by Simon Wood
“I’m all right,” Sammy said. “Soon as you guys get him out of here, I’ll get some clean sheets and go back to bed.”
“Just like that,” Hernandez said. “You kill a man, then you go to sleep like nothing happened.”
“I need my rest for whoever the warden sends next.”
“He does keep sending you the hard cases.”
“I don’t mind being the Welcome Wagon,” Sammy said. “It helps pass the time.”
Back to TOC
Bunsen Burner
Inspired by the Rhyming Slang for Earner
Angel Luis Colón
“Jesus, Teddy, the fuck are you doing here?” Louis Fourteen—called that on account of the fact he looked like puberty swung its bat and missed him by a wide berth—stared at me with unblinking eyes. “How the hell are you not in hiding?”
“What?” Best question I had in me after one sip of coffee.
I was twenty minutes away from a warm bed and hours away from a fifth of whiskey. Said whiskey was much closer and left a film on my memory. I lost track of the world in a cab on the way back to my apartment. No way could I fuck things up with my boss in that span of time.
Louis shook his head. “You got The Lady Cosh pissed, my friend. You done fucked up.”
I took a long sip of weak coffee. “No clue what you’re talking about.” I tried to bring the last hours of drunkenness back to the front of my mind, but it was no use. Hell, that I made it into my apartment and into my bed with keys, wallet, and phone accounted for were minor fucking miracles.
Louis sighed. “Figured they was burying your ass in Staten Island the way I heard it.”
I stared at Louis for a beat. “You gonna tell me what it is I did? Or do I get to keep hearing all this vague bullshit pour out of your mouth?”
Louis licked his lips. “Fuck if I know. All I heard was you pissed her off and now she’s raising hell from across the Atlantic to anyone who’ll listen about stringing you up and treating you like a piñata.”
“Those were her exact words?”
“Maybe. You know how she gets. Remember Bobby No-Toes?”
“Considering Cosh was why he had no toes, yes, yes I do remember Bobby No-Toes.”
I fought the urge to box Louie’s ears. Hazy memories of using my phone made me fish it out of my pocket to check the call history. Nothing past 11:50 p.m.—I was still drinking then. “Look,” I said as I thumbed further and further back into my call history, as if something from four days ago would provide clarity, “Who told you this?”
“You know damn well the only one of us she’s calling directly is Benny,” Louie said, “Anyone else hears her voice on the other end of the line and they know they’re fucked.”
The Lady Cosh had a reputation—I mean, any reasonable crime boss did—but hers was a very different story. Ran drugs out of Ireland for decades. Literally on life eight of nine by most accounts. I never met her personally but most fellas who did talked about a frail woman who dressed impeccably and was scarred head to toe. Most stories were different when it came to the circumstance, but everyone knew that she managed to literally crawl out of a five-alarm fire of her own free will after being trapped for nearly twenty minutes.
The Lady Cosh had no business being alive.
They said her nerves were fried, that she didn’t feel any pain. That was supposed to be what made her such a stone-cold piece of shit. I didn’t believe that entirely but still felt my stomach tighten at the thought of that woman’s anger being aimed my way. There was no direct proof, but I’d heard of plenty of people magically disappearing after fucking her over. Some said she personally flew their asses out to Ireland to torture and kill them. Others said she didn’t bother with that shit, she just had her personal enforcer end the drama with two bullets to the skull.
Neither option seemed pleasant.
“Benny said this?” I wanted confirmation. Louis and Benny were the town gossips. They also loved busting balls and man, if this was a prank, I was ready to bite their goddamn noses off their pasty faces. Benny was also my in-between man. He was the guy who lined up my jobs. I thought we were close, but if he was telling anyone who would listen that I had an appointment with a Glock, then there wasn’t much hope.
“Yep.” The idiot didn’t follow up. Gave me a ‘yep’ like I was asking if there was any food in the fridge.
“And where the fuck is he, Louis? Jesus, it’s like pulling teeth with you this morning.”
