by Kim Cayer
* * *
Yup, New York is a big city, even to a with-it Toronto girl like me. All the scary stories you hear? Well, they’re all true.
I hadn’t seen Raunda in a couple days so I moseyed on over after work one day. Lo and behold, there was a strange girl working the till.
I approached her. “‘Scuse me, where’s Raunda?”
“Off sick with a throat infection,” I was told.
I hung out and ate a slice of pie, wondering if this girl felt like being my friend. She was more interested in her Us Magazine.
Feeling restless, I decided to wander over to the donut shop. Lo and behold, Petie and Andre weren’t there. I sat at the counter and ordered the usual. I always started off with a blueberry-filled donut. “So where’re the boys?” I asked Muriel.
Muriel was a bitch. “Oh, they got some fancy deal cooking with some low-life.” I didn’t think anyone could get any lower than Andre. “Andre says he has girls all over town, but who does he come to for money all the time? Me!” I sort of wanted to say that wasn’t true; I’d loaned Andre about three grand so far. Muriel was probably glad I was there. She had an ear to grind to the ground. “I know they’re up to no good. They’ll end up shot or in jail. I should just drop that man for good.” I thought so too, but I know that’s not what Muriel wanted to hear. She wanted me to say how wonderful Andre actually was and how lucky she was to have him, but I didn’t want to go to hell with such lies.
Instead, I decided to leave. I could go home but I had nothing to do there. I’d seen Silvio the night before and nothing was consummated, so I decided to ask him if I could hang out with him. Making sure no one saw me, I ducked into Mascots. Even at 7 p.m., the place was filled. I looked into the deejay booth but there was some strange man with a straw up his nose in there. That wasn’t unusual. Silvio didn’t work every day but he usually hung around the place on his time off. I approached one of the strippers. “Excuse me, Miss Nude Scranton? Have you seen Silvio around?”
“Silvio?” she mused. “The guy with the scar?” I nodded. “No, he hasn’t been in today.” Someone beckoned her over with a $10 bill and after informing me she hated Neil Sedaka music, she went over.
Well, so much for Silvio. I didn’t know where he lived. I didn’t even have his phone number. Come to think of it, I didn’t even know his last name. I guess I had to go home after all.
Or did I? It was still so early still. Maybe it was time to make another friend. I liked the thought. I started walking around the streets of New York, trying to decide who to bestow my appreciation on. A kid whizzed past me on a skateboard, catching my elbow. I saw a group of them in a parking lot and walked over.
No one had hair. There were enough safety pins in their clothes to diaper all the babies in New York. Intuition told me they were skinheads. I eavesdropped on a couple kids and the conversation was all about glue and if they should pierce a second hole in their tongue. I was wondering if I was too old for the skinhead scene when an androgynous type approached me. “Whaddaya think you’re looking at, lady?” Yeah, too old. I continued my walk.
I found myself in Times Square, as good a place to meet people as anywhere else. Sure enough, there was someone I sort of knew, the alternate deejay at Mascot’s. Still feeling a pang for poon tang, I walked up to him. He was into a heavy conversation with a guy that looked like he was a bodyguard for a living.
“Hi! I hate to interrupt, but I sort of know you…” I began.
“From where?” the deejay was quick to ask.
“Mascots?” I replied. “I’m Silvio’s…one of Silvio’s girlfriends. You haven’t seen him, have you?”
The deejay and the bodyguard exchanged a look. The deejay became very nice to me. “Well, it just so happens I’ll be seeing him in a bit. If you can do me a favor, I’ll make sure he gets a message.”
A favor? “What kind of favor?”
“I’ve gotta deliver this briefcase to a friend, but I’ve got no time,” the deejay said. “If you’ll drop the case off and meet me back here in an hour, I’ll be able to tell you where to find Silvio.”
Sounded like a good deal. Besides, I had nothing else to do. “Sure,” I agreed.
“You’re a nice lady,” the deejay said. “I’ll have to tell Silvio that. OK, just deliver this to Bruno at 4344 Sixth. Got that?”
“Bruno. 4344 Sixth,” I repeated, taking the briefcase. “See you in an hour.”
