Johnny Blade Page 3

  “Michael. Works fine for me. I’m Sandy,” the other woman said. She wore her long, stringy, brown hair straight. It looked greasy and unwashed. Sandy’s skin was pitted. Purple acne spotted her cheeks and forehead. She had thin, colorless lips. The complete package made her look old, though Michael would guess Sandy to be in her early twenties.

  “Coffee, Sandy?”

  “Please.”

  “How about you, Felicia, more?” Michael asked.

  “Nah. I’m set,” she said, looking at the clock over the door.

  “When’d you start? Tonight?” Vanessa asked Michael.

  “First night,” Michael answered.

  “Like it?” Sandy asked, next.

  “So far I do.”

  “That’s what most of them says on their first night,” Vanessa commented. “Murphy can’t seem to keep any help behind his counters; not at night. Too much always going on. Last guy was stealing cash out of the register. Marcus caught on to the scam and told Murphy. You meet Marcus, yet?”

  “Meet him? Not really. He was here tonight, left just before you ladies walked in,” Michael pointed out.

  “Ladies,” Sandy snickered.

  “Michael, you didn’t meet Marcus, so how’d you know he was here?” Vanessa asked.

  Before Michael could reply, the three women looked at each other. At the same time they said, “Fatso.” They all broke down laughing.

  Felicia sat at the counter next to Vanessa. “Still freezing out?”

  “Hell yeah,” Vanessa said. “I was down on Ambrose Street shivering my ass off like a damn fool. Made seventy dollars. I was out there since eleven. Damn. I had the last john drop me off here. No way I’m standing out there in this cold-ass weather.”

  “Don’t know why you were in the first place,” Sandy said. She hooked a finger onto an ashtray and slid it close as she lit a cigarette. “After December, the weather is too unpredictable to be standing out in it. Tonight’s a perfect example. We ain’t going to make anything.”

  “Says you,” Felicia said. To Michael, she said, “You know how witches have a witching hour, midnight? We have hours, too. It’s between the hours of three and seven in the morning. See, bars close at two. The johns spend another hour debating if they want to pick up a whore or just go home and sleep it off, you know? And, in the winter anyway, it’s still pretty dark up until seven. While some johns are going to work and enjoy a little the workday starts. It’s almost like how some of us need a cup of coffee before we can function properly, see what I’m saying?”

  Michael just nodded. The candid talk around their profession shocked him. He may have secretly hoped for it, but did not expect it. Wanting to become a ‘star reporter’ for The Rochester City Chronicle one day, he knew meeting people and hearing them talk would enhance his insight. He would be able to generate compelling articles. He had questions, but kept quiet. Being a good listener was one of the affable qualities he proudly possessed.

  “Yeah, I better at least bring in another hundred and thirty bucks, or this Friday night was a total waste,” Vanessa said.

  Sandy quietly sipped her coffee, ignoring Vanessa’s complaint.

  Michael chewed on the numbers. Vanessa expected to make two hundred dollars tonight. Twenty-five an hour. Aside from standing in the cold between jobs, how much time did she spend actually “working” for the money? To boot, the money earned was tax-free.

  Felicia sat with her back to the counter. Sandy stared at the counter. Vanessa chewed on her lower lip and looked around Jack’s Joint anxiously. Michael just tried to blend with the background, smoking a cigarette.

  He could not help but wonder about what might be passing through their minds. Could they all just be enjoying the break before business picked up? Did they wish they could be doing something else with their lives, instead? Did they fear going back out on the streets because their friend Casey had been viciously murdered by a customer?

  Vanessa broke the silence. “I’m gonna use the bathroom and then I’m going to work. I can’t afford to be sitting around with you all. Love all of you and all that, you know, but I am not here for the company,” she said, smiling and touching both Sandy and Felicia on their shoulders. “Unless Michael, you want to take me for a ride?”

  “Don’t get paid until next Friday,” he said, smoothly, shrugging his shoulders in mock-defeat.

