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I arrived early for a 1:00 pm drop on the corner of Tanglewood and Lamont. The intersection was congested, the late Friday lunch crowd scurrying like rats from one restaurant to another. The search for an empty two-top was on.
“Good luck without a reservation,” I mumbled. I leaned against a brick wall, lit a cigarette and stole a drag. And another. Just enough time for small pleasures. Cool menthol excited my taste buds. Sweet smoke burned my lungs and billowed out my nostrils like a dragon in a kid’s storybook. Only problem was I quit smoking two weeks ago. Oh, well. At five past, a cook from Antonio’s, our crew's favorite haunt, lumbered out. He had dark curly hair and wore a white apron marred with grease and marinara. He placed a plastic trash bag on the sidewalk and shuffled off. The bag had a large bouquet sprouting from it: roses, lilies, baby’s breath. It was easily a forty dollar arrangement. Perfect for the missus. What a waste. I adjusted the white rose in the lapel of my black suit and sauntered over to the bag like I had all the time in the world. I didn't. Three blocks away, on Hanover Street, a blue car was waiting for my 1:15 delivery. The cops had eyes on Antonio's, so my boss, Tony “Boots,” concocted an elaborate plan: flowers, black suits and multiple drop sites. Theatrics. “Everyone on the team has been hand-picked,” Tony had said. Challenge was, he left out some important things about his plan. And he did it on purpose. “You won’t know everyone involved,” he had said. “And you’ll only know your piece of the puzzle. That way you can’t screw me over or go to the cops.” I wanted to tell Tony where to shove his plan, but I decided against it. I was broke, not stupid. Afterall, Tony was an established hood with a nasty reputation. Even his nickname, Tony “Boots,” had an ugly backstory. It wasn’t just that he always wore designer dress boots. Leather to the ankle, with the zipper on the side. No, he really got the name because if you crossed him, he’d give you the proverbial boot. That could mean a hard kick to the ribs or a one-way jaunt down the Scarborough River. It all depended on how bad you screwed up. Sounds cliché, but that was Tony. Needless to say, I wasn't a fan of Tony’s methods. Especially since I was the mule du jour and the cargo was probably a brick of cocaine, or worse, a guy’s head. “Keep it simple,” was my motto. Less things can go wrong that way. But I was in debt. Horses, cards, dice—you name it. And working it off with Tony was the fastest way to get out from under him. No one wanted to be under Tony. He weighed over two-twenty and looked like a professional wrestler. Besides, planning wasn’t my strong suit. I was a doer. My left hand slipped to my side; I snatched the trash bag and headed south, my heels clicking on the pavement like passing seconds. Before long, an aquamarine coupe filled my view. I walked up to it, deposited the bag in the open trunk as planned, and turned to go. Easy as an after dinner stroll. A few more gigs like this and I’d be flush again. But I didn’t get very far before the driver rushed out. “Hey!” he hollered. “Wait a second.” He had a wiry build and stood a few inches taller than me. He wore a black suit that looked two sizes too small and a white rose in his lapel. I didn’t recognize his face, but we were dressed the same. Exactly as Tony had planned. “Why’d you dump trash in my car?” he said, his face scrunched up like a prune. I stopped and stared at him, my mouth gaping. I’ll be honest, it wasn’t my best look. Then on the opposite side of Hanover Street, I spotted another blue coupe. Its driver was leaning against the passenger door. His name was Mickey, like the mouse. He also wore a black suit, only it fit better, and a white rose through his lapel. I had worked with him a few years back on some small-time shenanigans that didn’t pay off. He waved me over. I grabbed the trash bag from the open trunk. “Sorry, buddy. Wrong car,” I said. “Stop!” the wiry guy replied, flashing a silver badge. He drew a .38 revolver from underneath his jacket. “Police.” My eyes darted left and right. There was nowhere to go or hide. I dropped the bag. It landed on the sidewalk with a thud. Busted. I flicked my cigarette to the curb. Sweat drained from my brow. “What are the odds?” I muttered. Across the street, Mickey slid into his car. I bit the inside of my cheek as he slowly drove away. The undercover cop tossed me his cuffs. “Put these on.” I did. He opened the trash bag with one hand and peered in. “Coke,” he said with a sneer. “Unless you cut a deal, you’re going away for a long time.” Then he grabbed the bouquet, put it up to his nose, and took a deep breath. “Flowers? Nice touch, pal. You shouldn’t have.” I shook my head. “What can I say? I never know when to quit.” © 2025 James Patrick Focarile About the author: James Patrick Focarile is an award-winning writer and Derringer Finalist who resides in the Northwest U.S.A. He holds an undergraduate degree from Rutgers University and an M.F.A. from Brooklyn College. His work has appeared in the following: Shotgun Honey, Mystery Tribune, Guilty Crime Story Magazine, Close To The Bone, Thrill Ride Magazine, and more. For more info, visit: JamesPatrickFocarile.com
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In my twelfth summer, the old man splits. Leaves Mom shattered. Leaves me a little looney, pazzo Uncle Santo says. So, he steps in. “Vengo con me,” he says and drives me to his Texaco station and puts me to work.
