Forward

Armand De Costa had come to the United States from Italy as an immigrant. Like those of his time, he believed in the American dream of streets paved with gold and the promise of opportunity for anyone who desired it. Though, achieving success was easier said than done. Armand performed a series of menial jobs before he settled on as a dock loader at the local shipyards across the Delaware River. It was backbreaking work, but nonetheless provided him with food on the table and a modest apartment. His co-workers were men with families and others of ill repute, but he would carry himself with dignity. A foreigner, who started with nothing, nor an understanding of the English language or American traditions, would only have recourse to fall back on his wits and integrity. As an outsider, he was careful not to stir the prejudice of his contemporaries. He later met a young Negro woman named Patricia Carter. She was the oldest of her family of eight; she herself being twenty-three. They crossed paths while shopping for provisions at a corner market on the south side of town. The manager accused her of stealing food and threatened to have her arrested. Armand spoke on her behalf, convincing him to drop the charges. She thanked him and this chance encounter allowed them to see more of each other. As time progressed, they grew close and eventually married. Interracial marriages were back then a rarity. In 1960, society had not yet grown to be accepting of mixed relationships. A few years later, Patricia gave birth to a son. As he grew, the features of his mixed heritage became more pronounced, possessing silk brunette hair and skin the pigment tone of caramel. Armand was a smart man and a loyal husband and father. He cherished his family and would not allow them to face the hardships of poverty that increasingly became a detriment to their community. Reluctantly, he quit his job at the shipyard to find better work elsewhere. While walking home Armand saw two men mugging an older man in the back alley of a local bar. Sacrificing his well being, he came to his rescue. Neither thug carried firearms, but one brandished a knife. Armand was able to fend them off, but not before he was stabbed in the shoulder before they ran away. The older man was grateful. As it turned out, fate was not without mercy. He was Sylvan Manetti, the patriarch of one of South Jersey's syndicates of organized crime. The two men in the alley were hired to assassinate Manetti, as his kin had been in a bitter dispute with another rival family. To repay the dept for having saved his life, Manetti offered Armand a job as his bodyguard and chief of security of his restaurant. The pay was more than generous; Armand accepted the offer. The De Costas no longer faced financial hardship and because of his employment at Manetti's place of business, the government would be none the wiser of the money he made off the books.

Armand prospered under Manetti's wing. The association between he and Sylvan flourished. Armand became a trusted ally and was successful in protecting the interests of the business and all parties involved. His position garnered him a venerable reputation as an enforcer. In turn, this respect also followed the De Costas. The son revered the father, so much in fact that he would mimic his conventions. He remembered little of the days when his parents were poor, but grew accustomed to the privileged existence that came with being attributed to the mob. Armand achieved his piece of the American dream, but as reality can change, so too can dreams become nightmares. Luck has its limits. Those that had earlier attempted to assassinate Sylvan proved to be relentless. The rivalry between the two cartels derived from the death of the sister of its leader. She was witness to a murder directly committed by Sylvan. Unknown to the Manettis, their enemy became aware of this transgression when an informant infiltrated their ranks. This act of vengeance wasn't taken lightly. Sylvan's rival was a family who dabbed heavily into the dark arts. Their leader was a practitioner of black magic, more specifically, resurrection.

On the eve his 61st birthday, Sylvan's son honored him with an elaborate ballroom celebration. Everyone was present, including the De Costas. The guest list included a who's who of noted delegates, their families, and entourage of the tri-state area's more predominant criminal governing bodies. After a rousing chorus of 'happy birthday' with the guests having gathered in the main foyer, the lights in the room flickered off. Voices murmured in confusion during the power outage until the front doors of the foyer crept open. A figure draped in silhouette stood under the archway and spoke.

"Happy Birthday, Sylvan Manetti. I'm here to kill you."

The figure extended its arm with a sawed-off shotgun and blew away the cranium of Sylvan Manetti.

The guests screamed in horror as the killer walked back into the darkness outside the mansion. Chaos ensued. The men were infuriated and stormed out to the front lawn of the estate to confront the lone murderer, leaving the women and children behind. They then saw the figure standing alone on top of the hill beyond the marble fountain that stood in the center of the driveway. Their anger seethed. They wanted to know who would be heartless enough to kill an old man on his birthday? What living soul could be so cruel?

