by Shay Stone
“Watch it Memphis, you’re going to kill someone with that thing,” Ms. Sheila says, pushing the bat down on her way into the kitchen. I prop my lucky bat—the one I hit my first homerun with—against the kitchen island and climb onto a stool. Mike does the same.
“Mom, we’re hungry. Will you take us to get chicken nuggets?” he asks, our stomachs rumbling at the mention of food. It’s almost three o’clock and neither of us has eaten anything since this morning. It’s not unusual. His mom doesn’t keep much in the fridge, and she always forgets to feed us when we’re over there. Usually we prefer to go to my house, but we’ve been coming to Mike’s more often since my mom got sick.
“You want nuggets?” Ms. Sheila asks, lighting one of her stinky cigarettes. “Alright. Get in the car.”
Mike and I high-five, practically tripping over each other racing to the vehicle before his mom changes her mind. We drive for a few minutes passing by the McDonald’s we usually go to until we arrive at the outdoor mall in what my mom usually refers to as “the ritzy side of town.” I look to Mike having a nonverbal conversation that says, “what are we doing here?” He shrugs just as perplexed as I am.
Before we can question it, his mom tosses a shirt into the backseat at each of us. “Here, put those on.”
“Why do we have to change our shirts?” Mike asks as we pull our arms out of the sleeves to remove the ones we’re wearing.
“Because I said so,” she replies as though it’s an explanation. And because we’re kids, we accept it.
Given the mall we’re about to walk into, I’m expecting the shirts to be nicer—like the one with the collar my mom made me wear to Grandma’s funeral. But as we push our heads through the holes and pull the shirts down over our bellies, I notice they have stains and a few holes in them. Mike and I share another confused glance.
“Ms. Sheila, I think you gave us the wrong ones. These are dirty.”
“Nope, those are the right ones. Let me see.” She slides into an empty space in the back of the lot and shifts the car into park before turning around to inspect us. Her brow furrows and her mouth bunches to the side like she’s thinking.
She reaches into her purse and pulls out a jar that reads Dirt. It contains some kind of whitish cream she dabs onto her fingers and ruffles through our sweaty mops. If you ask me, the stuff should have been called Grease because it makes our hair look like a gross, oily mess. But for some reason, she seems pleased.
She twists the cap back on the container returning it to her purse. “There. Now you’re ready.”
“Ready for what?” I ask.
“If you want chicken nuggets you have to earn them.”
“How we s’posed to do that?” Mike pipes up this time.
“Go around the parking lot and ask people for money. Make up a story about why you need it. You can tell them anything you want.” She points to the big digital clock on the bank marquee. “See that clock right there? Be back here in one hour. The one with the most cash wins.”
“What do we win?” we ask, a little more excited now that we know it’s a game.
“I’ll tell you after. Now go.” She shoos us out and settles in, pulling a book with a couple kissing on the cover from a storage slot in the door. Gross.
An hour later, Mike and I return starving and hot with sweat soaking through our shirts. Ms. Sheila puts down the book eyeing us as we climb into the backseat. “Well? How much did you make?”
We dig out the crumpled bills from our pockets and hand them to her. She straightens out the money and counts. “Mike made thirteen dollars. Not bad. Memphis has …” she pauses and recounts. “Sixty-seven! Memphis, how did you make so much?”
“Well, at first I told people I was hungry and asked them for money. But they only gave me some change and maybe a buck or two. Then I remembered what you said about making up a story. So, I told them my mom was sick and I was trying to get money to buy her a present to make her feel better.”
“No fair he lied!” Mike whines.
I hang my head and glance up at Mike’s mom waiting to be scolded. “Am I in trouble?”
But the look on her face doesn’t convey anger. In fact, it’s just the opposite. She’s smiling and looks pleased with me.
“You’re not in trouble at all. You won. Excellent job, Memphis. You’re a natural,” she says, putting the car in gear and driving us toward the McDonald’s by our house.
