by Nova Rain
Once again, however, I couldn’t be more wrong. Competition was much too high. In order to attract clients, I had to spend money in advertising my office; money that I didn’t have. And by “advertising,” I don’t mean printing out fliers and pamphlets. I mean TV commercials and internet banners, both of which cost a small fortune. In six months, my clients could be counted on the fingers of one hand. To make matters worse, I was behind on rent and the payments of my student loan. My dream of growing my office into one of the most prestigious firms in the city had been flushed down the toilet. I had to close it down and get a job with a salary.
To that end, when my friend Julia mentioned that her father needed help at “90’s Rocks,” his vintage bar down the street, it was a no brainer for me. I hadn’t been trained as a barista, but I was ready to do just about anything to make some quick cash. At first, adjusting was rather difficult for me. The transition from a day job, to pouring drinks all night long, hurt my ego. I used to deal with decent people with real problems, not drunken frat boys whose only trouble was getting laid. Nevertheless, I had to swallow my pride. Yes, I could say I was a lawyer; I’d spent years and years studying books and I’d passed the bar, but I’m not the first woman in the city who was doing something out of her field of expertise, and I wouldn’t be the last, either. This job actually paid the bills; it didn’t create more debt. Therefore, I sucked it up, believing that someday, I’d be practicing law once more.
Four years later, I’m an experienced barista, who knows just about everything there is to know about her job. I’ve made more friends than I can count, and most of the regulars are delighted to see me every time they walk into the bar. Why? Because to them, I am more: I’m more than just a woman behind the counter. I am their confidant, someone they can talk to whenever they like. They can do that with my boss, too. Raymond is a good man, but, unfortunately for them, sometimes he’s a little too blunt and judgmental. He’s known those guys for decades, and isn’t afraid to tell them off. I prefer to let them rant on and on, and select a more diplomatic approach. Of course, I’ve thought of yelling at one or two. They’re not always right. Yet, getting upset over someone else’s problems isn’t just nonsensical. It can cost me my job.
Weekends may be crazy, but weekdays, like this Thursday night, are slow. It’s not even midnight yet, and there are just eight people in the bar: a group of five, middle-aged men in the upper left corner, two guys in their twenties, and a loner at the table closest to the entrance. There’s something different about him, something I’ve been curious about since the moment he set foot in the bar. Joe Mancini is in his early thirties, and so handsome that he could date pretty much anybody he wants. He’s 6’4”; he’s got dark-brown hair, a pair of light-green eyes, and a masculine body that most men his age can only dream about having. He’s been coming here for well over a year, and I’ve yet to see him with a date. Usually, he’s in the company of Donny and Bryan, his friends. More than that, he seems somewhat old-fashioned. Instead of staring at his cell phone, he’s reading a paper. Most of all, however, Joe is a man of few words. All I ever hear from him is “good evening” and “goodnight.” He orders his usual “Jack Daniels on the rocks” and that’s about it.
I put the glasses in the dishwasher, preparing myself to leave in the next hour or so. The light from a blue spotlight overhead is flickering as I set the machine. Still, as I rise up to my feet, my blood freezes in my veins. The two young men are right in front of the counter, pointing their guns at me. My stomach chills with fear. I swallow hard, throwing a glance to my right as one of them cocks his gun.
“The money, missy,” he orders in a hoarse voice. “Don’t make me ask twice.”
“Are you sure?” I whisper, my breath shallower. “I mean, there are six people in here: six witnesses.”
“Now, sweetheart,” he groans, pressing the barrel of his gun against my forehead. I feel the cold metal on my skin, my heart beginning to bounce in my chest. The men in the corner are staring, but none of them even dares to utter a word, let alone try to disarm them. I reach my trembling hand to the register, settling my gaze with his. But, before I can open it, I catch a glimpse of a pair of eyes, glowing red in the dim illumination. In a split second, two, large hands grip the heads of my attackers. I watch in disbelief as they bash them down against the counter. The strong impact rocks the surface, the weapons slipping from their grasp. The guy behind this is none other than Joe. His eyes are lit with rage, his face harder than I’ve ever seen it before. And he doesn’t stop there. On the contrary, he lifts and slams their heads up then down again and again, their moans of agony filling the air.
