Avon Calling! Season One Page 5

  “I bet that was a loss for you,” Betty spat back at him, vehemently. “Didn’t have your secret weapon anymore did you? Had to deal with Donny on your own terms.”

  “I’ve done all right,” Frank said. His eyes trailed the carnage in his office. “Seems you’ve done alright too.”

  “Better than alright,” smiled Betty. She took another step forward and took the keys dangling from Franks hand.

  “Now hang on a minute. I’m your family. It doesn’t have to be this way. You got skills kid, I can see that. We can come to some arrangement.”

  “The last arrangement didn’t work out too well, did it Frankie?” Betty said. “Not for Pop, anyway.” Her mind flashed back to that warm night, twelve years before. The blood, the gasoline. Her father’s limp body on the kitchen floor, with a knife hard in his chest. He hadn’t even fought back. Never saw it coming. Susie was then sixteen, working for Donny from the day her mother died and they’d discovered the girl carried the gift and curse of her mother’s line. Mind-reading. Empathy. Like her mother before her, the girl was an invaluable asset to Donald Pinzolo, whose world was based on knowledge, secrets and lies. But her mother had been right, Susie was stronger. She could control it and reign it in. That night, after she’d murdered her father and walked from the blazing inferno of her childhood home, she’d left her old life behind.

  Frankie gaped, speechless, but his mind spoke for him. Memories of smoldering timber framing, a dead man under the rubble and a missing teenager, presumed burnt alive.

  “You killed your own father?” Frank stumbled back a step, knocking the chair against the back wall. His skin was ashen. “Jesus, we blamed the Castelano boys. Thought it was a hit.”

  “It was a hit. My first.”

  “But you were just a kid. I never thought that you… that you could…”

  Betty smiled coldly. “Surprise.” Her shoulders straightened, and Betty swallowed hard, glad for the confession. “This is revenge, plain and simple, Frank. I want a world where you don’t exist. Each and every one of you.”

  Frank’s eyes darted between Betty and the still-closed door. His tongue ran his bottom lip and a bright sheen of sweat illuminated his pink skin.

  “Your security guard is dead,” Betty said matter-of-factly.

  “Jesus,” he breathed. “I mean, of course he is. You had to, I understand.” Frankie gingerly raised his hands and shuffled back, slowly lowering himself onto his chair. “You had it rough kid, I get it,” he said, with a sigh. “Roy was a bad egg from the start, he was never any good to you and your mom, didn’t deserve either of you, but especially Ethyl, she was too good for ‘im. Too kind.” Frankie’s eyes were suddenly sincere, he dropped his hands down to his lap and shook his head sadly. “I liked your mom, Susie, I swear I never wanted her hurt,” he slowly pulled himself in to his desk.

  Betty stood in front of it, her resolve fading as Uncle Frank’s words came. It felt so good, to be heard. No one had really heard her since she was a little girl. And Frank, he knew what it had been like for her. What she’d been through.

  “Me and your Aunt Thelma, we took you home after the funeral, remember? I talked to Roy, tried to sort him out a bit.” Frank’s voice was mellow, and his words dripped with sympathy. “He was past it though. Never could control his temper. I don’t blame you, fighting back. He deserved it, didn’t he, kid? You put up with it all for so long...”

  Betty had hunched, almost broken down by that glimmer of understanding. Of kindness. Frank was sincere, she could feel it feeding into her thoughts from his mind. Washing over her like waves of compassion. Drowning her. She was standing so close now, in front of his desk, with her red dress soft against the wood.

  “You don’t need to fight anymore, Susie,” Frank said. “You’ve got family again now. I’ll protect you, keep you safe. I’ll sort all this out,” he nodded to the carnage surrounding them. “They’ll never know you were here. Our secret, okay. I’ll look after you, kid.” The knives in Betty’s hands gently touched the wooden table and the noise surprised her. She looked down at them, and let go, leaving the blades on the desk. She looked at her empty hands.

  No.

  Mistake.

  Then she saw it. Frank’s hand had shifted, so slowly she hadn’t realized, as he’d retrieved the revolver strapped under his desk. His knuckles were white around the handle, held low on his lap. Pointed at her. She caught his eye and they both knew.

