A Vengeance Not Feared

         Under a sky the color of spent brass, Charlie Velkz left the out-take gate of Matamore State Prison behind, walking with a limp, sure, but walking out a free man. He passed guards coming and going on shift-change. He knew some of the screws, and some of them nodded in recognition. He didn’t nod back.

         He couldn’t then see what was building on the outside for him, just as he hadn’t seen what was coming that sent him to prison the first time. See, Charlie had this thing going for him, and generally speaking, you’d call this thing an abiding ability to attract the wrong element of society.

         Charlie wasn’t the classic screwup, and he wasn’t an unintelligent man, not at all. The time in Vietnam as an Army EOD troop showed him to be smarter than a lot of other guys. And he lived to tell the tale, but the worse for wear. He just didn’t see how things could go bad for him. Bad. And then worse than bad.

         As a consequence, those wrong elements used Charlie like a government mule, and, now, at Charlie’s advancing age, he really didn’t have the time left to screw around with another jolt. He’d tell himself, all the time he’d listen, “Charlie, don’t be a schmuck.” But did he listen good? No, as in not at all. He’d just smile that Charlie-smile of his, good as saying, “It’s all good. Don’t worry, be happy.” Like that stupid song.

         On release day, back in the world, he thought that life outside was going to be just one gloriously sun-shiny day at the beach. I mean, he was going to get taken care of, right? After stacking time and ratting nobody out, he was going to get his reward, right? At least that’s what he told the voice in his head kept calling him dumbass yardbird for the longest.



         Peter Alcandre, Esquire, was the wrong element that Charlie ran for that day he got out, and later, when it got going good, the lawyer saw that Charlie’s propensity to see the upside was going to work out just fine, because Alcandre had a plan.

         Alcandre was the lawyer that was Charlie’s shyster on the first go-round, when he went up for the Savings & Loan job. Em Weems, who ran that side of what you’d call the organizational ladder and bossed Jo-Jo Jimmers’ crew, had hired Alcandre to lawyer at Charlie’s trial, just to make sure Charlie’d keep what he knew to himself; not be broadcasting on court days, making sure that Em’s good name wouldn’t be sullied by something so base as a bank heist. Charlie didn’t sing, but he got convicted, and then got hit with a sentence like a hod-load of bricks dropped from two stories up; hit so hard that he looked concussed as they put the bracelets back on him, took him away. Alcandre sent word to Charlie while he was awaiting transfer upstate to Matamore, told him what a good guy he was to man-up for Em, and just what awaited him upon release . . . lots more money than the job had brought in to begin with, big score, enough to retire on, lie on the beach, work on his tan. In the meantime, Alcandre told him, “Just hang tight; we’re working the appeal angle . . . maybe got a judge who can help all that through. Who knows? New trial, mistrial, dismissal of all charges. Just hang tight, Charlie.”

         And tight Charlie did hang, more like twisting in the wind if you ask me, until finally there was no more time left to serve, even though they’d added two years on account of Charlie getting shanked. Get this: Charlie’s washing out the garbage cans on the back dock of the prison mess building, making sure they’re just so, when some punk on the detail jumps him, sticks him so good in the back and leg that he limps now, then the punk runs around the dock hollering about how he’s going to finish Charlie next time.

         So how is that Charlie’s beef? He’s the one laying there bleeding like a stuck hog. Who the fuck knows, but next thing, Charlie’s got the deuce added. Insult to injury, stabber-boy gets sent for Psy Eval; comes back he’s a little crazy. Like who doesn’t know that? And what kind of extra bounce does he pull? Two years, same as Charlie. Fucking punk.

         Big Happy Ending, though. Seems punk had some lye added to the Pruno he traded for with another con; went down smooth, like swallowing a barbed wire fireball. Came back up the same way. Of course he had to have some help swallowing that first big gulp. Tries hollering now through one of those holes they cut in your neck for breathing, trakey-something. Another time, Charlie just missed being brained by a steel bed-base bar wielded by a con on Charlie’s block who was high on guard-supplied dope. Had to break the con’s knee in a couple of places to get him to stop. Then had to break the other one, front and back. Stubborn, I guess. Ad Seg for five months for Charlie that time, self-defense and all. Twenty-three hours a day in a solitary cell, one hour out for exercise. Guy was a magnet for assholes, looked like.

