“Not now, but I think you’re going to pay him a visit for us soon.”
Numbness overcame Chase as he half listened to the details expected. All he wanted to hear was the repetitive Woo-woo of Mick, Keith, Charlie, and Brian, in perfect syncopation with his derailing mental locomotive.
Who are you?
One never knows when a stranger might lend an ear. Or a helping hand.
The Stones faded into silence. The disquietude forced cognitive thought away from Chase’s churning mind, save for three words;
In another life.
WITHOUT GRACE
I
The cruiser sped into the one-way, oncoming traffic lanes of Prospect Avenue, lighting up the plumbing supply store and equipment rental warehouse in a brilliant glow of red and blue as the sirens amplified off the Expressway walls beside them. Perez watched in the mirror as the ambulance leaned into its turn behind them. He glanced at his watch. Less than two minutes left until they reached the hospital’s ambulance bay.
“How’s your head,” Davis said, his focus stalwart.
“I’m fine. We’re almost there.”
Davis nodded and eased off the gas as a car made its way off the Expressway ramp. The car steered tight towards the barrier and stopped as the cruiser raced by. Eyes rolled when he felt a vibration on his hip.
“Ah, shit. Can you get it? I know who it is,” Davis said.
“What am I going to say to her?”
“I don’t know. Make something up,” Davis said and rolled his eyes. Perez grabbed the cell phone and accepted the call.
“Hey—” he yanked the phone away from his ear and winced. “I think she wants to talk to you,” he said. Davis breathed deep and took it.
“Hi, Michelle. Yes, I’m fine. A little busy right now, but everything’s fine,” Davis said and hit the speakerphone icon.
“Bernie, baby, what’s going on? It’s all over the news.”
“Bernie,” Perez mouthed through his snicker. Davis scowled.
“What did you hear,” he said.
“There was a gunman, and—”
“Are you Okay? Did you get—”
“Mich—Michelle, relax. Shots were fired, but everyone’s fine, yes, there was a gunman, we’re on my way to New York Pres now.”
“Oh, my God! You’re going to the hospital? What happened? I’ll be right—”
“No, don’t go anywhere. I’m fine. I didn’t get hurt. We’re escorting the suspect. He’s…”
Over the past twelve years on the force, Officer Bernard Davis did everything he could to tell his wife the truth. But sometimes, truths were omitted, others were minimized. When the need to tell an untruth arose, he would—
“Listen, sweetheart. I got to go. We’re almost at the hospital now. I’ll call you before I get back to—”
“Don’t you dare hang up on me, Bern—”
II
The blacked out Civic coupe sped off the Parkway towards Sheepshead Bay as the sparse late-night traffic eased into abandoned streets and the moonlight illuminated brighter than the outdated sodium lights along the service road.
Turning onto Bay Parkway, Chase rolled down the window and exhaled a thick waft from his cigarette. He coughed and spat as the lung buster bit into his throat more than he wanted. The usual self-questioning of why he still smoked pushed away when his inquiries of a lifetime of bad choices made their way forward.
He took another drag, smoother this time. Maybe he could quit if he tried hard enough. Quit everything.
“Bullshit.”
He knew he was lying to himself. This latest job was evident enough. Scaring people and breaking a few shop items if they didn’t have Raguzzio’s money became second nature. But breaking into a storage facility and burning the contents of one unit was something more. He never had, nor ever wanted the type of expertise necessary to pull off such a feat, but then again, improvisation was important when you have someone like Bazzi as a motivator.
The chime of an incoming text message rang above the static-filled reports of the 1010 Wins News broadcast. He reached into his jacket pocket and drew it out.
Stacy now
Want 2 c u. Think we need a do over
He slipped the phone back into his pocket and shook his head.
Chase liked Stacy alright. Liked her a lot. She was provocative, audacious, forward. But he knew he couldn’t be with her. And she wouldn’t understand.