“I’m tired.”
“I’m hung-fucking-over but you don’t see me seizing up like a broken lawnmower. Words, man, use them.”
“Fine, fine. Benny’s out at the Knights of Columbus on Middletown. Think they’re doing some work on the walls there. Couple of guys got into a scrap last night. Heard someone ended up tasting drywall.”
“And Benny’s there all day? I’m not gonna take a cab for nothing, right?”
“Nah, he’s the only one knows how to hang drywall—he’ll be there.”
“Great, thanks.” I walked away feeling like I was trying to keep my head above flood water.
Benny was sitting at the back of the bar in the Knights of Columbus reading a newspaper. His fingers were caked with dried plaster. He wiped his palms on his lap and frowned at me as I walked in. “Hey,” he said. “You mind grabbing me one of those rags over there?” Benny pointed to the opposite end of the bar where the sink was.
I grabbed a wet rag and tossed it over. “Louis says Cosh is pissed at me.” No point in beating around the bush.
Benny caught the rag and scrubbed his hands as clean as he could. “What I heard.”
“Any idea why? Didn’t I just sort out that cash flow problem with the jackets? She got triple back on that deal and no static with the Albanians or the cops.”
“You know the business.” Benny inspected his fingernails.
“The fuck is going on with you assholes today?” I rubbed my eyes. “That I’m breathing means you’re all fucking with me or this isn’t as bad as I think it is.”
“Oh, it’s pretty fucking bad.”
“How is it bad?”
“Brother,” Benny said as he finally made eye contact with me, “She’s coming stateside to deal with you directly. Nobody’s supposed to touch you until she’s touched you.”
I couldn’t afford a flight. No credit and not enough available cash to get me anywhere safe. A train or a bus was a solid choice but then I’d still be in trouble wherever I ended up—I had no goddamn job skills past punching things or people. A loser; that is what I was, a loser who helped better people hold onto their money and power. A loser so bad at that job that his boss’ boss was on her way to personally rip his fucking head off—the least drastic thing I could imagine Cosh doing to me.
I thought about the night in question. Thought about the beer and the last-minute shots at the bar. The laughter. I thought about the girls at the end of the bar that I was too far gone to make even the saddest attempt at a pick-up. The memories were mottled, though. Little glimpses of conversation and people but nothing out of the ordinary. The drinking was good and loud. The laughter was in surplus—a good night, hell, a great night.
Too great of a night.
I sat on the edge of my bed staring at an empty book bag. Two- or three-days’ worth of clothes. I’d be hungry before I started to stink wherever I went. I needed to pull in cash and I needed it hours ago. I needed to dip into my work life and make another mistake to get out of the mistake I made the night before. I checked my phone again, as if the fortieth time I checked would reveal a late-night phone call to Ireland. I checked around my apartment too. Looked for notes, anything that could point to a fuck-up. I found a half-empty pack of cheap cigarettes on the floor near my dresser. Branding on the package wasn’t even in English. I rarely smoked, though. Checked my clothes and they didn’t stink.
These weren’t my cigarettes.
I crouched down and lowered
my head to get an eyeful of dust bunnies, loose change, and something else I knew wasn’t mine: a flip phone. I grabbed the ancient tech and opened it. Held the power button until the screen lit up a sickly hue of yellow and the carrier’s name faded into a pixilated menu of call options.
Recent calls.
By instinct, I touched the screen and rolled my eyes when nothing happened. I dragged my thumb down to the keypad and relearned how to navigate something that only ten years back was second nature to me. A little wheel appeared and changed colors before the list of recent calls showed up. At the top of the list, an outbound call at 3:21 a.m. to one LADY COSH.
And that’s when I remembered—well, mostly remembered.
I remembered tattoos. I didn’t remember exactly what they were of or how many there were, but the bastard was covered in them. Even had ink on his scalp—whatever I could see of it since he was growing in a fine layer of scruff. Had a patchy beard too. He was loud—jovial loud—but also seemed paranoid enough to stare over his shoulder every couple of words.