  Frank leapt to his feet, gun cocked and grabbed her arm, pulling her chest into the barrel. Betty was enraged, more than ever. His betrayal was nothing compared to her own humiliation for letting it happen. Even now as an adult, she was weak.

  Her eyes flashed flint and fire, her elbow smashed into his jaw and the gun spun across the room.

  “Susie-” Frank groaned from where he fell.

  Betty laughed, humorlessly. “No Frankie. Susie’s dead. I’m just your local Avon lady. Making a delivery.”

  And with that, Betty flicked her two remaining knives into his heart together, buried to the hilt.

  Betty collected her cosmetic case from the door and walked around the desk. She stepped over Frank’s body and took the keys hooked around his fingers, emptying the contents of the safe onto the table.

  She carefully packed the cash under the false base of her bag and layered the drugs on top in glass bottles amongst her cosmetics. She tore open a single packet of smack and spilled it across the desk and Frank’s face, shutting her handbag, which was now considerably heavier. Betty plumped her hair. She straightened a lopsided picture on the wall, then walked over and slowly opened the door. Apart from the dead guard, the narrow hallway was empty. She dragged the guards’ body into Frank’s office, closed the door and jammed it shut. Betty removed her gloves and folded them neatly into her bag as she walked quickly back toward the noisy bar, regaining her poise with each step. Betty ducked into the lavatories as she passed by, to re-apply her lipstick. Not one step out of the ladies’ room door, she bumped into George.

  “But I just checked a moment ago, you weren’t there!” he exclaimed.

  “George, dear. Well, of course I was, where else would I be?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. His eyes flicked suspiciously at her, then back up the hallway beyond the lavatories. “What took you so long?”

  “Goodness, what a question to ask!” Betty said. “Ladies business, dear. And before that I was helping a lamb who needed a touch of color. She’s going to hold a sales luncheon for her friends for me, so it was worth the stop.”

  “Working on your night off, dear?” George said, somewhat on edge.

  “Guilty as charged. You know me, never miss an opportunity.”

  “Quite.” He replied. “Always selling something, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, I suppose I am.” Betty took a breath through her teeth and plastered a smile on her face. “Did you get me a drink?”

  “My wallet is in your bag,” he replied, sourly.

  The realization hit Betty like ice. He’d been waiting outside the ladies’ room almost the entire time. “Of course, it is, I’m such a goose,” Betty said. Her cheeks blushed. Acutely aware of the bloodbath she had left only meters from where they stood, Betty dropped her bag on the floor, opened it and began to shuffle the contents, desperately looking for the wallet she had dropped in earlier. “So many bath salts,” she muttered with a nervous laugh. Her shoulders were unnaturally hunched, preventing too close a view at its contents. Betty closed the bag and stood up, handing George his wallet.

  They walked back out together into the din. Betty sat nervously at a table with the bag at her feet while George bought her a Martini. She slid the olive off with her teeth and leant forward to kiss George lightly on the lips, but he turned his head.

  “Thank you for the drink,” she said quietly.

  “I don’t like this Avon business,” George said. “You were gone for quite a while there. I thought I’d lost you.”

  “Never,” B
etty said, touching his hand. George shifted uncomfortably and Betty’s heart sank. He’d never questioned her before, he’d never needed to. Her eyes glistened. She’d been selfish. She’d brought tonight’s job too close to home.

  The orchestra eased into “At Last” and Glenn Miller crooned softly from the stage. She took her husband’s glass, placing it on the table with her own.

  “Dance with me?” Betty asked.

  “I’m not really in the mood...” he replied.

  “Please, George.” Betty squeezed his hand gently and he conceded. She led her husband to the dance floor and circled his neck with her arms.

  They danced, slow and intimate, oblivious to the crowd around them. With every note that passed, Betty ached to feel herself slip back into the life she craved. The one she had built for herself on a foundation of blood and lies. The pretty life. Where walls of pearl and perfume sheltered her from the past. Her arms tightened around George protectively. Nothing can take this life away from me. My dream. My own. At last.

