Shakedown on Hate St

by Matthew Copes

  I should’ve stopped right there, taken the rolled-up newspaper out into the hall and dropped it into the garbage chute.

  The thing is I’m a creature of habit, so I didn’t, I unrolled the damn thing.

  Three words immediately came to mind.

  Prick. Scumbag. Charlatan.

  And the headline could’ve been better too. Maybe something like Mayor Douchebag Loves Kids!

  The city’s esteemed mayor Stanley Steinman and his bleach blond wife were holding hands on the front page and smiling like hyenas who’d just devoured a stillborn gazelle. Together they were cutting a ceremonial ribbon with comically oversize scissors at the city's new Pediatric Burn Center.

  I'd been following Steinman’s steady rise for years. It was hard to miss. He lorded over a city with some of the highest unemployment, teen pregnancy, crime, and drug use rates anywhere in the USA. Statistics that had only gotten worse during his tenure. The city was a quagmire of corruption and nepotism, the public coffers were empty, and its bond rating was on its way to junk status. The mayor and his silent partners controlled the drugs, prostitution, and loansharking all over the city and everybody knew it. Any racket was A-OK with them as long as they got their cut. It pissed me off seeing him on the front page. Nobody cared less about burned kids than he did. He was the poster-boy for everything I despised.

  I read the caption under the picture, decided I’d seen enough, and was on my way to the aforementioned garbage chute when she called.

  “Hi stranger,” she said.

  “Hey.”

  “I miss you.” She let that hang, but I was lost for words.

  “You must’ve been busy on Christmas,” she continued, “because I called at least 10 times. I went to Crisfield to visit family, and I even got you a present.”

  “I’ve been thinking about you too,” I managed, remembering the hourly calls I'd foolishly ignored. Maybe we’d made love after all.

  “Where are you?”

  “At work. Do you still have the note from your wallet?” she asked. “The one on the pink dry cleaner's slip? That's where I work.”

  “Now it's all starting to make sense,” I said sarcastically, as if I hadn't figured out that she was the one who'd set me up.

  “Dutch, I've got to run, but I’d like to invite you to dinner.”

  “Sounds nice,” I said. The clouds were parting. I asked if I could bring anything.

  “As a matter of fact you can,” she said. “An open mind.”

  Before I could ask what she meant she told me to meet her in front of the shop at five-thirty on Friday evening.

  “The address is on the slip. See you then,” she said, then hung up.

  An open mind? I wasn't sure I had one. I should've asked if I needed brass knuckles or head protection. Four more days until I'd see her again. It was longer than I would’ve liked, but her call unleashed a flood of adrenaline and testosterone that had me bouncing off the walls, and when the phone rang again twelve seconds later I was pretty sure it was her.

  “Let me guess,” I said. “You forgot to mention that you’re crazy about me and can’t wait to see me again.”

  Turns out it wasn’t her after all.

  “Sorry boss I’m just not into you like that.”

  It was my office manager Frank.

  “Hilarious. I was expecting someone else. What's up?”

  “Need to see you about something important. Today if possible. Szechuan Palace at noon OK?”

  “OK,” I said. I was beginning to lose patience with the cryptic nature of the morning’s calls. “You going to tell me what’s up or not?”

  He’d already hung up.

  FIVE HOURS LATER AFTER a trip to the gym I was staring at heaps of General Tso's chicken and Moo-Shoo pork. It looked good but I knew the gobs of sugar, fat, and MSG would nullify my workout, so I ate vegetables and white rice and drank lots of hot tea.

  “So,” I said after the small talk. “How are things?”

  They'd just landed a big retail chain out on the west coast, and profits were up significantly. A year ago it would have had me bouncing off the walls, and it wouldn't have been a surprise because I'd have been involved all along. I was blessed with a hardworking and competent staff, and now it was all paying off. I just did the fun stuff like overseas trips to meet suppliers in exotic countries. I had more than enough money and lots of free time, but I'd become the absentee owner I vowed I'd never be.

