Short Stories
06.12.10
The Cafe
By Kim Bergman
The last job is the hardest. Michael’s teacher told him that over ten years ago just before he made the decision to step away from the only life he’d ever known as a cleaner. And he had reiterated it after his last job was complete. Michael’s teacher also said the last job is always personal, although no one plans it to be. It just ends up that way.
This one was personal. Michael had been hired by a man he had met long ago by the name of Arturo Messina (Artie for short). Artie was the man that through the intriguing and convoluted twists of Fate was in the right place at the right time, the man who had taken a bullet for Michael and to whom Michael owed his life. And it was now, in the twilight of Michael’s own career as a cleaner, that his good friend, his savior, called upon him for help, or more accurately for his services. Michael tried hard not to think of the request as payback for Artie’s selfless act. They had become better friends than that. But a nagging feeling like he was being called out on a debt, to settle up, besieged him. Maybe this is what his mentor had meant…the last job being personal.
Michael physically and mentally tried to shake these thoughts as he closed his eyes and rolled his head in slow circles. The delicate vertebral joints in his neck popped with each rotation. He could not do his job effectively with any amount of upper body tension. Michael exhaled audibly, forcing the air out of his lungs, and then deeply inhaled it back in again. While doing so repeatedly, he counted to himself. (Inhale) one…two…three (exhale)… This was Michael’s routine and during these exercises, he pictured a simple image to help himself relax. The image was of his family and he was a child. They were in the back yard of their early 1900s cape. It was always sunny and he could almost smell the faint aroma of his mother’s rose bushes in the beds lining the porch. Michael ran all over that big yard…he chased his little brother Bobby…then their dad would chase them both while their mother enjoyed the spectacle from the porch with iced tea in hand. It was a much happier time that Michael escaped to. It was his own form of meditation. And it was a successful one, always calming his nerves, enabling him to focus on the precise task at hand.
The cool metal of the Winchester felt good against his skin. Comforting, like an old friend and now that he was thinking peaceful thoughts, he nestled the stock of the rifle more closely. Michael had thought about this moment, more frequently as of late. He knew it was time to retire. His goals and ambitions now were much larger than simple cleaning and involved more than just himself. Elena was ready to marry. She was a modern woman and had no problem holding out until Michael promised a more ‘stable’ profession. And he loved that about her…that independent, unwavering spirit. It was just the right time for Bobby to move back home and return with him to the legitimate family business like their father had always wanted. Michael could not deny the feeling of completeness washing over him when he thought of the life he was about to make with his family, both old (Bobby) and new (Elena). Amidst this reverie, Michael slowly lowered his head and aligned with the rifle’s telescopic sight. The future was brilliant in his eyes as he closed one of them and peered through.
(Inhale) one…two…three (exhale)…
The target would appear soon. The predictable schedule made this job all the more appealing to Michael. Simple. But poor Artie. His predicament was not so simple. Artie was devastated when he found out his wife was cheating and had been doing so for a while. What was all the more puzzling was how seemingly content Maria was being married to Artie, never a hint of any trouble or dissatisfaction. Always the couple seemed happy, in an almost too good to be true way.
Guess it WAS too good to be true.
Artie had hired a private detective a couple of months ago, upon Michael’s urging. He had become so obsessed with the notion of the affair, and as Michael witnessed the deterioration of his friend both physically and emotionally, he felt the only way Artie could recover rationality was to be presented with concrete information disputing the infidelity. Michael hoped it was just his friend’s paranoid personality disorder manifesting itself needlessly and that Maria’s secret life as a compulsive shopper or an overly social butterfly or a cappuccino addict was the reason for her all too regular disappearing act.
The photographs proved otherwise. Michael didn’t actually see them, but he trusted Artie for he had no reason to lie. Artie had had enough lies. Despite any stereotype, Artie was a faithful man and the devastation he felt was second only to thoughts of retaliation. He wanted the job done right by someone he trusted. So naturally, he propositioned Michael. Michael’s gut reaction was to decline, but both knew that was not an option. Michael was normally meticulous in his preparations for a job, but the uncomfortable feeling of being backed into a corner made him want the deed over with and done. And the information Artie provided was very clear and detailed…almost foolproof, such that Michael dispensed with his usual preparatory research and routine. The little French cafe on 2nd Avenue and Adams. Every weekday, 11:00 am.