The shadowed figured stepped into the light. There was no evil like that of a woman scorned. The soulless corpse of the woman Sylvan murdered had been revealed. His enemy's sister had risen as a Gollum.

The deceased outstretched her arms, while her followers stood aghast in terror. She wasn't alone. The ground moved below their feet. The bowels of the underworld had opened. Skeletal hands crawled through the soil, grabbing hold of the guests. More did the same. Another followed. Several others sprang from the earth. Every unfortunate victim that had been slain by the hands of these men had returned from the grave. Their spirits long departed into the ethereal beyond, abandoned by the flesh that sought retribution. There were those who fought back. Gunfire erupted from random directions. The living shot frantically in vain at the zombified legion of men, women, and children. Some were able to escape the onslaught of being ripped limb from limb. But those who fled back to the front doors of the mansion were horrified to find there would be no solace within the walls of the ballroom. The women and children of the criminal delegates met the same fate. Their entrails marked the ornate fixtures of the room. Armand was among the survivors who returned to the mansion. Seeing the destruction that lay before his blood-soaked eyes, he was relieved to see his wife. She ran into his arms, and fell limp as her face delved into his shoulder. He stroked her hair, sobbed, and kissed her head. When he ran his fingers behind her neck, he pulled away. He trembled as he came to the chilling realization that his wife's esophagus has been torn away. Patricia was dead. He dropped her lifeless body to the floor and wept under the archway of the door. He wondered what he did to deserve this? He cursed the day he moved to America. Those were Armand's final thoughts as a zombie ripped its claws through his lower intestines. In his last breath, when everyone had died, the last thing he'd see…was his son.

Chapter 3: Allegiance

Undergrowth pierced through the cracks of a rigid cement walkway that led to an ominous brick building. It had stood its place in the bowels of the city for more than thirty years; its outer surface defamed by graffiti. The steel laden double doors of Rafael Cordero Molina Elementary School had opened dismissing northeast Camden's inner city youth. During the summer, its residence was converted into a six-week activity camp, a program initiated by the school district and the mayor to keep kids safe and off the streets. Children of every age and nationality scurried out, elated that the weekend had finally come. Among them was Brandon Wesley Statler. He was a little boy often seen in good spirits, whose cleverness didn't fall far from the family tree. He was your typical 8-year-old, the type to spend Saturday mornings watching cartoons while eating sugarcoated breakfast cereal. Children of 1987 had little to worry about. The world was a scary place, but had yet to reach the peak of paranoia that it would one day become. Ms. Johnson, a nubile young woman in her mid-twenties, volunteered as a camp counselor. During the previous academic season, she was hired full-time as a third grade homeroom teacher's assistant. Today, she lead an outdoor event that required everyone to separate into groups to complete activities that encouraged the students to engage in challenges geared toward testing their wits and leadership abilities. While Brandon was compliant, he wasn't the outdoors type. He could navigate his way from the playground to his home while sleepwalking. But to him, the wide-open spaces and forest life of New Jersey's national park was foreign territory. Though, Brandon had been anxious to go on this trip since the beginning of the week. As a student, his grades were average, but for once in his life he wanted to prove that he was more than just the quiet little boy who sat in back of the class. And for all Ms. Johnson's credits as a dedicated teacher, she often fell short of her own vices where it concerned patience. She could be impetuous and oblivious to the reality that this part of her nature irked certain people the wrong way, including her students. At the end of the day, the expressions on the collective faces of the children varied from jubilation, to indifference, to utter dejection because many of them had not succeeded in owning up to her expectations. There were a few that went home with the misgivings that things wouldn't be the same after today. Yet for others, those assumptions couldn't be any more prophetic.

DJ, who was a year older than Brandon, accompanied him as they walked through the school grounds toward the entrance gate of the basketball court. He was an athlete in form and heart and a dreamer who's desire for the game was unmatched by his peers. Though, such enthusiasm during class garnered the displeasure of his teachers, he'd no less daydream about meeting his idols in the Philadelphia 76ers. If he wasn't shooting free throws of crumpled paper into the wastebasket of Ms. Johnson's desk, he was reprimanded for not paying attention during algebra lessons. He wasn't a troublemaker by any means, just a little too laidback for his own good. He and Brandon were the best of friends. DJ's father would be on his way to pick him up within the hour. He wanted to stay behind to get some shots in before going home. On the other hand, Brandon waited for his escort to show. His demeanor didn't display the obvious, but he was disheartened that he let himself down in showing that he had something to prove.

