Chase withdrew the Zippo from his jacket and struck the flint. Unease settled into his consciousness as he waited for the boxes to catch.
He stumbled and crashed into the opposing unit’s gate. It rattled thundered so loud, he imagined it could be heard from Staten Island.
He grappled the handle of the slowly burning unit’s gate and yanked it closed.
Chase darted towards the stairwell and narrowly missed his mark.
Leaping two and three steps at a time, he bounded down the well to the exit. He threw the door open and dashed across the empty lot.
As he reached the gate, the strobe of blue and red lights danced across the building and his fixed gaze.
Unyielding as stone, he remained until comprehension seized his brain, that the policeman handed a summons to a driver of a late-model Volkswagen Jetta.
He side-stepped and hugged the side of the building. Heart thumping and hands shaking, he yelped as his phone rang again.
Thought I turned that fucking thing off!
He reached into his pocket and pulled it out. He read the name and barely registered the thumbnail image of a photo before the phone began to vibrate from an incoming call.
No Caller ID Now
“Hello?” he whispered.
“You should smile more when someone takes your picture, kid. Makes you look less guilty,” the voice said before it roared in laughter.
Chase’s eyes darted back and forth.
“Who is this?” he said.
“Really? You don’t know your dear Uncle Baz’ voice by now? That’s a shame. Thought we were closer than that.”
Chase’s rapid-fire breathing threatened his consciousness.
“You did that?”
“Yeah. Well, not me, per se, but I took care of the preliminaries for you. You think that dot-head of an owner is that careless, leaving doors and gates unlocked and turning his cameras off? Don’t be an idiot!
“You did good, kid. I’m proud of you.
“And don’t worry about the photo. Just an insurance policy in case you ever decide to pussy-out and not be my friend anymore.
“I’ll meet you at our usual place tomorrow to pay you.”
Chase slid the phone back into his pocket and trembled. He watched the police officer as he returned to his squad car and switched off the emergency lights.
After what felt like forever, Chase sneaked back towards his transportation.
He opened the door and collapsed to the driver’s seat. He lit a cigarette and took a long, deep drag. It calmed his tremors and slowed his breathing.
He bolted upright as his phone buzzed again.
“Fuck you, Baz,” he said as he slipped it out.
He stared at the name on the screen in disconnected wonder before he put it to his ear.
“Hey, Stacy. What’s up?
“No, nothing. Just sleeping.”
He listened for a moment before he cut her off.
“Listen, no, I really can’t right now. My life… There’s too much going on right now in my life.
“Yeah, I think you’re hot and all. It’s just—
Why does every woman think I think they’re ugly?
“No. Not tonight.
“No, really. I’m in bed.
“No, you can’t come over.
“Alright, alright, fine. I’ll be there in a half hour. Bye.”
He disconnected the call and took another drag of his smoke. The after-market muffler roared as he twisted the key.
He shook his head and made his way to Stacy’s Midwood residence. “Really? You don’t know your dear Uncle Baz’ voice by now? That’s a shame. Thought we were closer than that.”
Chase’s rapid-fire breathing threatened his consciousness.
“You did that?”
“Yeah. Well, not me, per se, but I took care of the preliminaries for you. You think that dot-head of an owner is that careless, leaving doors and gates unlocked and turning his cameras off? Don’t be an idiot!
“You did good, kid. I’m proud of you.
“And don’t worry about the photo. Just an insurance policy in case you ever decide to pussy-out and not be my friend anymore.
“I’ll meet you at our usual place tomorrow to pay you.”
Chase slid the phone back into his pocket and trembled. He watched the police officer as he returned to his squad car and switched off the emergency lights.
After what felt like forever, Chase sneaked back towards his transportation.
He opened the door and collapsed to the driver’s seat. He lit a cigarette and took a long, deep drag. It calmed his tremors and slowed his breathing.
He bolted upright as his phone buzzed again.
