by Amy Rachiele
In the hall closet, I pull out a blanket and a pillow and lay them out on the couch. Priest won’t take me tonight; he is having a hissy fit and still angry with me. It is punishment for today’s display at the casino. It is something I had no control of. The man with the chocolate brown eyes that took my hand made my heart race, surprisingly not out of fear. If Priest thinks he is punishing me he’s wrong, I welcome being free of him tonight. It’s a gift. I have a slight pang for Kylie, who’s going to have to spend the night with him. But when I lay down I quickly remember the beating from earlier today, smarting. I shift to my side.
I’ve been cast out of the bedroom and it’s the best thing that’s happened to me all day. I can lie down, sleep, and not worry about having to anticipate giving in to Priest’s needs.
I close my eyes, contented to rest by myself, and I snuggle into the pillow, the memory of dark brown eyes inches from my face soothing my aches, and I wonder what he is doing, where he is right now in the stunning casino. Soon, I find myself drifting off.
The dirt is still between my toes and when I rub my leg where it’s hurt it stings. The broken board rises above his head and smashes down on the back of his neck. It repeats over and over. The board is raised by an indistinguishable man and smashes down. The tears that had been running down my face dry, making my face tight. I rock back and forth clutching my dress. The sound is what terrifies me—the crack of bone.
Using a shovel he finds pushed up against the wall, he digs. He shoves the tip into the muck and dust and moves it pile by pile. It’s dim but I notice the sweat building up on his brow, and I compare him to the man lying on the ground before him twice the size. I smudge my eyes with the back of my hand and powdery dirt settles in the corners. It seems like forever sitting in the dirt watching him dig because I keep my eyes off of the dead man lying at my feet. For a brief second, I think maybe he’s not dead. With a shaking hand, I reach forward and place my hand on his chest.
“Don’t touch him!”
I shrink back, my chest pounding. I didn’t feel any rise and fall.
“I think the hole is big enough,” he says, breathing hard. He reaches out and grabs the shirt, trying to roll him into the ditch he’s created. He’s struggling, he’s tired. Even though he’s nineteen and strong he needs help so I get on my knees and push...
The body falls and the arms flop, dragging with it more dirt that puffs up into the air getting into my nose.
“He’s never going to look at you again,” he says with malice. Taking a small piece of broken wood he carves the eyes out, and I shrink back, horrified at the sinew, veins, and blood. He stands above examining his handiwork, staring at what he has just done.
The shovel is raised again and this time he uses it to push the dirt back into the hole. I can’t take it anymore, watching, being a part of it, but I stay on my hands and knees, pushing dirt over the body.
My eyes pop open and it’s early morning. The windows are covered with shears and curtains, which keep me from seeing the outside world. I rub my eyes, remembering my dream that was so vivid I am sure the dirt is smudged on the back of my hands. I hear voices coming from the kitchen so I sit up, still fully clothed from last night considering the bedroom where I keep my things was occupied.
I stand, folding the blanket, collecting the pillow, and return them to the hall closet. I run my fingers through my hair with my free hand and the stiffness of my back hits me. I shake out the knots from sleeping.
Yawning from pure exhaustion, I walk toward the kitchen and see a face I don’t recognize. His profile stops me in my tracks. A man with dark hair and a matching complexion. He’s talking with Priest and even though I can’t hear much of their conversation I can tell that this man is trouble.
“You rub my back, I rub yours,” the stranger says. It’s an odd statement.
“We can work...” I hear Priest respond before I change direction and continue down the hall to the bedroom. Kylie is sprawled out where I typically sleep, naked, the sheet barely covering her breasts. She is sleeping. I attempt to be quiet and walk toward my dresser for clothes then into the bathroom. I stand directly on my plush rug, changing my clothes.
*****
“The world is evil and corrupt. It’s our job to fix it. The casino has brought on a division of what’s right and wrong. We need to lead people to the light.”