         Anyhow, Charlie’s out, and making his way downtown on the bus, heading to see his old lawyer pal, Alcandre; get the hookup, get the dough he’s been waiting on.

         Up on the 8th floor of the Fine Building, Alcandre’s office was distinctly new world, none of that clubby wood bullshit. Lots of glass and chrome, shiny as a disco ball. And Alcandre’s secretary, gal with a dress that didn’t look nothing like the ones Charlie’d seen back in the day, had a small solid Lucite name plate on her desk: “Dorita,” it read. More importantly right then, was that the dress showed off the high-beams pointing Charlie’s way.

         Charlie took a look at her, said, “Means gift of God, doesn’t it?”

         Secretary Dorita looked puzzled. “Excuse me?” she said.

         Charlie said, “Your name . . . Dorita.” Pointed to the plate. “Means gift of God in Greek, right?”

         She tried to hide a dimpled smile. “Where did you hear

that? I’m not Greek. I’m Cuban; can’t you tell the difference?”

         Charlie was enjoying the smile, didn’t want to see it fade away, said, “I learned it at the . . .,” he paused. “The school I was at, and yeah, I guess I can see it, your pretty olive skin, but the way you look, doesn’t matter which hemisphere you’re from.”

         Playing a little, still enjoying the view.

         She met his eyes, still smiling, “Sorry you came all the way down; you should have called first. Mr. Alcandre isn’t in the office today. He’s out of town for a few vacation days.” Charlie grinned back: “What’s he doing, video-taping the asbestos con or that one about the fat drug on TV?”

         Then he came back a little, said, “How am I going to do that, phone? There aren’t any pay phones that work out there where I came from. Barely any even in one piece. Mr. Alcandre knew I was getting out. Why’d he take off today?”

         Dorita put another little grin on her feline face. No answer, just a quick dip of her head, then a shrug.

         Charlie said, “When will he be back? He’s got something for me. Didn’t leave it with you, huh? A package, maybe?”

         “No package, Mr. Velkz. Mr. Alcandre told me he’d call when he was on his way back, so I really can’t help you.” Sounding a little pissy, but maybe just sassy. Charlie was a sucker for sassy; always was.

         “Where’d he go to? You can call him for me . . . about the package of mine he’s holding? I could talk to him on the phone; go see him where he is.”

         “I don’t know where he is, or actually when he’s coming back, either. He said he’d call me, so I’ll wait for him to call. And I really have to get back to work now.” There wasn’t anything on her desk to work on; clean like the ice on a Zamboni-ed hockey rink.

         “When he calls in, tell him I’m waiting on my package, huh? I’ll be at The Ringgold, downtown.” Charlie watched as she didn’t make any move to take down the note. “You got that? The Ringgold, downtown.”

         “Yes, Mr. Velkz, I have it, and Mr. Alcandre will get your message when he calls.” It was almost a purr.



         Charlie took the bus downtown; not enough cash for a cab, and damn sure not enough to stay at The Ringgold. But if Alcandre thought he was at the hotel, he might be impressed enough to give the call, or better yet, show up,  wondering where the money came from that Charlie would need for those swell digs at The Ringgold.

         Charlie stepped off the bus at 33rd and 3rd, walked two blocks over and two blocks down, pushed though the gothic-arched door and into the dim interior of Waldo’s, an old-time saloon complete with a long mahogany bar and a mirrored, bottle-filled back-bar that looked more ornately Victorian than anything else in Waldo’s, unless you were thinking of the ages of most the clientele. W’s wasn’t known to attract the Yups, and the X-ers and Millineums were too uptown to drift down that far into Indian Country just to drink. W’s had all the right stuff, though, plenty of upholstered stools pushed up to the brass-railed bar, several booths for two and four, a couple of pool tables towards the rear, a killer jukebox stocked with gut-bucket, Delta, and old Chicago blues, but most importantly, Waldo himself. This version of Waldo had inherited the place from his old man, also Waldo, but no one had ever called anybody Big or Little, Senior or Junior, Pops or The Kid. Just Waldo.

         Just Waldo was sitting by himself in a booth on the right side, staring into his coffee cup, and then looking up, saw Charlie coming through the bar toward him, little limp he had. Charlie had the small sewn canvas ditty-bag that made the trip out of Matamore with him, a “gift” of the State. Nice. Then again, Charlie had worked in the prison sweatshop making ten or twenty thousand of the ditties that the State paid him twenty-one cents an hour for, and then the State was happy to sell back the gift to the out-going newly minted ex-cons at $8.50 plus tax apiece before release.