“Fuck you, Baz,” he said as he slipped it out.
He stared at the name on the screen in disconnected wonder before he put it to his ear.
“Hey, Stacy. What’s up?
“No, nothing. Just sleeping.”
He listened for a moment before he cut her off.
“Listen, no, I really can’t right now. My life… There’s too much going on right now in my life.
“Yeah, I think you’re hot and all. It’s just—
Why does every woman think I think they’re ugly?
“No. Not tonight.
“No, really. I’m in bed.
“No, you can’t come over.
“Alright, alright, fine. I’ll be there in a half hour. Bye.”
He disconnected the call and took another drag of his smoke. The after-market muffler roared as he twisted the key.
He shook his head and made his way to Stacy’s Midwood residence.
FIST CITY
I
“Oh, my God! Help me,” Chase shouted. He swung his head back and forth and he fought the Velcro restraints about his ankles, wrists, and chest. A fiery tempest howled within as his body tingled with a thousand needles. Jessica placed her hand on his chest.
“Relax, Mister Romano. You’re fine,” she said.
His heart pounded, and his breath threatened hyperventilation. “Where am I? What’s going on? Am I dying,” he managed through his fiery pant.
Robert adjusted the dial on Chase’s IV and studied his watch. “You’re in an ambulance heading to New York Presbyterian Hospital. You were shot and—”
“I was shot? No! Help me,” he begged and twisted his arm in the strap. “I can’t die. Please. You got to help me.”
Jessica grasped his wrist and hushed him.
“We are helping you. You were given a small dose of epinephrine, adrenaline, to snap you up a bit. Now you need to help us by staying calm.”
“Calm? What the fuck? Where was I shot? Who shot—”
His hand broke free and clutched his chest. Chase’s chin pushed hard into his sternum. Blood squirted in the oxygen mask as he bit his lower lip. Lights and buzzers flickered and beeped in maddening hues and sound as Chase arched upwards before the alert rang out in an unending flat tone.
Jessica threw a leg over and straddled Chase.
“Ventilate,” she snapped and put both hands to his chest. With each thrust of her hands, the bullet hole in his head seeped with blood. Robert shoved the ventilation bag over Chase’s lips.
He raised a trembling hand as all strength melted from him. Knuckles thudded to the diamond plate deck.
II
The ringing in Chase’s ears was so consuming, he didn’t know if it was in his head or if it circled around him like some sort of nightmarish apprehension. A copper taste flooded his arid throat and cooled as it ran down his swelled cheek. The phasing, spectral appearance of the towering Bazzi shifted and whirled above him like soured milk in fresh coffee.
Unable to hear, unable to see from the engorged eyelids, Chase read a few words from Bazzi’s lips.
“You stu… fuc… loser. You … one job… you fu…d it up!”
He tried to speak. Nothing but an airy clot of blood bubbled past his lips.
The explosion of stomach
acids and bile burst through Chase’s esophagus as the blunt heel of Bazzi’s leather loafers stomped him like a mule.
He clutched his gut and lurched to his side. The broken asphalt opened gashes in his cheek.
Chase glimpsed between the roiling darkness that threatened to take his consciousness, Bazzi reaching into his coat and taking out his handgun.
“I should just put you out of your fucking misery now,” Bazzi said.
Chase craned forward and pawed at Bazzi’s foot. Gripping at his slacks, Chase clawed his way up to his knees.
Taking the firearm in his shivering hand, he leaned in and leaned his forehead against the muzzle.
“Please… Just do it,” Chase groaned.
Bazzi’s eyes grew wide as he yanked the Glock away and stepped back.
“Wow, kid. You need help,” he said. “Why do you want to die? You got the world by the fucking balls!”
Chase rolled one weary eye up and glowered at Bazzi.
“You got issues, kid. Serious issues.”
If not for the blistering agony, Chase wanted to laugh.