Irish. Off-the-boat lilt—probably from somewhere out west, close to the coast. He had moments where his accent went indecipherable. He worked at being understood, though. He worked at being my bar friend that night—overtime, even.
This meant shots. Lots and lots of shots.
No names exchanged. Just laughter and random stories of stupid things done to us or others. I talked a big game about my collection racket—about how good I was at making fellas sweat before paying out. I took pride in the fact that I only ever broke a few fingers. Never had to drop a body behind the horse track or at a Staten Island junkyard. I had a clean record. Worst I’d ever get locked up for was intimidation or whatever.
“Extortion,” the Irishman told me, “Yer hands keep clean but then it’s all white-collar stuff, right? Fuck with someone’s money and they’ll put you away for longer than they would for taking a finger or a toe.”
“What do you do?” I think I asked.
“Me? A chemist. I mix volatile things together, add a naked flame,” he clapped his hands shut and then pulled them apart slowly, “Boom.”
I remember being confused but not what I said in reply to the Irishman. It wasn’t important—maybe. The conversation jumped all over the place and we talked sports, we talked women, we talked family. All the bullshit two nightlong friends will ever speak about before forgetting about each other forever.
Alcohol’s a hell of an eraser.
The night wasn’t just drinking. No, we went elsewhere. We walked someplace, and I knew we walked because I remembered the biting cold—it was that first mean January night that always came the week after New Year’s in the city. Not like it wasn’t cold before, but there’s always that first night where it feels like Mother Nature gave the fuck up and ditched. So, we walked for a little. Then a cab? We had to have gone to my apartment because the cigarettes and the phone did not belong to me.
No, they belonged to the Irish chemist.
He goaded me.
“Get on with it, yah yellow-bellied fucker,” he said holding the phone to my face, “Just fucking ask. Ask the goddamn question and we’re golden. Be a pal.” The cigarette hanging out of his mouth stank to high hell.
There was a question from him and there was apprehension from me—fear. He wanted me to call Cosh but why? What the fuck did he want with Cosh and why did he choose me? Did I give him the number in the first place? I was low-level, I mean, yes, she knew who I was—I made sure she got her money—but I wasn’t essential. I wasn’t a big name on the list, a person someone from the FBI would agonize over arresting or questioning. Still, the Irishman wanted me to do the talking. He wanted me to take the blame.
Apparently, I did. I couldn’t remember what I said, and that was the real problem. That was why I needed to run and keep a low profile for a long time. Nobody in New York loved me enough to miss me and anyone related to me would be glad to see me gone.
I was sweating this for far too long. The cigarettes, the phone, and the Irish chemist didn’t matter. Nothing was going to solve the problem of having one of most vicious women to live dirty come at me like a fox terrier going for a toddler’s fingers. I gathered what was mine—pocketed that extra phone in case—and left my apartment.
I needed traveling money and the only available place to make a withdrawal was my day job. Now that was a dumb idea—taking Cosh’s money—but I was already in trouble. I got my bag, got my coat, and locked up the apartment for the last time.
Guy by the name of Hector Figueroa frequented a dance club just a block away from my apartment. He owed Cosh three large, not a massive amount, but considering he was a few weeks behind, the vig probably jacked that total up a little closer to five. That amount could get me the fuck out of New York in a bus and far enough away to hide at a no-tell-motel for a week or two while I found work. Now, realistically? I’d be lucky to get a few hundred out of the guy running an ambush at a dance club, but it would still get me further than the few dollars I had in my pocket.
The club was called Sidestreet, conveniently located, well, on a side street near the train station. This meant it was easy to get to and easy to get the hell away from after I made my collection. For a moment, I wondered if Hector would disappoint me by not showing, but I knew better. Men like Hector were creatures of habit and they worked hard to fund those habits. Debt was something that lived next to them, always threatening to cut them off at the knees, but that was what made it worth it: that thrill, that feeling anything could come crashing down at any time.
