The Estranged

by JG Koratzanis

  It didn’t come as a surprise when Daniel was shot to death by the Bodega owner during a robbery that went terribly wrong.

  “If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles.”

  Clearly, Danny-boy couldn’t be bothered to study his first enemy. And there is where Douglas accepted his first lesson. The years of therapy and psychotropic drugs filled his delusions with purpose and fueled his rage against all that teased him.

  The “hey D-Bag, you douche-bag,” as regular as the air he breathed, finally cracked his foundation at the age of eleven.

  The cats, raccoons, and possums suffered the consequences as he continued to study his enemies.

  “Never interrupt your enemy when he is making a mistake.” Watch them. Learn from them. The opportune moment will always present itself when it needs to. Not a moment sooner, not a moment later.

  Heather was not his enemy. Quite the contrary. She would be his warrior princess. His queen. His goddess. The woman at the Barclays Center promised him as such. He pointed Douglas the way. He shone the lamp unto Douglas’ feet and told him to walk. This was his first step.

  III

  The mouthwatering aromas of roasted garlic, homemade sauce, and artisan crusts filled the air as the amateurish mural of the Statue of David stared vacantly away from the patrons. The days had grown shorter as summer eased its way into autumn.

  Heather heard of Uncle Vinnie’s Ristorante from Yana and decided to give it a try. She didn’t say much as she nibbled on the mozzarella coroza and sipped her Diet Coke, but she considered her lack of a manicure instead of the burning inquisition in his eyes. Every now and again, between mouthfuls, she would smile at him and wink. After too long of an uncomfortable stillness, he cleared his throat.

  “So— what’s been going on with you?” he said. She shrugged as she popped the last bite into her mouth and sucked her fingertips before she answered.

  “Nothing really,” she swallowed. He cocked his head and smiled.

  “I thought this was a date. Don’t people usually talk about what they’ve been up to since last they saw each other?” he said. “So, come on. Tell me.”

  “I met someone,” she said as the waitress placed their pizza before them. He considered her gaze.

  “Sorry. Let me correct that. I met with someone the other day. Long story. Not sure if I want to talk about it right now,” she said.

  “Did you sleep with him?”

  Her eyebrows creased, and her pulse hastened as she darted her gaze at him.

  “I’m sorry. It’s none of my business. If you don’t want to talk about it, it’s fine. Sorry,” he said.

  Heather reached forward as he put his hand out. She grabbed a slice of pizza from the tray.

  “No, no. It is your business. We’ve been together for a while now. I’m sorry. I’m still just trying to—”

  “Hello?”

  Heather shook her head when the pizzeria whirled back into reality before her eyes. She stared blankly at him.

  “I’m sorry, Shawn. What was I saying?”

  “You were saying that you met with someone,” he said. “Should I be concerned?”

  Heather smiled and winked as she folded her pizza.

  “No. Not anymore. I needed to put some old memories back in the box.”

  IV

  The varied scents of deep-fried fare, stale beer, and shame wafted throughout the Boro Park dive bar. She had no idea why Baz insisted on meeting in such a dilapidated establishment but reluctantly agreed. Perhaps it was foolish for her to offer the opportunity for him to choose someplace outside of Manhattan that would be more comfortable. What Mr. Raguzzio saw in this lumbering oaf, she couldn’t understand. Baz was a low-life street thug and nothing more. Dressing him up in the finest Armani suits, Gucci shoes, and authority over the young recruits was a dumb idea. You can polish a turd, but it will always be a turd.

  “You know, Grace; you could’ve dressed down a little for a change,” he said as she approached the bar. The middle-aged, Asian bartender shifted in her direction.

  “You wouldn’t happen to have a clean glass to serve me a fine wine with, would you, love?” she said. The bartender slowly nodded. His skinless dome gleamed with the overhead neon. Grace withdrew a linen handkerchief from her leather purse and draped it over the stool before she sat.

