SCARY STORIES TO TELL IN THE DARK

IN THIS DEEP DARK CALM

“Coming with alright?” Vito would be anxious, yet aloof. Two guys now stood behind him, ready to follow instructions.

In the next minute, we’d be outside in the twenty-degree night.

“Tommy here’s coming with me. Make your stops. Meet at our guy’s.”

“Got it, V,” Ralph said. He had extremely dark intense eyes, an angular face centered on a tight, rather small mouth.

I’d slide into the cold leather seat of Vito’s black El Dorado, which felt too comfortable.

“Where 're we going?”

“What -- catching a flight out tonight? Relax.”

We’d swing down St. Charles Road and about half a mile down, he’d make a hard right, five houses down on the left, swooping into the driveway of a large yellow brick home having two cars in the driveway and every light in the house on.

“Guy’s name's Stan. Tell him need a meeting. Now, okay?” Vito yanked the something from his coat pocket slapping the Beretta into my unready hand.

“Wha - why do I have to go get him?”

I’d feel his anxiety roar. “Need to go – now, okay?”

I pulled myself together, got out of the car, then gently closed the huge door, made for a small castle.

The driveway was lined with a crust of old and new snow. The Beretta swung loose, uncomfortable in my left coat pocket.

I respectfully, rapped on the door of the guy named Stan. The bounding sound of children playing inside greeted me the way a joyous Christmas may. The yelps and contentious threats of play halted. Then, I’d knock once more; the door’s metal locks slid, clicked with military precision. And then a golden light from the spacious living room poured toward me into the cold night air.

“What you need, sir?” He stood behind the glass storm door, the sleeves of his white shirt neatly rolled up.

“Need to talk a bit, alright?”

“May I ask who you are?”

In the background, I heard a woman’s voice calling, “Who is it?”

“Need to talk. Be a minute.”

He now looked disgruntled. “Just me? What’s?...” He’d avert his eyes from me to look over my shoulder. “What ’re you here for?”

“Talk with us, we’ll be done.”

“Stan? Am I right?” Vito now stood right behind me.

I turned toward Vito.

“Who 're you two anyway?”

“Stan, work for a living just like you do with your parts business. My boss needs his money – into us for, what? About seventy-eight, eighty? Need 'a understand how we’re getting paid. See? Simple. Now, because I’m more reasonable than the man I work for, need to work out payment.”

“Well, told him I’d pay. Need a week, two – tops?” Panic, raw fear seized him, as he ran off inside of himself; he’d realize he had to come with us. I had absolutely no understanding of where Vito would take us; in an awfully strange way, I felt responsible for Stan.

“Get your coat on, come with. Come on, getting cold out here.” Vito now pulled his black leather jacket back, uncovering his piece, there in his belt.

“Right with you.” Stan shut the door to the silence now steeped inside.

We’d wait in the car. I’d listen to Vito tell me how they made allowances, charged even heavier vig to encourage payment. But you cannot run, hide from a machine hungry for the fuel it runs on.