It was 10:58 am on a Monday. What a way to start the week.
(Inhale) one…two…three (exhale)…
Maria arrived first, as Artie said she would. She sat down at one of the quaint little tables on the cafe’s patio and faced the street. The waitress descended immediately and poured her a glass of water as they exchanged pleasantries. Very familiar conversation.
Artie was right…every week day.
Maria’s eyes glanced at the menu only for an obligatory second. She knew it by heart. Michael watched her through the crosshairs of the sight as she panned her surroundings, searching for her lover among the passing foot traffic. As she turned her head to her left towards the crosswalk, her eyes widened. Maria smiled revealing the joy inside her as a man approached the cafe and her table with his back towards Michael. She stood and the man swept her up in his arms, their embrace causing Michael pause for fear of a through and through, knowing full well Artie did not want them both dead.
(Inhale) one…two…three (exhale)…
After a seeming eternity, they let go. The man raised his hand to touch Maria’s cheek, the skin of another man’s wife. The skin of Michael’s best friend’s wife. Maria closed her eyes, absorbing the man’s touch and Michael knew it was love. But he would never tell Artie. Maria grabbed the back of the chair across from her and swung it around. She sat and patted the chair, beckoning the man to sit next to her.
Ahhh…even better. A frontal head shot. And less spatter on your soul mate, you bastard.
While Michael awaited the glimpse of the face of the man who ruined Artie’s life, the tension in his index finger increased ever so gently against the trigger.
(Inhale) one…two…three (exhale)…
This was Michael’s last job. The man swung around and sat in the chair, and as the man Michael was sent to kill raised his head to gaze into his lover’s eyes, Michael was faced with just how personal his last job was to be.
He could feel the sun’s warmth and smell the roses, as he ran and ran all over that big yard…chasing his little brother even though his father was right on their tail…
Michael’s brother Bobby leaned over to kiss Maria ever so gently on her lips. Yes…this was love.
(Inhale) one…two…three (exhale)…
Click.
The Cafe
04.20.10
You’re Next
by Kim Bergman
Thursday, 5:59 p.m.
This day seemed longer than most, not to mention the entire week seemed to be lasting forever. Tricia was all too eager to power down the computer when the clock on the wall of her home office read 5:59 p.m. She had been working since 7:30 a.m. and her butt was numb from sitting in the less than cushiony desk chair that needed replacing a couple of years ago. Tricia stood and stretched thinking to herself an all too frequent ‘another day yet unfulfilled’. She closed the laptop and left her office in search of wine. The routine was the same each night…pour a glass of wine, read the mail, watch TMZ (for her daily dose of ‘culture’), eat something (maybe), shower (always) and sleep. She avoided wondering if anyone else had the equivalent magnitude of boring that she did, but if her mind trailed to that thought during her routine, she simply drank the wine a little faster. Whether white or red depended on her mood…light and fresh…or heavy and intense.
Tonight, it would be red.
As Tricia poured a generous glass of cabernet, Tony, her stunningly beautiful Maine Coon, swirled around her calves. His movements around her legs were graceful and mesmerizing and, like the wine, quite soothing to her. This was always the moment she felt lucky to be home. Tony continued to weave in and out of her legs as she walked to the front door. As she opened it she shooed him away. He would dart out into the cruel world if given the chance. He knew no better. The mailbox was right outside the door and Tricia had become adept at reaching outside to grab the mail while staving off Tony’s attempts at escape with her foot.
A bill. A credit card offer. Another credit card offer. Ads. And a letter. Tricia was somewhat surprised. Other than the timely (and thoughtful) seasonal cards from her mother, she didn’t receive personal letters. Really, who does anymore? The envelope was weathered and the printing very nondescript, nothing that she recognized. And there was no return address. She thought it odd as she slid her finger under the seal and drew it towards her to open the envelope. Immediately she winced at the sting of the paper cut she gave herself more often than not when opening her mail. ‘Stupid.’ Tricia put her index finger in her mouth to stop the bleeding and she felt misplaced hostility towards the envelope that cut her. ‘Who sends a letter without a return address?? So annoying!!’ She pulled open the envelope to investigate its contents. She found a small folded piece of yellow lined steno paper. Tricia sniffed…the interior of the envelope and the paper inside smelled old…stale…almost chemical. As she unfolded the paper a small amount of fine powder dispersed into the air. She was confused by the two words on the paper she held in her hand…
“You’re next.”
