Retribution

by Jasmine White

  ~ ~ ~

  Vapors of smoke drifted about Johnny later that same day as he smoked his second cigarette on the fire escape outside his office. The lazy cars below seemed as much affected by the chilly weather as he, and the exhaust steaming from their tailpipes looked like what he imagined his brain did about now, like tiny tufts of clouds, floating, rising and moving as slowly as buzzards do over a kill.

  He looked down to the street, vaguely processing little moving blobs of people, hurrying on their way. What problems did they have? None as bad as his, he was positive. His eyes narrowed as he recognized a larger blob as a new shiny blue Buick. He focused on the blob and it formed sleek lines and extended two arms out. He distractedly inhaled on his cigarette as he watched Doug Torres alight from the driver’s side. There he was: the devil himself. Where was his demon, Jerry? In a few minutes one of them would be in the office, asking Johnny to give him a minute to talk about something “important.”

  Well, he’d rather be at his desk when it was time to face either one, and he reached his hand for the knob of the office door, pausing mid-turn. He bowed his head for a brief moment before he looked back up, opened the door, and walked briskly to his office, shutting his door behind him with a click. It was as if that turn of the knob and the click of the door had unlocked a catch of memories, memories of the devil himself, the man who drove the Buick. It was hard to imagine how much he now fervently hated that man, the same guy, who, years ago he’d considered a godsend. Then, unwillingly, he was reliving his time in Brazil, reliving who he—Johnny Morgan—was then: a young man recently out of prison, a fellow determined not to worry about anything again except enjoying his regained freedom from those confining bars . . . to go down to the Americas and find a job, hoping he wouldn’t get dragged into the war happening overseas.

  He was sitting in the shabby hotel room he shared with Jerry Weinman, the place where they’d paired up to cut expenses while they were both searching for work in a foreign country. The door opened and in burst Jerry, his ruddy face brimming with excitement. “We’ve got it made, Johnny old boy!” He practically dived onto his tiny twin bed with its rusty iron frame. The bed groaned a complaint as his gaunt frame leaned back into it and he rested his head on his interlaced hands. “No more of this stingy life. We’re going to make it big!” Jerry’s eyes stared dreamily at the ceiling as he continued. “Remember that fancy dame last night at the bar who wouldn’t give us the time of day? Just wait until we show the likes of her up, eh?”

  Johnny looked up from polishing his shoes. His eyes followed a cricket that had crawled through the chipping plaster in the corner next to the door. That was what had been keeping him up at night. “What’s blown up your skirt now? Some new job? You know I won’t have anything to do with that anymore. I’m going straight. If you wanna do it, you’ll have to do it alone.” He savagely threw his shoe at the cricket; he missed his mark and the shoe just bounced off the faded blue wall. Angrily, he got up to collect now scuffed again shoe.

  “Ah, Johnny, don’t be like that,” Jerry said as he rolled over to his side, leaning his head on his elbow. “You know that last time was a just a bad break. If Tommy hadn’t ratted us out, you’d have never got sent to the pen for a year. It was just bad luck; it won’t happen to you again—it can’t. Luck is finally with us this time; I can feel it. I can feel it right here.” He patted his chest hard with his right hand.

  Johnny looked at him, bristling, jealous of his good mood. “Your heart?” he inquired sarcastically. “How did you suddenly get luck in your heart? I don’t remember you ever being lucky in love.”

  “Old Johnny, the world’s greatest pessimist.” Jerry’s mocking voice echoed around the tiny room. “You won’t write me off so easily once you see what I’ve got lined up for us. It’s all without any risk, a completely cut and dried deal. Nothing can go wrong this time, not with this man behind us.”

  Johnny sat silently, pretending to ignore Jerry even though his ears were pricked for more information. What if this deal really was as easy as Jerry claimed? No risk, he said. The offer was tempting. Just one more job . . . The more Jerry spoke, the more Johnny fell for his idea until he finally agreed to meet the mastermind of the whole deal, the man with whom the project couldn’t fail.

  The next day Johnny was moving his shoulders uncomfortably, testing their moveable room underneath the fabric of his stiff rented tux. He didn’t like the confining space of the jacket—this wasn’t his type of gig. He felt as though he must look like the runt of the litter, the vulture in a field of swans. “I feel like an idiot” He grunted the complaint as he took the steps behind Weinman to the nightclub entrance.

  “He’s with me,” Jerry informed the bouncer who stood rock still in front of the club; the man gave a curt nod, his spiked hair remaining as fixed in its lines as the navy-blue pinstripes of his suit. “This way. Don’t worry, you look great. Put together, and not like you’re fresh out of the pen.” Jerry carelessly tossed the words over his shoulder to Johnny as he bypassed the club entrance and instead went over to a large carved wooden door.

  “Come in,” commanded a smooth voice tinged with a Spanish accent as Weinman gave two sharp raps on the door. The large room they entered was plusher than Johnny had imagined it would be. Thick carpet, uncommon to Rio, cushioned their feet, and dark mahogany furniture glowed in the soft light from the fireplace. The hushed interior was in stark contrast to the bustling noise outside. And then he turned his attention to the man.

  Mr. Torres sat in a couch facing the fireplace, his back towards the door. Smoke rolled up from his Cuban cigar and he didn’t bother to turn as they entered. “Take a seat, Jerry.”

  Johnny shot a questioning look towards Jerry, who motioned for him to take a seat as well. “I’ve brought the man I was telling you about.” Weinman told the back of the black hair as they walked past the couch and sat down.

  “Doug Torres.” An arm covered in a silky black sleeve extended, diamond cuff links winked in the dim light. Johnny’s first impression of Doug Torres was that of a snobby upper class aristocrat. His dark hair was smoothly lacquered almost to his head. The ruddiness of his face contrasted with the shaved white of his chin. His short stocky build was cloaked in a silky black buttonless shirt and a pair of black slacks; everything about the man screamed wealth from the diamond-studded cufflinks to his new oxford shoes.

  “Johnny Morgan.” He shook that sleeved hand, noticing as he did so its clammy and pudgy flesh.

  “Jerry tells me you’re a man who wants to go places,” Torres commented as Johnny sank gracefully down into the leather seat across from him.

  “Did he also tell you I usually don’t end up in the right places?”

  “He told me you don’t want any risk. You’ll not find any in this job. It’s pure and simple. I’ll even provide you with an alibi.”

  “Sounds like a fairy tale. Unrealistic.”

  “Only to someone who doesn’t want to believe.” Torres’s short response gave the air of one not accustomed to, nor appreciative of being questioned.

  “I’ll believe if you convince me. I’m not spending one more day of my life locked up.”

  “Oh.” Torres brushed off Johnny’s concerns with a sweep of his manicured hand. “Jerry already explained that to me. This job is completely different. It’s actually construction work of a sort. Along with doing some odd jobs here and there for me . . . mostly, um, making sure my employees stay in line.”

  They were interrupted that moment by one of the bouncers from downstairs. “I’m sorry, sir.” His voice sounded apologetic. “But it’s your son—stepson. He insists on talking with you.”

  Torres’s eyes narrowed and Johnny had the first glimpse of what he’d look like angry before he smiled. “Of course. Tell him I’ll be right down.” He turned back to Johnny. “Mr. Morgan, it was a pleasure.”

  “Johnny, can I have a word with you? It’s important.” Doug’s voice broke through the memories, his
head sticking through Johnny’s office doorway.

  Johnny casually turned from his unseeing staring at the blank wall, as though he hadn’t expected the request. “Sure. Outside?”