  “Uh-huh. Fine thing like you? You can test drive Venus for free. Think about it,” she said as she made her way to the restrooms in back.

  Sandy let out a quick, short laugh. Felicia was grinning. “What’s so funny?” Michael asked.

  Sandy and Felicia laughed out loud. “What?” Michael asked again.

  “Just trying to imagine what a free test drive with Venus might be like?” Felicia explained.

  “Same here,” Sandy said, still laughing. When Venus returned, the laughing only grew louder and more intense. Immediately the black prostitute knew the joke was on her. She acted tough and shrugged it off. Without a word, she took her purse from the counter, and sauntered outside. Once she was gone, and to Michael’s disbelief, the laughter reached an even greater intensity. He found himself laughing right along as loud as the others by that point.

  When a van pulled up to the curb, he watched Vanessa climb in. He assumed she would be taking the frustration out on her john. Shaking his head, Michael went about his business of topping off coffee with freshly brewed, hot coffee.

  Chapter 7

  Getting a second wind at six, and with only an hour to go, Michael knew he would make it. He could hardly wait to get home and climb into bed. He was not used to being on his feet all night. Imagining how it would feel to remove his sneakers brought a smile to his face while he washed down the counter top.

  A few people had wandered in ordering breakfast, filling the booths along the window.

  It closely resembled midnight outside. The sky looked black. The streetlights, still on, cast an iridescent glow that accentuated the large, puffy, falling snowflakes. Glancing out the window, now and then, Michael saw Felicia work the corner. Coming and going and coming again and he wondered how close Vanessa would come to meeting or exceeding her monetary goal before seven a.m.

  When the door opened, Michael expected to see Felicia, or perhaps, wanted to see her coming in out of the cold. Instead a young, rail-thin, black man entered, flashing a wide grin and revealing two rows of the straightest, whitest teeth Michael had ever seen before.

  “Man it’s cold outside. Capitol C, cold. Know what I could go for?” The man said, clapping his hands and vigorously rubbing them together to generate warmth.

  “Nice hot cup of Murphy’s coffee?”

  “Murphy’s coffee. You’re funny. Nah, I’m in the mood for a Coke. Can I please have a large Coke with very little ice? I ain’t paying for ice. I’m paying for Coke. If the Coke’s warm, I’ll fill the glass with some snow; you see what I’m saying? You put two scoops of ice in the glass and there’s no room for the Coke. I won’t pay the price Murphy charges for a large Coke when three quarters of the cup is ice, you see what I’m saying? So a Coke, some ice, not a lot of ice, some ice, got it?”

  Smiling, Michael filled the order and set the glass down on the counter before lighting a cigarette. “Hungry?”

  “Could eat a cow. You new here, huh? What’s your name?”

  “Michael.” They shook hands.

  “Mike, huh? Great. You cook?”

  “But of course,” Michael said, and bowed in a most gracious mockery. “Hamburger and fries?”

  “Damn, Mike. It’s six in the morning, you know. Six A.M. Burger and fries? Man, I don’t think so. Stomach can’t handle that this early. No, I’ll take three eggs. Two scrambled, one over easy. Two strips of bacon. Well done. I hate those strips of white flabby fat along the sides of bacon. I see that, I can’t eat a bite of the stuff. My appetite will be ruined.”

  “Got it,” Michael said.

  “Wait, man. Mike, that isn’t it. I’d al
so like two sausage links and a side of hash browns. Have wheat bread? Nah, never mind. Rye. That would be perfect.”

  Michael checked the bread. “I don’t see rye. We have wheat.”

  “No. I always say wheat, but what I mean is rye. And Murphy knows it, but orders the wheat, instead. All right, forget about it. I’ll have a burger roll. Slice it, butter it up good and thick, and grill the bread. You know, make a hard roll out of it?”

  “I can do that,” Michael said and could not help but smile. He liked this man. The guy had an inspiring and upbeat personality. His eyes looked wide, bright and clear, so he did not think the man was on drugs. He seemed to be soaring on more of a personal high, as if he might actually enjoy life. “What did you say your name was?”

