Grace, Period

by Graham Powell

Tommy Roccaforte stood in the meager shade of an acacia tree and watched as the movers across the street carried his brand new furniture up to his brand new apartment. An entire household, packed flat in cardboard boxes. When he thought of the heavy oak and Italian leather with which he’d furnished his home on Staten Island it made him want to weep.

He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.

The movers made one last trip up the stairs and down again, got their dolly and their mats and ropes, and waved as they climbed into the truck. Tommy stood there, hands on hips, and watched them go.

As the truck pulled out of the parking lot a car slowed and turned in. It was a few years old, dinged and dented but well-maintained. A fleet unit — a company car or a rental. Someone in town on business.

The driver’s door swung open and a chubby man in a gray suit stepped out. In his right hand the man held a paper bag, about the size of the brown lunch bags Tommy had carried to school back when he was a kid.

It looked heavy.

The man glanced down at a piece of paper in his other hand, then up at the numbers on the side of the building. After a moment he nodded to himself, slammed the door, and headed up the stairwell.

Tommy flipped away the cigarette and strolled across the street as casually as he could, what with the adrenaline putting an extra hop in his step. Probably it was nothing, but even the prospect of some action has his heart thudding against the inside of his chest.

He paused at the base of the stairs. The other man’s heavy footfalls echoed from above, proceeding steadily. Tommy trailed behind him, step by silent step.

At second-floor landing Tommy knelt and risked a peek around the corner. Sure enough, the man, his back turned, was there in front of the door to Tommy’s new home. He reached for the doorbell, hesitated, finally reached into the bag instead.

Tommy surged to his feet. Two quick strides, then his foot swung in a tight arc, like a soccer striker’s, that ended at the side of the man’s knee.

The man howled and fell writhing to the concrete. Another kick and the bag went flying. As the man rolled over Tommy raised a foot to stomp a hole in his face.

Then he lowered it. “Barton,” he said.

Barton sat up, rubbing his leg and chuckling. “Don’t you know assaulting a federal officer is a crime, son?”

“What are you doing out here?”

“Oh, just keeping an eye on you, making sure everything’s okay. It is my job after all. How you like Tucson so far?”

Tommy shrugged. “New York has potholes bigger than this dump.”

Barton got to his feet with a groan and retrieved the bag. “Well, maybe this will lift your spirits. I brought you a present, and some good news.”

From the bag he pulled a gift-wrapped package, about the size of a hardback book.

Tommy peeled away the wrapping paper and let it fall to the ground. Inside was a cheap drugstore picture frame. He turned it over to see his own face staring back at him in black and white.

His lip was swollen; blood crusted the edges of his nostrils. Eyes glaring at something out of frame to the left, mouth half open ready to unload another obscenity. The heavy black lines painted on the wall behind him gave his height as six feet.

His booking photo.

“What the fuck, Barton?” he said.

“Oh, just a reminder,” said Barton. “You’re not out here because of all the crimes you pulled, all the people you hurt. You’re out here because you’re the one who was stupid enough to get caught. Remember that and you’ll stay out of trouble.”

Tommy turned and flung the picture against the wall, where it burst in a shower of glass and splinters, and started back downstairs.

“Go ahead, Tommy, keep on walking,” said Barton. “All the way back to New York. Think you’d get a warm welcome there?”

His steps slowed, then stopped. “No,” said Tommy. “No. I can’t go back.”

“Then get back here and clean up this fucking mess.”

When he was done, when he’d picked up every shard of glass and scrap of wood, Barton said, “Now for the good news — I found you a job.”

“What job?” said Tommy.

Barton laughed. “You ran the book for Salazar, right?”

Tommy spent a couple of hours assembling the couch and entertainment center. The television was a miserable thirty-two inches.

The couch, though — it was lumpy, but soft and inviting. He flopped down and closed his eyes, felt himself drifting away.

Then his wife cried out and he sprang up, fully awake.

“Marie!” he said. “Marie, what’s wrong!”

He rushed into the bedroom where she stood over the suitcase, holding a .38 revolver at arm’s length as though it were a dirty diaper.

“You promised me, Tommy!” she cried. “You promised! You said things would be different!”