  After the good news I was ready to get down to business, but I let Frank talk himself out first. He was excited and I wanted him to have enough time gloat. Most employees don't give a shit about the success of a company. They want to punch in, punch out, and get paid. Frank was taking a personal interest.

  “I appreciate good news as much as the next guy,” I said, “but...”

  “We want to buy the company.”

  “We?”

  “James and I.”

  James was our accountant. He was a sharp guy and had been with the company a long time. If anyone was capable of running it successfully it was him.

  “Where’s he?” I asked.

  “His wife had a baby last night. Didn't you know?”

  I didn't. My heart sank. James was a good friend and I should've known. The meeting was a wakeup call reminding me how far removed I'd become from the company and the people who worked there. Before I’d never have considered selling, but sitting there I knew it was the right thing to do. The truth was, the challenge was gone and I'd lost interest.

  “Wow, OK,” I said. “Give me a few days and we'll meet again.”

  Then I walked to the florist and bought a big blue balloon with a teddy bear on it. I hailed a cab and headed to the hospital to show my friend I wasn't a total asshole.

  14

  TRUDY SCOOTED TO THE edge of the bed and assumed the position. On all fours, her feet and ankles hanging over the side. Naked, except for those hot-pink panties he liked. Wide bottom facing him, just a tick below head level. Big Boy approached from behind, snarling. He took her panties in his teeth and pulled them past her knees to her ankles in short, abrupt jerks. He buried his face in them and inhaled. He never took them all the way off. Something about them dangling from her ankles did it for him. He began emptying the contents of the small cellophane package, starting where the small of her back and butt merged. A thin white line, all the way down to her ass, the last few sprinkles trailing onto her wet snatch.

  Tanika sat naked at the small kitchenette a few feet from the action smoking a Newport and playing with herself. She was black. Long and lean too, and firm. Perfect B-cups and an ass like a rock. She looked at the man who called himself Big Boy with curiosity. A little old for her taste, but handsome and well-built. She was turned on. She'd just turned 17 and the life wasn't yet old-hat. She wondered why a man with a gold Rolex and handmade Italian shoes would chose such a shitty hotel room. Strange creatures, men.

  “Get over here slut,” Big Boy barked. She stubbed her smoke and drained the orange soda in the Hardee's cup left over from dinner. She crawled to him on hands and knees, reached between his muscular legs and bit his pale butt cheek just like she'd done the last time. He liked that. Big Boy wrapped his hands around Trudy's thighs and pulled her to him. He depressed his right nostril with his index finger, then with a great snort the strip of white powder vanished up his nose. The cocaine locomotive chugged through his circulatory system at full throttle. He extended his tongue, and gave her a slow wet lick from bottom to top, shuttering as Tanika finished him off with her hand.

  “You almost done Stanley?” Trudy asked. “My back hurts.”

  “Who’s Stanley? It’s Big Boy bitch.” He smacked her right ass cheek. “Now fuck off. I’ve got an early flight in the morning.”

  15

  THE SLEEK, TWIN-ENGINE turboprop banked lazily leftward as it descended below 3,000 feet, giving its occupants a clear view of their destination archipelago. An ancient patchwork of earth and rock atolls ringed by wh
ite beaches, lost amidst an endless expanse of blue. The stunning ebony flight attendant gave his seatbelt one last tug. Her playful pink tongue teased her titanium white teeth.

  The brass band sprung to life the instant their feet hit the sunbaked tarmac. The mayor scoffed at the portly officials and defense force generals in their sweaty, ill-fitting uniforms bordering the red carpet leading into the tiny terminal. Two grass skirt-adorned native beauties draped garlands around their necks, bowing submissively.

  Inside two wall mounted air conditioners chugged away in vain, trying their best to suck the oppressive moisture out of the swampy air. Two grey geckos clung to the wall, lunging at gnats that darted around the mildewed drip tubes.

  “Smells like a Pakistani infantry barracks in here,” the mayor whispered.

  His aid Evan nodded in agreement. “Remind me why we're here?”

  “To explore business and trade opportunities,” the mayor said grinning. “With the other esteemed members of the American mayoral delegation.”

