.
I walked up to the wire shelf where the Salt and Vinegar should be and it was empty. EMPTY. I scanned both sides of the aisle, up and down the shelves, and came up empty again. "What the hell, Bill?" I looked for my second choice, Barbeque flavor. You always gotta have a second choice. I picked up a bag and heard the door buzzer whine. A tall guy dressed in a white
shirt and a black tux walked in. He looked like he was on his way to an opera.
There was a long cooler in front of the chip aisle. I stood behind it and waited for the tall guy to take care of his business.
"Hey, Pops, you got a bathroom in this joint?" the tall guy said. He had a thick, guttural accent. He sounded like a goomba from Federal Hill. I know because I worked in a ravioli joint back in the day. It was owned by the mob. I should’ve spotted him as soon as he walked in. But the spiffy outfit threw me off.
Then this girl walked in made up like a Hollywood starlet. The first thing I noticed was the sleek dress she was wearing. It stopped about three inches above the knee, and hugged all the right places to make a night of it. It was gold and sparkled when she moved. My eyes scanned up to her breasts. There was enough there to bring home in a doggie bag.
The cooler kicked in just then and started purring.
"Angie, I really got to go," the starlet said, in a high, squeaky pitch. It gave me goose bumps.
Angie turned to the girl "You don’t listen so good. You’re like this old man." He looked at Bill. "He don’t listen too good, neither."
"Please don’t start anything, Angie."
"Am I starting anything?" He turned to me. "You," he shouted, pointing at me. "Am I starting anything?"
I shook my head.
The girl grabbed his arm. "Please Angie, let’s just go."
"Let go of my arm," he said. He grabbed the girl’s wrist and squeezed it.
The girl winced as she let go, but she didn’t try to pull away from his grip. She stood there and took it.
Angie’s face turned red as he applied more pressure. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead.
Bill was still reading his goddamn rag. I wanted to throw the bag of chips at him.
"You’re hurting me," the girl whispered. She tried to wrench her hand away, but Angie was having none of it.
"Am I starting anything?"
"No, Angie. You’re not starting anything." Tears streamed down her face.
He whacked the side of her head and shouted, "Get back in the car." He let go of her hand, and swiped his arm across his forehead. "I’ll deal with you later."
The girl stepped back, cradling the hurt wrist. She turned and shuffled out the door. She didn’t look like no starlet then. She looked like a girl who had lost everything, even her pride.
Angie turned back to Bill and grabbed the magazine out of Bill’s hand.
"Hey, wait a minute. What do you think you’re doing?" Bill said. He didn’t have a clue.
Angie tore the magazine in half and threw it at Bill.
"You can’t do that," Bill shouted. "I’ll have you arrested.
That’s private property."
Angie straightened out his tux and never looked back.
"Call 911," I shouted at Bill, as soon as Angie was out the door.
"I should. The son-of-a-bitch."
"Just dial it, damn it."
"I was kidding. It’s only a rag."
"Forget about the rag. I ain’t got time to explain. Just do it."
I ran up to the glass door and cupped my hands so I could see Angie. He was approaching a black Mercedes. As soon as he got in, I opened the shop door and snuck around back of the car. I was close enough to read the license plate and heard Angie shouting. Then the dome light went on. I guessed he wanted a good look at what he was doing to her. I stood up and saw him pounding the dame’s face against the passenger window. He was too busy to see me. I had to do something to stop it. I just hoped that Bill had called 911, and the cops were on the money, for once.
I slammed my fists on the trunk several times, and then in a fast crouch I scrambled around the car to the driver’s side. I figured it would take him several seconds to get a grip on what was going on. I waited in a crouch, panting by the door. Come on out, you bastard. The dome light went out. The door opened, and one shiny shoe hit the pavement. Come on, open it a little wider. He put all his weight on that foot, and the door opened wide. I sprang at the door and shoved it back. Hard. Real hard. Bone crunched and he screamed in agony and his head thudded loudly as it hit the side door panel. He fell out. I got up and kicked him once in the face. There was a soft groan as his head slung back and stayed there.
The adrenalin was great, but it made my knees grow weak. I held on to the car and made my way slowly around to the girl. I heard the sirens wailing way off in the distance. Better late then never. On Elmwood, they’re always late.
Chapter 2
Three nights later, I had just settled in to watch White Heat. I had my slippers on, my feet up, and was feasting on a half a bag of salt and vinegar chips when I got a slam dunk at my door. I didn’t answer the first knock. I waited several seconds and started munching again, then another knock, this time loud and hard. Damn. I got up and stood on the other side away from the doorknob. You never know in this neighborhood. The Elmwood Ave. district ain’t your mother’s backyard for family picnics, but at least the cockroaches know when to pack it in for the night.
"Who is it?" I shouted.
"Open up, man, it’s me, Tony Balanca.
"Who?"
"Tony Baloney."
A blast from the past. Tony Baloney ran the numbers for Mr. Fingers back in the day when I worked at the ravioli joint on the Hill. The last time I saw him he was the poster boy for the ACI, where they keep the bad boys in Rhode Island. He got five to ten for passing bad checks. In banks, no less. He had plenty of guts, but no smarts.
