Avon Calling Box Set Read online

  Avon Calling!

  COMPILATION

  Episode 1 - 3

  A Woman’s Work is Never Done

  A Dream That I Can Call My Own

  Chocolate Cake and Sandwiches

  Hayley Camille

  In the seedy underworld of 1940s New York, revenge tastes like cherry pie with a side of lipstick and perfume. The Avon Lady is in town …

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  Copyright © 2020 Hayley Camille

  All rights reserved.

  ASIN: B086M92H6G “Avon Calling - Episode 1 - 3 : A Vigilante Crime Series Compilation

  ASIN: B01M7UCT3P “A Woman’s Work is Never Done” (Episode #1)

  ASIN: B01MCYDETS “A Dream That I Can Call My Own” (Episode #2)

  ASIN: B01M36DPX5 “Chocolate Cake and Sandwiches” (Episode #3)

  Published by SpearPoint Press

  PO Box 1799

  Sunshine Plaza 4556

  Queensland Australia

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, organizations, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events, or locales is purely coincidental.

  AVON is a trademark of Avon NA IP LLC and AVON PRODUCTS, INC. This book is not affiliated with or endorsed by Avon NA IP LLC or Avon Products, Inc., New Avon LLC, Avon International Operations, Inc. or any of their associated subsidiaries.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior consent of the publishers.

  Table Of Contents

  Episode One ~ A Woman’s Work is Never Done

  Episode Two ~ A Dream That I Can Call My Own

  Episode Three ~ Chocolate Cake and Sandwiches

  BONUS EXTRA 1 ~ Sneak Peek of Episode #4 “Kitty’s Kat House”

  BONUS EXTRA 2 ~ New York during WW2

  BONUS EXTRA 3 ~ The Avon Calling Musical Playlist

  Join My Readers’ Society

  Listen to the Podcast

  Love it? You can make a big difference!

  Take a Peek inside Betty’s Closet

  About the Author

  Also by Hayley Camille

  Episode One

  A Woman’s Work is Never Done

  Fall, 1943. New York.

  Betty Jones regained consciousness to the sound of scraping chairs and the smell of acrid cigar smoke filling her lungs. The skin around her mouth and nose stung like it had been burned. Her mouth tasted like copper pennies – the chloroform had left its mark. So, apparently, had her captors. Bruises were blooming on her cheek and collarbone, the telltale tightness of her skin suggested they were already swollen and darkening. Before she opened her eyes, she listened.

  Shuffles found her ears from every direction. Heavy breathing close by, on her right. A whimper from her left. The crackling broadcast from a wood tube radio playing somewhere behind her. The hollow notes of a jazz clarinet piped from the speakers, echoing off a surface not far in front of it and bouncing around, distorting her sense of space.

  Betty opened her eyes. A maze of heisted Army supply crates, old furniture and bric-a-brac were piled to the roof in all directions leaving no space bigger than a few meters wide, with the exception of the center of the room, where she currently sat. She didn’t struggle against the chains that bound her hands behind her back. Just a gentle tug was enough to know that her wrists were securely attached to the chair. There was no need to move. Yet.

  Betty looked up at the man sitting opposite her. He was on a chair similar to her own, with nothing between them. Betty’s eyes were like shards of ice.

  “You will die,” she said quietly.

  The man smiled and raised an eyebrow, his cigar in hand.

  “The good wife speaks.” He turned to the man beside him with a nasty grin. “She cooks, she cleans, she gets down on her hands and knees…”

  His companion sniggered, his heavily scarred face gloating. He was missing the top half of his right ear.

  To Betty’s left, was a long table messy with interrupted packaging work. It was piled high with stolen military supplies of amphetamines that had been destined for the front. Wake up pills for pilots and soldiers. A dozen unkempt boys had been disrupted from their work, no doubt by her arrival, and now they stood behind the table, their eyes to the floor, too terrified to look up.

  There was a movement in the maze of boxes somewhere behind her, and Betty closed her eyes. With a huge effort against the pounding inside her head, she pulled the thoughts of the room in from around her. The shufflers. How many?