“What the fuck is this?” he said as he tossed his butt out of the window.
He flashed his high-beams and inched towards the far side of his lane.
“What the fuck, stupid!” The approaching blacked-out Mustang drifted over the double-yellow line towards him.
Chase bashed the heel of his hand onto the horn as the Mustang lurched closer.
“Fucking asshole! What the fuck!”
The Mustang swerved away as they narrowly collided. Chase’s fist shot out the window, his middle finger, erect as a teenage hard-on.
“Stupid fucking cunt,” he yelled before familiarity overwhelmed him.
“Wait. Was that…” He shook his head. “Nah. That wasn’t her.”
Chase continued north towards his destination and reduced his speed.
Between the Asian chick who almost secured his bed in the emergency room and the task before him, he thought his heart would burst from his chest.
Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.
The unfamiliar phrase of alarm made his head swim. A voice he hadn’t heard since the night he met Mr. Leonard Bazzi.
III
Heather pleaded with him not to go to Grace’s that night, that he could try to sell his art on eBay or something.
“I have to,” he said. “She knows me. I’m sure she’ll be more than happy to put my paintings back up.”
“How’d that work out for you the last time?” she said.
He remembered selling the two paintings and the others returned. If only he submitted to Grace’s desires.
It was the right thing to do. There was something about her that excited and scared him half to death. He could never put his finger on it, and it drove him mad. Besides, he had just started dating someone else.
And the second time around, he wouldn’t have cheated on Heather either. Heather would have chopped his balls off and tossed them into the East River.
But since losing his job two months earlier when Tony’s Machine Shop’s lease was bought out, he insisted he go and went empty-handed to the Forever Yours Gallery, hoping for a miracle. When he arrived, Grace wasn’t alone.
A good omen, he hoped. She probably wouldn’t try to seduce him in front of her patrons and make things completely uncomfortable. Right?
A rush of blood burst between his legs when he saw her, sitting with a pen to her lips and her legs crossed in a short, green skirt and low-cut blouse, barely holding her voluminous bosoms within.
Her gaze flickered to him, and back to the very large man, who Chase hardly noticed, sitting across from her.
“Hi, Grace,” Chase said as he stepped into the glass-walled office in the rear of the store. She arose from her seat. Her untamable red hair swept across her shoulder. Another pulse shot through Chase’s groin when the hint of her pale, pink areolas made a brief appearance as she leaned forward.
“Excuse me for a moment, would you, Bazzi,” she said.
The man turned in his seat. His trunk-like neck didn’t appear to be flexible enough to turn his shaved.
“How are you doing, kid?” he said.
Chase grinned and darted away. Grace slipped her arm through his and led him away.
“You’re a sight for lonely eyes. How have you been, darling?” she said.
“I’m alright. You?”
She bit her ruby lip and narrowed her emerald eyes. Chase felt her gaze course through his entire body as she examined him. The surge of heat begged him to tear off his clothes. And hers.
Finally, she broke the everlasting silence.
“I�
��m not into games, sweetheart. Give me what I want, and you more than you could ever want. Win-win,” she said.
Chase felt himself drift back. He tried to hide his thundering heart.
“I can’t. I’m with somebody,” he said.
She reached under his chin and drew her lips close to his.
“I don’t care. I want you inside me.”
He savored the sweet aroma of cherry that drifted from her breath. “I’m sorry. I… I can’t. But I need your help,” he said.
She put her hands on her hips and looked down her nose at him.
“I’m not asking, Chase. We’ve already been to this dance. How did it work out for you the last time? Let me guess, the same girl?”
He shook his head and looked away. Everything about her made Chase want to dive in and give her what she wanted. His heart told him he couldn’t. His spirit said he shouldn’t.
“I really cannot understand how you have an amazing opportunity lying in your lap and you push it away. You’ll get the notoriety you dreamed of, the money to go with it, and one single night of ecstasy with a woman who wants to leave a lasting impression. What is it? Am I not pretty? You think I’m ugly?”