“Does your mother know you’re out this late, you little fucks?” He grumbles, leaning over between them. “Does she?!” His stentorian voice rumbles like thunder, blood from their noses smearing the counter.
“Joe, please!” I yell at him, my voice riddled with tension and fear. “Stop it!”
I get no response. He lets out a malicious snarl, releasing the back of their heads. Grabbing them both by the collar of their shirts, he yanks them back. He turns right, without even tossing a glance over at me. By now, the strangers’ blood is dripping off their faces. Joe drags them across the floor, mumbling gibberish. Striding out of the bar, he lets one of them drop down to the ground. To my amazement, he doesn’t have any intention of stopping. A hard hook to the other’s jaw sends him reeling back. Joe walks off towards him and kicks him in the stomach, causing him to bend in two.
I close my eyes, hearing more screams of pain which are raising every fine hair on my body. I admire Joe’s courage. He didn’t hesitate in the face of fear. He just charged them both head-on and triumphed over them. Still, I have to admit that this brutality isn’t necessary. A simple phone call to the police would resolve the issue. He didn’t have to get his hands dirty. In any case, it looks like there’s more to Joe than meets the eye. And I can’t wait to hear what he has to say about all this, once he comes back to the bar.
Chapter Three
Joe
I can’t believe that I ran into Paulie Masters and Kelly Wayne again. I caught those two delinquents trying to mug an old lady last week. It’s too bad that there were people passing by. If we were anywhere more private, the beating I’d have given them would have been a lot worse than tonight. As it turned out, letting them off with a warning was a bad mistake. Those two have been trying to get into the Maltese family for a while. This means they must prove their worth somehow. They’re doing it the wrong way, though. Robbing a bank or an armored truck is one thing. It takes guts to do either. You’re not hurting anybody. The bank has insured their money, and to hit an armored truck needs brains and a lot of planning. Stealing money from average people is another. That poor old lady was shaking. I’m sure she was just seconds away from having a heart attack or something. Michelle is too young for that, but she’s still a bartender who’s busting her butt to make a living. The way I see it, she’s off limits, too.
I leave the two assholes, on the side of the road, covered in blood. My chest is heaving with exertion and my knuckles are sore. I throw a swift glance through the glass façade, gauging Michelle’s reaction. She’s still staring at me, not uttering a single word. I can tell she is shocked, but there’s not much I can do about that. I can’t go back in and tell her who these two are, because that would invite too many questions. The last thing I need right now is the third degree. No matter how hot she is, she’s not a part of this life. Talking to her about what I do is only going to get her in trouble. I turn my back on her, remembering why I was in her bar in the first place. Donny and Bryan were supposed to meet me there tonight, but, for some reason, they stood me up.
I get into my old Camaro and drive off while also trying to reach them over the phone for the hundredth time. No luck. The calls go straight to voice mail. Normally, I would think that one – or even both – of them got lucky and forgot all about our meeting. It wouldn’t be the first time they stood me up
to get laid. Still, neither of them has mentioned anything about going out with a girl in weeks. Unless they hooked up tonight, this can’t be why they didn’t show up.
Minutes later, I pull over outside Donny’s apartment building. What I find outside the entry door answers my questions. He’s bent down over the short wall to the left, hurling as he grips it with either hand. Bryan is standing beside him, shaking his head in disappointment. It doesn’t take an Einstein to figure out this situation. Donny is drunk out of his fucking mind. I jump out of my car, ready to give him a worse headache than just a bad hangover.
“Where the fuck have you been?” I growl, slamming the door shut. “Why the hell did you stand me up?”
“Sorry, Joe,” Bryan says, his tone calm and steady. “We stopped at a ‘Wendy’s’ for a quick bite to eat. Guess who we found working the register.”
“Who?” I ask, running up the stairs.