  “To answer your question, no. I do not dress down.”

  She watched Baz focus his gaze at the plunging neckline of her black dress and allowed his lascivious stare to remain.

  “Shit, if you weren’t my boss, I’d be all over that,” he said.

  “If I weren’t so patient, you’d be a drooling idiot in an asylum. Even more than you are now.”

  Most men that stood before her were drooling idiots. Not only because of her beauty or demeanor, but because they were less than. Men were tools that were necessary to get jobs done. Some were Craftsman; perfect, but replaceable when broken. Others were dollar-store bargain bin wrenches that failed within their first projects. Baz was somewhere in the middle. And he knew when to keep his mouth shut.

  The bartender returned with an unopened bottle of Shiro Jiri and a stem that was still warm from the dishwasher.

  “The owner sends his apologies, Mrs. Whitmore. This is the finest in his collection now. A new shipment should arrive any day,” he said and bowed.

  “Thank you, love. But I highly doubt I will return anytime soon,” she said. He obliged and poured the dark cherry liquid into her glass.

  “What is it that you wanted to see me about?” Baz said. His eyes remained fixed on her bosoms. She tugged the swept V down a touch. His head shot up and met her gaze.

  “Now that I have your attention, I have been in touch with your other employer. He has informed me that there is a certain— project that he’s interested in you carrying out. You and a handful of— workers. Industry City is it?” she said. Baz nodded.

  “Yeah and? You have something to do with it?”

  “I have an interest. You see, there are certain— ventures that I need to execute. And I need you to oversee mine as well. Unless you have decided to remain full-time with Mr. Raguzzio instead.”

  “Shh. No names here,” Baz said. A sausage of a finger shot up to his lips. Grace nodded. He leaned in close.

  “I still work for you, babe. Don’t you worry your pretty little head about that one.”

  Grace swirled the wine in the glass before she sipped. She didn’t hide the disgust.

  “Are you sure? You haven’t been quite as attentive to my needs over the last couple of months. I was starting to believe you didn’t want to be around me anymore,” she said.

  The twitch in his eye answered her. Baz was terrified of Grace. The first time Baz was sent to the Forever Yours Gallery to “offer protection,” it didn’t go according to plan.

  Truth be told, Baz couldn’t remember how he ended up naked and tied up in a vacant room that smelled like iron and stale feces. And he never spoke of the visions he witnessed there. The Big Ragu would have done Mr. Baz the humane favor of putting him out of his misery.

  “How long have you worked for me?” Raguzzio said. It was a question the big-guy asked of all his street thugs. Either before they were promoted. Or offed for not completing their jobs. Baz failed with Grace, and for good reason. He didn’t want to end up at the bottom of the Hudson, wearing a fresh pair of Silver’s Concrete shoes.

  Raguzzio let Baz explain everything, save for the naked details, and met with Grace himself. He knew what happened to the Big Ragu that night. Not because Baz had to be there, but because the terrified screams that penetrated the SoHo loft were as awful as his own. Grace became the only person, let alone a woman, that Carmine Raguzzio feared. And he refused to allow anyone of his “family” to go after her.

  But Baz was also enamored by Grace. He understood that their relationship was only slightly less than professional, and he appreciated the leers and glances that she allo
wed.

  “Do you know who lives in that particular building?” she said.

  “Other than the client? No fucking clue.”

  “Splendid.”

  Confusion wrested his countenance.

  “I’ll assume Romano still under your employ.”

  Baz settled back on his stool. It creaked under his massive girth.

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “When Raguzzio gives you the green-light, it is imperative that Romano is invited,” Grace said.

  “What if he says no? He’s not such a good listener lately.”

  “I’m counting on it,” Grace smiled.