         “Charles,” Waldo said. “Long time, no see.”

         “Yeah, time flies, Waldo.” Charlie stood over Waldo,  who nodded, Charlie sliding in on the other side of the booth from the big man. They dapped fists, Waldo shaking his head slightly. “When you out? Want something to drink?”

         “Just now, Waldo. Came back to see if anybody was still alive I knew. And yeah, I could use a beer.” Waldo put up the stumps of two fingers to where the Ukrainian barkeep behind the stick could see them, made a little “come here” motion.

         The Uke nodded, and Waldo said, “Couple, maybe, old timers. Guys you knew, some gone for good, some renting housing in the state system. You seen ‘em up at Mata, maybe? Not a whole bunch of them guys around still in the entrepreneurial businesses you might remember.” “Businesses” sounded like “bidnezzez.”

         Waldo started whistling Dylan: “The Times They Are A’Changing.”

         “No offense, W.,” Charlie said, “But you still can’t whistle for shit.”

         The Uke brought the drinks, something dark and  Jameson-18-Year-Irish-smelling in the coffee cup, and a frozen schooner of San Miguel Cerveza Negra that he slid over to Charlie. The Uke turned back, headed to the bar.

         Waldo said, “No offense taken.” And then, “To the good times; whenever the hell they were.” The two touched cup and mug together.

         Charlie said, “Thanks, Waldo,” took a long pull of the beer. “That’s good. Been a while. San Miguel, am I right? I used to drink it with the Pinoys when I was on R&R. Your Dad always had this on tap too, didn’t he? Makes me think of those good times back in the jungle, looking for the bad guys and the shit they were trying to blow us up with. Those must have been the good times you were talking about, right?” He made a little grimace, shifted in the booth, then toasted in the direction of the bar: “And you too, friend.” The Uke was back behind the mahogany; looked like a granite-slabbed version of Jack Palance playing the bad guy in Shane.

         Waldo grinned, “I can see by your choice of luggage that you’re traveling light. Why the visit to your old buds?”

         “Thought you might know where I can get Em Weems’ on the line. He might talk to the lawyer about a package I’m looking for. I went to Alcandre’s office, but he isn’t there; don’t know when he’s coming back. Em will probably know how to get him.”

         “Weems.” Waldo made a face that looked like he was passing a stone. “What the fuck you want him for? Dog shit on my shoe has more charm than that cheating numbnuts.”

         “Like I said, Em can get to the lawyer, that’s all.”

         “You remember Weems being all ‘here’s-my-pussy-go ahead-and-use-it’ nice to you before you went away? I don’t sees how he helped you any since. Me, I’d probably take that the wrong way. And him and that crap pile Jimmers? Like two vultures on a ten-day-dead skunk. Trust those guys? Like, not ever.”

         “It’s not about a trust deal no more. Can you get him for me, Waldo, or no? I’ll take your advice about hanging with him or not after I get my package. He’s the guy I got to deal with right now, though, ‘cause he can get to the lawyer.” Charlie waited while the big man took a delicate sip from the cup.

         “Here’s a number. Pay phone’s in the back by the head, same as always. Don’t tell him you’re here, and don’t tell the guy you talk to I gave you a number. I don’t want that  maggot Weems coming around here, giving my place a dose of the clap.”

         “Thanks, Waldo; I owe you. Got a dime?”

         “Dime? What the fuck is that? Half a buck now, and they got you on time. Don’t talk too long, else they cut you off. Here’s two quarters; keep the change.”

         Waldo made a couple of other financial and lifestyle arrangements for Charlie, then Charlie made the call to Waldo’s friend. An hour later Charlie got a call from Alcandre on a cell phone Charlie’d bought at the bodega on 35th, up from Waldo’s. The little phone gave a squawk, lit up, and Charlie pressed the green button like Waldo had shown him. “Hello?”

         Alcandre’s voice sounded crinkly through the phone, like he was talking from down in a well up through tin-foil. “Charlie? How’s it going, my man?” Sounding like it was Old Home Week. “I didn’t know you were out; nobody told me. Where are you?”

Charlie squeezed the phone a bit, took in a breath, said, “I was supposed to meet you at your office when I got out. That’s what you said. That’s what we talked about before I got out.”