Issues? Did he mean aside from the unloving foster family that cared for their wanton desires more than he, or the moot questions of the fire that melted the flesh on his legs before memory could serve him? How about the when he paid for his leather jacket with his blood?
Maybe Bazzi was referring to the countless nights his foster mother would go on a bender and throw him out of the house and let Chase wander the midnight streets of Brooklyn alone, only for a few hours later, to find him and remind him that Spofford would be more than happy to tap his sweet, little white ass?
Could he have meant the unending sequence of bad luck as Chase watched everyone around him attain all they wanted while he struggled to hold on to the precious tattered clothes on his back as the high-school bullies taunted him and called him a loser?
No. Bazzi was talking about how Chase lost the only woman that loved him for who he was, and that by taking Bazzi’s offer, it made Heather run in fear for Chase’s life. And hers.
Chase had issues, all right. And he hoped Bazzi would help end all of them.
Chase collapsed and landed on his face.
“Jeez, kid. You don’t look so good. Maybe I should call you an ambulance or something.”
Chase turned his head and looked at Bazzi through his one useful eye. Emotion rambled over his numb cheekbone.
“Don’t look at me like that. You’re making me feel bad,” Bazzi said. “If you only did as you were told instead of warning the guy that the Big Ragu would kill his whole fucking family, you wouldn’t have taken this trip to Fist City.
“What were you thinking? That accountant stole millions from the boss, and Ragu was giving him one last chance to make good. He’s a thoughtful guy like that.
“But you say whatever the fuck you want to say, and he calls the fucking cops.
“That was a no-no, kid. A big fucking no-no.”
Chase rolled onto his back and gasped.
“Ah, shit. Hold on. I’ll call you an ambulance. Just hang on for a little more. You know how slow these EMT’s can be.
“Don’t fucking die on me, kid,” Baz said before Chase’s world went black.
III
Chase sat at the edge of the pull-out sofa and smoked his cigarette as he listened to the windswept rain against the window and watched the gray tendrils of smoke wisp through the dark.
How long had it been since there was nothing to do, nothing to think about, nothing to feel? He tried to push the questions away and enjoy the quiet embrace of the night. But the voices refused to remain silent. They haunted his every waking hour, every dream.
Was he accursed, he wondered. His entire life was one struggle after another, barely making ends meet, never flourishing at any desire.
Except for Heather.
The best thing in his world he discarded like rotten produce. And he loathed himself with a more than perfect hatred for it.
Surely there was nothing else he could have done to set things right, right?
She urged him to go to college, get an education and have some vision. He brushed it off as something only afforded those with money who wished to become drones of the established workforce. Stamping papers, signing off on emails, kiss the boss’ ass and every Friday, go to the local bar where all the coworkers would meet, exchanging fake smiles and feigned interest.
“What about a technical school? You love working with your hands,” she would say after the college rebuttal.
He’d tell her he didn’t want to be a real grease monkey. Greco’s was different.
All he ever wanted to do was paint and create. And there wasn’t a school, academic nor vocational that could teach him what his heart already knew how to do. He would give up more of a debate when she would maintain that school would give him the indispensable means to accomplish now.
Heather. She knew what was right for Chase. If only he had accepted it. Maybe things would be—
“Bullshit.”
He extinguished the cigarette in the empty bottle of Sam Adams on the end table and tiptoed towards the windows. He didn’t care that it was early enough in the evening for the neighboring apartment tenants to see him naked. He embraced it.
Look at me world, with all my glorious torment!
He leaned his head against the cool glass and sighed.
“Please… Help me through this,” he whispered.
The vibration of his silent cell phone buzzed from his jacket tossed across the dinette chair. He floundered through the black towards it.
No Caller ID Now
“Fucking, Baz,” he grumbled. He accepted the call.
“What’s up,” he said, annoyed.
His eyes went wide as a lump choked him. Chase’s hands trembled, and his body followed suit.
“No, no. I’m here… How are you doing?
“Yeah? Nice.
