Chapter 5 - Save the Date.

 

“It is the same thing: killing, dying, it is the same thing: one is just as alone in each. He is lucky, he will only die once. As for me, for ten days I have been killing him at every minute.” - Jean Paul Sartre

That morning I sat with Gina swathed amongst a mist of misery, as she recounted the dreary details. While she described the assault, I jotted down each sentence nearly ripping the paper with the tip of my pen. I remember feeling out of my mind with anger, mostly for the fact that I had been experiencing the very same shit at home. But for the fact that Gina had not reached my same boiling point. I was the ticking time bomb that had already gone off. Where my collateral damage merely laid in wait.

When I wrapped things up with Gina I called out to Jay, once he came into the apartment I approached him and whispered in his ear, “She says he hit her, admits he put those marks on her arm and face, signed the statement too. Looks like this is gonna happen. You wanna go break the news?”

Once Jay approached Ron, he replied with the anticipated response, “No, this is bullshit! She doesn't want me to be arrested! Go ask her, she doesn't want it this way! I'm sure of it!”

As Jay began to grab Ron's right hand to put him in cuffs, Ron defiantly pulled away. The fortitude of Ron's pitiful physical challenge matched his pitiful stature, and only seconds passed until Jay's patience wore thin. Jay slammed Ron to the floor pinning his meager frame to the shoddy filth laden carpet as Ron's left cheek smashed against the baseboard of the hallway. The commotion swiftly serrated what shred of serenity remained in those dimly lit hallways. The hastened turbulence careened through the hallway like a bulldozer, shaking the building to its very core.

Jay's thick stodgy knee pinned Ron to the floor as he cuffed him. That day Ron laid in the hallway of his decrepit castle blubbering like a little girl. It was a sight to see...indeed. During our ride to the station, Ron muttered his useless pleas of innocence. Booze does brings out the best in people; sometimes emotional hogwash. Sometimes... if you're lucky, you'll get a peek at their innermost sissy pants. This was always enjoyable, especially when countering with the likes of Ron Steenley. There seemed to be a use for these kind after all...entertainment. 

 

While Jay endured the booking process with Ron, I granted myself a few moments of solitude at my desk under the guise of drafting incident reports. Truth is, I was in dire need of aspirin, as my earlier dosage had worn off and a headache was slowly creeping in. Jay and I shared a desk, but I noticed that my assigned voicemail was blinking. I had shut off my blackberry for the day, and of course as expected, a message from Alex loomed behind that red blinking dot. -I detested his loathsome predictability-

Reluctantly I hit the button only to hear his caustic voice resonate through my head, “Hey, hunny it's me, I just wanted to call and let you know that I heard from this guy, Carl, he works at HP. Anyway, he called to tell me I got the job I interviewed for last week. He said I could start next week, Monday morning. So I want to go out for dinner tonight to celebrate! Maybe you can wear that black dress you wore to dinner on our anniversary? I love that dress.”

Notice the complete omission of an apology? I hadn't expected one, and it wouldn't have mattered. Even when he offered an apology it was always followed by a caveat, 'I'm sorry, but you shouldn't have done....'. Who could be bothered with such utter crap? I saw no justice in his actions, and neither would anyone else if they had known what happened behind our walls. Frankly, If he had told me the Queen stopped by to use our toilet, I would have sooner bought that over an apology from his hateful lips. It was no matter, the only thing I wanted from him those days was an obituary with his name on it.

Now I had the remainder of the day to dream up reasonable excuses as to why I was turning down his gracious dinner invite; for which I would have undoubtedly paid. By nightfall my stomach was mangled with anxious knots; rendering myself a rather poor dinner companion. At the time, I would have preferred the company of a stinky hobo, rather than enduring the agonizing tales of Alex.

As I later discovered, his new job was merely a glorified shipping position with a smattering of IT knowledge. For a few short weeks, he would call himself an “IT organizational tech”. His detestable existence was only justified amidst the the cloud of his sociopathic mind when showered with recognition for a mediocre job well done. 'Hey look at my piece of shit job! I'm important! Look at me!' He was plagued with the most abhorrent case of LAM syndrome -a.k.a.: look at me syndrome- This particular affliction seemed to plague him worst than an army of toddlers.