         “Dorita must have my appointment book screwed up. Dorita, my secretary.”

         “I met her. She’s real nice. Must be fun working with her.”

         Alcandre, a little hitch in his voice, “When was that you met her, Charlie? Today? Why didn’t she call me, let me know you were in town? I gotta have a talk with her, screwing up like that, not letting me know.”

         “She said you were going to call her when you were on your way back; that she didn’t have a number for you.”

         “Oh, well . . . anyway, here we are, Charlie. So what can I do for the newest free man in town?”

         Charlie said, “Do? I think give is the right word, Mr. Alcandre. You are going to give me a package, remember? The package for my time in the jug.”

         “Oh, that. Charlie, I have a little bad news on that investment of yours. It took a hit. Sometimes investments go South; that’s just a fact of life in the market.”

         “I didn’t invest in any stock market stuff, Mr. Alcandre, I don’t buy stocks and bonds. The package I’m talking about here was just some 20’s and 50’s, a few Ben’s, sizeable amount then, and what with interest and all, maybe 200-250K by now.”

         “Now, Charlie, that isn’t it at all. We all took a shave in ’09 with the market, and that investment was never going to be above fifty . . . maybe seventy-five tops, with the commissions, and fees, and all.

         “I remember the principal we started with, Mr. Alcandre, and it was more than that, a lot more. You told me so. And you told me that it was going to compound for each of the quiet years I was away, so now, all these quiet years later, it should be at least two hundred. So when do I get it?”

         “Charlie, I just told you, there was a crash; surely you heard about it up . . .”

         Charlie cut him off, “Cash doesn’t crash, Mr. Alcandre. When? When can I pick it up? Today would be good.”

         “No Charlie. I’ll call you when we can talk again. In the meantime, you’re staying at The Ringgold, right?”

         Charlie, smiling the Charlie-smile, said, “Mr. Alcandre, I’ll see you in a little.”

         “Wait a minute, Charlie; wait...”

         Charlie pushed the red disconnect button.

         Little static hiss.

         Didn’t matter, though. The red button had been pushed. When that happens, certain launch codes are

non-cancellable, no fail-safe to bring back the shit-storm heading outbound.



         Em Weems was listening to the lawyer.

         “Em, Charlie Velkz is out, and looking for money.”

         “Who?”

         “Charlie Velkz, was with the crew in the 80’s. 90’s; you know, doin' time up at Mata?”

         “Yeah, Ok, sure, Charlie, that Charlie. Guy is a very lucky dude, what with Matamore so fraught with danger from other cons. You were supposed to be fixing that, ‘member?

         “Em, I paid more than 10 large to have the Charlie problem seen to. You know that. It just didn’t happen, couple of times we tried, remember, and Velkz is here now.”

         “So, he’s your problem, not mine. We worked that all out before, so take care of the problem.”

         “Em, uh, the money? That deal you had me buy into, the one with the union? It’s in the shitter, and couldn’t come back with CPR and shock-paddles. So where are we going to get the money to pay Velkz?”

         “It’s not ‘we,’ it’s you, Pancho.”

         Alcandre stiffened at the jibe. “Em, my name isn’t Pancho, it’s Peter, and I don’t have the money to give him.”

         “Again, not my problem . . . Pietro. How’s my Italian? I been taking lessons.”

         Alcandre thought: OK, but we’re in together on it, asshole, then worked the line tight, set the hook, going all uptown silk-stocking lawyer, telling the lie: “Em, Charlie was talking about the ADA, Whistler. I got it that he was going to pow-wow with her if he didn’t get his pension from us. You know she’s hot for the DA’s gig; been running by saying she’s not running for months. She’d love to get a good long look at you, Em. God Forbid.”

         “So pay him.”

         “Again, I don’t have it even if I emptied out the firm’s escrow accounts.”

         “So get it somewhere. I gotta go.” Little click, then gone.

         Alcandre stared absently at the phone in his hand; just then lost in thought, in another place.



         Waldo said to Charlie, “This is Malloy’s boy, Terry. Been doing the deal in Fuck-ghanistan. Good kid, blowing up shit that the towel-heads are trying to blow us up with, just like the old days, but without the jungle rot. Spec-5, like you were, Charlie, except with about a hundred more IQ points.”

