“Good evening, folks!” He bowed extravagantly to their applause, “Would you believe last night I got out of bed, tripped over the bathroom mat and knocked myself silly? It was my darkest hour.” His walrus-sized handlebar mustache and pop-eyed expression had the audience in stitches before he even hit the punchline. “Luckily my wife turned on the light!”
“We’d had canned tuna again for dinner - fresh fish is slippery to get a hold of these days. Say, what did the fish say when it swam into a wall?” He looked eagerly past the dazzling lights into the front row of seats, searching for any takers. “Damn!” he exclaimed, and the audience guffawed. Jacob laughed heartily, and felt Adina slip her hand into his. He squeezed it gently.
The comedian suddenly took on a somber tone and shook his head sadly, “But seriously, folks, the war has certainly taken its toll on all of us. I was thinking only the other day how an empty champagne bottle is much like an orphan – they’ve both lost their pop!” Amidst groans and laughter, the man dashed about on the stage, reeling jokes and anecdotes with fantastic zeal until the audience were breathless. When at last the red velvet curtains parted to reveal the movie screen and Colacci said his goodbyes, Adina and Jacob felt as if they’d already been served their full nights’ entertainment. An usherette passed by with a tray of sweets, and they settled back into their seats to watch Heaven Can Wait with ice-cream, popcorn and a thrill that was owed to more than the entertainment alone. Jacob looked surreptitiously at his date’s profile in the flickering darkness of the theater. There was something a bit different about this one.
“I’m losing patience here, boys,” said the man with the scar-torn ear. “You know I don’t like the smell of this place.”
“Too much piss,” scoffed his offsider.
The scarred man scowled. “Too many stripers.”
He kicked one of the two chairs he stood behind and the man strapped into it whimpered. His pants were wet. Beside him, a second man’s eyes darted between his captors. Both hostages had been severely beaten and were beyond struggling. The industrial warehouse they were trapped in was military property. It was past three in the morning, and the transport and storage facility was deserted, but for these two unlucky workers. There had been military guards of course, but they’d been swiftly dispatched at the entrance with a round of bullets. Two more goons were guarding the warehouse door. One sucked food from his teeth disinterestedly while the other watched him in disgust.
“I swear, I swear to God, Felix, we got nothing to do with this shit. We’re sending the trucks out, just like we’re ‘sposed to!” the second hostage cried.
“That right?” said Felix, scratching the edge of his half-ear with a knife.
“Yeah! No one has the route but you. The papers come in from up high, I copy ’em for you and then pass ‘em onto the drivers, just like you told me to.”
“Just like I told you to?”
“Yeah, boss, for sure!”
“Mmm,” said Felix. His lips twitched dangerously, but his voice was slow and steady. “So how is it boys, that someone’s beating us at our own game?” He walked behind the men. “What do you think, Carl?”
Felix’s off-sider chuckled and flicked out a knife. He began to pick his fingernails with it.
“How is it then,” Felix continued, “that every time we jump a gig, some fucking wise guy turns up and steals all our shit? The bennies, the fet. All of it. Then kills our boys and gets away without leaving so much as a whiff.”
Carl laughed darkly and cut in, pushing one of the hostage chairs back with the sole of shoe and leaning in to the terrified man’s face. Felix narrowed his eyes, irritated.
“We’re not getting’ paid for all our hard work, see?” Carl growled. “Killin’ GI’s aint a pleasure cruise. Sam’s sending more of ‘em each time and we got nothing to show for it. We’ve lost good men to whoever you’re selling us out to.”
“- And I don’t like being double-crossed,” Felix cut back in, kicking the hostage chair forward again in line with the other.
Carl grinned and settled back on a table, swinging his legs gleefully. “Someone’s got a blabber mouth, boys.”
The second hostage shook his head so hard he almost tipped over. “It wasn’t us, I swear!” He looked earnestly to Felix. “We never told anyone, on my mother’s grave!”
“Your mother was a whore,” Carl snapped back. His eyes gleamed. The man was unhinged. “I reckon’ we make tiger meat of ‘em.”
“Please, no!” cried the first hostage.
Felix turned to his partner. “Shut it, Carl,” he said. The scarred man then stood, staring at the two hostages, dispassionately. For a full minute, he just watched them without saying anything as they trembled. “The thing is kids,” he finally said, quietly. “Whoever’s cutting our grass, just got personal. They took Frankie, and Frankie was the big guy’s nephew. Last year, some smart ass took out Donny’s son, Marco, too. So, we’ve got ourselves a bigger problem than just the drugs.”
“I don’t know anything about that,” the first hostage said.
“Donny’s a family man, see,” Felix continued, thoughtfully. “He doesn’t like to see the missus cry. It’s not good for the grand-kiddies to lose their daddies. So, we gotta sort this out.”
In the doorway, the two guards caught each other’s eye and smirked.
Carl, who’d been watching resentfully, flicked his knife from underneath his nail and leered forward. He scraped it swiftly across the knuckles of a hostage. The man screamed, and Carlos looked at Felix greedily. Felix nodded.
“Let’s start again, shall we?” Felix said.
