On The Other Side

Chapter Twenty-One: Trouble Brewing

      The sound of smashing glass has me jackknifing up in bed. I stumble out of bed, pushing first one foot, then the other into the crumpled pants in a heap on the floor. “Crag, Crag. Wake up, someone’s breaking into the store.” I yell, rousing Crag out of a heavy sleep.

        I run down the stairs, tripping down the last couple steps in my haste, landing on my hands and knees. Shards of glass litter the floor, shimmering in the moonlight. I walk carefully over, protecting my bare feet from the sharp bits. Cold air and snow swirl into the now open store front, wetting stacks of ready-made shirts and work pants.

        I hear Crag making his way slowly down the stairs, the treads creaking in protest. He sees the glass, the broken window. “What’s this about, what eejit did this?” Crag bends down, picking up a brick lying in the center of the glass shards. “Boyo, there’s  something wrapped around this brick…”

       Crag hands me the cold, slightly damp brick, the scrap of paper soggy, attached with a rubber band. “What is this?” I say in disbelief. I open the wet paper, one sentence scrawled in childlike writing seems to mock me, “You disrespect us, we disrespect you.” The meaning is crystal clear, the confrontation a couple of weeks ago comes back to me, how smarmy, and foul the little scum bastard looked. Trying to cheat me out of what I rightfully paid good money for.

      “Shite, Dec. This isn’t good.” Crag scrubs a hand down his beard. “Once yer a target of the mob, you are for the rest of yer life.”

       I shake my head, angrily toss the note across the room. “No, No. I’ll take care of this.” I pound upstairs, yank on a shirt, my shoes.

       I’m tugging on my coat when Crag says, “Dec, there’s trouble brewing, proceed with caution in this. Yer cousin Matteo is a nathair, a snake, he’ll attack and kill anyone. Even teaghlach.”

      Craggy’s right, Matteo would kill me if given the chance. I won’t give him the chance. I just want my money back, or the canned evaporated milk and fresh meat that I paid for. As I walk down the ice encrusted sidewalks, passing the homeless crowding around fires for warmth, I think of all the mothers counting on me, I think of their tiny babes, who’s stomachs are empty of milk. The gaunt, emaciated bodies of children living on the street that could use a good meal with fresh meat, not the diseased rats they kill in the gutters.

       I stand in front of The Stork Club, a place I know Matteo frequents nightly. Music pours out from the brightly lit windows, the New York elite dancing, drinking, as if the devastation and destitution isn’t just right outside these gilded doors. I know I can’t just walk in, I’ll be thrown out on my arse, no doubt. I’m nothing to these upper crust people, these people who truly have done nothing for society, for their communities. All they’re good for is flaunting their riches in every day people’s faces who are just trying to make it from one day to the next.

       I make my way down the ally, around to the back of the night club. Maybe I can weasel my way in through the kitchen, it would be better for me if I could take Matteo by surprise.

       It’s surprisingly easy walking in through the back door, the kitchen staff seems either not to notice or doesn’t care that an angry Irishman mingles with them, they’re just like me, struggling to make ends meet. Being paid to cook but remain silent and invisible.

       I come across a Swede sneaking a smoke in the corner. He’s big as an oak, with a hank of greasy blonde hair hanging limply over his forehead, a stained apron tied around his massive hips. “I’m looking for an Irishman called Matteo,” I speak quietly, so as not to gain attention.