         Terry, a buzz-cut blond kid, tatted-up with the OED Wreath and Lightning high-up on his left arm, but missing everything below the elbow, looked across at Charlie with keen blue eyes. “Waldo said you might need a hand with something,” he said.

         Charlie tilted his head a little, smiled the Charlie-smile. “How you doing? Been back long?”

         “I’m alright. August.”

         “What happened to your face?”

         “Same thing that happened to the arm. Accident on a roadside. Took a hit.” The hot pink scar ran almost vertically from up in his hairline down across his eyebrow to the line of his lower jaw. It made his face look like it had been divided with two-thirds on one side of the meridian that was the scar, and the other third on the other side. The two parts looked like two countries at war: one wanting peace, the other, belligerent still. “But, you ought to see the other guy, like Humpty-Dumpty. All the King’s Men to put him back together again.”

         Charlie said, “Yeah, I seen some of those before.”

         The three men were seated in a back booth, Waldo with his coffee cup, beers for the others.

         Charlie said, “I’m having a small problem with a collection on a debt I’m owed; may need to have someone help me communicate the appropriate response to the situation. You have problems with your arm?”

         “The situation,” said Terry, his eyes unwavering, bright, like looking into the little port window on a blast furnace. Raging fire just a blink away. Then, “No problem with the arm, you learn to compensate. New make and model I’ve got has a nice grip, never pulls off on the squeeze. Everything in the ten-ring, like before.”  Then he said, “I could help with that situation, sure. Is there a finder’s fee or a commission on the . . . collection? Or is it a straight repo; a split?”

         “Ten grand for the work, possible bonus of another ten, depending.”

         “On what?”

         “Who comes out alive. There might be another accident on a roadside. Wouldn’t want to have to put pieces back together all over again.”

         Terry said, “The whole twenty, whoever is standing or not.”

         “Done. You remind me of me,” Charlie said.

         Terry made a little nod, “I’m in.”

         Waldo smiled, signaled the Uke. In a little, the Uke brought over some more drinks. Then he went back behind the bar, picked up a towel, started wiping a glass.



         The Ringgold was one of the old Grande Dame hotels in the city, built in the 20’s just as they started roaring. Elegant suites, a discreet staff, crystal chandeliers, an expansive marble lobby fountain, even the potted palms you saw in those old movies with Sidney Greenstreet; the Ringgold oozed old money, and swore it’s allegiance thereto.

         And today, in the lobby at reception, looking decidedly unlike old money and it’s silk purse, but rather like the sow’s ear in his sharkskin suit and skinny Italian tie, Em Weems was a little worried, and because of that worry, less than cordial.

         “What do you mean?” he said. “Check again. It’s Velkz, with a “v,” like victory.”

         The desk-man, a burnished, copper-colored East Indian of indeterminate age, smiled behind a pair of tortoise-shell readers. “I’m sorry sir, no one by that name is registered at The Ringgold.” He said “Ringgold” with a little trill, almost Castillian-sounding. “No one with that name has a reservation, either.” Sounding like “I-thur.” ”Perhaps your party is ensconced elsewhere?” He took a quiet pleasure in giving Weems the jazz; the guy standing there, leaning in on him, looking like someone who should be delivering paper goods through the back door. Trash.

         Weems dead-eyed the desk man, then swung his eyes to Jo-Jo, nodded. Jo-Jo Jimmers, knowing what the nod meant, reached across the counter and shoved the laptop that the desk-man was using onto the floor. The screen was a soft  plastic and didn’t splinter on impact, but the case was hard-molded, and when it hit the floor, it blew into a dozen screechy pieces. The only other person in the lobby, sitting on a richly-embroidered sofa nearer the entrance, looked up at the sound, stared a moment, went back to his paper. Jo-Jo patted down his tie, said, “Excuse me. I must have bumped something. Sorry.” Weems dropped a printed card on the counter, said to the man, “Call me if Velkz checks in.” He turned and sauntered out of the lobby, Jo-Jo trailing like a lamprey eel suckered onto a shark.

         The desk-man stared after them until they were gone, then took a cell phone out of his suit-coat pocket, pushed a button, began to talk. “You were right. They were here.” He talked a few more moments into the phone, wrote a number down, punched off. He picked up a house phone, dialed, said, “Amar, please come to the lobby. Bring a broom and dustpan. That’s right. Now, please.” He smiled as he waited.