Mike’s mouth gapes. He crosses his arms, pouting. I can tell he’s mad. I want to ask what I won, but I don’t because I don’t want to rub it in. When we get out of the car, he still hasn’t spoken to me. But he perks up once we get inside and the smell of fries and burgers fill our noses.
“I’m getting two orders of chicken nuggets,” I announce.
“I’m getting nuggets, a large fry, and a milkshake!” Mike replies as we step up to the cash register.
Ms. Sheila pushes twenty bucks into my hands. “Memphis that’s for you to spend after we’re done here. Now go ahead and order.”
Our mouths drop open like she just handed me a million dollars. I know just what I’m going to get—a pink baseball cap for my mom. She used to have pretty, long hair, but it fell out recently because of some treatment the doctors gave her to make her better. She’s been really sad. Maybe a new hat will make her feel pretty again. With my mind made up, I stuff the money in my pocket and focus on the next task at hand. Food.
I relay my order to the pimple-faced cashier. He keys it in and turns to Mike. “And for you?”
“Oh, he’s not eating,” Ms. Sheila replies.
Mike and I stare at her with our faces twisted. “But Mom, I’m starving,” Mike protests.
“Then you should have tried harder.”
There’s an awkward silence. The cashier titters, uncertain what to do. It’s like we’re all waiting around for Ms. Sheila to tell us she’s only kidding. But she doesn’t. I don’t want to eat in front of Mike, so I offer a solution.
I pat him on the back. “It’s okay. You can have some of mine.”
Mike’s shoulders relax, but his mom quickly squashes my plan. “No, he can’t. And if you try to share, I’ll throw yours in the trash and neither of you will eat.”
Mike hangs his head as our stomachs growl begging for food. That’s when brilliance strikes! I dig in my pocket and pull out the twenty. “Can I buy it for him?”
“No. If you buy it for him, he’ll never learn. The world is a tough place. People aren’t just going to hand you stuff because you want it. You have to be smarter than the rest. You always have to look out for number one.” She turns to the cashier. “Ring us up.”
Mike stares at the ground shuffling his feet. I scratch my head trying to think of something, but I come up empty. So, I do the only thing I can think of in the moment. “It’s okay Ms. Sheila. I’m not hungry anymore. We can just go home.”
She ignores me and pays the cashier. “You’re eating Memphis. And he’s going to watch you.”
Hooks scrape against the bar as the doctor slides the curtain open jarring me from the memory. According to the clock, thirty-five minutes have passed. Emergency room my ass! Good thing Angie didn’t stab me deeper or I probably would’ve bled out on the damn floor waiting for this asshole.
If the wound had been in another place, I’d have stitched it myself. I’ve done it before. But the laceration is in a spot that’s difficult for me to reach, and sutures are tricky to do with only one hand.
“Take off your shirt and we’ll get started,” he says.
I do as I’m told and take a seat in front of a doctor that makes Doogie Howser look like a grandpa. He inspects the wound and readies the needle. “So, how long ago was the transplant,” he asks noticing the C-shaped scar carved onto the right side of my abdomen.
“Just over a year ago.”
“Did you have any rejection issues?”
He must be fresh out of med school. “No. I was the donor.”
Despite my curt answ
ers, he keeps asking questions while he sews. It’s a touchy subject for me and one I have no desire to discuss. Especially given the news I’m awaiting. Knowing I gave up a kidney and it still may not have been enough to save my little brother’s life is a hard pill to swallow. But God’s never been on my side. And that’s fine with me. As far as I’m concerned, we can steer clear of each other. It’s easier that way. One less person I have to answer to.
“There. All finished,” the doctor says, examining his handiwork. Six stitches. I could have done it in five.
After the nurse gives me a tetanus shot, I slip on my shirt and peek at my phone realizing I missed the call. Shit. “We done here?”
She nods, and I stroll toward the entrance with every intention of skipping out on the bill. Why should I pay it? James Hamilton will no longer exist after today. But a reed of a woman chases me down the hall calling my name and waving a paper.
