Waving with All Five Fingers
"Seriously, blonde looks stupid on you. What'd you think we are anyways?!" says the greasier one with cigar dangling, the thin pin suit, and sparkling Tissot that I can wickedly hear ticking up against my right ear.
Idiots?
but I say nothing because the stocky sweaty hench-pal with less hair to slick-back to begin with has me by the neck in the creases of his shirt sleeve. The black fabric is all rolled in a bunch at his elbow and wedging double pressure on my thin bare throat. Dampness touches my cheek and I can smell his perspiration-- I'm feeling nauseous.
You said you'd love this color on me and begged me to dye it.
To the right and above, his Bossman's got my dominant hand jammed in an interlock with his, putting sharp tension between every digit, pushing down hard with rings on his fat fingers, while pulling my wrist up over my shoulder. He's using his left hand. I can feel his thumb making an extra pressure point in my palm.
"Yeah, where's yer imaginary boyfriend?" he snears.
Where indeed in retrospect!? Mo-Fo got us into this mess and now it's just me caught out in this alley. Figures. But of course, I'm relieved you're not actually here.
I mouth: "I don't know."
"Speak it up sister. He's late. We'll find him one way or another, so might as well go easy on yah self."
He's pulling out his cigar cutter from his right pants pocket, and I know he's not cutting himself another cuz he just lit the cherry scented one he's got. The ashes are tumbling down the back of my gaping white blouse collar as the wrestle-maniac is adjusting the choke hold on my neck.
If only I hadn't chased the cat.
I always lose my head over cats. Always. Never mind the alley. Ever since I was little.
Checking in with the cat folk, like I was one of them.
Momma: "Yah gonna get fleeaz or rabies.
Don't even think about bringing that dirty thing home."
It was a kitten. It looked hungry. Injured maybe even. Abandoned. You know.
Of course, you'd told me not to go out. Told me a dozen times:
"Hey, we're keeping a low profile."
And I didn't need ask why. Obviously, you didn't want to draw attention in this neighborhood. We're stashing money in the mattresses and cans, scrimping and saving to make a good life in Buenos Aires or Rio. Puce the banks, you said.
"South American, Baby. Tax Free."
Ugh. We ran out of cream for your coffee. I knew how put out you get when we run out. Even though you don't say so. I thought, I'll just run right to the Porte Rican Deli down on the corner like I've done a zillon times. They're open till 1 (in the morning, and here it is not even 10:00). I'd be back by then, and in the morning, you wouldn't even know it.
You'd just smile that sweet sexy grin over your journal and take a smooth grateful sip with that satisfied Ahhhh, and say "Nobody makes coffee like you, Sweetie."
Fph. Now I was in real picklepants. I had foolishly skipped out without my cellphone on account of having no pockets. Otherwise, I likely would have snapped a picture of the kitten and messaged, "Can we keep it??????" (Having already made up my mind.)
Then at least you'd know I was out--eventually. You'd likely id the whereabouts cuz you're so damn good at that. Always finding me when I'm lost. I can never recall the names of streets or take directions... time and again you calm me down with your easy back track: "Honey, take a breath. Then look around. Slowly; now just tell me what you see; and I'll know where you're at..."
A yank brings me to my knees.
"Looks like the Beeeach is opting to lose a finger..." click, click, metal against metal. Must be the ompteenth ring of his right-hand clanking against the cigar cutter. His left hand's clammy and pressing stronger on my raised right, which is starting to go numb in pins and needles.
The trio of us is standing so tight in this darkened alleyway that even if someone were passing by, I'm pretty sure I'd be utterly hidden behind these two.
Mobsters? Con men?
My heart is pounding, and my back is killing me with the bow I'm bent into...
I know when you went into business for yourself you mentioned you'd got a little loan from your Uncle Freddy. I admit it made me uncomfortable when you talked about risk assessment, gains and losses, and anyway I knew nothing about Import and Export. But you reassured me that I do: "You know. Like rugs, lamps, antiques, that sort of thing. Stuff that goes for Big Money."
And when you said No, we wouldn't have to storage anything, that's not how it works with direct dropship, I swallowed my doubts and said:
Alright let's do it.
And we did.
I put down 50% of the half Freddy wouldn't cover. Put in $40K, no chump change, My whole savings. For our future. Surcharges or some other surfeit, things like that come up.. And you said, we'd be partners 50-50.
Evey-Stevey.
My task would be merchandising. Picking the Nice Things. Whatever I felt was sure to sell. "You've got a good eye," you'd said without blinking.
"Where is he? or which finger is it going to be, Pretty?" mockingly of course cuz at this time of night without makeup I look like shit.
But I can't say anything in this death grip.
--I thought in a flash I'd wet my pocketless Capri's...! Yes.
That's what they say you should do right? when assailed, piss off the assailant, or defecate-- whatever, to put them off !
And that's when it happened.
I vomited.
Taken aback the pig let go his elbow with such force it knocked over the main man, also obviously not wanting to get puke on his Armani.
And then I ran.
I knew I couldn't go home if I'd wanted. They'd follow. That's where you were-- Asleep in the ottoman. I left you, with your book still open on your lap-- suspecting nothing, or so I'd thought, when I'd slipped out the back.
No. Of course. I ran to brightly lit Deli. They couldn't follow me there without drawing attention. I had nothing to call the cops about. No real description of faces, or persons, no license plate; nothing to report as missing.
I don't know why. I pulled out Our business card. I dialed the info number. I'd never called "us." I guess I thought I'd leave you a message through there... just in case I didn't make it out of this alive.
"Hello Blackwell Import Export. Buying or selling...?"
I hadn't bargained on a live person.
I recognized that voice.
"Uncle Freddy--?"
"--Where's Steve?"
I look up. The glass in the Bodega is extra clean. I see me dropping the pay phone in the dark night. And you outside, the two goons to the left and right. Sniper tucked under your armpit. Aiming right for my still raised hand. Every finger spreading like a fan in slow Mo.
I cuss-- Fkg-A. you set me up!
Looks like you'll be calling the shots. . .