Tommy gently took the gun from her and laid it on the bed. “It’s okay, baby, it’s okay. This is just protection, in case somebody finds us. You know the Feds, they wouldn’t lift a finger.”

“I heard what that man told you. If the find this, they’ll send us home, and then what will we do?”

“That’s not gonna happen, baby. I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.”

Tears cut tracks through her makeup. “You said this time was going to be different,” she said. “No guns, no booze, no… no staying out all night. Just you and me, together.”

Tommy put his arms around her, pulled her close. “It will be different, baby. Hey, did I tell you? I got a job, an honest job, like a regular guy. I start tomorrow. Everything’s gonna be okay, I swear.”

“You mean it, Tommy?” said Marie. She buried her face against his chest. “Can we really start over?”

“Yeah, baby, sure we can.” But all he could think was Christ I need a cigarette.

Half an hour later he stood outside in the breezeway, sucking on a smoke like his life depended on it. Marie had taken her Prozac and gone to bed. Experience told him she wouldn’t be up ’til dinnertime.

It was then that he saw the girl.

She was coming up the stairs from the pool, head down over a magazine. She wore a long, loose tank top over a swimsuit, still wet. It clung in all the right places.

Black hair, bobbed. Bright blue eyes. Peaches and cream complexion. Breasts small but perfectly formed. Skinny arms and legs. Not perfect. But cute, and young, so young.

“Hey,” he said.

The girl stepped back in surprise. “Oh, hi there, I didn’t see you,” she said. She grinned and gestured at the magazine. “I guess I was lost there for a minute.”

Tommy smiled. “No, no, you’re in the right place. Anyway, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. Just taking a break from unpacking.”

“I’m right across the hall,” she said. “Looks like we’re neighbors.”

He held out a hand. “My name’s Tommy, uh, Roach.” Inside he cursed Barton for sticking him with that crappy name.

She took his hand and held it for a second. Her skin was so smooth, so cool. “I’m Grace,” she said. “Very pleased to meet you.”

“Just Grace?”

“Yup, just Grace.” She laughed. “Grace, period.”

“When do I learn your last name?”

“Maybe someday.” She wrinkled up her nose. “How do I know you’re not some kind of stalker? You can’t be too careful these days.”

“You got me,” said Tommy. “Better call the cops.”

“Ah, you look mostly harmless.” Grace pulled at the cotton shirt where it stuck to her skin. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Roach — ”

“Oh God don’t call me that!”

“Well, I’ve got to go and get changed. See you around.”

As he watched her disappear into her apartment he said, “You can count on it.”

Then he heaved a sigh and went inside to Marie.

You ran the book for Salazar. Tommy stood outside his new place of employment and thought of all the things he’d do to Barton if he got the chance.

Rusty’s Book Bazaar was in the middle of a storefront block on 6th Avenue. On one side was a tobacconist’s shop that catered to the stoner set; on the other side was a co-op gallery staffed by the art-school contingent.

Rusty Harmon could have been a refugee from either of them. His droopy frontier moustache was gray with just a few remaining strands of red, as was the hair that hung well below his collar. He wore a string tie and round glasses like John Lennon.

He unlocked the door for Tommy at five ’til eight. “Thomas Roach?” he said, squinting. “Good morning to you, sir. Please come in.”

Inside it was dim and musty. Up front there were a couple of trestle tables with books stacked on them. Beyond that, six rows of floor to ceiling bookshelves. By the door there was a simple counter with an old-fashioned cash register and a percolater, which hissed and burbled.

“Coffee?” said Rusty.

“No thanks,” said Tommy. “This is the whole store?”

“Oh, no, there’s more. Come on to the back room and we’ll get started — we’ve still got an hour until we open.”

The back room was nearly as large as the front, and was crammed with cardboard boxes of every size, arranged in haphazard stacks. A lonely shopping cart stood by the back window.

“When you’re not up front minding the register, come back here and start sorting the books by genre, and then–”

“By what?”

“Genre,” said Rusty. “You know — mystery, romance, science fiction, that kind of thing. You can usually tell just by looking at the cover. If you can’t, toss ’em back and I’ll look at ’em later. Once you’ve got three or four good-sized piles, load ’em in the cart and shelve ’em up front.” He paused and looked Tommy over from head to toe. “I sure am glad you’re a young fella,” he said. “Lugging these old boxes sends a pain down my back right to my tailbone. Now come up front and I’ll show you how to work the register.”

