by Adam Pepper
My heart pumped fiercely. Even once I was out of immediate danger, my adrenaline didn’t let up.
I wasn’t stupid. I was suspicious of Mario’s motives from the minute he offered me more work. But the money was good, and I was willing to take a few risks. Wally McGee, the Lincoln at Toasty’s: fuckin’ setups. He’d gone too far this time. This was different. This went beyond the risks of the job. That son of a bitch was out to get me killed. There was no sugar coating it anymore. It was time I settled it once and for all.
The tires screeched around the curve, and I jammed the brakes hard right in front of the Cucina. I put the car in park and smacked the steering wheel. I pulled the Beretta from my waist and slid open the magazine. I left a box of shells in the glove box, and I removed them and reloaded. I slammed the clip closed.
“Fuck!”
I banged my head backwards into the headrest of the BMW. Anger is a dangerous emotion. Acting out of anger could be a huge mistake.
I clicked the safety on the gun, put the car into gear and drove home.
* *
A knock on the door woke me up. It took a minute to get oriented, but I soon realized I was home on the couch. In my frustration, and also a little bit from fear, I crashed out on the couch. The curtains were drawn. My front door was double bolted. I was hunched over.
The knocking came again. I grabbed the gun off the coffee table and slithered along the floor. Once I reached the door, I slowly stood up and peered through the small side window that was next to my front door. It was Mrs. Griffin.
“Be right there,” I called out.
I went back inside, put the gun down and grabbed Wally McGee’s wad of cash from a drawer in my kitchen where I’d stashed it.
“Hi,” I said as I opened the door.
“Oh, Sean.” She burst in and hugged me. I quickly kicked the door shut while embracing her. “How are you holding up?”
“I’m okay. I’ll be fine.”
“You don’t have to be strong for me, Sean.”
“I know.”
“I’ve known you all your life. It’s okay to be sad.”
“I am sad.”
“Then show it.”
“I’m okay for now.”
“Do you want some help with the arrangements?”
I handed her the wad of cash. “Actually, I was kind of hoping you’d take care of it.”
She shuffled through the money and shook her head. “Sean, where did you get this?”
“Don’t worry about it. I want my mother to be buried properly. That’s enough isn’t it?”
“Well, yes.”
“So you’ll help me?”
She pushed a smile out of her bright red face and said, “Of course, Sean. I’ll see to everything.”
I gave her a small kiss on the cheek. “Thank you.”
“You shouldn’t be alone at a time like this. You should be surrounded by your friends and family.”
“I’m fine. Really.”
“Sean. Stop being like your mother. You are too strong for your own good.”
“I’m gonna head up to Costa’s to have lunch with Nicole. I’ll be fine.”
“Okay. Good. She’s been very good for you. Your mother liked her. She approved.”
“Thanks.”
Once a mother always a mother. Mrs. Griffin finally seemed satisfied, and she left. I went back to the kitchen and got my piece, then went out to Nicole’s BMW.
The Hefty bag full of cash was still sitting in the backseat. I felt like a complete idiot for leaving it outside all night, but there it was, safe and sound.
When I walked into Costa’s, Nicole was at her table. She leaped up and ran to me.
“Oh, Sean. What are you doing here?”
We hugged, and I said, “I wanted to see you.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“If there is anything I can do to help, you just name it.”
“I know. Thank you.”
We sat and ate our pizza, not saying much. Finally, I said, “I need to show you something.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What?”
“It’s out in the car. Come on.”
She grabbed her pocketbook and followed.
“It’s in your car. Get in.” I pulled the door opened, and she stepped inside. I walked around to the driver’s side and got in.
“What is it?”
I turned towards her. She was looking forward.
“Nicole, look at me.”
She turned towards me.
“Your father is trying to kill me.”
“Sean, please. I know he doesn’t really like you, but we are working on it.”
“No, there’s nothing to work on. He wants me dead.”
“Don’t exaggerate.”
“Exaggerate! I’m not.”