“I’m counting on you now,” the deejay said. Aaaww, he was kind of cute when he said that. I gave him a flirtatious wave good-bye and headed off to Bruno’s.
Sixth Avenue wasn’t too far away. En route, I passed one of those restaurants that has loud music and a dance floor. I guess if you wanted to pass the time between courses, you could always take a whirl on the dance floor. I slowed as I passed the window. The place was filled with pretty people all my age. Everyone was having a good time.
I was drawn in. Just a quick coffee, I thought. I needed a dose of handsome men to look at. I wished they’d look at me. I sat at a seating for two and placed my order. I let my shoulders move to the music; a slight indication that I was in the mood to dance should anyone be interested.
Curiosity overcame me. I kept looking at the briefcase and wondering what it held. Oh, for Pete’s sake, it was just a briefcase. Bruno probably forgot his work at the office. Bruno was most likely the manager of the strip joint. I wondered what they paid those strippers? I know they made a killing off table dancing alone. Hhmmm, would the briefcase contents tell?
I put the case on the table in front of me and snapped it open. There was today’s newspaper. Well, something to read while I drank my coffee. I pulled it out and underneath the newspapers were all these bags.
Bags of white powder. I stared at them, my mind trying to register something. Numbly, my brain ticked away, then like a bolt…COCAINE!
“Here’s your coffee,” my waitress said.
I slammed the case shut. I was scared to touch it, lest it spill open. The case took up the entire table top. “Your coffee, ma’am?” I was reminded.
“Yes, uhhh….” Why was I panting? “Just set it on top.” The waitress shrugged her shoulders and placed the cup and saucer on top of the briefcase. “Will there be anything else?” she further asked.
I had to think. And I always thought better on a full stomach. “Uh…just bring me the pasta special.” I don’t even like pasta that much, which just goes to show you I wasn’t thinking clearly.
My coffee remained untouched. My mind was repetitively racing…I’m carrying cocaine…I’ve got cocaine on me…someone gave me cocaine to deliver…this is cocaine under my cup…
Besides that, my personal seating area looked a mess. The newspaper had fallen apart around my feet when it dropped from my fingers. I would have put it back into the case but I was too petrified to open it. I ate my pasta off the briefcase too.
My hour went by and I still hadn’t moved. I couldn’t sit there forever, I thought, but I could sit for another hour and decided what to do. The waitress took away my dishes and a busboy came over to wipe the top of my briefcase. I wondered if he was a narc. I had to get out of that restaurant! I furtively glanced around; no one was looking. Quickly I snapped the case shut, threw money down for my meal and was gone in under 15 seconds. I was become paranoid, and I don’t even use cocaine.
What to do? What to do? I walked the streets for a while, clutching the case as if I were carrying the Lindberg baby. No one paid me any heed though, and I finally figured out that as I was still in my fancy work duds, a briefcase didn’t look too out of the ordinary. I relaxed my hold and my facial muscles. Still, I couldn’t help thinking…I’ve got cocaine on me…I’m carrying cocaine…
I eventually ended up in Central Park. I meandered in a daze for a while until I spotted a park bench. Sitting down, I told myself, ‘THINK!” What I was carrying was contraband, therefore a crime, and therefore, being a fairly good citizen, I should report it to the authorities.<
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A man sat next to me. He was about 45, carrying his own briefcase. He looked at me then quietly said, “You lookin’? Want weed? Hash?”
I stood up, quite affronted, and walked away.
At the park entrance I saw a police officer and ran over to him. Relief was in sight.
He looked at me when I reached him and simply said, “What?” He didn’t look to be having a good day.
I opened my mouth and then snapped it shut. What was I going to say? “Hello, sir. I’m carrying a briefcase full of cocaine. Would you care to take it off my hands?” I’m sure those handcuffs would be snapped on sooner than you could say Ma Parker.
So I opened my mouth again and dumbly asked, “Is this Central Park?”
“Yeah,” the man in blue replied.
“Thank you,” I said and walked away from the park. It was all I could do not to run like mad.