Priest’s words are so convincing I can see why people easily believe them. For a long time, I did but then the memories began to surface. I think I had repressed what really happened. And I’m torn between feeling like a prisoner and being thankful for being saved. I don’t believe people are all bad or all good; I think we all fall somewhere in between. Helping the elderly and having good intentions make everything look proper and on the up and up, but on the inside the Anointed Heavens is fractured. All in all, the whole lifestyle is filled with contradictions, my forced relationship with Priest being one of them.
The man from the kitchen this morning is gone. This assembly was called by Priest to remind the community of the Anointed Heavens of our mission to save the world from the evils of gambling.
“It doesn’t stop and brings the other evils with it. Drugs, prostitution, theft…”
My own thoughts jump to the pretense of his words. I’m not a prostitute but I am persuaded by force and fear to have sex with Priest to avoid punishment. Keeping the peace between us. Facing his wrath is a misery I avoid at all costs.
So much of what goes on here is hypocrisy. Whatever is needed to be done to please Priest is how the community functions. Many of us turn a blind eye to avoid confrontation.
Chapter 4
Carlo
I join Pop for breakfast the next morning in his suite. The table is set for the two of us. I gaze out the window and down at the street. A few people are walking up and down. The street is free of cult activists so I sit at the table, snapping my napkin out in front of me, releasing the cotton from its folded swan form.
“Ricco owes the tables some money.” Pop is talking about borrowed mob money, not gambling money. We run two separate businesses and we do the best we can to keep them separate. The casino is run legit. All monies are reported and accounted for and we collect paychecks. We fly under the radar by keeping the business in good standing. By itself, it is a money maker, even with other casinos in the area. We even make legitimate donations to the community. But the business goes deeper than the surface; we are members of the mafia underworld. And our family has been for a very long time. We stay away from drugs and prostitution. That shit always brings the Feds around. Besides, Pop doesn’t like what he calls dirty women or crazy fucks needing a fix hanging in his casino. I like it because I don’t have to deal with the aggravation that goes along with it. I have plenty to handle already, like fuckers who don’t pay back what they owe.
“Alex and I will take care of it.” My friendship with Alex runs deeper than brothers. Raised under the same roof, we have eaten, slept, and killed for each other.
“Good.”
“Any problems downstairs?” Pop shifts food around his plate.
“The guys are doing a good job with security. Nothing to report. After breakfast, I’m heading down to check out the kitchen. Jessie needs another line cook. I’m going to put an advertisement out today.”
“Good, good,” Pop says, taking a bite of his toast. “I know you’ll take care of it,” he mumbles with a mouth full of food.
After breakfast, the elevator rockets down to the ground floor. The main kitchen is filled with staff. Jessie, the chef, approaches me waving a spoonful of some type of amazing dessert she’s baking for today’s specials.
“Here, Carlo. Try this.” The spoon is directly in my line of sight. She’s not going to take no for an answer.
“I’m meeting someone.”
“It will just take a second.”
I roll my eyes and she scolds me by slapping me on the shoulder. I open my mouth and she sticks the spoon in. It is delicio
us—lemon mousse and almond cake. She is an unbelievable baker.
“It’s okay.” I shrug.
“Okay?” Jessie’s eyes widen and glare. She is pissed.
“Yeah, it’s okay.” I shrug again. “What do you want, a fuckin’ medal?”
She lifts her leg to kick me but I rush out of the way so that her leg only meets air.
“Get out of my kitchen!”
I walk backwards toward the alley door with a smirk and a salute. Pop is going to chew me out later for razzing her. Ticking off Jessie is going to throw the entire dinner rush off. I push the bar on the steel exit door and drink in the cool morning air in the alley. Down a ways, parked half in the street and half on the sidewalk, is a police car and it is right on time.
“Carlo!” Mike, my friend and a policeman, is coming toward me carrying a tall Styrofoam cup filled with coffee.