         A day later, Charlie and Terry walked into lawyer Alcandre’s office, got an eyeful of Dorita who smiled at them both.

         “Mr. Alcandre?” Charlie asked.

         She nodded, tilted her head towards a black-laquered slab of door inset into the white wall behind her desk.

         “Locked?” Another question from Charlie that got another nod.

         “Button?”

         She looked at them solemnly for a moment, picked up her purse from below her desk, and reached beneath the center drawer. Charlie heard the click. She said, “I’m out to lunch right now, and have been for a while. Maybe have to run an errand after,” and left them standing in the reception as she locked the front door of the office and  then left by way of the side door.

         “Damn,” Terry said, looking after her.

         “Oh, yeah,” Charlie agreed.

         The two men pushed open the door behind the desk that the led toward Alcandre’s private rooms.

         “Nice,” said Terry. “Looks like enough dough here to fund the payment you were talking about.”

         They went down the white-carpeted hallway passing doors, turned right, and stopped at the last door at the end of the short leg of the ell. No knock, just worked the handle, walked in. Alcandre had his back to the door, talking on a cell phone. The view out his window was one the Realtors would write up as: “sweeping, a vista beyond compare,” but was actually one that was pretty ordinary, some smaller buildings below, long sight line to distant brown hills. Not looking back, the lawyer held up his hand in a “not now” gesture. Charlie walked to the desk, reached across and over Alcandre’s shoulder, and took the cell, punched it off, dropped it onto the desk top.

         “Hey!” Alcandre came around fast. Seeing the pair before him, he started. “What . . .?”

         “Don’t talk, Mr. Alcandre, listen,” Charlie said. “We’ve come for the package, so now would be a good time for you to put it in my hands. We’ll be on our way then, no problems, no worries.”

         “Charlie, I . . .”

         “Again, don’t talk. The package?” Charlie picked up a pyramid-shaped crystal paperweight from the desk top, weighing it in his hand, staring at the lawyer.

         “Weems has it, Charlie. He wants to see you to give it to you, Charlie. I was just about to call you with the good news.”

         The phone chirped a couple of times, went quiet.

         Charlie looked at Terry, shook his head, said, “You believe this guy?”

         Terry hadn’t taken his gaze from Alcandre the whole time since they’d come into the room. “Actually, that would be a no.”

         “Mr. Alcandre, my associate doesn’t think you’re being on the square with us here. He seems to sense a lack of veracity in your tone. Me, I don’t care if you’re lying or not, I just care about the package I was promised, and today you’re going to get it for me, or tonight there won’t be any tonight for you.” He looked down at his hand, shifted the paperweight to the other, like a baseball pitcher deciding which one was going in, the swiftie or the cutter.

         Alcandre saw it too. “Weems, Charlie. It’s Weems.”

         The paperweight’s pointed-end went right into Alcandre’s right eye socket, just like it was the fastball Charlie threw it as.

         The two men left standing stared at the body down behind the desk. “Weems. And Jo-Jo, too, I guess,” Charlie said. He picked up Alcandre’s cell, turned it over.

         Terry looked at him, the corner of his lip raised a bit; made the scar pull the skin tighter on his jaw. “I guess,” he said.



         Weems said, “Fuckin’ spic shyster. Hung up on me. Won’t answer.”

         Jo-Jo said, “Should we go see him first?”

         Weems looked almost bored. “No, the curry-eater at the Ringgold called and said Velkz was there, wanted to check in. He gave him a room; a suite no less. Called us just like we asked.” Pronouncing it “ah-skd”. “Pussy.”

         “Hotel, then Alcandre after?”

         “Yeah, let’s go.”



         “What did you think of Weems and Jo-Jo?”

         Charlie was sitting in a car with Terry, down and across from the Ringgold, the younger man watching through the windshield intently.

         Terry said, “In the lobby, they didn’t look really scary, if that’s what you mean. ‘Course I was across the way, on the couch, reading a week-old paper with a tire track on it. Found it outside before I went in.”

         Charlie smiled. “No, I mean, did you think they might have the balls to hold out on me for the money?”          

         That made Terry grin, too. “Nope, they didn’t look like that at all. Light’s on in the room.”

         “Good, then let’s go get my money.”

         “Our money, Charlie.”

         “Right, our money.”