Raunda! Maybe she’d want it! She liked her drugs. It was quite dark out already but I headed to her home-turf, deep in the heart of Harlem. I hated that area; I was such a stand-out. I wished I were a hooker. I wished I were a junkie. Just being black would have been an advantage.
The more I thought about it, the more I knew Raunda would like the ‘present’ I brought her. I rushed up the three flights of piss-stained stairs to Raunda’s flat and started banging on her door. A little peephole slid open. Raunda’s voice came to me. “Alice? What are you doing here?”
Just let me in already!! “I brought you a present. I heard you were sick.”
The door locks sounded and Raunda opened the door. “I got a real bad throat infection. I can hardly swallow. What’d you bring me?”
“Drugs!” I triumphantly said, muscling my way into the flat.
Her eyes lit up. “Really? Real drugs like smoke, or drugstore drugs?”
“Cocaine,” I said, thrusting the case at her.
“Cocaine? Why’d you bring me coke? I don’t touch that shit. Why didn’t you bring me some smoke?” Raunda whined. So much for gratitude. “Well, maybe I can trade it with Sugar for some weed.” I handed her the case. “Why are you giving me your briefcase?”
“That’s the coke.”
“What?!” Raunda exclaimed. She flipped the latches and just stared at the mounds of coke. “Alice, I know you’re rich, but you’re not a millionaire. Where’d you get this?”
I was going to lie but the truth tumbled out. Raunda was really pissed off. “So you figured you’d dump the stuff on me? Well, I don’t want it. Give it to someone else, but not me. I want it out of my place NOW. God, you’re so hick, Alice. Don’t you think you might be in some trouble by now?”
Oh, wow. I didn’t even think about that. Raunda shut the case and opened the door. “Sorry, Alice, but until you fix this situation, you’d better not come around here. We’ve already had three murders in the building this year.” The door’s locks couldn’t lock fast enough behind me.
I headed back to Times Square. I hoped the deejay would be waiting for me although I was over three hours late for our appointment. I waited in the shadows of the sex-shop where I’d earlier seen him. Some guy passed me, gave me a long look, then raced to a pay phone. Call it paranoia, call it intuition, but I left in a hurry.
I walked over to Mascots. Please, deejay, be there and take this stuff off my hands. I walked into the deejay booth and there was my Silvio.
“Silvio! I need your help,” I said, starting to cry a little.
“Alice! Fuck, you’re in such shit right now. What’d you do with the COKE, MAN?” Not even a hello kiss.
“It’s right here,” I meekly said, holding the briefcase out to him. He withdrew as if I’d handed him a live grenade.
“Get it OUT of here!” Silvio shrilled. “If you get busted with that, the club will close down, I’ll lose my job…I’m not even supposed to be working tonight, but Vince is out looking for you. Bruno’s looking for you. Fuck, half the scum in New York is looking for you.”
“What should I do with it?” I whimpered. I was so tired of this dilemma.
“You dumb cunt!” Silvio yelled, and I could tell it wasn’t the dirty talk he used in my bed. “What were you supposed to do with it in the FIRST place?”
“Give it to Bruno,” I correctly answered.
“So DO it. I don’t even want to see you until this blows over. Fuck, you’re so stupid! You’re dead meat, Alice.” He shook his head. “You KNOW, you told Vince you were my girlfriend. So if you don’t deliver, they’re going to ask me where you live. I’ll have to tell them.”
Why did I have a sneaking suspicion he’d already told them? I left for Sixth Avenue.
4344 Sixth Avenue was an import business. Made sense, I thought. I was six hours late in delivering. Of course there was a sign reading ‘Closed’; it was the middle of the night. Still, I could see a few burly types standing around inside. I timidly knocked on the door.
An ex-boxer opened the door. “I’m looking for Bruno,” I said and was promptly yanked in. That sort of told me I was in deep trouble. I had to come up with a good story if I didn’t want to end up swimming with the fishes. “Take it easy!” I yelled. “I just came from the hospital!”
A wizened old man croaked from the corner. “I’m Bruno. Where’s the case?”
“Right here,” I said. “Don’t you want to know what happened to me?”