  Seven – twelve – nineteen – thirty – Yes. Thirty men hidden in the shadows of crates and makeshift furniture around her, all brought in to make sure she never made it out alive. Thirty-two, including the two in front of her. Filth. Murderers. Mercenaries. Every one of them deserved to swallow his own bullet.

  “Let them leave,” Betty said, nodding toward the group of orphans cowering behind the packing table. “They don’t need to see this.”

  The man’s eyes grew tight in thought and he looked to the boys.

  “Maybe they do,” he said, provocatively. “This lot are my finest and smartest – the heirs to my empire, so to speak. You take my own boys away from me – I take them instead.” He stood up, letting his cigar hang from his mouth with his hands in his pockets as he turned toward the orphans, rolling on the balls of his feet. “Pay attention kids,” he called out to them, his voice laced with dark humor. “I’m your family now, ain’t I? Today’s lesson is about trust. There are consequences for betraying trust in a family like ours.” He lifted his hand and reclaimed his cigar from where it dangled at the side of his mouth, leaving a trail of smoke. “Family is everything, Mrs. Betty Jones,” he said.

  From the shadows around her, the mercenaries began closing in.

  “Shame. I always thought you had potential,” the man continued. “I had my eye on you from the beginning, you know. Roy never saw it; he was too stupid. Even Frank never clued in. But I did. You were smarter than the rest, even my own boys, God rest their souls. You had potential. You were useful. Like your mother was, before she broke.”

  Betty caught his offsider’s eye, and it narrowed, critically, in its ravaged frame.

  “Well,” she said, casually, “you’ll find I’m not so easy to break.”

  Her captor tossed his burnt-out cigar on the floor and leaned over Betty, one hand on each side of her chair, his thumbs pressing against the outside of her legs. When his face was only inches from her own, he spoke again. His breath was hot and dank on her face and every pore on his skin glistened with sweat.

  “You’ve had the curse on me all these years,” he murmured, with a dark grin. A tiny nerve under his left eye twitched.

  Betty took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders.

  A deliberate smile spread across her face, like a skilled artist painting on a mask.

  Radiant.

  Charming.

  Betty’s eyes flashed, a little too bright, as if something inside had suddenly come unhinged.

  “Yes, I have," she said. "And I hope you’re ready for that family reunion, Uncle Donny. Because I’m ready to give you one.”

  Three months earlier...

  “Now this delightful lipstick is everything you’ve ever wished for! It’s as light as sheer silk on your lips, so comfortable and smooth and just look at the beautiful jewel-like appliqué on the top! Truly Mrs. Parsons, your husband will think you’re a schoolgi
rl again! He’ll be pleased as punch!”

  A crisp one-dollar bill was happily exchanged for the promise, and Betty continued the three-story walkup lightly, stopping outside another brownstone apartment door identical to the hundred others around it. Children called up to her playfully from the street and she waved down at them through clotheslines draped between the buildings.

  Betty carefully placed her bag on the front stoop beside her, resting on its four large silver feet. She was as inordinately proud of her cognac crocodile-skin carry bag with its thick, tan leather-top handles and its precious contents, as she was of the title it afforded her.

  She smoothed her red cotton dress down to where it hugged her waist and fell in a gathered skirt two inches below her knees. She adjusted her pale-yellow pill box hat with its jaunty red feathers and followed the curl of her victory rolls over her shoulders reflexively. Her bright red lipstick shone as she gave the closed door a bright smile, knocked sharply three times and reclaimed her bag.

  “Avon Calling!”

  The door opened and a woman, not much younger than she, appeared.

  “Good Morning, Ruth darling,” Betty said.

  “Oh, Mrs. Jones, I forgot,” the young woman flustered. She wore blue jeans and a pale blue sloppy joe sweater belted at her waist. Her hair was still in twisted rags from the night’s sleep. From somewhere inside, a radio crackled with soft jazz and a woman’s voice floated down the wire in a tale of misdirected love.

