Chelsea Avenue

by Armand Rosamilia

  She decided that a hotel room in Hazlet was probably a safe bet until she could figure out what she was doing, but first, a slice of Naple’s Pizza.

  “This isn’t The Deck House, bro,” Michelle said as Stan pulled up to a vacant lot. “Not even close.”

  “I had a quick stop first.” Stan shut off the engine to his pickup. “Come on, this will be fun.”

  “Fun? Fuck, we’re in the middle of nowhere. I knew I should’ve stayed home tonight. This is retarded.”

  “Fun,” Stan repeated and exited the vehicle.

  “Doubtful,” Michelle said but followed suit. “We never hang out anymore, and I thought this would be cool.”

  Stan stood at the edge of the vacant lot, one foot in a puddle.

  “Are you listening to me, bro?”

  “Nope.” He flashed a smile at her. “Let’s take a walk.”

  “Where?”

  When Stan pointed, she snorted. “No fucking way. Why are you acting so weird tonight? You on the rag?” she asked and laughed at her own joke.

  Stan laughed with her, gently putting a hand on her arm. “I need to show you something.”

  “Not in there.”

  “Oh, yes, in there. We’re a part of something.”

  “In one second, I’m walking home, or you’ll owe me for the fucking cab ride. Stop being such a dick. Let’s go to Asbury Park already.”

  Stan gripped her bicep suddenly, eliciting a scream from his sister. “We’re wasting time.”

  “You dumb motherfucker, let me go.”

  He dragged her by the arm into the weeds. Stan was nearly twice his sister’s size and over twice as strong, dragging her like a doll.

  “This isn’t funny, bro. Take your hands off of me, or I’ll scratch the shit out of you.”

  Stan stopped pulling on her, but as she tried to pull away, he punched her squarely in the face. She dropped to her knees.

  “I need you awake. Focus,” Stan said as he lifted her to her feet and slapped her, lightly, in the face. Almost gently. “It will be better if you are awake.”

  “What?” she slurred.

  Stan tossed her over his shoulder and carried her to a large puddled area devoid of trees, bushes, and garbage. He placed her gently on the ground, the water seeping into her clothing.

  Michelle tried to rise. Stan pulled a switchblade from his pocket and knelt down next to his sister.

  Her eyes wide with terror, Michelle began pleading for her life.

  “I don’t know what you’re so worried about, little sister. After I gut you, I’ll have to slice my own throat. Now, move over and give me some room in the puddle.”

  Tammy dreamed of fire and water, drowning in a pool as flames raged around her. She woke with a start in her hotel room. With nothing else to do, she showered, dressed, and was back at her mother’s house within an hour.

  Stephanie was busy dipping the bread into the eggs and milk, while her grammy put them on the skillet.

  “Good morning,” Tammy said. She poured herself a cup of coffee.

  “You almost missed a fine breakfast,” her mother said without looking at her. “I couldn’t wait for you much longer.”

  Tammy grimaced. It was only eight in the morning, but her mother acted like it was noon. Same old crap like I’m fifteen again.

  After breakfast, they sat in the living room and put cartoons on for Stephanie.

  “Honey, mommy and me will be right back.” Tammy’s mother shot her a strange look. “We need to talk outside.”

  Stephanie nodded without a word, intent on her cartoons.

  Outside, Tammy watched as her mother lit a cigarette from a hidden pack in her robe. “Still smoking, I see.”

  Her mother waved her hand, dismissively. “You have to die somehow, right? May as well be doing something you like.”

  “I guess so.”

  “Find your friends last night?”

  “Huh? Oh, yeah.” Tammy hadn’t even tried to call anyone or drop in for a visit. She was sure that most of her friends didn’t live at home with mom and dad anymore, and she didn’t have the energy to go digging around for them. For a second, she’d felt lonely and was thinking of hitting Junction Liquors or the Village Pub but decided that that would be too depressing. Instead, she’d eaten Chinese takeout and watched television before falling asleep in her hotel room.