“No, no. I’m alone. Who would I be with? I just… I was just sleeping. That’s all.
“Me. Ah, you know, working, keeping myself busy. Navigating the seas of life,
“No, no, no, really. I swear.”
Liar.
His eyes grew wide.
“Yes! Of course! Whenever is good for you!
“You got it. It’s a—
“Yeah, friendly get together. Can’t say I never heard that before.
“Got it. Okay. You too. Bye.”
Chase dropped the phone and his jaw.
“Hey, babe. Who was that?”
Startled, Chase whirled around on his heels. He lost his grip on the phone as he tripped over the leg of the pull-out.
“That? Who? Oh, nobody.”
He darted around the room and picked up his scattered clothes.
“Listen, I have to go. I’ll call you in the morning,” he said.
“What? Oh, come on! You said you were staying the night. I promised you a mean French toast in the morning, remember,” she said.
“Stacy, I’m sorry. But… yeah, I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said and turned away.
Stacy remained hushed as she watched him drape his leather jacket over his arm and stomp out the door without saying goodbye.
HOPE(LESS)
I
“How’s your head,” Davis said.
Perez winked and nodded. “I’ll be fine. Just a headache.”
“Get yourself checked when we get there. The fucking union rep will be all over your shit if you have a concussion.”
“Alright. We have enough on our plate now. Michelle call back yet,” Perez snickered.
“Six times. I love her, but holy shit, she’s got to know when to stop. She knows I can’t talk right now.”
“Yeah, but you know how women are. Whatever you’re doing, they have something more important for you to do. And if I hear you tell that to my wife, I’ll pistol-whip you with the fucking shotgun.”
“What did you tell me before? Calma été? I tell Cruzita, she tells Mi
chelle, and we’re both pistol-whipped.”
“RMP two-zero-one-niner, what’s your twenty? Over,” the dispatcher said over the radio. Perez snatched it before Davis.
“Prospect Avenue. Approaching Seventh. ETA four minutes,” he said.
“This isn’t going to end well, is it,” Davis huffed.
Perez grinned and placed his hand on Bernie’s shoulder. “We’ll get through it.”
A sleeve wiped away the torment from Bernie’s glistening eyes. He wanted to be home. He wanted to go to sleep. And he wanted his wife.
But Michelle was far down on the list of people to see tonight. The nurses, doctors, union heads, sergeants, captains, the Chief, the Commissioner, the Mayor … the list went on and on.
Sorry, Michi. I’m a little tied up in my job right now. Maybe we can catch dinner in a week or two.
“Primo, I said we’ll get through it,” Perez repeated.
II
Shattered glass glittered against the checkerboard floor in the haze of the pale moonlight. The spatter of blood stippled the crudely painted, Statue of David mural next to the Blodgett Double Decker ovens. The ding of the cash register pierced the thick, unyielding silence as it opened.
Knowing a supermarket clerk many years ago, after emptying the cash slots, Chase learned to check under the drawer sleeve for coupons and larger bills. He tossed it to the floor and gawked at the several hundred-dollar bills stacked throughout.
He swept up the federal notes in both hands and counted. His mouth went dry when he reached five thousand and still had a wad left to go.
This wasn’t a robbery. Chase knew. But it sounded like one, looked like one, felt like one…
If it weren’t for what he felt was sincere honesty in Bazzi’s expression, Chase would have regarded it as a setup. But the pizzeria owner never fired the Mossberg.
“Why the fuck didn’t you say who sent you? Did you really have to bust my door,” he said. He was pissed but understood why Chase was there.
“You have a problem, Vinnie. Mr. Raguzzio thinks you’re avoiding him. You’re supposed to go to his guys for payment. They don’t go to you. They say it’s been a few months.”
“I don’t have it. This place has been a fucking ghost town. After the loan for six-K, they promised more business if I took up the added protection. Where are they?” Vinnie said.
The Accursed Page 20