When I opened my front door that night, there Alex stood at the top of our stairs, ready for our “date”; all five foot five of him. He was sporting his super fly button down shirt and a pair of tan jeans (circa 1992). Just when you thought there was no end in sight for the comic relief...enter stage right with one brown leather bomber jacket. The only thing that could have topped this dreadful fashion statement was a “members only” jacket. -surely he had one of those stashed away-

On his feet were ankle high leather boots with a one and a half inch heel. Along with his crippling case of OCD, he could never bring himself to throw away the most useless of trash. These particular boots had likely seen the streets of Boston since Reagan was in office. In fact, one day I caught him shamelessly scribbling black sharpie marker on the backside of a boot. I called these bad boys his 'man heels', they would make him appear just a bit taller than me; so as not to bruise his effeminate man boy ego.

The qualities one could lend to his Napoleanesque type traits, were his stature that matched the pathetic length and girth of his stubby little penis. In fact, our first time together I wasn't sure if he had penetrated me or poked me beneath the covers with a vienna sausage.

On our first date, I thought he was kinda cute; even though he carried on about himself nearly the entire evening. When he asked to go dutch treat he conveniently miscalculated his share for the three gin and tonics he threw done his gullet. Admittedly, he was fairly charming at first. I tried to look beyond the bad.

We were a rather odd couple, and left most people baffled scratching their heads in utter amazement. Alex would pride himself on being a “ladies man”, but in all likelihood the women that threw themselves at him were either drunk or mentally challenged. To date I'm still trying to figure out what this said about me, but at one point in time I allowed myself to somehow be charmed. That ship had long since sailed. In fact, it had capsized....with no lifeboats to speak of.

After a few short months of dating, he proposed insisting on a quick marriage. Now when I reflect upon that time, I believe he rushed the marriage as he could no longer hold back the ugliness that lurked inside. The one that most of us knew and despised. The ugly I came to know in time. Coincidentally, at his wake only two of his siblings showed -he had eleven-. It was a rainy day and the maple trees that hovered overhead sprinkled more tears from their leaves than any eye had shed that day. The only tears were mine... and were manufactured for effect. His children came bearing cold hugs and shallow sentiments.

In the beginning, for Alex and I, everything was fairly peachy keen. Until he slowly unveiled the monster inside. Once the children and I were invited to live in “his home”, a calculated list of do's and dont's were presented to us. Albeit not a written list, but a list that would eventually reveal itself with time. We were merely guests in his home. Guests that couldn't step or play on his grass. Guests that had to wipe themselves down with an assigned towel before stepping onto his bathmat. Guests that had to endure slaps and shoves should the remote turn up missing.

Now Alex was on borrowed time. He would continue to try and salvage the laughable union we shared. Much like tonight's request to go out for dinner. Too little too late. Nothing could save this asshole now. Not a damn thing.

That night as he stood there eagerly awaiting our departure for dinner, he approached me with a fake grin and exclaimed, “Honey, I got a job! I got it! Wahoo!” 

 

He embraced me with his half assed hug and then pecked my cheek with his tightly pursed lips. It was the kind of kiss you give your great aunt or grandmother when you saw them every third year for Easter. His sickening kisses were yet another reminder of our situation; which was merely a convenience that kept him out off the streets when he fucked up gainful employment. When this happened, I would be there to hold down the fort; a much needed yet unwanted houseguest. Soon enough he wouldn't have to concern himself with bills or the like. Soon enough his foremost concern would certainly be the nine inch buck knife I planned to lunge through the back of his head. Thankfully, the last woeful concern to plague his simple mind.

When he stepped back and looked at me, my face surely relayed my restrained enthusiasm. It was a long day, I was off my game and I just didn't have it in me.

He stood back and looked at me saying, “What's the matter? Aren't you happy for me? You still want to go out for dinner with us tonight, right?”

I replied, “I'm sorry Alex, I'm happy for you I am just so tired after work today. Can we just schedule this for another night? This weekend my mom can take the boys and we can go out, just you and I. We can go to a nicer place. You know, like that nice Italian restaurant you like. How's that sound?”

No sooner had I spoken these words, within a nanosecond his face blossomed like a freshly steamed radish. His complexion would change drastically whenever his temper was about to boil over. This effect made for a rather accurate asshole barometer. You could generally predict when dread was forthcoming, as his complexion would gleam with the likes of Chernobyl.

What came next was one of his favorite side show acts, what I came to know as the “wedding ring toss”. All he needed now was a super mini-sized car so he could join the circus with a myriad of midgets adorning their best clown like attire. This particular side show, as he had a few, consisted of him ripping his wedding ring from the grips of his bulging finger fat and then tossing it wherever it may land. This charade was always accompanied with a fresh bouquet of profanity clinging to the air. After he wrestled the ring from his finger he sent it sailing, as it ricocheted directly up and pinged off his eyebrow...much like a foul ball -only more entertaining-.