  “Can you tell me why you’re here?” her mother asked.

  “I can’t.”

  “Some big secret?”

  Tammy laughed. “I wish. Something weird compelled me to fly here, some feeling I can’t explain.”

  “I don’t get it.” Her mother sucked, greedily, on her cigarette.

  “Nor do I.”

  “What feeling do you have now?”

  “I don’t have the feeling anymore.”

  Her mother dropped her cigarette and stamped on it with her slipper. “Too bad you just didn’t have the feeling to see your own mother.”

  Chapter 13

  July 8th 1999

  Camille smiled seductively as she took the shot, leaning over the pool table and showing off her legs.

  Manny tried to look away but failed, focusing on her smooth calves and the way the red dress hugged her ample hips. Her matching lipstick was wet, the bar lights glinting off her lips. Every one of her curves moved to the beat of the music. Every eye in the place was on her as she flowed, commanding the bar to watch her.

  “Your shot,” she purred in his ear as she passed him. She touched his shoulder, her fingers lingering there for a second as she smiled.

  Distracted, Manny shot wide, at the six, and pocketed the cue ball. He put his head down and laughed.

  “You’re not very good at this,” she said. Camille took the pool stick from his hand. “I, on the other hand, am very good at this.” She took the cue ball, set it up, and quickly dropped the eight ball for the win. “And I suck,” she said and blew him a kiss.

  Fuck. He was sweating, despite the air conditioning in the bar and the cold beer he’d been drinking. As he sat down on his barstool, he felt the telltale twinge of lingering pain in his gut. He closed his eyes and tried not to pass out. He knew that he shouldn’t be drinking with all of the meds he was still taking, but tonight, he didn’t care.

  It’s just another night, he thought and laughed humorlessly. Another fucked up night as Manny Santiago.

  This was his first night out in months and the first night he’d given in and seen Camilla. Ever since Gina had thrown him out…

  “Another beer?” she asked.

  “Sure, one more. I have therapy in the morning.”

  She pouted. “You’re there too much. Why don’t you call in sick, and we can drive down to Wildwood and hit the boardwalk? That will be exercise enough.” She patted his leg as she walked past. “I’ll give you a workout.”

  “I can’t.” He fished a twenty-dollar bill from his pocket and handed it to her. “I can’t miss a session.” That was a lie. In the last six weeks, he’d been late or skipped at least eight sessions either too depressed or too hung over to go.

  “One more beer. You’ve been dodging me for months.”

  She clapped and blew him a kiss, slithering to the bar with every set of eyes on her ass.

  Except for Manny’s. He was too busy feeling like a total jerkoff. Instead of trying to win his wife back, he was here, in some little shit bar in Atlantic Highlands, sucking down beers and shooting pool with Camille.

  “Here’s your last beer of the night,” Camille said and sat across from him. “What do you want to do after this?”

  “It’s getting late, and I have to go home,” Manny said. He lifted the beer and took a small sip, the taste bitter in the back of his throat. What am I doing here?

  Camille smiled and reached across the table, putting her hand on his. He, unconsciously, pulled away. Her smile faded. “Don’t you like me?”

  “I like you a lot,” he confided. That’s the fucking problem.

  �
�I like you too. I really, really like you.” She moved around the table and sat on his lap, putting his hand on her thigh.

  Manny winced both from feeling guilty and from the pain of her on his lap. “I have to get home,” Manny said but couldn’t move.

  “You can come to my home.”

  Manny stared into her eyes, and his hand squeezed her thigh. She was beautiful, and a guy would be nuts to blow her off. But he had to, and he knew it. He’d gone too far already and wanted nothing more than to beg forgiveness from Gina and put this behind him. But he wasn’t going to do that, and he knew it.

  “Don’t leave me hanging here. I’m throwing myself at you,” she whispered in his ear.

  Manny rose and gently pushed her away. “I have to go home.”

  Camille’s eyes flared, and she crossed her arms over her chest. “Are you kidding me?”