In fifteen minutes they’d covered every aspect of the store’s operation, from writing receipts to brewing up the coffee to cleaning the tiny restroom at the back. “Not for customers,” said Rusty, “unless it’s an emergency. Some of the regulars, well, they’re getting along in life, and they can’t hold it too well, if you take my meaning.”

“I get it,” said Tommy.

Four hours and half a dozen customers came and went, and it was lunchtime. Rusty strolled down the street and brought back a sack of tamales and two bottles of cold beer. “Since it’s your first day I thought I’d treat,” he said.

Tommy popped the cap off his beer and took a long swallow. “Thanks,” he said.

When they finished eating Tommy looked around the store. “So this is it?” he said. “This is what you do all day?”

“Yep,” said Rusty. “Sure, it’s a little slow sometimes, but I like the quiet. Plenty of time to enjoy a good book, if that’s your thing.” His eyes twinkled. “And I guess you’ve noticed, I didn’t get into this business to get rich.”

“I’ll say. You sold, what, twenty bucks worth of books? I bet that didn’t cover our lunch.”

Rusty paused. “Well,” he said. “Business has fallen off a bit since the big warehouse store opened up out by the mall. But the loyal customers, they’re the backbone of the business, the ones who really–”

“Where is it?” said Tommy.

“Where’s what?”

“This new bookstore. I want to go take a look at it.”

Rusty laughed. “Looking to move up already? I warn you, that place works the staff like dogs.”

“Nah, I just want to, you know, see what they’ve got. Maybe we can spruce this place up a bit, attract a few more customers. Make some more dough.”

“My, you are ambitious,” said Rusty. “All right . Take the afternoon off. Go see what you can see.”

“Thanks,” said Tommy. “And tomorrow, lunch is on me.”

Letters ten feet high shouted the chain bookstore’s name in all directions. They were almost readable even from the far end of the parking lot.

Tommy was taking notes as soon as he stepped out of his car. Plenty of parking. Convenient to major intersections. Neighbors that included a jewelry store, an organic food market, and popular chain restaurants.

The first thing he noticed once in the store was how bright it was. No shadowed corners here. The air was cooled to a brisk seventy degrees. Wide aisles separated the bookshelves, leaving plenty of room for the shoppers to browse.

And there were plenty of shoppers. The store probably sold as many books in an hour as Rusty sold in a week. Tommy noted the line of customers waiting patiently in the coffee shop. He noted the shelves of knickknacks that bordered the path to the register. He noted the neat, clean, and spacious public bathrooms.

He wandered, absorbing the atmosphere, learning what made the place tick.

On his second pass through the Romance section he noticed a man watching him. Tommy paused and flipped through a book, sneaking surreptitious glances. When the name came to him he put the book down and moved quickly towards the door.

Too late. “Tommy?” said a hoarse voice. “Tommy is that you?”

Tommy fixed a smile on his face and turned. “Well, I’ll be damned, Sal. I sure didn’t expect to see you here.”

Sal Porcaro had been an enforcer when Tommy was still coming up. Now the hair that still clung to his mostly bald head was white. He walked with a cane. And he held a romance novel in his hand.

“Holy shit,” said Sal. “You’re the last person I thought would turn up here! Fuckin’ Tommy–”

“Roach. Tommy Roach. Forgive me, but I seem to have forgotten your last name.”

“It’s Porkins.” Sal shook his head in disgust. “That fuckin’ dickhead Barton…”

“So what are you doing, here, Sal? Picking up some reading material?”

Sal looked down at the book in his hand and turned three shades of red. “It’s, ah, for my wife.”

“Come off it, Sal, she passed before you left, even I know that.”

“All right, all right. The truth is, it’s fuckin’ boring out here. I’m too old to work, I ain’t got nothing to do all day. I can’t even chase tail anymore. Too tired. So I read these books instead.” He rubbed his head. “I didn’t plan for this. I guess I figured I’d work ’til I fell over dead, you know?”

Tommy laughed. “I know a guy or two back in New York who’d be happy to take care of that for you, Sal. You rolled over, what, twelve years ago? They’re still steamed over it.”