“Donny’s ex, Tiffany,” he informs me, brushing past our friend. “She slipped something in his food.”
“Don’t bullshit me, man,” I groan, closing the distance between us. “What was it this time, huh? Scotch? Vodka? Tequila? And why didn’t you call me?”
“Joe, I swear: Donny didn’t even think about getting a drink,” Bryan assures me, his face tightening more and more by the second. “Let’s go over to that ‘Wendy’s’ I told you about. Maybe that will convince you. As for the phone calls, well…” He pauses. “My battery went dead, and Donny’s cell phone took a dive into the toilet.”
“Shit,” Donny coughs out. “Wait till I get my hands on that bitch.”
“How long have you been like this?” I ask him, lowering my tone.
“Three hours, give or take,” he replies, straightening himself up to stand. “Why?”
“You should have gone to the hospital,” I state, waiting to catch the smell of alcohol. It’s not there, though. Had those two been to a bar, they would smell like a distillery. “In fact, I think we should head there now.”
“We don’t have to,” Bryan disagrees. “Tiffany showed us what she gave him. It’s some sort of vomit-inducing pill. She said it was ‘payback for dumping her without explaining why.’ That bitch is crazy.”
“Damn…” I snort in amusement, relieved that Donny’s troubles will be over soon. “I’m just glad she didn’t poison you with anything stronger.”
“Me, too,” Bryan agrees with a nod. “Imagine the headlines: ‘Member of the Santone crime family poisoned by spiteful ex.’”
“Fuck the headlines,” I tell them, attempting a firmer tone. “The whole family would become a joke. Eric would order us to chop Tiffany to pieces, and that would only be the start of it.”
“Let’s go upstairs,” Donny suggests, pulling his keys out of the pocket of his jacket. I stay silent, thinking about his breakup with Tiffany. Those two had been going out for three, maybe four, months. They looked good together, and he seemed happy with her. But, when things started to get serious, he broke it off. The reason was quite simple. None of us can have a real personal life. Women are a weakness. Our enemies can use them to get to us. If you want to keep your head where it’s at, you can’t get involved with anyone. Donny cared about Tiffany, but there was no way in hell he could explain this to her. The same goes for Bryan and me. We can’t start a family, because we are married to this life.
“You know what happened to us tonight,” Donny remarks as we stroll into his living room. “What the hell happened to you? Your knuckles are all bloody.”
“Masters and Wayne,” I say, my voice deepening. “I was at ‘90’s Rocks,’ when those two fuckers tried to rob Michelle. I made sure they regretted it.”
“You played ‘Robin Hood’ again? Are you crazy?” Bryan wonders, thrusting his arms out to the side.
“Shut up,” I groan, glaring down at him. “Do you think I’d let them pull that shit on a defenseless woman?”
“No, but you’re not thinking about the bigger picture here,” he says what’s on his mind. “They want in on the Maltese family? Fine; let them. Facing them out on the streets will be a good thing. Those two are as dumb as bricks.”
“Let them kill a bartender?” I squint at him. “Now who’s talking crazy?”
“All I’m saying is that we should stay out of this,” Bryan adds, his voice losing its nerve.
“Great,” I give a sarcastic nod, my heartbeat escalating. “Let them kill whoever they want, so that we can take them out later. Nice going, man; really nice.”
“That’s not what I said,” Bryan claims, shaking his head sideways.
“That’s exactly what you said!” I cry out, taking a short step towards him. “What would you do if she was your sister? What if it was your mother they tried to mug the other day?”
“Take it easy, boys,” Donny interjects, stepping between us. “He’s right, Bryan. We can’t let innocent people get hurt. I agree; Masters and Wayne are retards, but they’ll learn if they join the Maltese’s. Taking care of them won’t be easy.”
“You have a thing for that bartender,” Bryan concludes, his gaze locked with mine. “What’s her name again? Michelle?”
“Yeah, I do,” I nod in fake agreement, blood roaring through my ears. “I’ve got a crush on that old lady, too. She’s eighty-six, she’s 4’10”, but that’s okay. You know me. I nail everything that moves.”