After his rousing display of infancy he stormed off to his office and yelled, “You are so selfish! You knew how much I was looking forward to this! I was looking forward to this all day, and all you can do is think of your goddamned self! God, I am so sick and tired of your bullshit! Don't come talk to me, just leave me the fuck alone! You useless bitch!”

I daydreamed about him losing his foolish ring. He operated under the misguided impression that I continued to wear mine as a symbol of allegiance to delusional dictatorship. He was mistaken, I only continued wear it so as not to arouse suspicion when I finally him released him from the clutches of his miserable existence. I had considered baking his ring in a cake, and then gleefully watch as he choked on the foolish thing. I had decided against it, since Saint Peter would most assuredly scratch my name from his blessed list.

More often than I care to admit, when I came home to this shit, I wanted so badly to pick up the phone and vent to mom and friends. But I squelched this desire and internalized every heaping dose of crap he served up. As most women would surely attest, internalizing all of these feelings made for one nasty mess to eventually clean; for now, I swept it under the rug. Now my mess had become an unsightly carpet covered white elephant planted square in the center of my home.

That night Alex wouldn't receive any complaints from me as to his request for silence. Actually, I rather enjoyed not sitting across from him that night, affecting my engagement with the crap that dribbled from his mouth. I was happy to pay the price for a quiet night at home... or what I had thought was going to be a quiet night at home. I had predicted a little game of “wedding ring toss” but not that evening's main attraction.

That night once my boys were tucked in bed, I went downstairs to our room where Alex loomed with a beer in hand and his back squarely against our headboard. He sat stoic and unmoved and continued to dismiss my presence altogether, as I crossed the room to my bureau. His festering anger was so thick, it was as though I was enveloped with a sheath of rage as it dripped from our maroon walls. For the moment he seemed unmoved by my presence, but just beneath the surface lurked a maelstrom of obscenities.

I wasn't sure what I was in for that evening, but I knew I had to sleep in that bed to avoid another all night brawl. As I pulled my shirt overhead to change into my pajamas, a smattering of bruises were revealed just above my elbow. I had forgotten about these particular war wounds of sorts, but now with their ripening yellowish hue...they were hard to miss. Briefly, I ran my hand down the side of my arm to feel the subtle bumps that were raised just beneath my multi-colored skin.

For a fleeting moment, I could feel his eyes on me. Then quickly his eyes averted toward the TV screen as he raised his beer to his lips. He always pretended they weren't there, the bruises that is, and if the were, they would always somehow be my fault.

After about ten minutes of welcomed silence he asked me, “So, are you just going to sit there and ignore me all night?”

With Alex I always felt as though I had spiraled back in time to seventh grade. There was no accounting for maturity with this man. His outward appearance was not foretelling of the actual paucity of common sense he accumulated throughout the years. It was clear, he never learned when to leave well enough alone.

As I sat on the foot of our bed slipping socks from my feet I replied, “I just don't have anything to talk about, and I have a long day ahead of me tomorrow so I would just rather relax and talk about this later.”

He replied, “Doesn't it bother you that we don't talk anymore and that you go around ignoring me all the time? I mean what is your issue? You used to want to talk about it when we fought and now all you do is avoid me?”

The first thought that entered my mind, 'it's because I hate your filthy rotten guts.'

Of course, like always, what I wanted to say, was exactly what I couldn't say.

I quickly conjured up something of substance in an effort to ward him off, “It's not that I don't care, Alex. I just don't want to talk tonight, ok? Can we just talk about this later, please?”

Immediately after my response he stood to his feet and ripped the blanket from his body to the floor, as he stood in the middle of the room purposely obstructing my view of the TV...seething with clenched teeth. Here we go, I was in for it tonight.

It didn't matter that my children were sleeping, his nut had finally cracked, and then came the yelling, “You just want to go to sleep?! Don't you ever think of how I am feeling?! You know I have been depressed and you refuse to read those articles I printed about depression! You refuse to go back to counseling with me! You refuse to go to dinner with me and refuse to talk to me when I ask?! What the fuck is going on with you?! You aren't going to keep sweeping this under the rug and ignoring me! What are you cheating on me?! What is going on, Mira? Unless you talk to me right fucking now you aren't getting a wink of sleep! I will make sure of it. I will make your night hell, like I did last night!”

With the shred of gumption that remained in my quickly wilting spirit, I made my way to the bathroom for refuge. I locked the door hoping for peaceful solitude in the one place where one would should reasonably expect. Quickly, I engaged the lock behind me with trembling hands and tried to soothe my contorted tummy. Sadness, Fear and loathing consumed me, it overwhelmed me daily, nightly and by the second more and more as the days had passed. I hadn't expected tears to flow...yet they had. They spattered onto the flat surface of my blackberry clutched in my hands, and then slid onto my cool shivering knees. Restraining muffled sobs only further rendered my body aching with what seemed like a crippling angst.