“You need something to go with that. Come on in and get something sweet from Jessie.” I like to keep things light with the cops. Giving them pastry is a small price to pay to keep off their radar. Mike slaps me on the back while I open the door that leads back into the casino kitchen.
“Hey, Jess, what do you have for Mike this morning?”
“I’m not talking to you, Carlo!” She whips a spatula at my head. I duck and it clanks against the door behind us and bounces off the sparkling white tile floor.
“You’re so smooth with the ladies,” Mike chuckles.
I go right to a tall stainless steel cake stand with multiple tiers. I pluck a croissant off and hand it to Mike.
“Thanks, man.” Mike greedily rips at the delicate flesh of the pastry and tiny crumbs fall to the floor.
I lead Mike back out the door into the alley. “So, are those freaks still botherin’ ya?” he asks through slurping a bit of coffee from the plastic lid. I nod. “Eh, what are ya gonna do?”
I reach into my pocket, turning my back to the cameras that I know are there. I grip a wad of cash I put there this morning.
“How much?” I ask. Mike knows exactly what I’m talking about.
“This shit gets complicated, Carlo.” He scrubs the back of his neck. “The best I can do is get them for loitering. Or maybe blocking the sidewalks. Hell, I’ll get ’em for jaywalkin’ if I can.” Mike takes a swig of his coffee, watching me over the Styrofoam cup. “One G,” he finishes. I begin to count out ten one-hundred-dollar bills when Mike adds, “They can still come back.”
“I know,” I respond and sigh. “Hopefully, this will deter them or at least help them to find someone else to bother.”
“Let’s hope.” Mike throws up his hands and his thick neck meets his shoulders. He stuffs the bills in the front pocket of his uniform. He shifts closer for a half hug that I return.
“Don’t be a stranger, Mike. Come by for Sunday dinner. Pop would love to see you.”
“Will do, Carlo.” He waves.
Mike heads back to his cruiser, and I go back into the casino kitchen, which is only one aspect of the microcosm that I live every day. This casino represents more than a legitimate business and the mafia. It is more than a way of life. I have no regrets but sure as hell wasn’t left with any choices either.
Chapter 5
Anya
I didn’t know what to expect, really. But returning to the streets where the prostitutes strut up and down, casting their shadows in the alleyways, was not what I was anticipating. After what happened at the casino, I figured that Priest would be right back there after nursing his wounds. I thought I knew him. I guess not. It is unsettling because I have become pretty good at reading people.
My blue robe swishes across the dirty pavement as I walk hand-in-hand with the other followers. Joseph is on my right and Kylie is on my left. My head is lowered, watching in the dimness of twilight. The cracked cement littered with bits of rotting trash that has blown about or the rounded spots blackened over time where someone has tossed their used gum pass underneath my feet. A breeze blows, swirling strands of my hair into my face. I release my hand from Joseph’s to swipe them away, and I reattach myself to him, bonded by a simple clasping of our hands. I raise my head because I can’t help but examine the women we pass. Clad in leather, short skirts, and high heels. Their fingernails and makeup lighting them up against the dark backdrop one after the other hoping to be seen, to be chosen, not for the Anointed Heavens but to earn money. Cars idle by the curbside and others just creep along inspecting, trying to choose which woman they would like in their bed. Most frown as we pass, angry at us trespassing across their place of business.
“Hey, freaks!” A rugged man from across the street heckles us. “Isn’t it past your fuckin’ bedtime!” We ignore him like we do all the others who persecute or call us names.
Simon is carrying pamphlets as he leads the procession by Priest’s side. Typically, Priest stops to talk and bless each girl we pass in the hopes that she will be desperate enough to change her ways or enamored enough with Priest to join us. Instead, this evening he walks by them and nods, reminding me of the Pope winding through crowds of people offering them hope from the divine—except Priest doesn’t have celestial guidance no matter what he tells himself or his followers. He is a fraud.
