"The Kid Mobster" is the story of a high school senior and dreamer who loses the part-time job he had needed to earn his money for college and goes to work for mob-connected scam artist Mederick Anders before realizing the kind of corrupt world he's joined.
The Kid Mobster
By Michael J. DeCicco
Chapter 1
A letter and a collision sparked my introduction to a mobster.
The moment before the letter was like a collision in itself as I stood in a waterfront warehouse smelling of fish, old dollar bills and engine grease, fighting back my dread of the reasons my after-school job would call me in earlier in the afternoon than usual.
At first I had enjoyed getting there early. I liked the attention from having to change into my police-uniform-blue armored car services uniform and cap in the Bradshaw High School boys' room, the looks as I walked down the corridor just after the last bell of the day. The different cliques at their lockers—-the tall, outdoor-smelling athletes, the boys trading strategies for solving algebra equations, and the giggling and gossip-trading girls in tight Levis and short skirts-all turned and gazed at me, almost with respect.
At least none of them tried to make fun of me in my work clothes, and I liked how that felt.
But twelve minutes later I cringed as the warehouse's vault room door banged open and the tall, grim-faced dispatcher handed me the devastating piece of paper that changed everything.
"You are duly advised that you are now under probation for an accident two nights ago," the neatly-typed paragraph read. "It is the policy of 'E-Z Armored Courier Services' that two accidents damaging our courier division automobiles will be cause for a driver's immediate termination."
"I knew this would happen!" friend and fellow courier Brian DeMec said, gazing over my shoulder.
I closed my eyes against the vision of working forever in a damp dungeon like this if I lost the money source of my college-bound future.
"Carson, it's all because of that thing you keep working on," he said.
When I opened my eyes again, he was pointing to the overstuffed backpack at my feet and the stationery box holding my manuscript that peeked from it.
I looked away behind him, to the rows of red, rust-eaten armored trucks dwarfing a row of small white courier cars.
"You don't need distractions when you've got daily deadlines," he said. "You're in the bank delivery business not the publishing business. A car shows its dents the way a truck never does, and we drive their cars."
"I don't let what I'm writing distract me," I said, though my voice was hoarse and I felt weak. "It isn't hurting a thing."
"Carson, you could hang yourself someday on your minor distractions," he said.
For a best friend, he never tried to understand about the manuscript.
"The other night was just a fender bender, not a big accident," I said. "I'm fine." I slipped the letter into my back pocket. "I've got a courier route to start."
Part of me, though, couldn't resist being more than a little nervous.
As if I knew a second collision was coming.
###
It came right at dusk—
-when headlights grazed my windshield and with bang! scrape! shoved me to the curb, tossing manuscript pages and delivery receipts to the floor.
Though dazed, I saw a flash of pink and chrome in my courier car's rear view mirror. With the vision of that warning letter still burning in my brain, I twisted the wheel and gave the white Ford Escort the gas, making the tires squeal and dirt fly as I u-turned in the street.
My foot hard on the accelerator-as with one hand I adjusted the wire-rimmed glasses half off my face and the cap half off my head-I closed in on a faded-pink Fleetwood Brougham Cadillac heading fast down the barren stretch of road lit by dim street lights.
I flashed my headlights, honked my horn. The Caddy didn't even slow down.
It careened onto the highway exit. I stayed behind it.
It veered onto the Downtown Bradshaw exit. I veered with it.
A red light stopped me at the bottom of Main Street. The Caddy vanished in traffic.
The light turned green. Up ahead, the Caddy took the corner of Purchase Street.
I bolted through the intersection, rounded the same corner.
The Caddy was gone again, Purchase Street empty of traffic.
Was I wasting my time?
No. Its rear bumper peeked from an alleyway.
I swerved to the sidewalk across from it and braked, sending the rest of my backpack to the floor.
My door handle wouldn't budge. I shoved my shoulder against the door, twice, and finally kicked it open.