I remain calm. The trick to any con is confidence. If she says anything about me leaving, I’ll tell her I’m heading out for a smoke and will come back to pay it when I’m done. She won’t know I’m lying. God gifted me with clear blue eyes that help me sell whatever shit I’m peddling. Women swoon and men never doubt them. They’re one of my greatest assets and I use them to my full advantage.
When she gets close enough, I flash her my second greatest asset—my smile. Her steps falter and a rosy blush spreads across her cheeks. “Mr. Hamilton, you forgot to sign one of the admission forms.”
“I did? My apologies,” I reply slipping on my suit coat to free my hands and reach for the pen she offers. Her eyes drop to my scar peeking out from my half-closed shirt. I was in such a rush to get out of there, I only fastened the last two buttons. My fingers hurry to secure the rest, but the sympathetic smile she gives me tells me she’s already seen it. I silently curse myself for making such a rookie mistake.
As a con man, your goal is to be charming but not memorable. My looks already work against me. But the last thing you want is anything undeniably identifiable. And I have two distinctive markings. The donor scar and a tattoo on the inside of my wrist. An impetuous choice done at a time I convinced myself I was retiring from the life—a decision that lasted about six months.
“There you go, darlin’,” I say with a wink, exaggerating the Louisiana drawl I’ve all but lost. Her eyes lower and her hand covers her mouth to hide her schoolgirl grin. I’ve always been good with women. But I’m too smart to let myself fall in love with one. I came close to making that mistake once and you can be damn sure I’ll never do it again.
Besides, with what I do, you have to be able to cut and run on a moment’s notice. Having people you care about makes that tough. It creates liabilities. And I already have enough of those in my life. I don’t need any more.
I’m almost out the door when I spot a little boy wearing a towel as a cape with his leg cast to the knee. The little girls tap him on the shoulder, whispering to him and pointing in my direction. A woman, I assume is their mother, stands at the checkout window pleading to make some type of payment arrangement.
“Ma’am I told you there’s nothing more I can do,” the impassive cashier huffs.
“But I promised I’d take them for pizza for my son’s birthday today. We go every year and I don’t want to disappoint them. Please. My husband died a few months ago and I’m trying to keep things as normal as possible for them. Is there any way I could put less down and you could bill me for the rest?” she begs on the verge of tears.
“I’m sorry ma’am, but that’s the minimum amount I can accept.”
Shit. Don’t do it, Memphis. Just keep walking.
Goddammit.
“Hang on a minute,” I say, heading over to the window, digging out my wallet. I thumb past the James Hamilton black credit cards that Harlan deactivated the minute I filed for divorce and slide my personal Visa across the counter to the cashier. “Superman’s bill is being taken care of by the State of New York.”
His mother’s face contorts in confusion. “What? I don’t understand.”
I crouch down to Superman’s level and fish out a fifty-dollar bill. “Thanks for taking care of those bad guys today, Superman. Here’s your reward money. Why don’t you take your mom and sisters out for pizza? Happy birthday.”
I tousle his hair and smile at his mom who is brimming with tears of gratitude. Her lip quivers. “Thank you! Thank you so much, umm …”
“Memphis. Memphis Drake,” the clerk offers reading my card before handing it back.
“Thank you, Memphis. Can I have your address so I can pay you back?”
I tuck my card into the slot and stuff my wallet into my pocket. “It’s not necessary ma’am.”
As I make my way towards the exit, I chuckle when I hear one of the little girls say, “Mom, it’s not Memphis. It’s Batman.”
Bethany, the nurse that took me back earlier, is standing with her clipboard waiting for the patient she just called to collect his things. She gives me the once over as I walk by. “Maybe you really are a superhero.”
I scoff still walking. “I’m no superhero.”
“Well, you’re definitely one of the good guys.”
“Trust me. I’m not that either.”