A basketball bounced off the rim and rebounded left. DJ went to retrieve it as it rolled over to the side of the cage. He tried the shot again from another angle, this time taking off his backpack to give him a gravitational advantage. The next shot would again hit the rim. If he were a little taller, he thought, maybe his luck would be better. Though, who was he to talk about luck? If anything, the events of what happened earlier were an indication to say otherwise.

"Ugly-faced, rackem frackem…unintelligible words," DJ mumbled under his breath.

"What's wrong?" Brandon asked.

"What makes you think something's wrong?"

"Because you just put a dent in the backboard."

"She's a doody-face! I hate Ms. Johnson! I hope a frog sits on her mouth while she sleeps!"

"Hey, that's not nice, DJ."

"Who cares, Brandon? That witch embarrassed me in front of everyone."

"What do you mean?"

"Weren't you there?"

"Yeah but, I was with my group by the mountain climbing wall."

"Then you didn't see?"

"No."

"She called me out in front of my group. Our event was called 'pass the statue' or something like that. There were seven people in my group and they chose me as the leader. The thing was, someone had to pretend to be a golden statue. The 'statue' wasn't allowed to move. Do you remember that net you saw beside us?"

"Uh-huh."

"We had to cross the statue over the net without letting 'the statue' touch it. If it touched the net, we had to start all over again. So, while all of us were talking about how to get it done, Ms. Johnson was watching on. We argued for a bit about what to do and then tried it out a few times. We kept screwin' up. Everytime we started over, she was looking at me funny with her arms folded. We never got to finish the event, even when we kept on tryin'."

"Maybe you can finish it next time."

"There won't be a next time. That was our only chance. Before we packed up everything, Ms. Johnson said we tried our best, but if we had better leadership we would have succeeded. She put more blame on me than everyone else."

"What does succeeded mean?"

"Um, like we would've won."

"Oh, but you all still tried."

"Yeah, but I swear she doesn't like me, man. She's always givin' me a hard time".

DJ kicked a mound of gravel under his feet and picked up his ball.

"Maybe she didn't mean it."

"Yeah, right," the young athlete sighed. "Good grief, man!"

Brandon shrugged his shoulders.

"I'm just sayin' is all."

" 'B', one day when you're old enough like me, you'll understand. Things get a little more complicated when you're nine."

The boys stepped outside of the court and sat on the curb. Brandon hadn't finished his lunch earlier that afternoon. The contents of his lunchbox still had the other half of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich; a bag devoid of what had been red seedless grapes, and two unopened juice cartons. Seeing that DJ worked up a thirst inside the cage, he gave the other carton to him.

"Where's your dad?" Brandon asked.

"Out cutting grass on other people's lawns. It's his job on the side. He should be here soon. He told me to wait in the park until he comes from Freehaven. I used to live there before I moved to the city. It was a nice neighborhood. My grandparents are still there."

"Why'd you move?"

"Because Mom and Dad hit hard times. Kind of like everyone else who lives around here now. He used to work for a car dealership in Magnolia and my mom was a housekeeper. Dad lost his job when the owner sold the lot. The new owner fired most of the staff to bring in younger guys. My folks couldn't afford to live in Freehaven anymore."

"I'm sorry."

"Why? Don't be. I'm not upset. I was too young to remember most of it. We moved when I was three. We're a little better off now. Dad always lands on his feet. He told me a year after we moved, he found another job working for Pep Boys," DJ grinned. "I don't think they'll go out of business anytime soon. Sometimes, mom and I visit Dad at his job."

"How come?"

"You see me with a basketball everyday, but I bet you never knew I liked cars."

"Actually, I think I knew."

"You did?"

"You don't hide it, DJ. I see it on your face every time a new one goes by. You remind me of Bobby."

"Who?"

"My brother."

"Oh! You mean––."

The boys hadn't noticed the New Jersey Transit had pulled up to a stop. They were caught off guard as the door of the bus, which opened with a grating screech, pulled back revealing Brandon's older brother. Sweat stains and the grime that saturated his lower body highlighted the fact that he'd just concluded a grueling day on the job. Looking a little rough for wear, he was happy to stand on the sidewalk in front of the school grounds far from the drama of the Public Works Department.

"Yeah, it's nice to know you two talk about me when I'm not around," Said an approaching Robert Statler.