In the distance, the distant sound of the town’s emergency sirens rose above the ambient noise. Tricia had not heard the sirens before except on the first Saturday morning of every month and during a tornado watch or warning. ‘What day was it?? It’s not Saturday… ‘ Tony, overly sensitive and skittish when it came to loud noises, ran into the basement. Tricia walked through the front door and down the path in front of her house. The weather was beautiful, without a cloud in the sky. She looked down the block. Some of her neighbors were standing on their lawns, some in their driveways, looking towards the sky for signs of a storm’s approach. Others were slowly, almost tentatively emerging from their homes, like Tricia, confused as to why emergency sirens would be going off on this random Thursday evening. Tricia’s focus was drawn to one of her elderly neighbors that lived three houses down on the right. Her name was Maureen and she was coughing. It at first seemed to be a minor irritation of the throat, but as it continued it progressed to a deeper cough with high pitched wheezing in between lurches of the poor woman’s chest. Maureen was struggling to catch her breath, and just as Tricia was about to move towards the road and down the street to help, she noticed the woman was clutching something in her hand. It was a yellow piece of paper and an envelope. Tricia looked down at the piece of yellow paper in her own hand. She dropped the note from the unknown sender as her hand started to tremble and looked back down the street. Maureen’s next door neighbor had recognized her distress and had come to her aid. He placed his hand gently on her back as she was doubled over grasping at her throat. As his arms went around her shoulders, Maureen’s torso shot up and she let out a strangled cry. A substance, similar in consistency to vomit but tainted with heme, spewed forth over her bottom lip, and her good Samaritan backed away in time to avoid the trajectory of it. Although Tricia was a good 30 or 40 yards away, she could discern the contorted details of Maureen’s face during the ordeal. And Tricia felt the heat of flushing and weakness in her knees as she caught a glimpse of Maureen’s eyes as they darted in panic. They were red.
And as suddenly as she started coughing while gazing at the clear blue sky above her, Maureen collapsed. Lifeless, on her lawn.
Tricia closed her eyes, thinking maybe if she did the spectacle she just witnessed would disappear because she could be dreaming and very well had done so many times before this having slipped off into slumber while drinking her nightly glass of wine. The coughing. She could still hear it. That and the sirens. She raised her hands to her ears, but the coughing and sirens grew louder. She did not know how long she stood with her eyes closed and her ears covered standing in front of her house on the quaint stone path leading up to her sanctuary. But when the coughing around her stopped and the only noise cutting through the spring air was the faint emergency siren off in the distance, she slowly opened her eyes. All of her neighbors living in the houses along her secluded tree-lined street were dead.
And Tricia, unable to hold it in any longer, began to cough.
The End
03.14.10
*Writer’s note: The following short story was written for the writers club that I recently formed, the Worth 1000 Words Writers Club. This story serves as an example of the concept behind the club, using images as inspiration for writing. One holiday back home, I shuffled through a box of my grandparents’ old photos and found the pictures you see below. Neither my mother nor father knew the origin of the pictures. Their existence and connection to my family remains a mystery. But as you can see by their intriguing appearance, they were too good to stay buried in an old shoebox in the basement. Enjoy and please feel free to comment or critique. Thanks for reading!
Happy New Year, Lucky
By Kim Bergman
December 31, 1945
His lungs felt like they were going to explode. If the Bolognese stains on his shirt were any indication, Leo was in no shape for this run-for-your-life bullshit. And in wingtips, no less. But he had to get to his car. Then he would be home free. He was about to turn his head to judge the distance between him and his pursuers as a gunshot cut through the chilly, midnight air, a little too close for comfort. Leo darted to his right and almost met head on with a lamp post. He grabbed it and flung himself around, straight into a newspaper vending machine. As his leg clipped the corner edge, it ripped his trousers and gashed his knee. He cringed but maintained a decent speed despite a limp. He had to get off these deserted side streets. Luckily his car was parked on the busy main drag; people would still be out and about, this being New Year’s Eve. And this was a big one, with so many G.I.s home from the war. Most of the city’s streets were packed…just not this deserted one on which he chose to escape. But on Figaro Avenue, the busiest street in Little Italy, party goers would be stumbling out of their celebratory gatherings and such and he could easily get lost in the crowd. They wouldn’t dare start shooting then.