“Yeah, well, I would be too. And you, I guess you can’t go back neither, eh?”

“You sure got that right.” Tommy kept up the smile, but he could see what Sal was thinking as plain as if it were written on his forehead. Tommy Roccaforte, shit. There’s guys walking around that would pay a lot of money to see him again. And there ain’t no reason for them to even know my name.

“Hey, Sal,” he said, looking around. “Let’s go somewhere we can talk, all right?”

He put a friendly arm around Sal’s shoulders and they slipped out a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY, and then through another that led to the alley behind the store.

The alley ran the length of the shopping center. A row of shops backed onto the opposite side, and broad gates blocked the entrances at either end. Tommy expected garbage strewn around, flies, sharp odors, but all the trash was neatly confined to the dumpster. Even the alleys in this town were neat and clean.

Sal blinked against the bright sunlight. “So, Tommy, what’s Barton got you doin’ here? He had me selling ladies fuckin’ shoes.”

“Funny you should ask, Sal,” said Tommy with a laugh, laying a hand on Sal’s shoulder. “I got a job with–”

Tommy’s grip tightened as he spun Sal around. Sal opened his mouth to shout but Tommy quickly hooked an elbow across his throat and squeezed. With his carotid artery pinched off Sal was out in thirty seconds, but Tommy kept up the pressure for a couple of minutes to be sure.

A couple of minutes seems like a long time when you’re killing a man.

When it was over Tommy dragged him to the dumpster. He grabbed Sal’s body under the arms to heave him in… then stopped.

He smiled to himself as he moved Sal to a sitting position and propped him against the wall just behind the door. At the next smoke break someone was going to get a big surprise.

The next day Tommy was late for work. When he arrived shortly after ten, Rusty wore a stern expression. “I wasn’t sure you’d be back,” he said. “Leaving early, then showing up late. I — what have you got there?”

Tommy set the paper bag on the counter and opened it. “Doughnuts, muffins, coffee cake, you name it,” he said. “There’s a pastry shop about three blocks over, makes all kind of stuff like this.”

Rusty picked up a doughnut and took a bite. “Say, that’s tasty. But don’t get the idea that this excuses you for missing work.”

“Missing work, whaddya think I’ve been doing? These are just samples. I got the owner to cut me a deal. We’ll mark this stuff up one hundred percent and make a killing, you watch. The display case will be here later today.”

“Display case…?”

“Yeah, that and the espresso machine.”

“Espresso!” Rusty pressed a hand to his forehead. “I’m very happy to see you take such an interest in the business, young man, but this is a used book store. People come here to buy books, not coffee or pastry.” He licked his lips. “No matter how good.”

“Yeah? Then why are your customers all over at the big warehouse store? If you don’t do something, Rusty, this place is gonna go bust, and then you’ll have to get a real job. You wanna do that?”

“Well… no.”

“You just read your books, and leave everything else to me. We’ll be kicking ass in no time.”

“But the competition, what about them?”

Tommy laughed, a short, nasty sound. “I hear that place is getting a reputation.”

Over the next couple of weeks Tommy made several trips out to the big store. He:

- Shuffled pornographic photographs in among the postcards of Arizona.

- Left three raw eggs to ripen outside his window for a few days, then cracked them in the trash can in the men’s restroom.

- Introduced a healthy dose of Ipecac syrup into the jug of milk set out in the coffee bar.

- Moved, one by one, a selection of Anais Nin books into the children’s section.

Finally, near closing time on a dark night when no one was around, he smashed out the window of a Ford Escort and made off with the purse on the passenger seat.

Digging through the purse in the parking lot of a Burger King a few miles away, Tommy felt a pang of guilt as he pulled out the driver’s license of seventy-eight year old Helen Burmeister. But then he saw the latest James Patterson paperback tucked in there and the feeling went away.

He kept the cash and tossed the rest in the dumpster.

Since he’d worked late the night before, Tommy decided to spend the morning by the pool. He swam a few quick laps, his hands chopping through the water, legs driving him forward, until he was gulping air in great heaving gasps. Then he drifted around on his back for a while. When he found himself dozing he climbed the short steel ladder and lay down on a lounge chair.

A splash, and water spattered across his face. Tommy started up, suddenly awake.