Its dent was a pink-streaked oval dead center of the black 'E-Z Armored Courier Services' lettering.
I scurried to the alleyway, my feet slipping on a trail of leaking oil from the Caddy's rusted chassis. Only a small dent and a small streak of missing paint creased the Caddy's front fender.
I headed for the shop alongside it, the only lit storefront on the block, and burst through the front door.
To my right, a chunky woman with a rusty-haired pony tail streaked with gray leaned forward behind a glass display counter.
She smiled and said hoarsely, "Can I help you?"
"Yeah, you can help!" Too loud, out of breath. "Who and where is the owner of that Cadillac?"
"Why? I mean, the owner's the building manager."
"Does he know what he did to my car?" I said. "He sideswiped me and disappeared."
"Calm down," she said, stepping from counter. "Maybe he doesn't even know."
"I could lose my job over this," I said.
"He's upstairs. I'll go get him. Okay?"
Before I could answer, she stepped to the floral print curtain at the back of the shop and yanked it open. I watched her climb a cast-iron spiral staircase and disappear through a hole in the ceiling.
On the support beam above the curtain hung two square, foot-high hand-painted wooden signs. One read "The Knick Knack Parlor Gift Shop", the other "High Paying Office and Sales Positions Available Upstairs."
I released a deep breath, trying to settle down.
Another breath and I tugged at the uniform pants that were always too big for me and brushed back the locks of hair that fell in my eyes whenever I was stressed.
A third breath. I was still nervous as hell, and mad.
I marched toward the staircase, stamped my fist into my palm.
I heard a gasp, smelled familiar flowers-and-talcum-powder-like perfume and stopped.
Behind the curtain, a short but shapely girl with a startled moon face and a mop of silky, dark hair knelt beside a box of ceramic figurines.
She kept staring at me as she stood. "Hi, Eddie," she said softly. "I thought it was you."
"Hi, Sue Ann," I muttered. "Good to see you."
Seeing Sue Ann Pierce again brought on more anger, a lot like what I had for the owner of that Caddy, but a more painful kind because of the over-protective father who made her break up with me.
"How're you doing?" I managed.
"Fine," she murmured, clutching the belt of her calf-length denim skirt. "I work here," she added, as it wasn't obvious.
"How's your father?" I said, trying to sound nonchalant.
"Eddie Carson, Junior!" Her eyes widened and her grip on her belt tightened. "Don't look at me like that. Don't even think you can ask me out again."
"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Carson."
I twisted around to a tall, deep-voiced man standing at the bottom of the staircase next to the red-headed store clerk. He smelled of heavy cigarette smoke and looked like a business manager version of Mr. Clean. He had a completely bald head that almost shined under the store lights, a slightly off-center smile, and square but not very muscular shoulders. He wore a gray polyester suit, but no tie to go along with his dull white shirt, and dark, pointy-toed alligator shoes.
"Mederick Anders' the name." He stepped forward, extending his right hand.
I simply looked at it then back at his face.
"Do you know what you did to my car?" I said.
He dropped his hand. His eyes went sad, sincere. "Listen. I'm terribly sorry about that. I guess I was in too much of a hurry tonight. There's a lot of things on your mind when you run a business."
In his other hand, he held a small pad of white paper. He tore off a page of scribbled numbers and offered it to me.
"Here's my insurance information," he said. "You tell your bosses it wasn't your fault. I'll even talk to your bosses for you and pay any damages." His eyebrows arched with concern. "Will this get you in trouble?"
"It sure will!" I shouted.
I stopped as the red-head looked at us from the display case and Sue Ann turned from the store window.
I said more quietly, "I could lose my job if-"
"You go to high school?" he interrupted.
"I graduate in a month, and I'm not losing my college money over something that's not my fault!"
"Hey, I could offer you a job myself," he said. "I run a telemarketing firm upstairs. I need drivers."
"Drivers?" Though I wasn't sure I believed him, I wanted to hear more.
"I could give him a good deal, couldn't I, Irma?"