"You heard what we said?" A confused DJ asked.

"No. But, I could read your lips through the door." Rob replied.

"How do you do that?"

"I hear with my eyes," he laughed.

"Weird. You know, you don't act deaf. Your voice doesn't sound all funny."

"And how are deaf people supposed to act?

"I dunno. They speak with their hands and talk like 'dut-dut-dut-dut-dut'."

"Sorry to disappoint, kid."

"Magic ears." DJ asked with hint of sarcasm. "Just like Superman, huh?"

"Far from it. I'm different from the norm. Brandon tells me about his friends all the time; you must be DJ."

"What gave me away?"

"Call it a hunch."

"Huh?"

Rob motioned to the basketball under his arm.

"Oh. Ah, its just a little something I like to do."

"Are you any good?"

Brandon looked up at his brother and smiled, well aware of DJ's skills.

DJ turned his attention to the rim of the goal post within the basketball court. He studied it for a brief moment and then walked around to the other side of the gate. He stood outside the barrier facing the rear of the backboard as the brothers looked on. The barrier was a little less than twelve feet tall. He stepped back and gave himself enough room. DJ dribbled the ball on the pavement, then let loose with his best shot. The ball arched clear over the gate and above the backboard. To Rob's astonishment, the ball dropped straight through the rim.

"So what do you think?" Brandon asked his brother.

"What's there to say?" Rob was amazed.

DJ returned.

"Nice jump shot. I've seen adults do worse."

"Thanks," DJ said. "Could've been better."

"Better?" Rob asked.

"I was aiming for the other rim."

"I like this kid," Rob looked at Brandon and grinned. "DJ it was nice meeting you. We have to head home. You're welcome over the apartment anytime you like. Maybe you can teach me some of what you know."

DJ stroked his chin as though he were in deep thought.

"I'll teach you what I know, if you teach me how to hear with my eyes."

"You've got yourself a deal."

The fifteen-year-old and the young athlete shook hands.

XXX

It was a quarter after five, as the late afternoon merged into the evening. The roads became dense, congested with carbon exhaust. Travelers from all walks of life filtered through the narrow streets in gridlock. It was bumper to bumper, amplified by the outcry of noise incited by restless motorists. The weekend loomed; two days of jubilation and freedom from the trying burden of a week's worth of nine-to-five toil. Camden was a town of survivors; it's history fostered by dreams of prolific entrepreneurs. Yet an honest day's living to some would not be the same honest day's living to others. Every man and woman earned his or her keep in the city one way or another. Since the early years of its longevity, this tradition had not changed. In a perfect world, success would fall to the deserving. But in reality fortune favors the fearless and the fool.

While it was a center of bureaucracy, it wasn't the kind of settlement where one would wish to reside. Those who came to Camden did so only out of necessity. But for the people who lived there, they had little choice but to call it home. A black Cadillac Limousine pulled away from the mesh of heavy traffic, rounding the corner of North 5th and Elm Street. The raven colored exterior was a familiar sight to those more intimate with the locale. With the capacity to hold a caravan of six, the only occupants of the transport were the driver and its owner.

"Absolutely not. What made you assume I would––?"

"…"

"Well, that's not my concern."

"…"

"Hmm? I see. Yes, I can understand how that may pose a problem."

"…"

"No, I'm sure you'll find another way."

"…"

"Look, do not call me here again. Goodbye."

The owner was the district attorney of Camden. He was a wealthy man of notable stature. Several establishments of commerce and domestic leisure in the community were attributed to his name and influence. He was a man of great worth. He had just finished a phone conversation with an associate from City Hall, but afterwards maintained a look of sullen frustration. This evening, pressing matters called his attention. His thoughts turned as he gazed out the tinted passenger window of the backseat, fixated at the rubble of condemned buildings marked for renovation. This was the city where he was born and raised, the place that he'd also call home. So much had changed and yet too much had remained the same.

"Sir, shall I take you to your destination?"

"Yes, James. Please do. I would like to––"

He paused.

"Wait. On second thought, turn left into Vine Street."

The driver obliged, "Yes sir."

XXX

Brandon had been talkative during the walk back home.

"…and that's when I got to climb the tower and glide down the rope. I was high in the air. It felt like flying," Brandon said while telling his old brother about his day at the park.

"You did all that, huh?" Rob replied.