Our bandwagon of redemption slows and out of the corner of my eye the shape of a man hovers beneath the overhang of a building on our right. I can’t see his face. It’s not completely dark yet nor have the streetlights come on; it’s that time in between dusk and darkness. As uncomfortable as it is being in the underbelly of Chicago, the tiny hairs on the back of my neck rise in warning.
Priest does something that I’ve never seen at a demonstration before. He whispers something to Simon and steps away from us. The string of us halts, not advancing. This brings on angry murmurs from the women working here tonight.
The twenty-four of us are alone at a standstill, our leader and savior gone. He’s talking to the man by the building. Simon waves his hand for us to face the street where the cars are hovering. A light early night air breeze blows, filling my nose with the stench of the clogged sewers below us.
Simon has us in a straight line forming a barrier between the hookers and the street. Kylie’s hand squeezes mine in fear. She leans closer to me.
“What is going on?” her voice rattles. I open my mouth to say I don’t know when one of the women comes up behind us, her stiletto heels clicking.
“You crazy freaks are blocking the road! Take your high and mighty asses back to wherever you came from!” Others gather around her.
“Yeah! Get the hell out of here! Before I knock your blue butts into the street in front of a moving car.”
Non-stop hollers of “yeah, get out of here” chime in all around us. The woman behind us calls us bitches with cobwebs in our vaginas. I give a sharp sideways look to Kylie. Then, never breaking the chain of linked hands, I pivot my head to look for Priest. He’s ignoring the whole scene and is engrossed in a conversation that I can’t hear.
Anger bubbles up in me and I bow forward, looking down the line of followers to Simon. His head is dancing around, alerted in distress. I shift my gaze one more time to Priest, fury coating my insides. I decide on a bold move. The crowd of hookers is gaining prominence around us, putting the group in a very vulnerable position. I step forward off the curb, detaching myself. Kylie and Joseph quickly grab hands locking themselves together. I walk to the other end of the line, past Simon, through three very agitated prostitutes, and straight for Priest. His back is to me.
“What are we doing here?” My voice comes out shaky, not because I’m afraid but because I’m filled with outrage. The audacity of him to leave us abandoned on a street corner full of dangerous people.
Priest whirls around to look at me and his eyes are menacing. For the first time in a long time I don’t care. The heckling and the animosity on that small street corner are growing. If Priest isn’t going to do something about getting us out of here, I will.
“Back in your place, Anya,” Priest snarl
s at me. I gaze at him straight in the eye. The unfamiliar person he is talking with leers at me. I spin on my heel back to the group.
Instead of rejoining where Kylie and Joseph are in the line, I walk to the opposite end, reach out to take the hand of the last person, and begin moving, taking with me the train of the Anointed Heavens followers.
They come, trailing behind like little chicks behind their mother. I lead us away. The prostitutes clap and the cacophony of their hands slapping together resonates as we make our way back toward the compound. I look back at some confused faces, hesitant ones, and others that are happy to get away. The face I don’t see is Priest’s.
Chapter 6
Carlo
The quiet hiss of a pissed off breath sounds from behind me. Alex is trailing me carrying a large weapon that has a wide range. I wasn’t taking any chances meeting the Campuonos. Why they want a meeting blows my mind. I told Pop I would handle it. It’s just bullshit anyway. They ain’t got it. Their numbers are low, their enforcers and lieutenants are incompetent and fighting amongst themselves. I hear it all. The Carusos have eyes and ears everywhere. We keep it together invoking loyalty and keeping the ranks in line and fat. We grease palms, kiss babies, and make sure we fly under the radar.
“What about those cult bastards?” Alex huffs.
“Jesus Christ, I can’t even think about that right now.”
“The chick you cornered was pretty hot. Shitload of wavy brown hair.”
“Yeah, ‘a deer in the headlights’ kind of hot,” I add, stomping toward our vehicle section in the concealed part of the underground garage.
“Under that blue robe thingy, I bet she’s got a nice rack.”
I stop and swing around; his comments stick like shit on the bottom of a shoe, stinky mush.