The red-head answered, "Eddie, I can certify Mederick's a man who'll do right by you. He has a good heart. I mean, his business raises money for Police and Fire Department charities. The money goes to their widows and orphans."
"We solicit money from local merchants over the phone," Mederick explained. "Their donation buys them an ad in our annual magazine; we usually use a copy of their business card. I always need drivers to pick up the donations and the cards."
"That's not what I came here for!" I said.
"You came here because of your job, right?" His eyes surveyed my uniform. "You're a delivery guy in your job, am I correct? If you got fired, you'd get a good deal working for me. Your friend Sue Ann wants to become a driver too."
That sent a warm pang through my chest. A chance to get close to Sue Ann again.
"Now, I don't blame you for wanting to better yourself with a college degree." Mederick turned me around and walked me to the door. "In fact, I've done some of my own self-improvement myself. Would you believe I was once dubbed the 'ace fish cutter' of the Bradshaw, Massachusetts waterfront? Followed my dad into that racket. I finally figured there had to be more to life than that. I chose to better myself, and you should choose to better yourself too, with me. Hey, just think over my offer. You know where to find me. Just think about it."
"Okay, I will," I said.
I stepped across the threshold as he closed the door in my face.
Standing there, I told myself I had deadlines to meet. I didn't have time to think about it.
Yet I stood there and wondered a million things at once...
Wondered if I was about to lose my job and all of my college-bound future.
Wondered if Mederick Anders could get me close to Sue Ann again.
Wondered if going to work for him was a good idea, or a big mistake.
####
Chapter 2
On the Boston expressway, I was invincible again.
The skyline I sped toward was a crystallized castle set against a velvety-smooth night sky and centered by the Federal Reserve Bank of Boston's tower of polished steel.
Miraculously on time, within minutes of my 8 p.m. deadline to the Fed, I could ignore the feeling of being in a cold, futureless black hole of a mess.
I could head away from having to accept Mederick's offer, take refuge again-at least for a moment-in my own novel-length elsewhere.
###
The Invincible Kid Courier-Chapter I
by Eddie Carson, Jr.
Secret agent Jacob Baker loosened his iron grip on the steering wheel as he maneuvered his sleek, white car into the Federal Reserve's parking-garage-like receiving area.
His wide, steely dark eyes-made even wider by metal frame glasses-darted to his rear view mirror, and it reflected the beginnings of a smile on his face. Again, he had shaken the black van that followed him, challenged him nearly every night.
###
The oily smells of the loading dock forced me back to reality as I wedged my clipboard of receipts under my arm and flipped open the trunk to grab the plastic and burlap bags of canceled checks.
I faced the challenge of deciding which rose from my dad's florist shop to also take with me-the yellow or the red.
"Hi, flower man!" Lana, whose long red hair nearly covered the length of her blue smock, grinned as she met me at the top of the dock's stairs. "You sure made your deadline in the nick of time tonight!"
I dropped the bags at her feet, handed her my clipboard and a yellow rose. She giggled as she signed the clipboard's top sheet.
###
The Invincible Kid Courier (continued…)
To agent Baker, Lana was the most princess-like of the regal blue-smocked bank maidens he met on his route. He half-expected her to attach a piece of her smock to his clipboard for good luck as he ventured further beyond Boston's fortress walls.
But the worst of his challenges was over. The bags of canceled checks from Bradshaw Bank and Trust that had to be deposited each night, and on time, at its own big bank, the fed, were safe.
Like a valiant knight of old, he had reached his king's treasure vault before his tardiness cost a royal ransom in lost accumulated interest.
Safe too were the "secret delivery" envelopes he was entrusted with nearly every night because he was the best courier that E.E. Services had, the 'Invincible Kid Courier'.
###
A shrill whistle made Lana and I turn with a start, but I had already recognized whose whistle it was. Sure enough, Brian DeMec was stooping between his courier car and mine, staring at the dent in my side door.