The following morning, Sergeant Jacob Lawrence pulled up to the curb outside an industrial warehouse. Crime scene officers were scurrying to and fro and the grounds were crawling with military personnel and reporters. Jacob ducked under the police line surrounding the industrial transport warehouse, flashing his badge at the two soldiers standing guard. Ahead, two bodies were strapped around the base of a street lamp with rope.
“It’s a bloody mess!” Parker greeted him. The officer was already taking notes, standing by the dead men.
Jacob shot a stern look at his underling.
“Sorry, Sarge,” Parker said.
“Who are they?” asked Jacob.
“Dave Thomas and Bob Castabel, sir” he replied. “A couple of pencil pushers. Civilians.”
“I thought this was a military operation?” Jacob said, one eyebrow raised in surprise.
“It is, sir. These two were in charge of coordinating the transport trucks, hiring laborers for the loading docks, paper routes, that sort of thing. Outsourced, under contract. Strictly controlled, but still civi work.”
“Destination?”
“The lorries? Fort Hamilton, sir. From there, the crates are shipped out to the front.”
“Mmm,” Jacob said, thoughtfully. “Where were the guards?”
“Killed, sir. At a guard station near the entrance. Single shot to the head, four of ‘em at the start of graveyard shift. They hadn’t done their rounds yet, no signature on the one o’clock time sheet. They must have been taken by surprise.”
“Contents of the crates?” Jacob asked, already sure of the answer.
“Dunno. Classified, sir.”
“Well,” he said, leaning forward to inspect the bodies with a grimace, “thanks to our vigilante, I think we got the heads-up on that one anyway. These two must have been on the take. Someone made an example of them.”
“You think it’s linked to the Polletti case, sir?” Parker asked.
“I’m sure of it. Just don’t know why. Whoever killed Polletti made sure we knew he was dirty. There’s a lot of dope running underground since the war started. Now gangsters are turning up dead all over the city and crates are being channeled back to us instead of hitting the streets. With the red tape, it’ll be months, maybe years, before those crates make it out of the legal system. They’re evidence now.” Jacob scratched his head, thoug
htfully. “These two must have been part of Polletti’s crew. There’s no way the truck routes would make it out without someone on the inside.”
“But Polletti never got his crates,” Parker observed.
“No,” said Jacob, “We got them. Someone’s cleaning up the streets.”
“Maybe we should send them a card!” said Parker, brightly.
“Yeah, maybe we should,” Jacob said dryly. He pulled the Avon Calling card from his pocket. So far, his inquiries to the Avon head office in New York had been fruitless. They knew nothing of the amphetamine crates. They’d crisply informed him that there were hundreds of Avon representatives in the city, all respectable women and they couldn’t entertain for a moment the thought that one of their ladies was involved in such a thing. They’d sent him away begrudgingly with a list of names and a harsh word to keep his thoughts from the press.
“Let’s get this mess cleaned up,” Jacob said. “I’m going to have the G-men on my back within an hour. Brandway included.” He thought of his date with Adina and wondered how much she knew of his day-to-day work. The thought of her seeing this bloody mess and hearing about his inability to stem the recent flow of violence surrounding Brandway’s operations brought a rush of frustration to his skin.
“Alright children, it’s time to go!” Betty shuffled them ahead of her out the front door and clicked it gently shut, balancing a honey cake in one hand with her handbag hanging underneath. “Now mind your manners for Mrs. Porter.”
“Do we have to go?” asked George Junior. “She smells like old biscuits.”
“George Junior! What an awful thing to say,” Betty admonished, stifling a smile. “She’s a darling and absolutely adores the both of you. We must always be kind, no matter what people smell like. Besides, you get to have cake if you come.”
The little boy brightened at the mention of cake and skipped ahead down the path and through the open gate of their white picket fence, only to turn around and enter the identical gate next door. He began running across the lawn with his arms wide, mimicking the stuttering gunfire of a fighter plane. Nancy trailed behind, her face buried in a book.
“You’ll have to put it away,” Betty said. “It’s only polite.”
“But I’m nearly at the end of a chapter,” Nancy sighed with a scowl. At the look on her mother’s face, she reluctantly shut the book. “Laura’s going on a sleigh ride with Almanzo. I think one day they might even get married.”
“Laura who?”
“Laura Ingalls, of course,” Nancy said, waving the book in the air. On the front cover, Betty saw a picture of a colonial girl with horse and carriage below the title These Happy Golden Years. “When I grow up I want to be just like her. I can’t wait!”
“To marry Almanzo?” Betty teased, anticipating her daughter’s response.
“Of course not! To go on sleigh rides, and to drive cars, seeing as buggy's aren’t around anymore, and to chase wild horses in a paddock to break them in, just like Laura did. She was awfully brave. Did you know she left home at only fifteen years old to become a teacher? Imagine that. That’s only four years older than me!”
“Yes, imagine,” Betty murmured, not needing to imagine at all.
“Well, I want to be that brave. I want to have adventures like she did.”
“I’ve no doubt you will, darling. But remember, adventures can be very dangerous. I’d rather see you safe and sound at home than zipping about with wild horses and fast cars.”