She flipped her hair and bit her lip.
“Do you know who Wally McGee is?”
“Yeah. He’s been fighting with my father for years.”
“Why would your father send me to him to collect money?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who owns Toasty’s?”
“Toasty’s? My uncle Nicky, why?”
“I knew it! Your father has been setting me up for days. He is trying to get me fucking killed. Do you understand? Last night he sent me into a drug den hoping I wouldn’t come out alive.”
She still didn’t look convinced.
“I’m serious, Nicole. Look in the back seat.”
She turned and saw the Hefty bag. She put her hand in it and thumbed through the money. “Holy shit, that’s a lot of money.”
“Is it worth my life?”
Nicole put her hand on my chin and pulled my face towards her. “No. Of course not.”
She kissed me lightly. I pulled away.
“I have to do something about this. Your father won’t quit until I’m dead. I have no choice. It’s him or me.”
“Sean, please. What are you saying?”
“I’m saying it’s him or me. He’s going to kill me. I have to take action.”
“Are you serious? Like it would end there. What do you think Gucci Mike would do? And Tommy Guns. They’d fucking kill you.”
“They’re going to kill me anyway. I have to strike first. I have to strike now while they aren’t expecting it.”
“Sean, please.”
“Nicole, I have to.”
“Sean, please. He’s my daddy. Please!” She broke down and began to sob. Her face turned red, and wetness from her nose ran down her upper lip. The tone of her voice was soft, and with barely any strength, she said, “Please, Sean. Don’t hurt my daddy.”
I ran my hands through my hair. I squeezed my fists. Clenched and unclenched my knuckles.
I had never raised my voice to a woman before in my life, but I couldn’t help myself and I shouted, “What do you want me to do, Nicole?”
Her voice was soft as she answered. “Run away with me.”
“What?”
She turned towards me, and her energy returned. She leaned over, across the seat and was almost in my lap as she continued, “Let’s do it. I mean it. Look at all this cash. Let’s just get up and go.”
“Where?”
“Anywhere. I don’t care. We’ll get away from all this. We’ll be safe, and we’ll be together.”
I looked into her eyes. She didn’t flinch. I turned to the backseat, and now I thumbed through the money.
“It’s a lot of money,” I said.
“We could make it work.”
“You’re serious.”
“Sean, I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
We kissed—a long passionate kiss.
She finally pulled her head away and said, “Sean, I’m gonna go home and get some stuff. We’ll meet at your place in a few hours. How’s that?”
“I think we should go now. Right now.”
“Sean. Just let me get a few things.”
> “I guess. If you have to, but we can’t take the BMW.”
“Why?”
“Let’s just say it’s not safe.”
“Fine. We’ll get another car. That’s the least of our worries.”
“Okay.”
“Good. Sean, I will meet you at your house. You won’t do anything crazy before I get there, will you?”
“No. I’ll wait for you.”
“You promise?”
“Yes.”
“You won’t hurt my father, or try anything crazy, right?”
“I promise, Nicole. I won’t do anything. I’ll wait for you.”
She leaned over and kissed me again. “Okay. I’ll see you soon.”
“When?”
“Give me a few hours. I’ll come to you.”
“I don’t think you should go home. Let’s just go.”
“Sean.”
“Fine. Two hours.”
“How about three? A girl has to pack and make herself pretty. I’ll make the wait worth it. I promise.”
“Three hours?”
“Three hours.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
Nicole got out of the car and walked to the Mercedes. I got out and walked inside to pay Gino for the pizza. I stood at the doorway for a moment. Nicole waved, then buzzed off.