THREE
Never Get Indebted to Anyone
The brisk Catskill mountain air slaps me in the face as I exit the hospital. But I’ll take it over the humidity I grew up with in Louisiana any day. It’s been a while since I’ve been there, and I doubt I’ll ever go back. Unless it’s to bury someone else I love. The morbid thought sends a chill dancing up my spine.
I pull my phone from my pocket knowing I should call home to find out what’s going on. But I’m afraid if I do, I’ll change my mind and end up keeping the money, allowing Vito to maintain his hold on me. And that will put all our lives in danger.
I toss my cell into the cup holder and hop on the interstate, battling the construction and traffic that never seem to go away. Twenty minutes later, I’m standing in the entrance of Dolce Vita, arguably one of the best Italian restaurants in New York, with a briefcase full of money.
The restaurant is empty except for Vito’s usual crew and a few of the waitstaff fluttering about preparing for the dinner rush. This place is nothing like the five-star joint he owns in New Jersey bearing the same name. Vito bought this little hole in the wall and set up shop one month after I moved here to pull this job. Always the opportunist, once he learned of my target, he immediately saw how he could make it work for him.
But that wasn’t the only reason. Vito had a soft spot for me. For as long as I can remember, he insisted we meet once a week for dinner, even when I didn’t have a job going for him. He wasn’t happy when I told him those meals would be coming to an end because I was moving four hours away. Now they’d be ending for a different reason that had nothing to do with proximity.
I blow out a wary breath. Here goes nothing.
Vito’s younger, dimwitted brother, Tony greets me at the door with a handshake. “Memphis! Always good to see you. What brings you in to see us today?”
“I need to see Vito. Is he in?”
“For you? Of course.”
“Good. I’ve got something for him.” I lift the case patting the side.
He strikes a match on a booklet to light his cigarette, blowing out the smoke with a grimace. “Is that what I think it is?”
“Yep.”
“And here I was having such a good day. Now you gotta come in here ruining it.”
“How am I ruining it?”
“You know how.”
I do. Vito’s not going to be happy I’m paying him off. If he could, he’d keep me tethered to him for the rest of my life. He charged me insane interest on my debts making it virtually impossible to pay them off just to keep me around longer. It’s not because he doesn’t like me; it’s because he does. I wouldn’t call us friends, but after ten years, I’ve built up enough of a rapport where I think he’d at least hesitate for a s
econd or two before putting a bullet in my head.
Tony tosses the book of matches on the bar and weaves through the restaurant leading me to the back where Vito is sitting at his usual table stuffing himself on chicken parmesan. A scantily clad woman is draped on either side of him, neither of which is his wife.
“Good luck,” Tony whispers hanging back, letting me approach the notorious crime boss on my own. “There’s no way he’s gonna let it happen.”
“We’ll see about that.”
“Memphis, my boy! How are you?” Vito’s deep voice booms with joy when he notices me. He wipes sauce from his mouth with a white linen napkin, rising from his chair to shake my hand before sitting again. Another sign of respect he doesn’t show most people.
“I’m good, Vito. How are you?”
“Good. Good. Ladies, I’d like you to meet Memphis Drake, the best swindler in the business. Smart too. This guy can read something once and remember every word. Tony grab him something to read.”
You’d think after all this time he’d be used to it. But it’s been the same damn thing since Sheila introduced us a year after she got bored with Louisiana and dragged our family to New Jersey. As soon as I’d walked through the door, she’d made me read and recite the entire menu and then directed me to lift a gun from one of the bodyguards. She was auditioning me, though I didn’t know it at the time.
When I set the weapon on the table in front of the infamous mobster, he smirked. “Sheila told me you were good with your hands. You’re the pitcher, right? The one the being scouted?”
“Yes, sir.”
Before I knew it, Vito had a fistful of my hair and was twisting my arm behind my back to the point I feared it would break. He slammed by head against the table holding me in place with his weight while shoving the cold barrel of a pistol against my temple. “You ever steal from me again, and I’ll paint the wall with your brains,” he warned before releasing me and pulling out a chair. “Now sit. Try the Alfredo. It’s perfection.”