A woman in a black bikini glided across the bottom of the pool, crossing its full length with long, smooth strokes. She broke the surface and swam to the side, and he saw that it was Grace.

“Aren’t you supposed to be working?” she said, smiling.

“Day off,” said Tommy. “I’ve been working very hard lately. Very hard. And what about you?”

Grace pulled herself ashore. In the bikini, the water on her shoulders and belly glistening in the sun, she didn’t look skinny. She looked sleek.

“I mostly work nights,” she said, sitting on the chair next to him.

“Yeah? Doin’ what?”

“Not what you’re thinking. I’m a masseuse.”

He laughed. “Funny you should say that, ’cause I’ve been kinda tense lately. Lotsa long hours. Stress.”

“All right,” said Grace, sighing. “One free sample. Roll over on your stomach.”

Tommy complied and she straddled him, kneeling. Strong fingers kneaded his muscles, probing for knots and kinks. “You’re in pretty good shape,” she said. “Especially for someone who’s, what? Fifty?”

“Very funny. I’m not a day over thirty five.” He grunted as her thumbs pressed at the edges of his shoulder blades.

“Is this a bullet hole?”

A .38, from a liquor store robbery in Brooklyn when he was a teenager. “I had a mole removed.”

“And this? This looks like a knife wound.”

A junkie, desperate, waiting for him at the back door of the sports book. “I fell on some glass at the beach.”

“Well.” She worked her fingers around his ribs. “Not as much tension here as I thought. Could be a lack of muscle tone, I suppose.”

“Lack of…? I got muscles, I got plenty of muscles. Hell, you’ve got your hands all over them!”

“Sure, you’re the Hulk.” Grace ran a finger lightly across his deltoids. “What happens if I make you angry?”

Pain flared as she poked a thumb into the nerve cluster where his shoulder joined his neck.

Tommy managed to roll onto his back but as he reached for her she grabbed his wrists, her grip strong as a man’s. She laughed as they wrestled, body on body. With a sudden surge of adrenaline Tommy manage to twist his hands free. He grabbed her around the waist and flung her into the pool.

She came up spluttering. Tommy stood above her, smiling. “Hulk splash,” he said.

They dried off and walked together back to the landing outside their apartments. “So, Grace,” said Tommy. “If I did want a massage, how would I get one?”

She fished around in her pool bag and produced a card. “Simple,” she said. “Just make an appointment.”

Tommy watched her go before he looked at the card. No last name, just “Body by Grace” and a phone number.

Two days later Barton showed up at Rusty’s. “Hey, Tommy,” he said. “Thought I’d come see how you were doing. What do you think of the book business?”

“You’d be surprised, Barton. It’s like any other line of work. You put in the hours, do a good job, you’ll make out all right.”

Barton glanced around the store. “Looks like you’ve really taken to it. I’ve never seen the place look so good.”

“Yeah, well, some paint, hot soapy water, a little elbow grease — it dresses the place up nice.”

Barton leaned in close. “Can I speak to you?” he said. “In private.”

“Sure, sure. Hey, Rusty?”

Rusty poked his head out of the back room. “Yes, Tommy? What can I do for you?”

“Watch the counter for a minute, I need to talk to Mr. Barton.”

“Okay,” said Tommy when they had the back room to themselves. “What’s on your mind?”

“Listen, Tommy, because this is important. We’re worried that someone may be after you, you or someone else we’ve relocated. There’s been, well, there’s been a killing.”

Tommy thought of Sal Porcaro and stifled a smile.

“We’re afraid that the New York organization may have someone in our office,” said Barton. “If you see or hear anything out of the ordinary, call me right away. If you see anyone from your old life, do not interact with them. Please. It’s for your own protection.”

Tommy folded his arms. “Let me ask you a question, Barton. Why do you give a fuck?”

“What? What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You hate my guts. You always have. If it was up to you I’d be taking up space in a landfill somewhere. So why do you care?”

“Why?” said Barton. “Listen here, you piece of shit, there’s a goddamn good reason why I spend my time worrying about your safety. We can’t stop pissants like you from stealing and killing. No one can. But we can take down the guys with the brains and talent to mold you stupid fucks into an organization that can cause real trouble for good people. I protect you so that the next time some asshole gets caught with his dick out he’ll believe me when I say I can protect him.”