“Stop pushing it, Bryan,” Donny raises his tone, shoving him back. “Let it go. Tell him why you wanted to meet with us tonight.”
“Right,” Bryan says on an exhale. “How long have we been doing this, boys? Nine? Ten years?”
“Eleven,” I correct him. “Why do you ask?”
“Because of this,” he explains as a twenty-dollar bill and a nickel fall out of his pockets when he empties them. “We’ve been fattening up the Santone’s pockets for this whole time, and we’re flat broke. Do you like that? Because I’m sick and tired of it.”
“I don’t like where this is going,” I complain, furrowing my brow.
“Joe, hear him out,” Donny suggests, his voice coming out mellower than usual.
“I’m not saying we should take on the boss,” Bryan explains. “That would be suicide. But let’s face it, guys. If we don’t change something, this will just go on and on, until we get killed or locked up. Now, let me talk to you about North Haven. That place is beautiful. It’s full of fat cats and fancy estates up there. And the best part? Police presence is low. There’s just one police station on the northeast. The banks are on the other side of town. They…”
“I’ve been to North Haven. It’s a small town,” I interrupt, pitching my voice higher. “I don’t think they even know what traffic is. It won’t take the cops long to get to us.”
“The morning shift might,” Bryan admits, his eyes sparkling with excitement. “But we’re not doing this in the morning. More than fifteen cops are on duty. If they decide to block off the road, we’re dead in the water. Also, I’m not thinking about a typical robbery. We need to hit the vault.”
“That’s got to be the dumbest idea I’ve ever heard,” I scoff, my tone becoming emphatic. “Banks are well-protected at night. Even if we do get in, the motion sensors will trigger the alarm. Vaults are made out of reinforced steel; you know that. It’s five to six inches thick. We’ll need – what – twenty pounds of C4 to blow that thing up? We could get killed in the blast, not to mention we have to do it in seconds. And you didn’t say anything about our biggest problem. We can’t do jack without getting the green light from Eric himself. If we go behind his back, we’re all dead.”
“That’s why we have to hit the vault,” Bryan points out, intensifying his stare. “There must be millions in there. We kick some money upstairs to Eric, and we’re gold. And don’t worry about motion sensors. We’re not getting in from outside. The sewer runs directly under the vault. Now, I know there are motion sensors in there, too. We need a fourth person to disable them. My cousin Jimmy’s a hacker, but I haven’t seen him in w
eeks. Give me a couple of days to track him down, and we’re all set.”
“I don’t think so,” I disagree, clenching my jaw. “We need to go up there first, do some recon, and check for possible escape routes. I’ll see you tomorrow night; I’ll come pick you up. Take care.”
At that, I shuffle off towards the front door, shoving my hands into my pockets. I didn’t tell them, but I don’t like this plan one bit. It sounds a little too simple. We’re not robbing a bunch of bank tellers. We’re going up against a multi-million dollar defense system. Still, its simplicity isn’t my biggest concern. It’s Eric Santone’s reaction to the robbery that worries me. That degenerate gambler is a billionaire, but he’d still do anything for a buck. Despite his love for cash though, there are rules, and pulling off such a robbery violates those rules. I can’t help but wonder what will happen to us if we go for it.
Chapter Four
Joe
The debating doesn’t stop the next day. For hours and hours, I keep asking myself if proceeding with Bryan’s plan is the right course of action. It’s dangerous, and not just because we could get caught in the act. If such is the case, putting our hands up in the air will save our lives; the cops won’t shoot us. It’s what will follow that scares me. Santone’s people are everywhere, even in jail. Should we fail, he will put out a hit on us. There are plenty of scumbags who would jump at the opportunity. It would be a win-win for them. They would collect on the reward and get into the good graces of a powerful don. Eric might be a greedy bastard, but he does protect everyone who helps him out from time to time. I have no doubt he’d do the same, as long as they did his dirty bidding for him.