Brick Red

An icy thrall of wind cut its way through the maze of alley split streets and grimed
alcoves of the East Side metropolis. By way of its wispy being a quaint scent of steel and dank
cloth was ferried over corrugated subway grates and steaming manholes mystifying the eve
with a foggy breath of suited scandal and cloak and dagger crimes, which all too often
accompanied the twilight hours of the inner city. The cool bricks of the Hoover Building—one of
the many rundown tenements in the district—betrayed their red hot color and sent shivers
down Johnny’s spine as he leaned against them puffing his last few breaths of Lucky Strike. The
early spring chill was lame in its suppression of the brimming anxiety he was trying to choke
down with his high collar and single Windsor knot. Johnny found his trembling fingers punching
the two-way call button labeled APT 413, which buzzed on his end with a low frequency hum
that to him, at the time, sounded with more intensity than a grand piano pushed off a tenth
story. No answer. He punched the metal siding around the call box. Shaking his hands at his
sides he muttered low curses while watching the breath fume in fog-pockets out and around his
slender person. He buzzed again.

 “Whose got the nerve to go bustin’ my balls this late, don’t you lousy low-lives have any
respect for a family man?” the rimpled speaker chugged out.

 “It’s me, Johnny, let me up, I done somethin’ real bad, its real bad this time Max,
reeeeeal bad.”

 “I get it Johnny Boy but my misses don’t want anyone over late-night after last time, ya
know—“


 “Max get me off this damn street,” Johnny harshened his approach, “Boss ain’t gona like
this one bit.”

The door popped open like soda-can, immediately teasing Johnny with wafts of heat and the
nauseating smell of a building full of different dinner fixings that marinated their way into the
hallway carpets a few hours prior. I’m in it deep this time, Johnny reminded himself while
skipping every other stair in a hurry up to the fourth floor. Max was waiting for him in the
hallway, his door clamped shut against the bright hallway lighting.

 “Lay it on me Johnny Boy, were gona have to have our little chat out here on account of
my old lady, she’s been one real twit since the whole shootout scenario.” Max said.

 “You gotta help me out Max. I don’t know where else to turn, I got the heat all up in my
grill and Harley’s boys are hot on my heels out there.”

 “What the hell happened Johnny, weren’t you supposed to be workin’ the club racket
tonight, and why in the hell are Harleys boys on your chase?”

 “I was down by the club, workin’ the usual spot with my girl, when one of Harley’s boys
came creepin’ up on my corner—you know the one with that funny lookin’ hat—well
anyways this dumb wad walked up to my girl and spit right in her hair—you know those
hookers and their hair—well anyways I pulled out my slug just to scare him off, ya know,
and the dumb wad came runnin’ right at me with his ‘switchie’ all cocked like a
goddamn wild-man, so I uh—you know.” Johnny made a telling gesture with his thumb
and pointer finger.


 “Jesus Christ Johnny you thick bastard.” Max replied. “This is gona be war you know that,
Boss is gona cut your friggin’ balls off.”

 “You gota shack me up somewhere Max, at least till this heat dies down a little ya know,
then I’ll be on the first steamer out of this sleazy city.”

 “I can’t hole you here Johnny Boy, that puts me smack dab in the eye of a shit-storm and
I cant be havin’ that, I’m a family man nowadays, you know, and I’d like to keep it that
way if I can.”

 Just as the last syllable of the statement fluttered off Max’s lips the elevator at the end
of the short hallway adjacent to the two men’s social space chimed with the eerie politeness
generally reserved for the most annoying and time consuming of machinery. The farcical gold
plated doors of the lift began to part slowly while both men stood awestruck in the hallway
staring at the opening like two chubby children eying the flavor selection in an ice-cream parlor.
The fragmentary second that lent itself to the moment—in between the awestruck gaze that
captivated the two men and the realization of the volatile intent of the new entreaty into the
scene—was summarily graced by a fuzzy tune emanating from a radio being played in a nearby
apartment on the fourth floor. The lyrics of the seething song were scarcely audible through the
walls of the tenement, however just as the elevator’s automatic doors parted wide enough for
Max and Johnny recognize their fate, the chorus rang true with the words Sunshine and
showers and everything comin’ up daisies. Oh, what a good thing we had gone bad. Two shots
rang out in the hallway and the elevator door closed behind the dark suited man. Johnny slid
his back down the brick-red painted wall behind him thinking I’m in it deep this time.