  Betty looked up into George’s eyes but for the very first time, was met with hurt and confusion instead of adoration. His jaw clenched and he looked away.

  The shock quickened her heart. He doesn’t trust me anymore. She felt sick.

  As the song drew to a close, Betty held back tears and lifted her chin.

  “I’m sorry George, I’ve upset you. I really didn’t mean to; you know how I get carried away with my work, I do so love it. But not as much as I love you.”

  George’s expression softened and he met her eyes again. “It’s alright, jitterbug. I just - sometimes I feel like I’m a bit second-rate, you know? I’m not entirely sure you really need me at all.”

  Betty stopped still, while others around them began to sway as the band struck up a new piece.

  “You must understand George,” Betty said, earnestly, “everything I do, is because I need you. Perhaps not in the way you think, but, here,” she pulled his hand up from her waist and held it over her heart. “More than you’ll ever know. You saved me, you know.”

  “I don’t know about that.” George smiled. “You were doing quite well enough when I met you at that drug store counter. You sure saved me from that blasted cold I had. And every day since.”

  “Then we’ve saved each other,” Betty said. “As it should be.”

  An intrusion to her thoughts stole her attention. One of Frankie’s guards was heading downstairs. Time to leave.

  “What do you say we head home, darling?”

  “Already? Don’t you want to keep dancing?”

  “Let’s dance at home,” Betty replied with a soft smile. “Perhaps we can push the beds together…”

  The twinkle returned to George’s eyes.

  And they left.

  On the front steps of the New York City Police Department, Officer Malcolm Parker stood watching pedestrians. He was a bit huffy at the thought of being given such a menial task. There were plenty of others that could have done it, but his boss needed an extra set of eyes on the street. Specifically, his own, in fact, because Parker had proven himself to have a good eye for things not-quite-right. For that distinction, Parker was pleased, albeit currently bored. He’d been waiting an hour and a half and as yet, he’d seen nothing out of the ordinary for a Tuesday morning. No suspicious characters lurking the corners, no odd conversations close by, not even a stray dog. Parker sighed and stretched his neck, bouncing on his toes. It was almost break time.

  “Excuse me, officer,” a woman’s voice called out, “but could you give me directions to the nearest subway, please?” The woman in question had soft brown eyes and a pretty face and was bouncing a baby carriage with one hand as she waved him over with the other. Parker puffed his chest, glad for the opportunity to show off his good manners and have a conversation. He descended to the bottom step and explained the route, gesturing as he did. Behind him, pedestrians continued walking by. A pair of brown leather Gold Cross pumps wove between the people. The woman wearing them swiftly stepped up to the building entrance, deposited a large box wrapped in brown paper, then continued on her way. By the time Officer Parker turned around again, not twenty seconds had passed, but he’d failed in his morning’s duty.

  “I’ll be blowed,” the officer said, pulling off his hat and scratching his head. He scanned the scene in front of him for any indication of who had left the parcel. There were businessmen, women shopping, soldiers and nurses in uniform. It could have been anyone.

  “Darn it!” Parker cried, followed by, “So sorry, Ma’am,” as his outburst was admonished by an older lady passing by. Officer Parker picked up the box and took it inside the station.

  “Sarge, another drop!” He called as he passed his own workstation and continued to the office of his boss. Parker side-stepped a janitor scraping the name-paint off the glass door, in preparation for a new one. Sitting behind the desk, a neatly dressed man of barely thirty years old looked up from his paperwork. He was tall and handsome and had a thoughtful face, with the exception of a certain tiredness about his eyes. The walnut name-plate in front of him declared him to be Sergeant Jacob Lawrence.

  “You see anything?” he asked hopefully.

  Parker shook his head, ruefully. “I turned away just for a moment, and bam! there it was. Not a whiff.”

  “Darn it!”

  “That’s what I thought,” said Parker. “Sorry Sarge.” He sat the box on Jacob’s desk. The sergeant pulled on some gloves, then gently tore the box open, fully expecting to find the same thing he usually did. Once again, he was right. Inside, was a neatly packed stock of amphetamines in decorative glass jars and thick paper parcels of heroin.