"Yeah. I wish I could really fly. Don't you?"

"No one can fly, Brandon."

"But, wouldn't it be cool to go high over the bridge?"

"No," Rob laughed. "Um, I'm not too fond on heights. Let's leave the flying to the pigeons."

"I don't like pigeons."

"There's hope for you yet!"

Brandon playfully punched his brother in the arm.

Among the sound of the droning blur of cars passing by, Rob could sense the presence of something nearing from behind. Lacking a sense as vital as normal hearing provided him the luxury of a stronger sense of awareness. Brandon slowed down as his brother ceased walking. It was the black limousine. Rob turned around as the deluxe vehicle came to an arrest along the curb. Its tinted window rolled down. He was familiar with its occupants.

"Good evening, Robert," the owner of the limo asserted with an affable smile.

"Hello, Mr.––," Rob replied with slight reservation.

"Please. We've known each other long enough to dispense with the formalities. You've certainly earned the right to address me as your familiar. "

"Devin."

Devin nodded. He then took notice of the younger Statler standing beside his older brother. "And you must be?"

"My mother says its not good to talk to strangers," Brandon replied.

Devin laughed, "Right she is. That is a very good maxim to maintain. She's taught you well. But, I'm no stranger. Your brother is a close friend and classmate of my daughter, Jennifer."

Rob looked down to his brother with a reassuring look of confirmation.

"So, why are you two gentleman walking about at this hour?"

"I just got off from work not long ago and had come to pick up Brandon from school," Rob replied.

"School in the summer?"

"He attends RCM Rafael Cordero Molina Elementary School. In the off-season, they run an activity camp for local youth. There's no one to watch him during the day since my mother and I both work. His friends are involved and he wanted to do the same. It was an even trade."

"Splendid. As for yourself, you must thoroughly enjoy your work."

Rob then noticed the grime on his apparel. He'd grown used to rummaging in soil, waste, and engaging in land restoration for the PWD. What bore no significance to him left him remiss that others weren't used to the same thing.

"I must look like a mess," Rob said apologizing for his unkempt appearance.

"No, I respect a man who isn't apprehensive of getting his hands dirty for the right reasons. But, neither of you have to travel all this way. I'm more than obliged to give you a ride home. It's no trouble at all. "

Brandon had never ridden in a limousine before. He was about to voice his approval of the offer, but was then compelled not to as he felt the slight pressure of his brother's hand bear down on his shoulder.

"Thank you, Mr.––," Rob paused before correcting himself. "Thank you, Devin. But, we're not too far from home. It's still light outside and I was going to take my brother to the corner store for ice cream on the way back.

"I see," the gentleman remarked feigning disappointment. "Well, the offer will remain on the table. You've always been kind to my daughter. Returning the sentiment is the least I can do." Devin then reached into the breast pocket of the jacket. He removed a business card bearing his contact information.

"Take this. Keep it in your wallet. If there's anything you need, don't hesitate to call me."

Rob read the inscription.

"You'll notice my personal and office number. Are you able to hear well on a phone?"

"Not well enough."

"Very well then. My business hours are there as well as my address. No appointments are necessary. My secretary will see to your needs and inform me of your presence.

"I really don't know what to say."

"Say nothing. A De Costa always pays his respects."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome," Devin replied. "And gentleman, be careful on your way home. This neighborhood isn't a place were one wants to be beyond sunset."

"I'm sure we'll be alright. Brandon and I know the way. I'm sort of a night person."

Mr. De Costa acknowledged the teenager's amusing remark before raising the tinted window of the limousine.

"As am I, son. As am I."

Chapter 4: The Devil's Ivy

The desire for acceptance is a very strong facet of human nature. But, loneliness and neglect together breed a stronger desire all its own––lust. We wager our integrity and go as far as to forgo what we cherish most for the carnalities of the flesh. Piety, honor, and chastity are illusions. We hide behind them, making them our quiet comforts. But what then is taboo? Perversion or the 'truths' we forge and protect behind the guise of who we really are? This is the reason why the world's oldest profession has remained everlasting.