“No! Not at all! You’re incredibly—”
“Apparently not, Chase. Apparently not,” she interrupted. The slight crease in her brow was still sexy.
Grace turned and walked away. His eyes followed every hill and valley of her carnal glory. She stopped at the door of her office and shifted her hips.
“Strike two, darling. Next time you show up, and trust me, there will be a next time, don’t strike out.”
Chase dropped his head and exited the gallery.
Strolling along the uneven sidewalk of Spring Street, his head swirled with a multitude of possibilities if he were single. Or if he sold his soul. Or if Heather were to find out.
His balls would have been safe. Her heart would implode. Her spirit would die.
The woman he was with the first time said it was Okay if he fucked Grace.
Misa Hess. Whatever happened to you, girl?
But Heather was not Misa. Not even close.
Misa was Chase’s friend, his girlfriend, his lover. She understood the slim chances of getting recognized as an artist in New York City, and accepted the needs of dating one. It also would have been an easier out for her if he were less than faithful.
He did love Misa. Once. It paralyzed his spirit staying with her and it shattered his heart leaving her.
Heather was not Misa.
Heather was his soulmate. His be-all, end-all. And he knew there was no other woman in this world that could replace her. And no measure of abundance worth hurting her. Was there?
“Hey, kid,” a booming voice startled Chase from his unfocused self-questioning. Brooklyn born and raised, he whirled around, ready to fight.
“Settle down, squirt. I’m not looking for trouble,” the man said.
Bazzi. She called him Bazzi, he recalled. The man put out his catcher’s mitt of a hand. Chase remained silent and accepted.
“Leonard Bazzi,” he said. “But you can call me Mr. Baz.”
Chase jolted at the statement. The introduction was backward. He released from Bazzi’s grip.
“I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation with Miss Whitmore.” Chase heard an uneasy cynicism of an uneducated salesperson attempting to bait the consumer.
“And it is my understanding that you’re in need of employment, is that correct?” he said as spittle dotted Chase’s cheek upon the final T. He wiped it away and reconsidered Bazzi’s gaze. Chase was tall, but Baz was monolithic in height and in girth.
“All right, you seem like a smart kid. I’ll cut the crap.” His tonality dropped into a vocal abyss. “You need to earn some money? I’m your guy,” he said.
Chase stepped back and furrowed his brow.
“Yeah, yeah. I get it. You’re not a pushover. Even with pussy. I’m looking for someone intimidating enough to solicit funds for me. For a percentage, of course.”
Chase ruminated over this terrifying behemoth asking a much smaller man to be intimidating.
“Yeah, I know, why am I asking you, right? That’s not part of my job description anymore. You see, I recently got promoted and it wouldn’t be wise for me to continue under my previous duties. Capisce?
“You would be working directly for me. But in the end, we all work for the Big Ragu. You know who that is?” he said.
He nodded. The Big Ragu with his olive complexion and jet black, Just for Men thinning hair, made the ten o’clock news at least once a week, and his overly repeated name catered to the viewers’ typical attention deficit disorder. Carmine Raguzzio gained a reputation for avoiding prosecution for racketeering, bribery, intimidation and a slew of other charges the Feds could never seem to pin to him. Of course, he knew the name. Both Greco and Cora worked for him, in some capacity, a lifetime ago.
He scanned the street and plodded ahead of the few stragglers that made their way closer to them. Bazzi took notice and strolled alongside him.
“Unless you screw things up, we won’t give you a hard time. You can make a decent living with us. Capisce?”
Chase nodded.
“What do I have to do?” Chase said.
“Collect overdue finances. That’s it.”
“That’s it?” Chase repeated.
“You deaf or something, kid. Yeah, that’s it! What do you say?”
Chase said the first thing that came to his mind.
“Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.”
Mr. Baz laughed. The roaring staccato of the ha-ha-ha made Chase cringe.