  After jostling through customs and connecting with the other members of the group, they sat mashed in a well-worn bus as the comically cautious driver white-knuckled it through the capital city’s narrow streets. The Department of Economic Development official stood three feet in front of them bellowing mildly interesting facts about the island's history and industries through a cheap microphone connected to even cheaper speakers. Behind him, 20 other fat, warm, American bodies sat stuffed in the fetid air.

  “STAYING AN EXTRA DAY was a great idea,” the mayor said. “I guess the rest of those chumps rushed back to unleash the colossal prosperity machine they discovered after two days in paradise.” He grinned at his own wit and reached for his rum cocktail.

  “If we'd have stopped at one more sugarcane plantation yesterday I'd have hung myself with that microphone cord,” Evan said.

  The mayor looked at him. His voice was weak and the color had drained from his face. “You OK?” he asked.

  “No. I feel horrible,” he said. “I've got a throbbing headache, a queasy stomach, and my muscles ache. I need to go lay down.”

  “How many drinks have you had?”

  “Not enough to make me feel like this,” he said. “The last oyster I ate at lunch tasted like an old jockstrap. I think it’s to blame. I’ll catch up with you later.” He pushed himself up and headed toward his bungalow.

  The mayor eased his chaise lounge back a notch and sighed. Stiff saline gusts blew landward swooshing the tinder dry palms overhead.

  Other than a smattering of staff the place was empty. Bartender, waiter, receptionist, and two young housekeepers that couldn't have been more than 16. Long legged and dark. One tall, one short. Nearly identical twins otherwise. He assigned the pair nicknames. Tall Trouble and Tiny Tease. Matching baby blue and white maid's dresses ended above their knees, and tiny white soda fountain caps sat perched atop their heads. He'd noticed them the minute he'd arrived. Always together. Earlier in the day they'd walked past the pool, whispered and giggled.

  He took one last dip and watched the sunset. A guy could get used to this, he thought. Beat the hell out of slogging through freezing rain after a 12 hour day to eat stringy pot roast with your matronly wife of 100 years.

  At eight o’clock he finished his crab salad and champagne dinner in the empty sea view dining room. Evan's door was ajar when he stopped to check on him. A blue and yellow flip-flop was wedged between it and the floor. He knocked and peered in. A small, scallop nightlight near the baseboard lit the room dimly. Evan's head protruded from under the white sheet.

  He checked the time then stepped onto the porch to take in the night view. The sea and sky merged into a black abyss a million miles away, contrasted only by faint stars and timid white wave tips that rolled in every few seconds. Two amorphous figures emerged from the darkness to his left. They were moving toward him, not directly, but if they continued on their course they'd come very near. His eyes strained. The breath stalled in his throat and his heart double-beat. The uniforms. Tiny white hats reflecting sparse light, like cute little taxicab signs. Holding hands. Tall Trouble casually swinging a bottle. Its amber contents sloshed, absorbing then reemitting the moonlight. They stopped in front of him.

  “Sir, you come. Music, dancing,” Tall Trouble said, pointing down the beach. “Fun. Dancing. You come.”

  A night gust filled his nostrils with rum, coconuts, and young flesh. He stood statue-still. Tall Trouble transferred the bottle to her partner's invisible hand, and extended her right hand to him, palm down. He took it. The wind blew from right to left, transmitting island voices and faint steel drum echoes, and 100 yards away, fuzzy white orbs swayed in the breeze.

  The bar was a long, wooden rowboat sawed in half long-ways and turned on its side, haphazardly splashed with vibrant reds, yellows and greens. Ten stools stood in a line in front, only one if which was taken. Its occupant, an elderly native man with stubbly white hair and rheumy eyes. A perpetual drunk, head drooping. A smoldering cigarette rested between his fingers, its long curved ash touching the bar. The cool sand floor was littered with cigarette butts and bottle caps.

  The young, dreadlocked bartender greeted them in a friendly island voice. His sun bleached tank-top was dangerously close to spontaneous disintegration. The mayor ordered a bottle of beer and rum straight up. The girls made their way to the makeshift dance floor.