* *
A watched clock never ticks. I remember my mother saying that when I was a kid. I remember the day. We were going to Six Flags. My father promised. He said, Tomorrow morning, first thing, kiddo. I’m taking you to Six Flags. But when I woke up that morning, the old man wasn’t home. My mother said he was working. Working my ass. He hadn’t come home from the night before. So me and Mom sat on the couch in the living room, backpack filled with lunch, soft drinks, bathing suit and change of clothes. Me dressed in shorts and sneakers, all ready to roll. My mother foot-tapping while sucking down Virginia Slim after Virginia Slim. Just waiting for my father to show up and take us to Six Flags so we could ride the roller coasters and eat cotton candy, just like all the other kids got to do. I stared and stared at the clock, and the old Roman numeral clock hung from the wall without moving.
History repeated itself. I sat on the same couch in the same house, staring at the same clock that still hung on the same wall in the same living room. And just like that day as a kid, I was packed, dressed and ready to roll. But Nicole was late. Night had fallen. Afternoon faded to evening. Dinnertime passed but I wasn’t hungry. I was way too distracted to eat.
My father stumbled in eventually that day as a kid, and despite the bags under his eyes and the Jameson on his breath, he came through and took me to Six Flags where we rode the roller coasters and ate cotton candy with all the other kids.
Nicole would come through, too. She had to.
But as the long, thin metal second hand of the old clock slowly ticked and tocked, she didn’t show up. I peered out the window and watched the phone: no action. So my eyes kept returning to the clock, fixating on that long metal second hand.
It didn’t move. At least, it seemed that way. It moved, the steady tick tock confirmed it. Slowly but surely, the seconds, then minutes, then hours passed.
I had two bags. One suitcase filled with clothing. It was an old haggard black suitcase that belonged to my mother. I never really traveled. I didn’t own any luggage of my own. The other bag was a simple gym bag stuffed to the brim with cash. I took the cash from the Hefty bag, counted it, then put it into neat piles and rubber banded it together in tight bundles. Finally, I stacked it in the gym bag.
One hundred and seventy-two grand: tens, twenties, fifties, hundreds. It was a squeeze, but I crammed all the cash into the bag and zipped it shut.
The clock hit eight o’clock, further dispelling the myth. A watched clock does move.
The clock moved to nine o’clock. Then ten o’clock. The phone didn’t ring. The doorbell didn’t ring. The only sign of headlights coming down my block was the occasional passing vehicle. No one stopped.
When eleven o’clock came around, I just couldn’t take it anymore. Where could she be? Was she hurt? Did Mario somehow find out about us? She wouldn’t tell him about our plans. About the money. Would she?
Of course not.
I picked up the phone and punched in her number, my fingers quivering as I had to struggle to hit each digit. The phone began to ring. It rang again. And again. Several rings. I wanted to hang up, but I had to hear her voice. If she wasn’t at my house, she had to be at her own.
Then the phone was answered.
“Yeah,” the voice was deep, short, impatient. The voice was Mario’s.
I hung up without saying a word.
* *
Sleeping was out of the question. So was going to Nicole’s house. I sat on the couch, staring at the clock as it continued its slow and steady tick tock. Of course a watched clock moves. It’s just agonizing for the watcher.
I lay down, kicked off my sneakers and put my feet up on the couch, closing my eyes. The tick tock continued in my ear. A listened-to clock also moved. Somehow, I managed to sleep, a bit.
The night seemed never ending but eventually gave way to morning which gave way to afternoon. I walked to the kitchen and pulled out my piece from the drawer. I put the gym bag and suitcase in the front hall closet. Then I pulled out my jacket and walked outside.
I decided to walk up to Costa’s, leaving Nicole’s car parked in front of my house. There was no hurry, and I welcomed the fresh air. When I got up to Costa’s, the place was near empty.
“Hey, Gino.”
Gino nodded a hello.
I paced up and down the restaurant, then pretended to need to use the men’s room just because I felt stupid about lingering around the back. I came back out and sat down.
“Hungry?” Gino asked as he slid me a fresh, steaming slice.
I wasn’t, but I watched the paper plate spin, then slow to a stop. I picked up the slice and said, “Thanks.” I took a few bites then asked, “Have you seen Nicole?”
“Nope. Not yet. She’ll probably be along soon.”