“Neither was turning down a hot piece of ass and yet, here we are.”
Chase’s mind spun out of control.
If he agreed, he knew it wouldn’t end with collecting unpaid finances. He feared the repercussions if he didn’t give Mr. Bazzi the answer he demanded.
He smirked and put out his hand. “Chase. Chase Romano. When do I start?” he said.
Bazzi halted next to the gleaming Mercedes Benz along the sidewalk. He opened the passenger door and bowed before Chase.
“Now.”
IV
That night was two years ago. Chase never told Heather about his happenstance. Nor about his bi-weekly employment opportunities that earned Chase more than an honest living, but less than if Grace wanted his paintings rather than his cock.
Although he slept at Heather’s Industry City apartment as frequently as his own, he scribbled together effortless paintings to throw her off. She questioned the lack of quality in his recent work.
“I’m trying for a fresh style,” he would say.
She never asked to visit the gallery, nor did she walk down the alleyway by his apartment and see his works stuffed into the deli’s dumpster. Well, maybe once.
He fooled her, all right. Just ask Rick.
The echo of screeching tires and the crunch of steel and glass snapped Chase from his reminiscences.
Considering the rear-view mirror, he searched for the source of the cacophony.
Making out the dim taillights a quarter of a mile behind, he gestured the sign of the cross and prayed that whoever was in that Mustang, was all right as he drove northward.
V
He parked the Civic two blocks away from the storage facility, as instructed, and walked along Flushing Avenue towards his destination. As he neared the rear entrance, he pulled his black-knit hat over his face and tugged at the eyeholes.
He jumped and fumbled at his pockets as his phone rang. He ripped off his hat and put it on silent.
Stacy Now
Missed Call
“Really? Now?” he grumbled. “I got shit to do. Leave me alone,” he said and returned the phone to his pocket.
He felt the single vibration of a text message against his chest and marched forward.
Fifty paces more, and he put his hat back on his head and focused.
The sudden blare of a
police siren spun his head around and thumped his heart. He stopped and watched the blue and white cruiser speed past him and turn at the next intersection. He thanked his lucky stars that they drove off in the opposite direction of the Freedom U-Store building.
He turned the corner and stepped past the traffic gate into the lot. He scanned for the video cameras that seemed to be aimed in the wrong directions instead of the driveway. He halted and fixed on the happenstance.
His stomach tightened when his phone went off again. He hoped it was his alarm notifying him that he was on time and he only had six minutes left.
“Timing is everything, kid. This ain’t no spy movie, but you have a deadline. Remember that,” Mr. Baz told him.
He hurried to the back door of the building and twisted the knob.
Entering the dimly lit corridor of gated compartments, he paused to wonder why the door was unlocked.
As he reached for his phone once again, he scrolled through his notes to remind himself of which unit he needed to get to.
The message notification lit up again.
Stacy 2mins ago
Can u pick up please
Stacy Now
U ever get a bad feeling??? Call me
The flutter of butterflies knotted his gut as he shook his head.
Always. Learned to ignore it, lady, he thought and powered off the phone.
Stepping atop the third-floor landing, Chase walked through the opened steel door. His head continued to buzz with distrust as he made his way down the hall.
“Three-Oh-Six,” he said as he spotted his quarry. He remembered the security cameras and his absent-mindedness in not pulling his hat over his face.
“Fuck,” he groaned as he looked directly into the lens. The red indicator was black, and his head swayed like a pup.
Reaching into his pocket for a napkin, his eyes blasted open as he noticed the unfastened padlock on the gate.
“What the fuck is going on?” he whispered.
He weighed the options in his head. Finish the job and dive into the unknown or run straight to Fist City.
He unhooked the lock and stuffed it in his pocket.
As the gate rumbled up into its spindle, a flash of light caught the corner of his eye. He scanned the cartons and file cabinets strewn about the unit and relaxed after he convinced himself it reflected the overhead lights.
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