For the first few days, he walks me through the things I’ll be doing, watches me and when he’s sure I’ve got it down, he says, “Okay, kid. Don’t screw it up.” For twenty bucks each week, I pump gas, change oil, sweep floors and answer the payphone on the wall when Chickenhead calls in the bets for the horse tracks and numbers game. This last thing is the part I better not screw up. A hot muggy August Tuesday, week of the full moon, Santo’s on vacation. I’m in charge, I’m king of the friggin’ hill. The last thing Uncle Santo says before he takes off is, “Don’t let those dumbass neighborhood guys get in here to work on their cars.” So, don’t you know, Val Teta and a couple of his goons come in. Teta wears a pale pink polo shirt and skin-tight black slacks. He shows off the new tattoo of a panther’s head he got the night before at the carnival, and he tells me he’s gotta work on his T-Bird and needs to put it on the lift. I’m sitting on the edge of the desk in the office, sipping a Coke when he tells me. “No way,” I say. “You do that, and when he comes back, Santo’s gonna kill you and then me.” Val Teta’s about eighteen and taller than me, so he thinks he can push me around. But I’m more scared of Uncle Santo than of Val Teta, so I tell him to screw off. He slaps me, open hand, once, twice, and as he pulls back for a third swipe, I kick at him and my foot hits his chest, leaving an oily smudge on that pretty pink polo shirt. That’s when he clocks me with a right cross above my left eye. Since I’m already on the floor, I grab the Louisville Slugger Santo stashes under his desk, and I come up swinging. I catch Teta on his left shoulder, and he winces. “You think that’s bad, wait till Santo gets home. You’re dead meat.” Val Teta and his cronies leave. I get another icy Coke from the machine and press the bottle against my eye. That’s how my day starts. That’s when Chickenhead calls. Chickenhead is a total lunatic. I mean, how else does a guy get a name like Chickenhead? I don’t know why anybody trusts him. I answer the phone and Chickenhead spits out the bets. “Three horse, fifth race, Saratoga.” Then the numbers guys think will come up for the day. It’s like having a machine gun go off in my ear. Rattle, rattle, tat, tat. I scribble onto a receipt pad while Chickenhead yells over and again, “Ya gettin’ that, kid? Ya got that?” I say, “Gahdammit, Chickenhead, I’ve got it.” “Say it back. Say it back.” I say it back. Get this funny feeling and turn around. A cop stands behind me. For how long? Scared shitless, I picture Uncle Santo in jail and him murdering me when he gets out. “Did you park that Chevy convertible on the street?” the cop asks. A customer left his ’63 SS for an oil change and wash. Every few minutes, I’d move the car from one spot to another, moonstruck from driving the coolest car on the road. “Yeah,” I say. “Had to move it off the lift for the next oil change.” “It’s too close to the hydrant. Better move it.” The cop leaves. Chickenhead’s still on the phone freaking out. “Who’s that? Who? You sure you got that, kid?” “I got it. We done?” Chickenhead hangs up. I move the Impala SS, still scared shitless, waiting to get busted, waiting for Uncle Santo to murder me, waiting, sweating, waiting… For the rest of the day, nothing happens. The next day, too. Customers come in. I pump their gas, check their oil, wash their windshields. In the next few days, I do a couple of oil changes. Val Teta doesn’t come back. The cop doesn’t come back. Saturday night, I close the station at five and pedal my Columbia home, wishing it was a metallic blue Impala SS convertible. By Sunday, I’m not thinking about Val Teta, not thinking about the cop. I’m wishing I had a girlfriend to drive around in my Impala convertible. But Monday’s another day. I wake up, and I’m scared near to death. I gotta tell Uncle Santo what happened. I’ll skip the Val Teta part. Who gives a shit about Val Teta and his prissy pink polo shirt? I walk into the Texaco station. Uncle Santo sits behind the desk. The cop sits in another chair, sipping coffee. What the hell? My knees feel rubbery. “Hey,” I say. “How was the vacation?” I think my voice is shaky. Can’t imagine what I look like ‘cause the two men look at me and laugh like lunatics. “How’d the kid hold up?” Uncle Santo asks the cop. “He never heard me come in. Chickenhead was being Chickenhead. For a second, I thought the kid would shit his pants.” “But he didn’t, did he?” “Nope. He did fine.” I shrug and open the cash register and take out a dime to buy a Coke. I sit on the edge of the desk and drink my Coke, just one of the guys. I think maybe I will tell Uncle Santo how I kicked Val Teta’s ass. © 2025 Nick Di Carlo About the author: When short story/flash fiction writer Nick Di Carlo was asked why he chose to teach in New York State's maximum security penitentiaries, he replied, "I'm making up for all the times I never got caught in my former lives." In this life, the O.G. Di Carlo lives on the cusp of the California desert and encourages aspiring fiction writers over age fifty to tell their stories. |
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