  CHAPTER 8

  OMENS

  I

  The long white pill, dry in its manufacture, irritated Heather’s throat as she tried to wash it down with her coffee. She cursed the vertical slits and brand name stamped on it, blaming Pfizer for their ignorance. Wouldn’t they believe this would cause more anxiety, she wondered. Gazing out the window, her face was greeted by the deceptive warmth of the late fall sun. She lifted her mug and stepped towards the dry bar. The clinking of half-empty bottles irritated her further as she rummaged through to the back.

  “This’ll do,” she said as she accidentally poured too much Sailor Jerry into her coffee.

  Almost.

  She mixed it with her pinkie and sucked it dry. She inhaled the rich aroma of her dark roast and spiced rum before she sipped. Setting the mug down on the bar, she cinched her terry robe tight as she slid onto the stool and pressed the home button of her phone. She commended herself when she realized she forgot to put it on the charger before she fell asleep. Trolling through her social media feeds, one side of her lip curled as she swiped her finger at the vacation photos, political rants and how to make the perfect ice cube videos her friends incessantly posted, unaware or so self-absorbed, they hadn’t realized the same posts had circulated over the last several years like the way the sun revolved around them. It had nearly a year, and not once did she find a new post from him. His account was still active, but it was like he just vaporized into the ones and zeros of binary content. Like those who had died, and by the compassion of Mark Zuckerberg and Evan Spiegel, the pages were never deleted.

  She wasn’t the only one who noticed. There had been tagged photos and videos of him from the needless social media anniversaries forced down everyone’s proverbial throats, to warrant some sort of response.

  But there was nothing. Only the grim reminder of who he once was, and how he might never be the same again. She clicked out of her apps and shook her head. Faded were the warm recollections of his smile and boyish ignorance, becoming slowly replaced with nothing more than a low-level concern for a stranger’s wellbeing. But concerned, she convinced herself.

  She powered up the phone once more and scrolled through her address book. On the second ring, he answered.

  “Hey, it’s me.

  “I’m alright, just missed you. You don’t call either you know!

  “Of course, I did! Don’t be an ass!

  “No— no I haven’t— you?

  Heather’s eyes went wide with ire.

  He didn’t even mention me!

  “You did. And?”

  Heather gulped, forgetting her own “regrets” and indiscretions.

  “Really? Who is she?

  “Yes, I know it’s been a while, so what? I want to know.”

  Heather arose from the stool and stepped towards the entertainment center. She snatched the picture frame next to her flat screen and placed it face down.

  “Oh, come on! You know me better than that.”

  She strolled back to the bar and topped off her coffee with another splash of rum.

  “Bullshit. Of course he—”

  She gulped the remaining contents and slammed the mug down.

  “Who is she?

  “No, I am calm! I just— I’m—

  “I feel like— yeah, yeah. I know, I know.

  “I’ll hang in there— love you too—

  “Wait do me a favor? Please don’t tell him I asked— he, um—” The lump in her throat refused to yield under her gulp. “I’m afraid of him.”

  Eyes closed when the realization of too much information was about to spill out. Deep within, she knew she had to tell him.

  “I met up with Chase about a month ago.

  “Yeah, really. He didn’t tell you?”

  Mixed emotions reemerged as she replayed the scene in her mind. And the necessary omissions to save her friend from confronting her ex.

  “No, he didn’t do anything to scare me. It’s just— I don’t know. Forget I brought it up.

  “No, forget it, Rick. Leave it alone.

  “No, I didn’t tell him about Gary’s. I already broke his heart. You think I want to rip it out of him? I know he still loves me. That’s why you and me are keeping quiet. Listen, I got to go. If you’re not doing anything tonight, maybe you, me and Jackie could get together.

  “All right. Thanks. Later.”

  She disconnected and strolled back to the entertainment center. She reached out towards the downed picture frame and froze. She closed her eyes and stood the photo upright. The one photograph some stranger snapped of Heather and Chase so long ago, as clear as that summer day.

  Maybe Rick was telling the truth. Maybe Chase didn’t sleep with what’s-her-name. Or Grace.

  But fear consumed the love in her heart. Fear for herself. But mostly for him.