  “No, I just can’t do this. I’m sorry. You’re a wonderful person, and you have a great personality, but I’m a married man.”

  Camille laughed harshly. “Who gives a shit about that? I wanted to sleep with you, dumbass, not marry you. You’re going to deny me? We've been doing this dance for three years.”

  “I’m sorry.” Manny walked past her.

  She grabbed him roughly by the arm. “You’re not getting away that easily, you asshole. You think you can lead me on, buy me some drinks, flirt with me, and then walk away back to your fucking wife?”

  Now, he was pissed. He noticed several people in the bar looking at them. “Can we go outside and talk?”

  “We’re beyond talking. You got balls, you know that?”

  “Can we just go outside?” Manny repeated.

  “Is everything alright?” a burly man with a scraggly beard and black baseball cap asked, two of his drunken friends backing him up.

  “Everything is fine,” Manny said.

  “No, it’s not. This motherfucker was being rude to me,” Camille said and pointed at Manny. “He said he wanted to fuck me in my ass.”

  Manny rolled his eyes and put his hands up. “Camille, don’t do this.” He turned to the three men and noticed that the rest of the bar was staring. “Let’s all calm down before this gets out of hand.”

  “Why don’t you go fuck yourself?” the burly man spat.

  I’m not doing this. “Look, I’m a cop. I don’t want any trouble with you locals, I just want to get the fuck out of here.”

  The three men stood their ground, but no one would back off.

  “He used to be a cop before he became a pussy and left the force. He’s no cop. He’s nobody.” Camille spat in Manny’s face and stormed out of the bar, several patrons laughing.

  “I guess I deserved that,” Manny said and went to the door.

  “Hold up there, jerkoff. Let the lady go home,” one of the bar patrons said.

  “Fair enough.” Manny stopped at the door with one hand on it, but before he could turn, he was kicked in the back. He went down hard, slamming his torso into the wall. He could feel the pain shooting up and down through his arms and his legs.

  As the three men pummeled him, he blacked out.

  I’ll make this up to you, Gina. I swear to God I will.

  “Want to talk about it?” Mark Dowd asked, holding out an ice pack.

  Manny shook his head. At the sound of sirens, he looked at Mark and grimaced. “I told you no ambulance.”

  “You probably have internal bleeding, you idiot.”

  “I don’t care.” Manny reluctantly took the ice pack but didn’t know what hurt more: his gut, his face, or his ego.

  “What happened to you, partner?” Mark finally asked.

  “I got shot.”

  “Cops get shot. Cops then get back up and go to work.”

  Manny put the ice pack on his jaw, which hurt like Hell. “I can’t.”

  “You just throw a great career away?”

  “Why are you pushing me?”

  “Because, whether you believe it or not, I fucking care about you.” Mark stared at Manny. “I saw Gina last week.”

  Manny squeezed the ice pack. “What do you mean saw?”

  Mark laughed. “Wow, you give me way too much credit. I didn’t say I fucked her; I said I saw her. She was in the Monmouth Mall shopping, and she asked how I was doing.” Mark paused. “Asked how you were doing.”

  “And?”

  “I lied and said you were doing good even though you haven’t returned a fucking phone call in months and the only way I see you is on your birthday after you get your ass kicked in a bar fight.”

  The ambulance pulled up.

  “Are you alright or not?” Mark asked.

  “I’ll live. Can we get out of here?”

  “Want to go for a ride?”

  “What else do I have to do?” Manny said. “The night is still young.”

  Mark checked his watch. “Only ten-thirty and still no bodies.”

  Manny stopped.

  “Come on, I know damn well what today is. Happy birthday, by the way. And Tankard gave me all of the information when you split. We sent a patrol car to watch over the lot and have two guys on foot. No one is getting near Chelsea Avenue tonight. Tankard even pulled some strings and had the block cordoned off.”

  As the EMTs approached, Mark waved them off with a joke, letting them know that the victim was already gone.