“That’s just because you don’t like adventures,” Nancy said, sullenly. “You never do anything exciting, just make cakes.”
Betty pulled up her daughter and looked her squarely in the eye. They had reached Mrs. Porter’s front door, which thankfully was still shut. George Junior was still spinning about on the grass, oblivious to his sister’s mood.
“Listen to me. Don’t try to grow up too fast, Nancy. I know it’s hard to imagine, but the longer you’re a child, the easier your life will be. Make it last. You may not understand why yet, but one day soon you will, and I’ll tell you adventures enough to make your hair curl. In the meantime, I think you’d be surprised at how exciting a cake can be.” Before her daughter had time to respond, Betty knocked loudly on Mrs. Porters door then rang the bell for good measure, throwing Nancy an encouraging smile.
“Oh, what a delight,” the older lady exclaimed, opening the door. She clasped her hands together excitedly, although she’d been expecting them all along. She shuffled her guests into the sitting room and set about collecting tea cups for the table.
“Don’t worry yourself, Mrs. Porter,” Betty said, laying the cake on the table and giving George Junior a sharply disapproving look when he wrinkled his nose at Mrs. Porter’s offering of a biscuit, so that he took one with an overly-cheery ‘thank you’ instead.
“I’ll make some tea.” Betty walked into the kitchen, with which she was already well acquainted, and set about making a pot of tea. Nancy’s turn of mood had upset her more than she let show. It was happening more frequently now, as the girl’s books and friends led her to glimpse beyond the rosy veil of childhood into what may lay beyond it. It was only natural she would want to grow up of course, but Betty needed to resist it for as long as she possibly could. Nancy’s childhood would end much more abruptly than the girl realized and could lead her into dangerous territory without careful guidance. Betty sighed as she let the tea leaves steep and listened to Nancy talking dutifully to Mrs. Porter through the open doorway. She was speaking loudly, to accommodate the near-deafness of her audience.
“- and I had arithmetic with Mr. Whistler because my usual teacher, Mrs. Sampson was away ill with influenza. I made her a card and gave it to Sammy, because he lives four doors down from her and his mother is calling in on her on Sunday after church. But then Bessie’s mother said she ought to be careful seeing her at all, because last week her cousin across the bridge died of influenza and he wasn’t even that sick to start-”
She was a good girl. In her heart, Betty knew she owed her daughter a truthful conversation about what lay ahead, before she was caught unawares by the betrayal of her own body and its unnatural abilities. But truth be told, Betty, herself, wasn’t ready for it. Next week, she thought. Or perhaps the week after. When I’ve got all this business with Donny off my hands.
She placed the pot of tea onto a silver tray, along with two glasses of milk and a large knife. She returned to the sitting room where Mrs. Porter was looking rather bewildered by Nancy’s stream of conversation. Betty smiled at her daughter, silently relieving her of her efforts.
“I brought you some of my new Avon lotion, Mrs. Porter,” Betty said, pulling a pink jar from her handbag. “It’s the one I was telling you about, especially for skin that needs a little more conditioning than usual to keep its glow.”
“Keep a beau?” the old lady repeated, cupping her ear. “Well, it’s many years since anyone looked sideways at me, dear!”
“It’s glow,” Betty repeated louder. “For your skin. I think you’ll find it helps with the dryness, you only need a little bit.”
“Oh yes, I always need a little sit. I can barely make it to the greengrocer’s anymore with this arthritis in my hips. I keep a chair at my dressing table for curling my hair each evening, so I can sit in that if need be.”
“Lovely,” Betty sighed, giving up. She passed the jar across the table and poured the tea instead.
“How much money do I owe you, dear?” Mrs. Porter asked. “For the cream?”
“Absolutely nothing,” Betty said, turning her attention to slicing up the cake and passing George Junior the first piece. “Although I do have a favor to ask.” Betty avoided the curious gaze of her two children.
“I have a few more occasions coming up, where I might need someone to watch the children for a short time. I’ll make you all dinner beforehand, of course. And they practically look after themselves. Would you mind?”
“How lovely!” Mrs. Porter exclaimed. “More ti
me with the children. Well that’ll be an adventure, won’t it!” The old lady looked at Nancy, who managed a weak smile back. “We could even bake a cake!”
Donald Pinzolo sat behind his new mahogany desk at the orphanage. The front room had been converted to a spacious and decadent office overlooking the grassy park out front. A large cat lay leisurely across the top of his desk. The man stroked it distractedly as it flicked its tail. In front of him, Felix and Carl stood waiting for his response. When he finally spoke, Pinzolo’s voice was quiet, like he was trying to keep it from hissing.
“So, you mean to tell me, you got nothing?” he said.
“They were blind, boss,” Felix said. “Didn’t have a fuckin’ clue who was behind it. But by the time we gave ‘em the third, they were too far gone. We had to cool ‘em.”
Pinzolo stretched his neck to the side. His jaw was clenched tight. He looked down at the newspaper on his desk. His own grinning photograph was on the front cover, shaking hands with the Mayor. ‘Pinzolo’s Heart of Gold’ was printed above it.
“And whose idea was it to tie the bastards to a lamp post, boys?”
Avon Calling! Season One Page 8