“Check if it’s all there, Fingers,” Bruno commanded.
“See, I was on my way over here, but this car ran a red…”
“Looks OK, Boss,” Fingers said. No, I snorted a kilo on the way over. Of course it was all there.
“I’m OK now, but they thought I’d fractured….”
“You don’t know how lucky you are to be alive,” Bruno said.
“I know! I was pretty shaken up at….”
“Hatchet, call off the dogs,” the don said. “Look, lady, you don’t know me and you don’t know where to find me. Got that?” Bruno was being silly, I thought. He was Bruno at 4344 Sixth Ave.
His tone of voice told me that I’d better play along though. “Sure, Bruno.”
He gave me a long look then said, “She can live.” Nah, he must have said “she can leave”. I walked to the door and no one tried to stop me. I opened it as my back tensed for a hail of bullets. None came. I walked out, went around the corner and pissed my pants.
Something told me I shouldn’t go home for a couple days. Happy to be alive, I checked into the fanciest Holiday Time Hotel I could find. After bolting my door and putting a chair under the doorknob, I crawled into bed and reviewed the night’s events.
How did it all start anyways? Because Ms. Alice wasn’t happy with the friends she had, she had to go looking for more. See what trouble you caused yourself? Maybe I didn’t have the most desirable friends in the world, but they were my friends nonetheless. So Raunda was a pot-fiend who took advantage of my wealth; so my donut-shop cronies were a bit boring; so Silvio made me lick his toes after he’d worn the same socks for a week. They accepted me as I was and I appreciated that.
If only I’d known them longer, I could have told them that.
CHAPTER FOUR
Beluga Gotyerdinski committed suicide. No, not the character. She was too big an audience draw. The actress playing her, Valerie Krymkyw, went out in grand dramatic style.
Valerie Krymkyw was no dummy. She may have had that appearance but she knew her worth. She got paid the big bucks and received star treatment. She had it all, except for looks. So this morning her limo driver goes to pick her up and she’s not her customary 15 minutes late. He gave her a few more minutes then had the doorman let him into her apartment.
It wasn’t a pretty sight. Valerie was in a silk peignoir, face painted, hair to die for. Blood ran down her arms in already coagulated rivers. There was a rose by her face and she was holding a scroll tied with pink ribbon. At the foot of the bed was a mound of paper which turned out to be the day’s shooting script on Tomorrow Will Come. She’d been dead for hours from s
evere razor nick.
The limo driver knew a good thing when he saw it. Before calling the studio, he called the press. Someone from the press suggested he call the cops. By the limo driver’s misplaced priorities, the paparazzi had a great stroke of luck. They found Valerie Krymkyw’s suicide letter.
Dear Shelby, the letter began. Shelby was her personal secretary who worked out of her apartment. Shelby said he tried to phone in sick that day but she’d apparently already left (in a big way) so he simply left a message at the studio.
Darling, the letter continued, you know me – I’m the most together person you could ever hope to find, definitely not the type to commit suicide. However, I’ve been letting Beluga get to me. That poor thing! I’m well aware that it’s only make-believe,“ Sez who, I wondered? Excuse me, please, continue reading her death throes letter, but some nights I come home so depressed. One week I had two abortions! Oh, I mean to say, Beluga did. Tomorrow’s script calls for her fiancé to leave her for another man! When will this poor character’s suffering stop? She just lost another fiancé two months ago! People see me on the street and commiserate with me. I just can’t go through with tomorrow’s show. Please, the writers MUST kill off Beluga. No woman should have a life like that. Well, I had to agree with her there. OK, OK, we’re coming to the final stretch anyways. I had to do this, Shelby. It’s Beluga’s only salvation. Please make sure you call the press but don’t talk to the Post. They said I was terrible in Sunset Sinner, the last movie I appeared in and I’ll never forgive them for that. And try to get me on the cover of People. You’ve been a dear, Shelby, and my will shall reflect that. Say good-bye to Beluga! Farewell, all! Love, Valerie Krym—bloodstain. I imagine she’d signed her full name but her blood blotted it out. I don’t know – it was one of the photos displayed in the newspapers.