  Stopped cold, the guy said. “I didn’t. Why?”

  Michael sensed sudden tension build between them. “Just being friendly,” Michael said, cracking a shell on the side of a bowl. He dumped the egg into it, then added another.

  Without staring, Michael casually watched as the black man laughed and shook his shoulders. “Mike, man, I don’t know why I jumped on you like that.”

  “What jumped? Forget about it.”

  “You know what people call me? I mean if you had to guess what people called me, what kind of nickname might I have. It’s pretty easy. An obvious choice, if you ask me. Got an idea? Go on ahead and give it a shot. What do you think people call me?”

  Michael smiled as he flipped over the egg frying on the pan. “I don’t know, No-Dose?”

  The man slapped the counter. “No-Dose, I like it. That’s a good one, funny and fitting. Close, but no, man. No, Mike, they call me Speed.”

  Michael put out his hand. “A pleasure, Speed. And you’re right. The name is fitting.”

  Without letting go of Michael’s hand, and while tightening the grip between them, Speed asked: “Are you a cop?”

  The smile was gone from Speed’s face. His large brown eyes seemed to grow larger. He stared intently at Michael. “See, if you are, Mike, you have to tell me. The law says so. When someone asks, and you’re a cop, you have a legal obligation to say so. So I’m asking, are you a cop or a police officer? Do you work for the FBI, CIA, or any other branch of the government that deals in any kind of law enforcement? Do you—”

  “Speed, whoa! I am not a policeman, or a cop. I do not work for the FBI or the CIA. I do not like green eggs and ham, I do not like them, Sam I am,” Michael said.

  Speed seemed to regard Michael for a long moment. “You’re funny, Mike. You’re a real funny guy.”

  When Michael served up Speed’s order, he said: “Enjoy.”

  Michael poured a cup of coffee for himself, lit a cigarette and went to the end of the counter. He did not want to smoke near Speed while he ate.

  “Hey Mike,” Speed said. He waved him over.

  Reluctantly, Michael left his cigarette burning in an ashtray where he’d been standing and walked down to stand in front of Speed. “Need something?”

  “Kidding? Everything tastes great. I mean great. No, what I was going to say was, you ever need anything, you let me know.”

  “Like what?” Michael asked.

  “Like, anything. Because, you ain’t a cop right?”

  “Told you, I’m not a cop.”

  “Exactly. So I got things like car stereos speakers, clothing, jewelry—anything. Got kids? I can get you the latest video game system. Stores can’t even keep them on the shelves. The demand is greater than the supply, you know? Those digital places do that kind of thing on purpose. They make like two hundred systems and tell the world about it. They get orders for millions and then jack up the prices until they eventually flood the market. But I got two, brand new and still packed fresh in their boxes. So if you need one for your kids, you let me know,” Speed said, slopping his toast in the yolk of the over easy egg.

  “No kids, but thanks Speed. I’ll keep the offer in mind,” Michael said.

  “You do that,” Speed said and went back to devouring his breakfast with the same amount of energy he used for talking.

  Chapter 8

  Saturday, January 12

  Michael slept the whole day away, waking up after eight. He could not help but question his motives for wanting to work two jobs. His first night went well, in retrospect, and he enjoyed meeting an array of people.

  While showering, he thought of Felicia. He knew women did not just become prostitutes for the sake of becoming them. Assuming each has a unique story, Michael decidedly wanted to hear whatever tale Felicia might have to tell.

  Knowing most people are private people, getting Felicia to open up would take some doing. He could not imagine her reasons for choosing her profession, but felt intrigued at the prospect of finding out.

  Of course, Sandy and Vanessa were not to be ignored. In truth, he wanted to hear stories from them all. In time, he hoped to have an inside line to each of them, including Speed and Fatso. Marcus might make the most fascinating person of them all; so quiet and sneaky. Michael wondered about any existing mob ties.