  “Who’s down there? I haven’t seen anyone in too long,” Manny said.

  “You know them all. Carlson and Wainwright are still a team, and Potter and that Jonas kid are on foot.”

  Manny froze. “At least three of those guys were there that night.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “I swear. I made a list of everyone I could remember who’d been there the night of the fire. Rick Carlson was working as a beer runner that night with Sam Potter. Jimmy Jonas used to help out with the sound.”

  “Get in the car.”

  “This place is spooky,” Officer Carlson said as he shined his flashlight into the thick weeds.

  “What a wimp,” Officer Wainwright chided him. “This is a stupid assignment. We’re guarding a vacant lot.”

  Carlson shined his light on a dented shopping cart. “Maybe someone’s afraid a thief will steal that.”

  “There is literally nothing here to see. I wasn’t even old enough back in the day when this was a strip club. By the time I got old enough, I had to go to that one up the street. I heard this place was the bomb.”

  “The bomb? What are you, twelve? That is such an eighties saying,” Carlson said with a laugh. “The new place sucks compared to when TNT was here. That was the greatest strip club in the area. The dancers were super-hot and super-friendly if you know what I mean.”

  Wainwright laughed and nodded. “Tell me more.”

  “Dude, there was one dancer there—what a fine ass she had on her—and big, bouncy titties, you know?”

  Wainwright put his flashlight away and laughed, staring at his partner with a shit-eating grin on his face. “Uh huh.”

  “One night, I paid her three dollars for a fuck in the dressing room,” Carlson said.

  “Bullshit.”

  “No lie.” Carlson smiled. “How the fuck you think you got here?”

  It took Wainwright a second to get the slight. “Fuck you, asshole.”

  Carlson was laughing. “I kept telling her, no more, Stripper Wainwright, no more.”

  “That’s her married name, idiot. Her maiden name was Stohls.”

  “Off my big dick, Stripper Stohls, off my dick.”

  Wainwright went to punch his partner on the arm when he stopped. “What’s the matter?”

  Officer Carlson had frozen, his face blank, as he stared into the weeds.

  “Dude, this is stupid. What are you looking at?”

  Carlson unclipped his holster and put a hand on his service revolver. He lifted his other hand and pointed. “There.”

  “Where?” Wainwright turned his flashlight back on and pointed the beam, but it wouldn�
��t penetrate more than three feet into the lot. He unclipped his holster.

  “I’ll cover you,” Carlson said. “Go.”

  “Is this some fucking prank? Did Sam and Jimmy put you up to this? I go into the overgrowth, and one of them jumps out at me? Because I swear to God, I’ll be pissed off. I might even shoot one of them.” For emphasis, Wainwright withdrew his gun. “Swear to God.”

  Carlson didn’t move as he kept pointing. “Go now,” he finally said. “Hurry.”

  “Don’t rush me.” Wainwright took three steps and stopped, scanning with the flashlight. “I don’t even know what I’m looking for.”

  “He’s there.”

  “Who?” Wainwright asked, but when he turned back to his partner, he was gone. “Not funny. Not funny at all.”

  He stood there, scanning the deserted street and the vacant lot for signs of Carlson, sure he was going to jump out and try to scare him at any moment. “We’re not in middle school anymore. I will shoot you if you fuck with me.”

  Wainwright didn’t know what to do. The pointing had been a diversion for some reason, but after three full minutes of doing nothing, he didn’t think this was a stupid prank anymore. “Where did you go?” he said quietly.

  He heard a gunshot around the corner on Chelsea Avenue.

  By the time he ran around and cleared the lot, the patrol car came into view, and the second shot was fired.

  “Holy shit,” he muttered and automatically trained his gun on Carlson’s head.

  Carlson turned slowly from the patrol car where Officers Jonas and Potter had both been shot at point-blank range in the head. He pointed his weapon at Wainwright.

  “Drop it,” Wainwright yelled. From the corner of his vision, he could see Potter slumped over the steering wheel, blood splashing onto the dashboard.