There was the street sign…13th and Figaro. His car would be waiting for him just around the corner. Leo again turned his head hoping he had created enough distance to account for the time it would take for him to start the car. To his surprise, he saw no one. Aside from a stray cat darting across the cobblestone side street behind him, there was nothing. Had he lost them?? He picked up his pace, uneasy with the feeling that they were lurking behind him somewhere he couldn’t see. He rounded the corner and caught sight of his sedan across the crowded street. As expected, people were everywhere and as he wove through the sea of hugging and kissing bodies, he never lost sight of the car…his salvation. It was just past midnight and the sky was filled with balloons and streamers. People were hanging out of windows in the buildings tossing confetti and spraying champagne down upon the jovial scene. Leo was unfazed. He shoved partygoers aside and made his way through the festivities to the car door and opened it. He placed his keys in the ignition and started the car. He had made it.
Leo did not anticipate his next hurdle in making an effective get-away – the crowd. A chorus of car horns blaring in celebration drowned out his, and his only means of departure was a slow crawl, gently nudging bodies out of the way with his front bumper and fenders as he inched away from the curb and towards the intersection. He kept his windows rolled up as partygoers grew irritated and pounded on the vehicle. After what seemed like an eternity, he made it through the horde and tore around the corner and down the side street. He was a mile or so down the road when he hit the edge of town and had enough courage to look back in his rear view mirror. No one was following him. As the sweat poured down his brow onto his rotund cheeks, he sighed and smiled, reveling in the fact that “Lucky” Leo Lucchese was too good to be caught. Leo reached into his chest pocket and pulled out a pack of Lucky Strikes (of course). He placed a cigarette in his mouth and reached back into his pocket. With the flick of his zippo, he muttered to no one, “Lucky strikes again.” Leo threw his head back in laughter, his obese body shaking as his hand on the steering wheel made the car jiggle on the road just a bit. He was in this position when the straight razor sliced through the taut skin over his fat neck like a knife cutting a sausage. The blade had no problem cutting through the adipose to reach the artery. The Lucky Strike shot out of Leo’s mouth onto the dashboard and he raised his hands in an attempt to stop the cascade of blood from his neck. The man with the razor, Ricco, grabbed the steering wheel from the back seat and hopped up front. He couldn’t apply pressure to the break soon enough and Leo’s car crashed through a fence and hit a tree on the side of the deserted country road. Ricco flew forward into the windshield and thumped backward at the abrupt stop. It took him a moment to regain awareness but aside from a nasty bruise on his forehead, he was fine. Headlights appeared over the hill quite a generous distance behind them, and Ricco wiped the razor blade clean using Leo’s jacket. As he exited the car, he looked back at the slumped, lifeless mound of a man that had once been his friend but had been a royal pain in his ass since he fell out of favor with the family. He grabbed Leo’s hair and pulled his head off the steering wheel. Ricco shoved a playing card – the King of Hearts – inside Leo’s mouth. With a pat on Leo’s fat and now pale cheek, Ricco said, “Happy New Year, Lucky.”
December 30, 1946
It had been almost a year to the day that Leo “Lucky” Lucchese had disappeared when they found his car in the murky waters of the Missouri River.
But when they pulled Leo’s car from the water, they found no evidence of Leo “Lucky” Lucchese inside.
What they did discover was another man bound tightly in the back seat…Ricardo or Ricco “The King” Casso. Authorities kept a tight lip about the details of the find, but eventually word got out…as it always did. Ricco “The King” died in a manner similar to the murders he was believed to have committed, the details of which made him both feared and infamous. His throat was slit from ear to ear, and like a stuck pig his body had been made devoid of blood. How Ricco “The King” earned his nickname was as well known as his method of kill. Each of Ricco’s victims had been found with The King of Hearts, the suicide king, stuffed in their mouths.
Mysteriously, Ricco had been found with something stuffed in his…a soggy faded pack of Lucky Strikes.
And to this day the body of Leo “Lucky” Lucchese has not been found.
The End