"Who else is with you?" I said.
"Nobody, man. Honest. It’s just me."
From the parlor, I heard Cagney pistol whip a cop.
I opened the door, but left the chain on.
Tony shoved his face into the crack of the door. Wasn’t a pretty sight. Long, hairy nose, squashed lips, and yellow teeth.
"Beat it," I said.
"Two minutes, man. I swear. Two minutes."
I pushed the door closed and unhooked the chain. He stumbled in, holding his nose, yelping.
"I think you broke my nose, man," he said with a deep nasal sound. "What you wanna do that for? I never did nuttin to you."
‘You got a minute and forty-seven seconds."
"You broke my nose."
"A minute forty-five."
"Okay. Okay." He took his hand away from his nose. It looked puffy and red. "Jesus Christ, man. It hurts."
"Let me see."
"Stay away from me you crazy bastard." My kitchen table stopped him from backing up.
Up close, the little curly hairs on his snout looked like dead ants.
"It ain’t broken. You’ll live to swindle another day."
"I ain’t in that racket no more." He needled his nose with his finger to make sure it was still there. His eyes were bloodshot with tears. "I’m a reformed man."
I said, "Sit down and put your head back. You’ll feel better."
Gingerly, he twisted his head around looking for a chair. He found it. I only got two. I rarely have company unless I do the invite. In three years, I’ve only asked Maggie up here a few times. She works the breakfast counter across the street. Mid-forties, I guessed. I never asked her how old she was. I figured it was her business. She was a little plump around the middle, but after three kids and an ugly divorce–.
"How much time have I got?"
I looked at my watch. "Little less than a minute."
"You mind if I get something out of my pocket?"
"Use two fingers."
He struggled a bit, then snagged it and pulled out a small, blue piece of paper. His mouth twitched.
It was a check.
I was ready to rush him, pull him by the nose and drag him off the chair and out the door. But he must have seen the fire in my eyes. He raised his hands to shield his face, and started yelping again.
"Wait a minute. It’s not mine. I swear it, Costa." He swallowed hard. "Scalia gave it to me. Here, look at it."
Lou Scalia was Mr. Fingers. I took the check. There was ten grand typed on it, but no clue as to who the owner was. No name. No address. And it wasn’t signed.
I said, "Okay. Ten grand. So why come to me?"
"Scalia wants me to sign it and cash it at the Old Stone bank in Providence."
I shrugged my shoulders and looked at my watch.
"It’s a bogus check, man. He’s setting me up for a fall."
"You got thirty seconds to thrill me."
Cagney was up on the tower now screaming for his mother.
"Fingers said I embezzled from him." Tony wiggled in the chair, like he had snakes crawling up his legs. "I never touched a penny of his money." He raised his right hand like he was swearing in. "On my mother’s soul. I never took a penny. You gotta help me, Costa. You gotta make things straight with Fingers. He trusts you. He’ll listen to you."
"Ten seconds."
"I got money. Plenty of it. I’ll give you some. Anything you want. Just make it straight with Scalia."
"Your time’s up, Baloney. Now beat it."
Just then I heard Mr. Osborne on TCM give some behind the movie ad lib on Cagney.
Tony crawled off the chair and got on his knees. He fished out a roll of money, the size of a baseball. "Please, Costa, you gotta help me. Here, it’s all yours. Take it." His face crinkled up like a dead leaf and I thought for sure he was going to start bawling.
"Okay," I said. "I’ll talk to him." I could use the money.
He started crawling on his hands and knees. I thought he was going to kiss my shoes.
"I said I’ll talk to him. Now scram."
He cringed when I approached him.
"Stand up, damn it. I ain’t gonna hurt you." I helped him up by the shoulders. He couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred pounds.
He hugged me. I pushed him away.
"When is this supposed to happen?"
"Tomorrow."
He tried to hug me again. I slapped him. Not hard, just enough to let him know I wasn’t kidding.
He covered his face. "That hurt, you know."
"If you try that again, I’ll break your nose, permanent. Got it?"
He backed up toward the door.
"When tomorrow?"
"Before the bank closes." He offered the money again. "It’s all yours."
I said, "Just peel off a coupla hundred."
Tony dislodged two bills and gave them to me. I stuffed the cash in my pocket. Maybe I’d take Maggie out to that new joint on Eddy Street. They got good steaks, I heard. I’d never taken her out before. She walked me once to the Dairy Mart to pick up some salt and vinegars, but we’d never left Elmwood. I wondered if she’d go.
"You sure you don’t want some more?"
"Get out of here," I shouted. I faked a kick to the seat of his pants, and he scrambled out the door.
I went back to the couch and had some chips. Seven Brides for Seven Brothers was just starting. Maggie liked musicals. I thought about dialing her up, but I looked at my watch. It was past midnight. Instead I called a taxi. The night was still young up on the Hill.
Copyright© 2006 Joseph M. Faria