  Beyond Ruth, sitting straight backed on the faded couch with her hands wrapped tightly around a teacup, another young lady sat.

  Her twill skirt was neatly pressed, but barely modest. It was summer 1943 and with the war in full swing, fabric was strictly rationed to accommodate the soldiers’ uniforms. New dresses were rare and barely made it past the knee. ‘Mend and make-do,’ the ladies encouraged each other daily.

  Ruth cast her tea-guest an apologetic smile and turned back to Betty, lowering her voice. “It’s not a good time Mrs. Jones, my friend Anna’s sick, you see…”

  Betty looked over Ruth’s shoulder, to the other girl. She had the look about her of a startled cat, with red rimmed eyes and a pale, blotchy face. Her knuckles were white where they clutched the teacup too hard. A dark bruise stained her pale décolletage, disappearing beneath the neck of her blouse. Her yellowing cheekbone was poorly covered by pressed powder.

  A sudden thought pushed unbidden into Betty’s mind, and she heard it as clear as if Anna had spoken aloud. Please Lord, no. Johnny’ll flip his wig is anyone finds out.

  Betty’s brow furrowed slightly at the girl’s private admission, but she retained her bright smile. Anna had no idea her own thoughts had betrayed her, but regardless, it didn’t take more than intuition to figure out where the girl’s troubles lay. Anna swallowed nervously under Betty’s scrutiny, lifting her chin. She pulled her dark cardigan protectively across her chest as the radio spun its final melancholy chorus.

  “Sick, you say? Well that is a shame,” Betty clucked sympathetically. “But what gorgeous kicks, darling!” Betty nodded to the patent red cork wedges the girl wore on her feet. “And such a honey, too. You sure must have the boys lining up to go with you!”

  Anna’s eyes softened a bit, and she gave Betty a watery smile.

  “Only Johnny. He’s my flutter.” She twisted her fingers together wistfully, before her eyes filled with tears and turned resolutely back to her teacup.

  Still blocking the doorway, Ruth’s mouth set in a hard line. Flutter! He’s not worth half of it, silly girl. Johnny’s a rotten, dirty spiv and you’ll end up a moll, or worse.

  Betty’s chest tightened and her heart hardened a little. A gangster’s girl then. Well used to hiding her reactions to the thoughts of others, Betty instead offered Ruth sympathetic eyes.

  “Well now, Ruth, how many times must I insist you call me Betty!” She patted Ruth’s hand with her free one, offering her a meaningful look. “And trust me my darling, now is the very best of times. There’s nothing that a nice cup of tea and some pampering can’t fix.”

  Betty stepped inside the familiar sitting room and set herself on the couch next to Anna. Ruth hovered nervously for a moment, then disappeared into the kitchen to make a fresh pot of tea. Her thoughts jutted back indiscriminately. As if I don’t know! I should call the flatfoots, that’d teach him. Get him pinched for what he did! Anna’s so stuck on him she’d never tell though, even for her own good. If only her Pop were still alive…

  In the sitting room, Betty placed her bag on the floor at her feet, then reached out to pat Anna gently on the knee. Ow! Anna stiffened and quickly stretched the fabric of her dress a little further over her skin. Betty drew back her hand delicately, clasping it with the other on her own lap instead, her red painted nails gleaming.

  “You took a fall did you, doll?” She smiled kindly. “Never mind, bruises heal. We ladies are a little too clumsy for our own good sometimes, aren’t we?” Anna eyes widened and she nodded emphatically, looking relieved. He didn’t mean it. It was probably my fault anyway. I’m such a bother to him, I know I am.

  Betty winked and continued without pause. “I did it myself on Tuesday- I entirely missed the steps and landed right on my behind, breaking two of my best perfumes into the bargain. My goodness, was I upset!”

  Betty reached down and unbuckled her bag, pulling out a number of ornate bottles and lining them up on the coffee table. “Don’t you worry, Anna; I’ve got the perfect concealer to hide those bumps. You’ll be looking a dish in no time.”

  An hour later, Betty left with both girls smiling and Anna clutching a purse-full of free samples.