"What happened here, Carson?" he said. His voice echoed off the high concrete ceiling.
I leaped from the dock and made the mistake of telling him.
"Carson." He smirked and his pencil-thin mustache twitched. "You're going to get fired."
"Come on, Brian," I said, brushing the hair from my eyes. "I didn't tell you so you could give me that kind of answer."
"Carson." He shook his head and his locks of curly dark hair bobbed like a million small heads in agreement. "Ever since I was in the second grade and you were in the first, you've come to me when it's something you need to hear. It never fails."
"Well, this time I don't want to hear it." I turned away. "I say go for it," he said.
"Go for what?" I turned back.
"Talk to that Mederick Anders again and go to work for him," he said, unlocking his trunk. "See him right away. Tonight."
"And be late on my route!" I stamped my hand on his car roof. "They do not need another reason to fire me, Brian."
He shrugged as he and I grabbed the bags of checks in his trunk. "What's your other choice?" he said. "Sell the stories about your fantasy hero?"
"I need an option more practical than that," I said.
My mind sprang to this morning-mom cursing as she began another un-publishable romance novel in her notebook; dad, smelling of flowers and potting soil, wincing as he checked his ledger figures and let his bacon and eggs breakfast get cold.
No. I don't want either existence, I thought. I need college, and college money, to decide what kind of existence I do want.
Tossing the last of his bags of checks to the dock, Brian said, "Carson, you need to work for Mederick Anders so you can get yourself out of your nice and safe fantasy cocoon."
"Brian. Shut up."
He only got louder. "Carson, just look at me." He leaned into my face. "I've got my college studies during the day. I'm busting my butt in this job at night. You think I'll get my business degree if I play it safe and comfy?"
"You're always talking about quitting this job."
"I sure won't stay as a courier because it's the easy thing to do," he said, jabbing the corner of his clipboard into my chest. "Whenever my chance comes, I'm going for it. And you should too. I say, talk to this Mederick Anders because you're not sure of him, because it's a risky thing to do."
"Why?"
"I'm telling you why. Because when E-Z Services hears about that accident, you'll have nothing else to lose. Because you need to get out of your 'Invincible Courier' fantasy cocoon. And because it might get you close to Sue Ann again."
I paused. The thought of getting back with Sue Ann sounded nice.
Part of me, though, wanted to resist his logic, the part that was tired of Brian DeMec telling me what to do for as long as I can remember. He was working his way onto my list of annoying people, right under Sue Ann's dad and my parents at breakfast time.
"You've got a decision to make, Carson," Brian said.
"Go to the devil, DeMec," I said, but only after he had turned sharply on his heels and leaped to the dock.
And just before I started wondering if he was right.
###
I dreaded my next stop, the tall wedged-shaped office building that jutted into Kenmore Square within view of Fenway Park and that contained the Computer Records Center of Suffolk National Bank.
I didn't need to enter the lobby and see the glowering face that, as usual, greeted me by the elevators.
The pot-bellied cleaning man with unruly jet black hair eyed me as he swirled a large shampooer over the threadbare carpet. "Hey, there he goes!" he announced, and his sarcastic bark bounced
off the walls. "The pride of E-Z Courier Service! I tell ya, ya got it made, kid. Flashy car. Flashy uniform. Money for college. What more to do you want?"
I smiled as I reached the elevator doors. "I want fame."
"Don't give me that," he responded.
"Respect." I kept smiling, but I wondered how much I was kidding.
"In this universe, forget it."
"Compassion." I stepped onto the elevator.
"Wrong universe, pal. You try asking for that stuff and you'll get fame and respect out the door."
He's starting to sound like Brian, I thought. He even looks like Brian's father-the overbearing block Brian is a chip off of.
I can't seem to get away from these types.
The elevator doors shut and I was grateful for the sudden silence.
Too quickly, they re-opened on the third floor and more noise-a roomful of blue-smocked maidens seated at machines resembling large check marks lying on their side. These were my 'Proof maidens'. Their department proved/verified the totals of the bank's daily collection of checks.