  “Might have been from Polletti’s crew,” Jacob remarked. Whenever a homicide case opened in his district, it seemed an anonymous delivery of drugs wasn’t far behind. There had been a few hits about town lately. Some local thugs and corner sellers taken down. Known small-time dealers working in the same circle. All violently murdered and left with a mess of white powder on their faces to expose their appetite. The Polletti case was a particularly nasty one though. Twelve bodies in a small room at the Capitol and a bloody, gruesome mess. Polletti had always been on Jacob’s radar, intently so, in fact, but he kept his books clean so was impossible to bring down. It seemed someone else was doing the new sergeant’s job for him. And better.

  “Golly, this is new,” Officer Parker said, reaching in to pull out a small white card with red writing. Jacob frowned, taking the card from him. He ran his thumb thoughtfully over the writing on front. In cursive script it read, “Avon Calling - Sorry I missed you!” He flipped it over. In neat handwriting on the back was an address.

  “Parker! Get the car.”

  Within twenty minutes they were breaking down the door of an abandoned Tinker’s shop near Central Park.

  “Mighty strange place to stash stolen goods, isn’t it?” Officer Parker said.

  It was a derelict fringe of the city with every second shop boarded up, but still, there were people outside on the streets. Sergeant Lawrence looked around shrewdly, half expecting his mystery murderers to be watching, hidden around a corner. They certainly seemed brazen enough for such a stunt. The fact that once again, they’d slipped past Parker with the delivery told him they were bold and clever.

  The officers fanned out behind Jacob as he burst into the shop with Parker on his heels, guns raised and loaded. The scurry of rodents gave the only sign of life.

  Officer Parker let out a low whistle. Along the back wall, a dozen crates were stacked high, each one labeled with the tell-tale insignia of the US Army.

  “Get me a crow bar, Officer Wilson.”

  A copper-haired policeman ran out the door.

  “More of the same, you think, Sarge?” Parker said.

  “I’d bet on it,” Sergeant Lawrence sighed. “Wake up pills for the boys on the front. From the transport hijacking near Harlem, I’d say.” Ballistics would confirm it soon enough.

  Offic
er Wilson came back in with a shiny new crowbar and passed it to Sergeant Lawrence.

  “From the hardware store across the road,” Wilson explained. “The owner wants it back when we’re done.”

  “Course he does,” Jacob smiled. “That much metal probably needs a ration certificate. Make sure he gets it back Wilson.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Sergeant Lawrence pulled on one of the crates to shift it. “Blast,” he grunted. “Make yourself useful, Parker.”

  “Sorry Sir.” The two men lifted a crate down together and set it on the ground with a thud. Jacob used the borrowed crow bar to pry off the lid.

  Officer Parker looked inside and let out a low whistle. “That lot’d be worth a greenback or two,” he said. “How’d they get here then?”

  Jacob thought for a moment before replying. “No one’s going to hijack a truckload of stuff just to return it a few weeks later. They must have been intercepted.” And then, almost under his breath, “Someone out there paid the price for ripping off Uncle Sam.” Jacob pulled the Avon Calling! card from his pocket and ran it through his fingers. “Our mystery men have been busier than I thought.”

  “But they’re on our side, right Sarge?” Parker said, cheerfully.

  “This isn’t about sides, Parker,” Jacob replied. “This smells a lot like revenge. Someone out there’s got a score to settle and that’s dangerous for everyone. We need to bring them down. All of them.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And we’re going to need a truck for this lot,” he said. “You’d better call it in.”

  Sergeant Jacob Lawrence walked back out to the street curb with the small white card in his hand. Vigilantes. It must be. A team of lawless, violent men loose on the streets were never a good thing, no matter who their target was. But why on earth would they leave the address on the back of an Avon card? Was it a diversion? Or just something they picked up from the trash, perhaps? Jacob studied the handwriting on the back of the card. A feeling of uneasiness settled in his gut. Something about it was familiar. Unable to put his finger on why, he tucked the card back into his breast pocket.