  “And remember ladies,” Betty turned back waving brightly, “There’s always time to take time off for beauty!”

  Unwittingly, the girls had told her all she needed to know. Hearing another’s thoughts wasn’t the most impressive skill she had, but it was certainly the most helpful. Not that anyone knew. Betty tapped in and out of people’s minds selectively, for the most part leaving their private thoughts just that. She was a lady, after all.

  No, Betty never looked for trouble, she’d seen more than enough already. Each night when she toed off her slippers and climbed into bed, the memories came roaring back. Empty syringes and dull silver spoons, broken plates and dark alleys. Blood. Fire. Revenge. And the very first whisper from another mind into her own when she was only twelve years old, “I wanted so much more for you, Susan, my baby.” before that body too, was shelled by a syringe. That was someone else’s life though. Now, Betty painted the darkness with a cherry red lipstick and a spritz of lilac perfume.

  Her days were brightened by the simple things; laying a crisp New York Times by her husbands’ breakfast plate in the mornings, braiding her daughters’ hair, gently tending her little boy’s scraped knee. They were her world, her eternal delight and devotion.

  On occasions like these though, which seemed far too common, Betty had no choice. Some thoughts needed to be heard. Her hemlock heel pumps clicked against the concrete steps as Betty trotted down. She strapped her cosmetic bag onto the back rack of her powder-blue Schwinn ladies bicycle and rode home with plans whirring through her head.

  Betty smiled benignly, turning the page of her copy of Vogue on the café table and sipping her tea. Behind her, oblivious to her interest, four young men preened themselves and catcalled passers-by from the street corner as they discussed their plans. Betty sighed at the predictability of it all. Although their conversation was too quiet to overhear, the words came clear as day from their minds anyway.

  So, what’s the word, Johnny? When do we hit the trucks?

  I told you, Lou. It’s sorted. All we gotta do is wait under 59th Street bridge at sundown and it’s ours. The bennies, the fet, all of it.

  What about the GI’s?

  We bump ‘em like the Minton job. There’s so much dope these days, the uniforms won’t miss it.

  Yeah, I ‘spose, a third man said. But what about Frank?
/>
  Frankie’s holed up at Capitol Palace, Johnny replied. His guys are gonna hit the truck near Harlem, so we get in first. Steal the stuff and bump the uniforms. Then we’ll resell it to Frankie. He’s got a gig full of buyers waiting to take it, so he’s counting on this load. He’ll have to pay to get it now, that’s all.

  Damn right he will, one man said.

  A couple of them laughed.

  I dunno, came a more hesitant, fourth voice. Frankie’ll be mighty bent, Johnny. How do’ya know they won’t get to us first?

  They don’t know where we’ll stash it, do they? Besides, it’s only a couple of days and I’ll set up to meet him and do the deal myself. We get the cash, hit the silk and it’s all done.

  If you say so, Johnny. But what if-

  Listen Willy! Just keep your stoolie mouth shut and we won’t have to shut it for you!

  No need to snap your cap, Johnny, you know I’d never!

  The others muttered words of appeasement and their attention turned to a group of girls walking by instead. Johnny let out a low whistle.

  “Check the gams on that dame, boys!” The others chuckled appreciatively. “I’m goin’ fishin’!” Johnny took off across the street after the girls and the others disbanded, following him.

  So, it was a heist. Same old rubbish, Betty frowned. The amphetamine benzedrine, or ‘bennies’ as the little white pills were known, were a staple for the men serving on the front. The government issued them to pilots, navigators and soldiers regularly, keeping the men alert, dulling pain and smothering their hunger in the cold, miserable trenches they kept. On the black market, bennies were crushed instead, mixed with whatever crack tonic was on the streets, and sold for a double hit. The white powder known as fet, heroin, was a little harder to come by, but got a top price in the jazz clubs of Harlem that saw addicts come and go like a tram stop. It was the perfect place to do business, as it seemed Frankie, ‘The Smacker’, Polletti was well aware. And these drugstore cowboys were already neck deep.