  Most people thought the Italian Mafia was dead and gone. It was not. It just wasn’t as active as it had been back in the 1960’s, 70’s and80’s, when the Rochester Mafia was home to the likes of Joe Bonanno, Stefano Magaddino, the Luccheses’, and Sammy G—the Hammer. At some point Michael entertained the idea of writing a book based on those historically infamous characters.

  Michael dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt, then sat down at his computer. He typed up three pages of notes. He used a bulleted list under each name, then saved his work. He received a message informing him that Ellen was on-line and wanted to chat.

  He turned on his messenger and typed: “Hey, Ellen.”

  “Where have you been?” She wrote back, her message instantly appearing on his monitor. Ellen and Michael had met at a college party. He had been a senior at the State University of New York at Brockport, while she had been visiting from SUNY Buffalo, where she was a law student. They hit it off immediately, and had been dating ever since. She lived in Spencerport, a village on the outskirts of Rochester, while Michael lived in Greece, a large suburb. They were maybe eight miles away from each other.

  “Sleeping”, he typed back. “Why?”

  “I’ve been calling. No one answers. I keep getting the machine.”

  Michael looked at the answering machine. He had no new messages. “Did you leave a message?”

  “No. I hate talking to those things.”

  “I had the ringer off. I didn’t want to be disturbed,” he typed.

  “I would be disturbing you?”

  “The ringing of the phone would.”

  “Even if it were me?” She wrote back. “Want to get together?”

  “I have to leave for work in a little while.”

  “I don’t like you working two jobs,” Ellen wrote.

  “We talked about this.”

  “CORRECTION, you talked about this.” She wrote ‘correction’ in capital letters to imply that she was yelling.

  “I need to do this,” Michael wrote. “And I have to get going.”

  “When can we see each other next?”

  “I’m not sure. Monday?”

  Ellen wrote: “MONDAY????? How about dinner at TANTALO’S?”

  “Six?”

  “See you then.”

  Michael switched off the computer. Deciding he would cook something to eat at Jack’s Joint, Michael left the apartment with two fresh packs of cigarettes in his coat pocket.

  Michael’s car had at least four inches of heavy snow on it. He used a gloved hand to brush away the snow on his door. He found the lock, and inserted his key. The wind had a bite in it. It gnawed at Michael’s ears and cheeks. He started his car, and while the windshield defroster tried to melt the ice on the glass, Michael used a brush and scraper to assist in cleaning off the accumulation.

  _____________________________

  Jack’s Joint offered limited parking in the
rear. Michael pulled into the tiny lot, parking in between the large, green, Dumpster and Murphy’s car. He turned off the engine, got out of the car, locked the doors and rang the bell by the back door. Murphy kept the back door locked. Aside from Murphy’s own keys, a spare was inside, under the register.

  With his shoulders hunched forward, and his hands stuffed into his coat pockets, Michael wondered what the temperature might be. It felt colder today than in the past several weeks. Though he had only been standing by the door a few seconds, he literally felt nose hairs freezing.

  Murphy opened the door with a smile. His apron was covered in grease. “Come on in, come in,” he said, stepping aside.

  “It’s freezing out there,” Michael said.

  “And packed in here. You’re going to have a busy night.”

  “I can handle it,” Michael said, enjoying the heat in the diner.

  “From what I hear, you did pretty well last night.”

  “It was a good first night,” Michael said, curious about who might have provided Murphy with a progress report. He suspected Fatso, but, at least for now, decided to let it go. “I met a lot of interesting people.”

  “Ah, and there are still so many more interesting people to meet,” Murphy said. “I guarantee it. Listen, it’s not quite time for your shift to start, but I was planning to have dinner with a lady friend tonight . . . “

  “Mr. Murphy, are you asking me for permission to leave early?” Michael said.

  “Hardly. I’m just telling you that as soon as you strap on a clean apron, I’m out of here,” Murphy said, hardening his shell, after an exposed moment of softness.

  Michael smiled, shrugging out of his coat. He hung it up on a hanger, tied a clean apron around his waist and transferred his cigarettes to the apron’s pouch. “Mr. Murphy, I’m all set.”