         In the suite, on the fourth floor of the Ringgold, Jo-Jo was looking though the sheers covering the window and down onto the street below. He said to Weems, leaning back on the brocade sofa with his feet propped up on the coffee table, “The Hindu said Velkz was out, told him he’d be back by 9:00. It’s 9:30 already.”          

         “We need to have a meeting with Charlie, deal him out of all this. We’ll wait a little.”

         “I guess I have a question, then. Why not give him the dough you promised him?”

         “You’re shitting me, right?” Weems looking over at the other man. “Why would I give that schmuck anything?”

         “For one, he didn’t talk about it was you did that S&L thing; he was just a driver. And two, you told him you’d pay him.”

         “Fuck him, and try hard not to lose sight of the fact that if I pay him, maybe you don’t get paid. Not enough to go around, huh?”

Jo-Jo let the drape whisper back, turned from the window. “That wouldn’t be right, either. I gotta take a leak.” He went into the bedroom.          Weems heard the bathroom door open, then his phone rang in his pocket. Took it out, looked at the screen: “P. Alcandre.”

         “’bout fucking time,” he said into the phone. “Where are you?”

         A voice he thought he remembered said, “You have my money. Alcandre said so. I want it.”

         “Charlie, Charlie Velkz . . .that you? Blast from the past, huh? Alcandre there with you? Put him on. We’ll arrange a meet, get you your dough, how’s that?” He was turning it over in his head.

         “No, the correct question is: Where are you, Em?”

         “My office, over in Scarry.”

         “No again; wrong answer. I’m there, Em. Where are you?”

         “Is Alcandre with you, Charlie?”

         Jo-Jo came into the room, and Weems pointed to the house phone sitting on an end table next to the sofa, covered the cell with his free hand, said to Jimmers, “Get Ax at the place; tell him go up to my office, now.” Then, “I’m sorry, Charlie, had a frog in my throat.”          He cleared his throat for effect. “Now, Charlie, let’s . . .”

         Jimmers leaned over, picked up the handset to the house phone, and bringing it to his ear, started to push the buttons. Never got past the first number, though, because everything within five feet of the phone base became the body of fire itself, molding into shapes like silly-putty smashed with a hammer, pieces of bodies, wood, plastic, and fabric moving away with the blast at sub-sonic speed, breaking apart with a sound like the hinges on the doors of Hell opening for business.



         Two days later, at Waldo’s, there was a meeting in a back booth with a couple of chairs pulled up. The Uke had come from behind the bar, flipped the door sign to “closed,” then brought some drinks to the booth, set them down, went away. Waldo and Terry on one side of the booth, Charlie and Dorita on the other. The desk-man from The Ringgold, Raj, was sitting in one of the extra chairs. The other chair was empty.

         Charlie said, “We had some expenses. The phone had to be fixed before we could use it, and Raj helped out with that. Terry’s bud supplied the caps and the M-112 block for the phone, and Dorita had to help with Alcandre going missing with firm funds. The Weems’guy, Ax was no problem; he saw another business opportunity open up, decided to head west. All, in all, we did ok, though.” He picked up his canvas ditty-bag, the one he’d brought with him from Mata, put it in the center of the table, took out stacks of cash, some with bank bands, some rubber-banded, different sizes. “I was away for a while, waiting on this pension package, so I’ll go ahead with that.” He pulled away four stacks, put them to the side. Going around the table, one by one, he distributed cash to Waldo, Terry, Raj, and finally, Dorita. “Waldo, that should take care of the mortgage on this place, two hundred. Terry, there’s a bonus there, a hundred and a half. Raj, it looks like the Ringgold will be a while in repair, so there’s fifty to tide you over. Dorita’s part will either fund the counter-revolution to get back Cuba, or she can take some time and sail to Greece. When we get back, let’s all get together and talk about emerging entrepreneurial profit-centers. Em left us a nest egg. Maybe we can do some investing.”

         Charlie motioned to the Uke, standing still behind the bar, staring ahead. “Come on over,” Charlie said, “Have a seat. I have something to show you”

         Reaching into the bag, extracting a neat pile of banded cash that he placed in the center of the seat of the empty chair. “Join us, won’t you?”

         Waldo started whistling Bobby McFerrin: “Don’t Worry, Be Happy.”

         Charlie said, “No offense, W., but you still can’t whistle for shit.”

         “No offense taken, Charlie, none at all,” Waldo said.