I'm a sex shooter

Shootin' love in your direction

I'm a sex shooter

Come on play with my affections

Come on kiss the gun

Whoa Ooh Oh, Whoa Ooh Oh, Whoa Ooh Oh

I need you to pull my trigger baby

I can't do it all alone

I need you to be my main thing

Play thing pillar of stone…

The scent of ash and bourbon saturated the atmosphere, while the seedy expressions of nameless faces stared into the abyss. Their gaze was transfixed not on the neon theatrics, but on the young starlet caressing the metallic shaft that tantrically massaged the lush crevice of her femininity. She tantalized her audience's genital urge, while pleasuring herself under the hot glare of the smoke obscured stage. They wanted her, but she wasn't theirs to have. She performed to their yearnings, but nothing more. Love bore no presence in The Oasis, only shattered dreams and lonely hearts.

The establishment's clientele were a company of varying ilk; executives showing their clients a good time, husbands who's wives neglect them, college students from the local universities, and couples seeking fulfillment beyond their affairs. Though there were also those patrons who'd come to drown their distress in the pseudo companionship of beauty and booze.

The music ended following a round of applauds from the audience and comments from the disc jockey.

"Ladies and gentleman, thank you. We hope you enjoyed this recent performance from the lovely…Missy Monroe. Missy, take a bow baby."

The ovation continued and then died down as the next dancer took center stage.

The bartender poured two glasses of scotch and handed them to a robust light-skin African-American male. He was a scruffy lout with rough, pockmarked skin that could tear sandpaper. It was Rick Steal, the foreman of the Camden Public Works Department. He was in his element. The portly fifty-three-year-old married man whose children were already grown adults spent his free nights in attendance at the club. He was a proud man with questionable values, but if there was anything anyone wanted to know, he knew it. Steal kept his ear to the wind. Tonight was no special night other than celebrating another opportunity to avoid the wife. 'Pussy nights' was what he called them. He was no spindrift with money either. Steal valued his dollar, and he had a lot of it…all thanks to his partner and superior, Aleck Carr.

Carr was the supervisor at the PWD. He'd worked for the department for almost twenty years. He was slightly older than Steal and while his associate wouldn't exactly be considered a man graced with handsome features, Carr was no less appealing in appearance. He was a grizzled man whose skin was as dark as night. If his ebony features were once attractive in his youth, they'd long since abandon him. He was a foul, potbellied, deplorable, chain-smoker, who maintained one facial expression…grim and ugly.

"Godddddaaam!" Rick hollered. "That little white filly'll give an old man palpitations. Lord knows she got some brown sugar in that tank. Carr, what you think?"

Carr didn't respond.

"Carr?" Steal repeated.

"Hmm?" Carr replied.

"I said what you think?

"Who you talking about?"

"Little Missy."

Carr turned around and saw her assets from behind as she was talking to another customer in a corner of the room. She was grinding him half-nude, his face buried at ease within the plush chasm of her cascading breasts.

"…" Carr mouthed the appropriate explicative quietly. "Ain't got to tell me twice."

"I already did you old bastard. Don't tell me you're going deaf like Statler."

The stoic supervisor sat calmly in his chair while sipping his glass of scotch and answered with little regard for eye contact to his partner.

"The boy?"

Steal looked on.

"Fuck him."

Though his gaze was attentive toward the current stripper, Carr's thoughts were diverted elsewhere.

Steal laughed. "What? You're not enjoying yourself tonight?"

The chain-smoker flicked his ashes in an empty cup. "Rick…it's been a rough day. I woke up this morning, put on a jacket, and my button fell off. I put on my watch and the clasp came off. Motherfucka', I'm afraid to use the bathroom."

The foreman drank his scotch and put a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Look around, Aleck. We're the silver dogs of this here yard. Shit ain't as quick as it used to be, but the bitches still line up for the bone."

Carr cocked an eyebrow.

"I'm saying life is two short to sweat the small stuff. You gotta' enjoy it while you got it."

"Nah, nah it ain't that. It's just…" He sighed. "I got complications and things going on. Complications…and things."

Steal leaned back in his chair. "How's that?"

"You know, you and I been in the game for a long time. Made a lot of cash, had a hell of a lot of fun."

"I don't regret a damn thing."

"Hmph. Neither do I."

"So, why the long face?" Steal asked.

Carr lowered his gaze and then stroked his forehead. "…I owe The Italian."

Steal's jovial expression turned ill at the sound of that name. "Shh! D-D-D-Don't say that name here. How the? What?"

The supervisor lowered his voice and leaned in. "It's the truth. I got in too deep, Rick."

"How much?"

"Four hundred grand."