“Nice speech,” said Tommy. “You’ve delivered your message. Now run along back to your office, and don’t worry about me. I’m a big boy and I can take care of myself.”

“You sure talk a line of shit. Is that why they called you Tommy the Tongue?”

“Your wife knows why,” said Tommy.

Barton just laughed. “Fine. Good luck, tough guy.”

On Saturday he was back out at the big-box bookstore, distributing flyers that read DON’T LET THIS HAPPEN TO YOU in big block letters, with a picture of Helen Burmeister and her shattered car window below. Tommy had copied the picture from the local paper and printed them up himself, with overblown warnings guaranteed to give the average reader (a suburban mom, according to statistics) the screaming heebie-jeebies. After pinning a few dozen under windshield wipers in the parking lot he treated himself to an ice cold root beer in the store’s café.

But before he could take so much as a sip, a deep voice behind him said, “Mind if we join you?”

Tommy looked up and thought Oh, shit.

Pete Morello, six foot four and still solid as a pile of bricks, a big lieutenant in Brooklyn who disappeared six years ago. They said he’d been taken out by that bastard Bosco. Apparently they were misinformed.

Vito “The Libido” Fontana, wiry, skin tanned to a shade of mahogany. The pimp of Long Island. Pulled over for speeding in his Alfa Romeo convertible with two underage girls and a kilo of coke. He figured prison would ruin his good looks and sang to save his neck.

Carlo Garibaldi, short, fat, and very, very quiet. A killer. Until that moment Tommy thought he was still on the job back in New York.

“Jesus,” said Tommy. He looked around at the three of them. Three more mouths to say his name, and no chance to shut them, not with them all here together. And if just one of them still had a friend back home… “How… what are you guys doing here? Together?”

Fontana waved a hand. “Fuckin’ Feds. Always got one eye on the budget. They keep us close to the office, they got more left for the Christmas party. This town ain’t that big, sooner or later we’re bound to bump up against each other.”

“But we’re not… I mean, they told me not to talk to anyone from back home. What if they find out? I don’t know about you, but I’m not real keen on seeing Manhattan again any time soon.”

“They’re Feds,” said Morello. “They won’t find out. Hell, if they had any brains they’d be working for us.” After a moment he shook his head. “I mean, for our former associates. Goddamn it to hell.”

That brought a laugh from the other two. “Old Pete here misses the old days,” said Fontana. “He’d go back if he could.”

“Rotting in jail would be better than this place,” said Morello. “And a lot less boring. There I’d be a big man, to be treated with respect. Out here, the only time anyone wants to talk with me is to ask if I want the senior citizen discount at the buffet.”

“Fine, Pete, bitch about the glory days later,” said Fontana. “Hey, did you hear about Sal?”

“Sal?” said Tommy.

“Porcaro. Went by Samuel Porkins out here. They say he dropped dead of a heart attack.” Fontana laughed. “I figure he topped himself when he couldn’t get it up any more. He always said a life without pussy wasn’t worth living.”

“Sal Porcaro said that? But he’s so… so fuckin’ old.”

“You didn’t know him when. Believe it or not, back in the sixties that guy was a smooth operator. Drove a little Italian sports car, did the Brylcreem thing — you shoulda seen it. I swear he plowed half the debutantes in New York. Joe Namath was gettin’ Sal’s sloppy seconds.”

Morello leaned forward. “Anyway, now that Sal’s gone we have an opening, and we thought we’d see if you were interested.”

“An opening?”

Garibaldi wheezed. “We want you to join our book club.”

“Book club,” said Tommy. “Join your book club. You’re kidding, right?” He glanced around at their faces. They weren’t kidding.

“We seen you in here a few times,” said Morello. “We all got to have some way to pass the time. Give it a try, you might like it. Meet us up here tonight around ten. I’ll bring some beer and we’ll sit around and shoot the shit. Beats sitting at home in front of the tube.”

Tommy frowned. “The club meets here?”

“Yeah,” said Fontana. “The manager had a few debts. We took care of it, now he owes us a favor.”

An idea appeared in Tommy’s head, fully formed. Ten o’clock tonight. Plenty of time.