  Heather took the picture frame, slid one of the center’s drawers open and tossed it in. She gripped her forehead when a bolt of pain shot above her eye as the glass shattered.

  II

  “I don’t care! I need to see him!” Heather yelled as she shoved through the crowded barroom. The smell of stale scotch, body odor and desperation filled her lungs and knotted her stomach as she thrust her way towards him.

  “Heather, what the hell is the matter with you? Why are you doing this?” Beatrice said as she drifted behind, unable to keep up. Heather spun around and held Beatrice tight. Rambled cascades of mascara marked her cheeks.

  “Something’s not right! He’s going to die! I know it!”

  Heather scanned the room. Eyes darted between every drunkard, every corner. Seeing and not seeing him everywhere and nowhere.

  The kitchen door eased closed, and she bolted. Exclamations from the owners of stepped on toes and tipped drinks warbled as she ran faster than she had ever run before.

  Ten feet away, and she smelled his Nivea aftershave cling to the air. She never did understand why a man in his twenties would want to wear such an elderly scent.

  Five feet away, and the purse that trailed wildly off her shoulder hooked around a barstool and yanked it to the ground. It smashed into the back of her heel. Thunder roared in her foot, needles shot through her calf and wobbled her step. Thrashing the door, it blew open and slammed her in the cheek and chest as it rushed back. Heather reeled and dropped to the floor with a thud. Beatrice dashed to her.

  “Are you alright? Heather, please. I won’t let you do this to yourself anymore. He’s dead, sweetie. He’s been dead for a long time now. You have to let him go.”

  Heather’s eyes went wide as the sting of agony cascaded from their corners. Her hands trembled before her face and a soundless cry quivered her lips.

  “He’s not dead,” she moaned. “I just saw him. I was just with him.”

  Beatrice’s head drooped, and she took Heather’s hand.

  “I’m so sorry, baby. That was a long time ago. He’s gone,” Beatrice choked as she watched the reality rip through Heather like a serrated knife. Eyes narrowed, and her forehead creased when she scowled.

  “Fuck you, Bea,” Heather growled. “Fuck you. He’s not dead.”

  She faltered to her feet and threw the door open. The cooks shouted at her in Spanish as she raced through. One wielded a knife, waving the blade around in jagged circles at her as she weaved through the kitchen staff.

  Backdoor in si
ght, she gripped the handle that wouldn’t budge. Shaking, twisting, she yanked and yelled and kicked at the obstacle until it surrendered to her rage. It swung open and clattered against the brick wall of the alleyway. Rats and cockroaches scurried under the blast of light and din of crashing steel.

  The malodorous stench of rotten meat, curdled milk, and stagnant water permeated the brick walls of the alley. Heather threw the crux of her elbow over her nose. Across the broken asphalt and milky puddles, a man stood in the dark recess of the corner, unmoving, save for his labored inhalations and exhalations.

  “Chase,” Heather called out. The man didn’t answer.

  The light atop the dumpster flickered and cast long shadows of the man across to her. Heather stepped away from the shadow as it abutted her feet. A swirling miasma rocked her head and trembled her body. Her pulse quickened and sweat dotted her brow.

  “Chase, angel. Please. I know you’re still in there,” she said. The light reflected from the man’s gleaming smile as his lips parted.

  “Chase isn’t here, sweetheart,” he said.

  Heather spun to retreat through the back door. It refused to open. She pounded and howled and kicked as the man slowly moved towards her. The coldness of his shadow embraced her as she stepped through. Her howls became screams as he drew nearer still. Her fists split and left crimson smudges under each hammering. Her belly knotted up and wrenched her forward.

  Hoarse screams filled the alley in reverberated terror, and the man stepped closer. Heather closed her eyes and collapsed to the floor.

  “Oh, God, please,” she pleaded.

  He loomed over her. His gray, stained hoodie masked his visage. The stench of death drifted from his body in thick wafts as his arms outstretched.