"JESUS CHR––!"

Steal's loud exclamation was loud enough to attract the attention of onlookers.

"Quiet! What's wrong wit you?"

"I'm sorry, but you wanna' explain to me how the FUCK you ended up being $400,000 in dept?"

"Remember two weeks ago when you and I took our families to Atlantic City?"

"Yeah."

"I was in the casino, played my hand at Baccarat. My luck was on. Best night of my life. I ain't never had it like that. I started with my own money and kept on winnin'. The stakes were high. I couldn't lose, brotha'. But, I didn't have enough to wager the rest of my hand. Yet, I knew I could win. There wasn't no doubt about it. But, another man did. I lost. My hot streak went cold. But, I didn't think it was over. I still felt the heat."

Steal listened on.

"In my greed, I did the dumbest thing I ever did. I had the money for one more hand, but it wasn't mine."

"You didn't. Please tell me you didn't?"

"I lost The Italian's money, $400,000 worth of his revenue."

"He…well…" Rick couldn't find the words to speak. "Okay, maybe you can fix this. He wasn't around when it happened. Two weeks went by and he ain't said anything to you. Maybe he doesn't know yet. You can buy yourself some time to put the money back."

"There's more. He had eyes at the Casino."

"No…"

"He saw us."

"Us! What the fuck?" Steal banged his fist on the table.

"I'm sorry, man."

"Son of a bitch! You got me into this!"

"I said I'm sorry, Rick! Look, I'll figure something out."

"Well, you better or it's our ass. " The foreman sulked. "Goddamit. Carr…"

In the background, the bartender had just finished talking to man in a black suit. He wasn't a customer. One of the waitresses walked by as he toweled off a glass mug. He leaned over her and said something inaudible while pointing to the unsuspecting supervisor.

"Maybe it's not as bad as we think?"

Carr gave him an incredulous look.

"Neither of us has really met him. That motherfucka' never let's anyone see his face. How dangerous can he be? Maybe he'll be reasonable and give us an extension. We're at least owed that much for the shit he has us do."

"Do you remember Nicky Cavella?" Carr asked.

"Nicky…Nicky? Yeah, I remember. He used to run numbers for 'Big Al' on Passyunk Street in Philly. He was slick. A little big for his britches if you ask me."

"Used to is the key word. Not long ago, Cavella snuck into one of The Italian's warehouses. He hustled a small stash of firearms from one of the crates. He was sloppy and got caught. Two days later, I found out from 'Big Al' in Philly that Cavella was found dead…with his intestines hanging from a tree while they were still attached to him."

Steal turned white in the face.

"Rick, I've tried everything. I even asked my momma'."

"An eighty year old woman ain't gonna' have that kind of money."

"There ain't that many options. De Costa wouldn't give me a loan either. I called him earlier in the afternoon. I didn't tell him what it was for. But he brushed me off. He hates…he hates The Italian. Been trying to prosecute him for months."

"Are you out of your ever lovin' mind? He's the Goddamn D.A.! He'd bring us down too if he knew we were connected to him!"

"Well, what the hell else am I supposed to do?" He whispered in dire urgency.

His partner wasn't without concern. Steal was just as in deep as Carr. But he had an idea.

"Hold on," Steal said. "Let me try something."

Missy strutted passed the two public works officers. She didn't try to hide the smile on her face brought on by the tips sticking out of her g-string. She was still relatively new, a rookie in a land of sinful intrigue, marked by the fact that she shouldn't have been counting her hard earnings in full view of the public.

"Missy, hey sweetie." Steal greeted the nineteen year old. "You lookin' mighty fine, tonight."

"Thank you, Mr. Steal," she said blushing.

"Hey, is Benny around?"

Carr perked up.

"Benny? Um, I think so. He should be in the backroom."

"Oh, good. I need to speak with him. Thanks, baby-girl." Steal slipped a 10-spot between the silk lace of her lingerie. "Buy yourself a little something nice."

"I certainly will." She kissed him on the cheek and left.

"Mmm, mmm, mmm," he shook his head.

"Why do you need to see Benny?" the chain-smoker asked.

"Because he's the only one we know who might have four-hundred thou. He owns this place."

"And why would he be willing to loan us that much?

"Ever since I caught him with his pants down in the back alley with some chickenhead."

"And your point is?"

"She was 16."

The supervisor's eyebrows rose, "…damn."