“Guys,” he said. “I’m in.”

Tommy opened the door to his apartment and stuck his head in. “Marie?” he said. “You home?”

No answer. Probably out shopping again.

As he stepped back into the passage and closed the door he nearly fell over Grace. She was dressed sensibly today — navy blue polo shirt, khaki pants, sneakers. “Sorry,” she said. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“No, it’s all right,” said Tommy. “You’re working today, eh?”

She grimaced. “I was, but they canceled. I guess it’s just the two of us. So I was wondering… do you still want that massage?”

“Yeah,” said Tommy. “Yeah, I’d really like that.”

“Well, come on then,” she said.

As Tommy crossed the hallway, he felt a buzzing in the air, like static electricity, getting stronger with every step. Then the door closed behind them, he put his arm around her waist, and the charge went through them both.

They made their way to the bedroom, hands groping, struggling out of clothes, stumbling into furniture. Then they were on the bed, naked, her skin as soft and smooth as he had dreamed. Tommy kissed her on the cheek, on the neck. He kissed her nipples, her head arching back as he bit down gently. He kissed the flatness of her belly. Then he went lower.

He pushed his tongue through the thicket of her hair to the warm tenderness beneath. “Oh,” she said. “Oh!” Her heels dug into his shoulders.

He worked on her diligently, finding the rhythm as she moved beneath him, his hands gripping her buttocks as they tensed. Then quickly, more quickly still, until she cried out once, then again, a third time.

Then she fell back on the bad, limp.

Tommy laughed to himself. He laid his head across her abdomen and listened to her heart thumping. “You like that?” he said.

“You’re something special, that’s for sure,” said Grace. “I see why they call you Tommy the Tongue.”

His breath stuck in his throat. He looked up into the muzzle of a small chrome automatic.

“All the girls back at the Al Fresco club on West 51st still talk about you,” she said. “You sure do make an impression.”

“What…” Tommy swallowed. “Who sent you? What do you want?”

“I got what I wanted,” she said. “Everything I need. Now I want you to get out of my place.”

“What?”

“Get the fuck out of here. Run, motherfucker! Run!”

And Tommy ran, out of the bedroom, across the hallway, into his own apartment, his prick slapping his thighs at every step. He threw the door shut behind him and ran to his bedroom, to the bedside table and the drawer where he kept his gun. And he waited.

Silence. Nothing. No one.

For half an hour he stayed like that, gun pointed at the bedroom door. When he couldn’t stand it anymore he tiptoed out and locked the front door. Then he pulled on shorts and a T-shirt.

Ten minutes he stood, staring out the peephole at Grace’s door across the hall. It was closed; he didn’t think he’d closed it. He knew he ought to call Barton, but how would he explain? How would he explain it to Marie?

Finally he unlocked the door and opened it silently. Crossing the passage he looked around. Nothing moved. At Grace’s door he palmed the knob and twisted slowly. The door wasn’t locked.

He hadn’t looked at her apartment much. Now he saw that the furnishings were no older than the ones in his own apartment, bought new not six weeks ago. There were no clothes in the closets, no dishes in the kitchen, no personal possessions. No one lived here.

The bed was stripped down to the mattress, the sheets and bedspread gone. His clothes were neatly folded in the center. Tommy grabbed them and hustled out of there.

He still had a lot to do.

Tommy tapped on the glass of the big-box bookstore’s door and Pete Morello lumbered up to unlock it for him. Morello held two yellow and black cans of beer stacked one on the other in a beefy hand. He held out the fresh one to Tommy.

“Thanks,” said Tommy. “Where are the guys?”

“Back here,” said Morello. “The kids’ section. It’s the only part you can’t see from the street.”

Tommy pictured them all sitting on stools a foot high, but in fact they’d brought out some folding chairs. Fontana and Garibaldi were already there.

“Hello, Tommy,” said Fontana. “Have a seat. You like the beer? Sorry it ain’t Peroni, but you work with what you got. It’s imported, anyway. From Texas!”

