A rude medley of street sounds enters the diner with each customer.
“Hey.”
Black running shoes and faded jeans, topped by a windbreaker and baseball cap, the barest hint of what I know is a Glock pressing against the material of her sweatshirt.
She sits, pretends to read the menu.
“Hi,” I say, snapshots of us at Parris Island and the Mideast flipping through my mind.
A server takes our orders.
She slides her phone to me; an infant’s face fills the screen.
“Meet Vince.”
“Beautiful.”
“My best mistake.”
Attempting to forget me in a booze-induced haze, she hooked up with the hot guy from high school. Two months later, morning sickness replaced hangovers.
“It gets better; Hot Guy is a Wise Guy; took over as Boss when his father passed,” she says.
“Your life is a romance novel written by Stephen King.”
“He wants Vince. No lawyers, no courts. That can’t happen.”
“Where’s the kid?”
“My dad.”
We hoof it to a parking garage. A balding, middle-aged guy slithers off a stool.
“Morning, ladies,” he says, eyes undressing us.
“Hi yourself! I can’t find that darn ticket,” she says, repeatedly checking her pockets.
“No problem, sweetheart,” he responds. “What kind of vehicle?”
“Bless you! It’s that BMW,” she whines, pointing to a convertible.
As he removes the keys from a cabinet, she applies a sleeper hold. In ten minutes, we’re hurtling east on the interstate, Zeppelin blasting from the speakers.
“Unless you have a permit for that piece, you might want to ease up,” I yell.
Flashing a smile, she slows to seventy-five.
“You’re sure about this?” she asks.
“No sleep till Brooklyn.”
“The Bronx, actually.”
An hour later, we’re stopped by a trooper.
“Do you know how fast you were going…Ms. Chang?”
“I’m so sorry, officer.”
“Trooper, ma’am.”
“Sorry. Please call me Michelle.”
Letting her off with a warning, he takes another look at me; the kind of look some cops reserve for people my shade.
In Jersey, we switch to an older sedan; unlocked, easy to hotwire.
Crossing into Manhattan, the skyline sparkles like grounded starlight.
We’re soon in what she tells me is the Bronx, but doesn’t fit my preconceptions; mini mansions with sprawling front lawns on quiet, tree-lined streets.
The app announces we’ve arrived.
“Bingo.”
The house resembles a Tuscan villa.
“No goons?”
“He’s convinced no one would dare.”
Parking around the corner, she removes the magazine from her Glock, then retracts the slide, catching a nine-millimeter round as it jumps from the chamber. She then reverses the process, reloading.
“This is your last chance.”
“Semper Fi,” I respond.
She kisses my cheek.
“Let me do this; it’s too personal. He’s still the father of your son.”
“He hit me. While I was holding Vincent.”
I wait.
“He’s a sociopath. He will never stop. I need to end this now.”
Stepping out, she moves toward the house.
Catching up, I wrap my right arm around her throat, taking her to the ground. She struggles, then goes limp.
Popping the trunk, I lay her inside.
Drawing my weapon, I approach the house. A dim light glows on the ground floor.
The door is unlocked. Classical music plays. I follow the sound of running water.
Vincent Sr., tall and broad-shouldered, stands at the sink.
Leveling my firearm at him, I whisper his name.
He turns, hands raised.
“You must be Vanessa,” he says, smiling. “You’re even hotter than described.”
My stomach roils.
An older man appears, holding a shotgun. I fire two rounds, center mass; threat eliminated.
The kitchen explodes with the sound of a large caliber weapon. My shoulder screams in agony.
Vincent stands over me pointing a .44.
“Sorry, sweetheart; Micky shouldn’t have sent the B team.”
I spit in his face.
Two sharp hissing sounds. He crumples.
I lose consciousness trying to identify the opera playing over the speakers.
***
A different vehicle, racing away from the breaking dawn.
Pushing myself upright, I suck in air at the fire in my field-dressed shoulder.
“I bet that stings,” she says.
“How?” I ask, watching trees speed by.
“Interior trunk release; mandatory since 2002.”
“Interior trunk release. Damn.”
A sign reads “Welcome to Vermont.”
~ fin ~
Joe Badalamente was born and raised in New York City. His short story Partner won the AKC Gazette’s 24th Annual Fiction competition. His novel, The King & Me: A Rock ‘n’ Roll Fantasy, was named a finalist in the 2023 International Book Awards, and won Outstanding Novella in the Independent Author Network 2022 competition.
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