"You better be in a good mood tonight." Sylvia, a petite, dark-skinned Proof maiden, greeted me with a frown. In one hand, she juggled two Coke cans, a pack of cigarettes and spare change.
"Why do I need to be in a good mood?" I hoped she wasn't about to make my own mood worse.
"Because the bank had another busy weekend," she grumbled, even as I placed a rose in her other hand.
She looked at my stuffed backpack and added, "You'll have to wait a minute for your 'precious parcels' to be completed by your 'Proof maidens'."
I tried to smile. "Regal Proof maidens!"
I walked to the alcove containing the vending machines, trying not to let her bother me.
Usually I liked having to wait, getting extra time for my homework and my manuscript.
This time, something inside me felt different.
"Oh, no," a voice moaned. "There he is again!" The cleaning man wedged himself past me and put his coins into the soda machine.
I thought again of Brian's father, and of Mederick. Brian's father owned a fish processing plant-maybe the same one Mederick had worked in.
Brian and I had visited his father's plant once. The foul smell of sea water and factory oil reached even the upstairs offices. No wonder Mederick Anders had tried for something better.
Maybe I had to try too.
I turned to the cleaning man and said, "Listen. Could I get your opinion about something?"
"Bad advice is always free," he said, opening his soda
with a loud pop. "What's up?"
"If someone gives you advice and it makes you uncomfortable, could that be because it's advice you really should take, because deep down inside the advice giver is right?"
He shrugged. "Well. Maybe that means it's good advice. Maybe it means it ain't."
"Thanks. That really helps," I said sincerely.
Because by then it was clear whose decision it was. By then I had made up my mind.
###
At midnight I was speeding past the edge of Bradshaw, my mind racing against panic.
Trying to visit Mederick after my second run to Bradshaw Bank and Trust had been a mistake. The time it took to reach the shop, find the whole building locked, then deal with an ignition that didn't want to start right away, were all I needed to put me behind schedule.
I was on the highway exactly when I should've already been at the Fed with the bank's precious parcels.
At first I tried to ignore the headlights flashing in my rear view mirror.
Until I recognized the shape of another E-Z Courier Services car.
Reluctantly, I pulled over to the breakdown lane. The glaring headlights stopped behind me and a stout silhouette emerged from them. The holstered revolver bulging from the left hip and the small mobile phone holster at the right hip gave away his identity a second before he spoke.
"Mr. Carson!" Branch manager Charles Mott bent down and grumbled, "Why aren't I surprised it's you?"
I stepped out of the car, trembling. "Mr. Mott! What you doing here?"
Right away I wanted to snatch back the stupid question. Everyone at work knew this man's routine. The former Boston cop who was used to long hours often worked in place of an absent employee and often arrived the next day for his noon to midnight shift extra-late and extra-grumpy.
That night, his rubbery, chocolate-skinned face looked grumpier than I had ever seen it.
"Mr. Carson," he bellowed, "why the hell are you just leaving Bradshaw precisely when you should be at the Fed with your second run?"
"I can explain, sir," I said as my hair fell into my eyes.
"And this is another damn surprise!" he said, squatting down to gaze at the dented door.
"It wasn't my fault, sir," I said, my voice squeaking. "I haven't had time yet to call it in yet. I've got the guy's
insurance information."
He stood up and barked, "Sounds like another of your novel-length tall tales. You have broken the camel's back, Mr. Carson. I've been on the verge of this decision for some time. You've just helped make it."
"What do you mean, sir?"
"Don't bother coming to work tomorrow."
"No, Mr. Mott! Please. What can I do to-?"
"At this point, nothing. After you finish your run tonight, you're on suspension until we finally decide, but don't expect a favorable outcome."
As I watched him walk away, only one thing stopped me from thinking my life was completely destroyed.
I still had the option of Mederick Anders. At the time, I thought it was a good one.
####