"Exactly."

Carr thought it over. He and Rick had known Benny for a good long time. He didn't hate him, but didn't like him either. The sleazy bastard was always trying to run a hustle. Then again, it was either blackmail Benny or spend the rest of his life eating through a straw…if he were so lucky.

"Excuse me, Mr. Carr?"

The waitress who had been called over by the bartender tapped him on the shoulder.

"Yes?"

"You're wanted in the backroom. Someone needs to see you."

"Me?"

She nodded 'yes'.

Carr turned to his partner bewildered to which the foreman shrugged his shoulders in similar reaction.

"That was quick," Steal said.

XXX

There was nothing fancy about the backroom of The Oasis. It was an old stock room that the owner had converted into his personal office. The picture frames on the wall displayed Polaroids of famous celebrities and athletes who had graced the club. Wilt Chamberlain, O.J Simpson, Joe Piscopo, and Rick James were among many of the well-known patrons. Other images on the wall were of famous pornstars who appeared for autograph signings or as featured performers for the club. Benny was most proud of the photo portrait he shared with Christy Canyon. She autographed it, "To Benny. Hugs and Kisses. Love, Christy." The room was normally lit, but when Aleck opened the door, most of the office lights were dim. Only half of the owner's desk was visible; the rest was cloaked in darkness. The only noticeable object on its surface was a potted plant, the Devil's Ivy to be exact.

"Benny? Ben?"

"…"

"Benny, I hope I ain't interrupting nothing. All these lights and shit off, makes a man think you're doing something illicit. Nice plant by the way, Um, look, thanks for calling me. I didn't think you were here, one of the girls outside said you might be available. I had something to ask you at the same time ya'll called me in."

"…"

"Benny?"

"…"

"I can't hardly see you. Let me turn on these lights."

"Don't touch them," a familiar voice ordered from behind the desk.

"Wait, you ain't Benny. Who…?"

"Have a seat, Mr. Carr. "

He froze. He started to sweat as his pulse raced. His heart thumped, feeling as though it was about to burst through his chest. He recognized the voice.

"The Italian," he whispered under the faint breath that exhaled from his lungs. "I…I…I…"

"Save it. Please, sit down," said the voice.

The man in the black suit, who had earlier spoken to the bartender, lurched from behind the desk and forced the middle-aged supervisor into a chair. His eyes were as dark as the shadows from which he emerged. He was a tall, brute of Nigerian descent. Needless to say, Aleck Carr was nervous.

"You shouldn't worry about Benny; he's fine. I gave him the night off."

"He works for you too?"

"Should that come to any surprise? By now you should understand my interventions have no limit. I am the financial benefactor of The Oasis. While Benny may own this club, it exists because I allow it to."

The Nigerian stood erect, never taking his eyes off of Carr.

"Aleck, do you know why you're here?"

He shook his head.

"Well?"

"Okay, before you say anything, I swear I meant to call you. I was in over my head at the Casino. I shouldn't have wasted your money, Mr. Italian. I apologize."

"…"

Carr continued to breathe uneasily. He prepared for the worse.

"Apology accepted."

"Huh?"

"Did I stutter? I said apology…accepted."

"Oh, sweet Jesus, thank you. Thank you, sir. Oh you won't regret this."

The supervisor rose halfway out of his seat and was forced down again by the Nigerian's hand.

"I know you won't, because you will reimburse the $400,000 you owe me."

"I promise."

"Next week."

His mouth dropped. "Next week? But…"

The Nigerian increased the pressure of his hand on his shoulder, compelling the chain-smoker to acquiesce.

"Next week sounds fine."

It was then that The Oasis' financial benefactor called his attention to the Devil's Ivy. He observed the plant and handed it to the Nigerian. Carr could sense The Italian's essence from beyond the darkness.

"It's a little cold in here," Carr surmised.

"That's ok. You can leave," he grinned.

"That's it?"

"Yes."

Thank God, he thought.

"But before you do…"

The Nigerian gave Carr the Devil's Ivy. He opened the door, shoving him through the archway.

"I want you to remember one thing. Life and death are in the power of the hands. And Mr. Carr, my hands stretch very far."

The office door slammed shut as onlookers, including Rick Steal, witnessed Aleck sitting upright with the plant between his legs. He looked down and picked it up off the floor. The Devil's Ivy had wilted.

…

TO BE CONTINUED.