“Yep.” I ate the slice, slowly, while staring at the red, white and blue logo of the Pepsi Cola clock as another second hand slowly made its revolutions. I was sick and tired of staring at clocks.
After a while, I ordered another slice. I fixated on the Pepsi logo, and the watched clock continued its slow crawl of time. I ate two more slices and slowly forced them down my throat.
Gino looked over from time to time. He didn’t say a word. Bells jangled each time the door opened. With each ring of the bells, I turned to look, and saw a face other than Nicole’s entering Costa’s. Customers came and went. Finally, I got up.
After paying Gino, I walked outside towards the avenue. I felt bodies on both sides of me. They had my arms firmly. Tommy Guns on one side, Scrubby Mike on the other. Tommy reached into my waistline and took my piece.
“Hi, Shamrock,” Scrubby Mike said. The look on his face was like he’d finally hit a horse at Belmont. “Come for a ride with us.”
A silver Cadillac pulled up as we stepped off the curb and into the street. Tommy opened the back door and threw me in. He took a hold of the back of my shirt and thrust me into the far window. My eyes teared up, and I wanted to rub the sore bump but couldn’t as he didn’t let go of me.
Scrubby slid in next to us and then slammed the back door. He forced me upright, sandwiching me into Tommy. Tommy elbowed my ribs as Scrubby yanked at the back of my hair.
Vinny Macho was driving. He pulled the car into traffic, and we were off. I had a bad feeling. Did Nicole sell me out?
She couldn’t have.
Chapter Eighteen
* * *
The springs in the back of the Cadillac hadn’t been replaced in some time. Each time the car hit a bump we were sent bouncing up in the air, then falling down with a heavy thud. And each time that happened, it gave Scrubby an excuse to slap my face and Tommy a reason to dig his elbow deeper into my gut.
“Where’d you get this piece of shit?” Tommy asked with a groan as we were sent airborne and then fell back into the worn-out cushions of the Deville.
“Shadup,” Vinny said while lighting up a Marlboro Light.
When I was able to look out the window, I noticed we were on the Bruckner Expressway heading westbound. We reached the edge of the Bronx, and Vinny took us under the Third Avenue Bridge, just at the Manhattan border. A rarely-traveled cobblestone road ran along the edge of the water, and we passed a couple of warehouses.
Vinny pulled up in front of Willis Avenue Self Storage and put the Deville in park. Scrubby kicked open his door and tugged me by the hair. Tommy pushed my back from the other side, and I fell out onto the street. Scrubby put his muddy work boot on my neck, grinding my face into the corner of the curb. Once Tommy was out of the car, they each grabbed an arm and yanked me up and then dragged me towards the storage facility.
Vinny jogged up in front of us and unlocked the door, then he held it opened as Tommy and Scrubby pulled me through. Vinny took the lead again, jogging down a dark corridor and opening one of the storage rooms. We got up to the door, and Tommy and Scrubby pushed me in, Tommy leaning on my back until I was through the room and pressed up to the far wall. It was pretty dark, but it figured to be a nice sized room. It took ten or twelve steps to reach the far side.
My legs were cut out from under me, and I was on the ground. I curled up and cupped my arms to protect my face. There was nothing I could do to protect my midsection, and Tommy and Scrubby were teeing off with kicks.
“Fuckin’ scumbag,” Tommy shouted as he rammed the toe of his dress shoe into my ribcage.
Scrubby was giggling his goofy laugh as he wound up and fired each boot kick deliberately. Tommy was liberal in his method of delivering rapid-fire kicks. Scrubby was more of a stomper.
A light came up, and they stopped. I separated my fingers enough to look over and see Vinny standing by a light switch near the door. To my left was a bunch of junk: fold-up tables and party chairs, cardboard boxes piled up against the wall, old furniture, assorted other odds and ends. The floor was hard, and when I looked up at the ceiling, all I could see was sealant spray and piping and a lone light bulb hanging from a cord with no proper fixture.