  Two fat, older women sat in a dark corner wrapped in brilliantly colored cloth, drinking rum from tall clear glasses. Mellow reggae rang from two well-worn speakers. The girls danced seductively, nipping from their bottle. Tall Trouble blew him a kiss. The feisty one. The woman in a babe's body. Or was it the babe in a woman’s body? He turned red, then took a long pull from his beer to compensate. Its icy burn settled him, and he sipped his rum to complete the cycle. The girl's moves were sloppy and suggestive. Their young bodies swayed and their hands brushed against one another's breasts and bottoms. The two older women finished their drinks, then walked down the beach into the darkness, their faces betraying disgust. The old man was sound asleep, his head on the bar. His last finger of rum untouched.

  “Close early tonight, mister,” the bartender said. “You come tomorrow. Open late.”

  He yanked two extension cords from the overloaded socket behind the bar. The music stopped abruptly. Half the overhead lights flickered then disappeared. He turned his back and dunked a glass in a bucket of suds and the girls appeared at the mayor's side.

  “We go with you,” said Tall Trouble. Tiny Tease swayed.

  “Where?” the mayor asked. “Go where?”

  “Your house. Now. We go.”

  A CONCENTRATED SLIT of sunlight snuck around a partially closed curtain, searing his eyes. His throat was constricted, parched and sour, and his head ached like a mule's kick had severed his brainstem. The sheets were in a pile on the floor, and two dark, naked bodies lay perpendicular to one another at the foot of the bed. He reached for his watch on the night table. Ten to seven. He sat, his listless mind scrambling for an exit plan. With trembling hand he shook the girls until they sat too, then gathered their clothes from the bed and floor, ignoring the merciless pounding in his skull. He dumped the pile next to them and they began to dress, but too slowly. With wide, panicky eyes he urged them to quicken the pace. From his wallet he removed two crisp $100 bills, and thrust one to each of them, then crept to the door, opening it with exaggerated slowness. The bungalow faced the beach, away from the pool and restaurant and there wasn’t a soul in sight.

  He crept back to the bed, corralled the girls and pushed them toward the door. Before they exited, he stepped in front of them, taking one last peek along the beach. They cowered, as if a flesh eating alien waited outside. He opened the door, pulling them out onto the veranda behind him, but stumbled clumsily on a throw rug and went down hard on a knee. The girls froze. It was then that he noticed with horror that Tall Trouble was still in her panties, clutching her crumpled uniform and shoes. One firm
breast was visible through her folded arms. He clawed at her attempting to raise himself. His meaty hand compressed her small breast roughly. Something flashed in the corner of his right eye. His head swiveled.

  A few yards away a man in a business suit lowered his Polaroid and smiled.

  16

  GAETANO TEASED AN ERRANT strand of silver hair back into place at the bathroom's modest mirror. The gold Rolex on his left wrist glinted as he brought it within range of his aging eyes. Six-thirty. Time to go. He'd been up since five like he always was, the six hours of sleep he'd gotten sufficient for his 67-year-old body. Every evening by ten at the latest he was in bed reading, savoring the warmth, silence and clean sheets. Occasionally there was late business that needed his attention, but it was rare.

  He walked from the bedroom into the living room, stopping to pay homage at the picture that'd been in the same frame, in the same spot, on the same mantle for 49 years. He and his late wife on their wedding day.

  At seven o'clock he dropped the keys to his Cadillac into the valet's hand and walked through the double doors that opened as he approached. The boss' eyes peered just over the edge of his morning paper. Cold hunter's eyes that never missed a thing. His back to the wall, the defensive posture of a wary man. Bruno, the omnipresent enforcer, rose, inclined his head respectfully and pulled the vacant chair out for the underboss.

  The boss' wardrobe never varied. Not since he could remember. Shiny black loafers, pleated grey dress pants, black belt, and a white, pinpoint oxford with the sleeves folded neatly to the middle of his bulky forearms. Expensive clothes, probably from Savile Row, the pressed edges tight and laser-straight.