Morello sat down heavily and picked up a paperback book. “Our book for tonight is The Don’s Right Hand, by Dominic Abbruzzese. Tommy, I’m sorry you haven’t had a chance to read this yet. You may be familiar with some of it anyway.” He licked his thumb and flipped through the pages. “Let’s skip all this bullshit about growing up poor in the Bronx… Okay, here on page 22. This fuckin’ guy says he was running numbers in Brooklyn in the early eighties. He was doing no such goddamn thing, and I should know, ’cause I was the boss of the numbers. What he was, was a delivery boy. He’d round up a couple a girls about twice a week and bring ’em up to my office.”

“Jesus Christ, Pete,” said Fontana, chuckling. “In your office? Did you count money while you were bangin’ them?”

“Hey, my old lady would call and check up on me six, seven times a day. I was lucky if I got to step outside for a smoke break. Besides, I had a couch. It was comfortable.”

Tommy snickered. “And they say romance is dead. Why didn’t you just forward your phone when you went out?”

The look of dismay on Morello’s face said that this had never occurred to him. After a moment he shook his head. “Nah, that would never have worked. Like as not she’d just show up at the door.”

“Well, can you blame her?” said Vito.

“Don’t get me wrong, guys, I love my wife. She’s a good woman, good mother to my children. Makes a damn good lasagna. I gave her everything she ever wanted. But she’s too jealous! She just don’t understand how things work.”

“How is she, by the way?” said Tommy.

“Well, when I moved out here…” Morello shrugged. “She wasn’t invited.”

“Hey, listen to this!” said Fontana. “Page 31 — here’s how he describes you, Pete: ‘A fat bastard, mean as a snake but not half as bright–’”

“That son of a bitch!” thundered Morello.

“Guys,” said Tommy. “I have to go to the bathroom. Is that all right?”

“All right?” said Fontana. “What is this, kindergarten? Why you askin’ us? Want me to come hold your dick?”

“Easy, Vito,” wheezed Garibaldi. “It’s a line from The Godfather.”

When he got back they were arguing about Abbruzze’s claim to have bedded one Isabella Stabrone.

“I’m tellin’ you,” said Fontana. “I tried to get between those legs, and it couldn’t be done. It’s like that stuff was welded shut.”

“Finally met a woman with good taste, Vito?” said Tommy.

It went on that way for another half an hour. When Tommy got up to go to the restroom again, Fontana said, “What’s the matter, Roccaforte? Can’t hold the booze no more?”

“I guess I’m not the man I used to be. I’ll be back in a minute.”

Tommy went through an opening at the rear of the store, past the restrooms, through the stock room, and out the back door to where he’d parked his car. There were two five-gallon gas cans in his trunk. On his previous trip to the john he’d emptied one of them onto the boxes of books. Now he poured the rest over anything he’d missed the first time. He doused the celebrity memoirs, the sports books by last year’s champions, teen vampire novels, and political screeds that could be summed up as “Us Good, Them Bad”.

When he was done, he packed up the cans and started the car. Standing just inside the door, he struck a match and touched it to a stack of sodden magazines. Fire blossomed instantly.

Tommy quickly locked the door and drove around to the front. He wrapped a chain around the handles of the front door and snapped a padlock through the ends. Then he got in the car and split.

He drove around for half an hour before he came back. Three fire trucks were on the scene, pouring torrents onto the flames that leaped fifty feet or more into the sky. They kept at it for hours, though it was hopeless from the start. By morning the store was gutted, just a smoking shell. With the ashes of three dead men inside.

Tommy laughed. Let Barton figure that one out!

He got home at five after seven. “Marie?” he called.

She sat up on the couch, blinking at the morning sun. “Tommy?” she said. Then her face contorted in anger. “You bastard!” she screamed. “You said it would be different! You promised!” She scooped up a pile of papers and threw them in his face, then ran sobbing to the bedroom.

Not papers, he saw. Pictures. Pictures of him and Grace, him face down in her forbidden fruit. One nice clear shot showed him smiling up from between her legs.

When Marie came storming back out of the bedroom Tommy was already working on an excuse, an apology, but when he saw his gun in Marie’s hand he realized it was too late, far too late.

As the first shot threw him back against the door he had to admit that, really, he couldn’t blame her.

Graham Powell is the editor, publisher, and Grand Poo-Bah of Modern Mayhem. Hey, if you can’t push your own stuff, why get into publishing?

Photo by Aris Sfakianakis on Unsplash