Hector loved dancing at this club; therefore, he was dancing at this club.
The guys at the door knew me well. They’d let me in knowing a few twenties would come their way as I made an exit. Did wonders for their memory loss whenever cops came around asking questions. Probably wouldn’t help as much if Cosh or one of her main men showed up, but it would get me out the door and onto a train. I could go straight to Port Authority and hop onto the first goddamn Greyhound leaving the state. Maybe Ohio. Nobody from Europe would ever go to fucking Ohio.
I wasn’t necessarily dressed for the club, but that wasn’t a problem. The boys at the door had that glimmer in their eyes—the hope of a little extra cash on what looked to be a quiet night spurring their kindness.
Me, I took it in stride. “How’s it going fellas?” I gave each monster a handshake like I was on the fucking campaign trail.
I got a chorus of ‘good’ and ‘a’ight’ as a reply. A firm pat on the shoulder as I walked by—a friendly reminder that I was walking by guys with enough height and strength to do me grievous bodily harm. That harm wasn’t close to the shit I’d heard about Cosh getting into, so the risk was justified.
The club was nearly empty. A few girls were dancing along with whatever the house band was playing. The bartenders stood at their posts looking bored. A few tables were occupied by some young idiots with more money to spend on clothes than they had brain cells. They all leaned on their tables; heads swimming with that cocaine buzz from their third- or fourth-bathroom visit.
Hector was stationed near the DJ booth—cat named Henry Knowles busy with prep for when the band was finished. I liked Henry, so I gave him a little nod as I walked over. Henry caught my eye and walked off like a goddamn pro. He knew damn well the shit Hector got into and he knew damn well the shit I got into. Henry wasn’t a fan of mixing chemicals, so he walked off before Hector noticed I was coming.
“Look at my man living his best life.” I always liked opening warm. It was better than coming in too hot. Adrenaline made assholes brave and Hector was enough of an asshole to become a fucking superhero if I set him off. The goal was to get him to part with his cash quick. Worst case: I threw a punch or two. Put the fear of me into Hector enough to pull the scratch out of his pocket and then run my ass over to the train before things got weird.
Hector extended a hand and I took it.
“Shit, man, you com
ing at dudes on their downtime?” he smirked.
“City don’t sleep and neither do the working men,” I replied.
“That some low-key shade?”
“No sun in here, is there?” I stepped a little closer, edging into the personal space to let my size do some talking too. “You know why I’m here.”
“They said I had another week.” Hector fiddled with the straw in his drink.
“Not up to me to question the old lady.”
Hector stared off to the side and sighed. “Fine.” He reached into his front jacket pocket and pulled out a bill fold. “This should tide her over. I can cover the rest next week.”
I took the money. I learned a long time ago to never question a man when the money’s there to take. “Smartest man I ever met, Hector. That’s why people like you.”
Hector nodded. “You gonna count that? I probably owe another two on top of it.”
“Then I’ll trust that. You did me a favor in not needing to get messy about any of this.” I extended a hand. I wanted Hector to feel as good as he could about losing this money. Pretty sure he wasn’t going to feel great when it came time for him to pay his true debt. Didn’t matter. Hector was an idiot and sometimes idiots had to learn their lessons.
I sure as hell was learning mine.
Money collected, I stepped out of the club and dispensed a little scratch to the doormen before that sinking feeling settled in and my greed outran my wisdom. I booked it to the train and managed to slip between closing doors in the nick of time. The car was packed, but I found a nice spot between two people who didn’t smell like the rankest part of a garbage truck. Once we were past 138th Street and underground, I felt all that pressure fade away. I reminded myself that was never a good way to confront a bad situation; that any moment this train could stop and in would walk Cosh or one of her goons to end me. They could be waiting for me at the bus station too. I was leaving a mess behind and sooner or later someone would come to clean up. Didn’t matter how far I ran. I needed to remember that—this wasn’t a one-night decision, it was for life.