Before I had a chance to soothe myself with a spell of mind numbing web browsing on my blackberry, he startled me as he rapidly pounded his fist against the door jarring its entire frame.

Once I collected myself I replied with a cool refrain, “Please just leave me alone, I just want to be left alone.”

In his unrelenting quest to antagonize me, he continued with the berating and profanity. That's when my youngest son, Anthony, came out of his room and asked, “What's wrong?”

To which Alex replied “Get your ass back in bed, and mind his own damn business!”

Such a swell guy. Unfortunately, regret and shame was the expensive price I now paid.

I remember sitting there that night with my ass cheeks pressed against my cool wooden toilet seat cover, silently praying for what seemed like hours that he would just let me be. Then suddenly a clamorous bombardment of his fists pounding on the surface of the door sent my heart palpitating so loud that its beat became the only thing I could hear amidst my terror filled mind.

For a fleeting moment once the pounding ceased, I felt like I could breath again, as I though I had been breathing through a thick wool sheet. Then the sharp wooden crackle of the door's frame unexpectedly collided with the solitude that was my space. Where I thought I had solace had quickly become the stomping ground for his unrelenting rage; as the door suddenly careened from its hinge sending shards of wood toward me, and with a impetuous slam it smashed against our tiled floor. With intent force he charged toward me as he plunged his feet against the door's surface sending a deep crack down its center splitting it in two. Within seconds I was dangling from his fist as he pinned my vulnerable frame against our bathroom wall.

Instantly he rendered me gasping for air, with his hands grasped tightly around my neck like a tautly strung leather brace. With my body pinned against the wall, he shoved his body against mine and placed the bridge of his nose directly on mine.

A scented warm rush of hops and weed hit my face along with random spurts of frothy spit as he screamed in my face, “You think you are going to put me through this? You're not going to do this, you bitch! You are my wife! This is not ending with divorce! I waited years to remarry and this isn't going to happen like you want! I will fight you to the end and make your life hell! So you better straighten your ass out and change your fucking attitude, because I have had enough of your shit! Don't play fuck fuck with me because I will make your life a living hell!! You got that, bitch?! Got it?”

At that moment despite my state of near unconsciousness, he expected me to promptly answer. Amidst a cloud of an unmitigated rage, the reality of the situation at hand seemed to allude him; as though we were having an ordinary conversation and I was expected to immediately reply. As he continued to ask through tightly clenched teeth, “Huh, well do you get it? Do you fucking get it or not?! Answer me!?”

That night I remember thinking, while pinned against my wall wearing my best Wal-Mart pink laced jammies, that I was going to die that night. That I was going to die just a foot above my toilet. Toiling with regret for not killing him first. I remember thinking how much my kids would hurt, how my mother would cry; and as I peered into his widened eyes filled with hate, everything began to fade. Everything was was on mute as a legion of black dots began to infiltrate my eyes.

Despite his being a raging sociopath, a sudden stroke of conscience compelled him to release his grip from my neck. Too little too late, and apparently he didn't realize that by then, I had been rendered unconscious. Once he released me, my body abruptly fell as my forehead cracked the back of the toilet. Come to find out I had laid there for three hours, while he desperately tried to revive my consciousness. That stupid son of a bitch could have killed me that night.

Hours later I awoke with a sore throat and an indescribable headache. Once I finally sat up the first thing I saw was Alex crouched over me as he leaned forward and tried to caress my face with his hand. Instinctively I shied away. Once a sharp sting pierced my forehead, I lifted my hand to discover the culprit, my fingers grazed a shard of porcelain that had lodged itself in my now blood encrusted eyebrow. I sat on the floor trying to collect myself. Then it occurred to me, 'Why hadn't he called for help? Would he have sooner let me die than call for help? Sick bastard'

I recoiled from him on the cool tile floor and brought my knees up to my chest as I wrapped my arms around them. I sat staring at him in amazement as he began to sob, carrying on about how sorry he was and about how it would never happen again. I wasn't really listening, in fact all I clearly remember was thinking about how he could have killed me. He could have killed me next to the damn toilet! But most importantly what I remember that night was a strange sense of elation wash over me as a cool shiver ran through me. The irony of my happiness was that I knew this was the last time. The last time he would ever do this to me or anyone else.

When I was finally able to speak my voice rendered a scratchy tone. In order to fend off any further attacks I hastily rendered a nearly inaudible plea, “Ok, Ok, you got it, Alex. You know what, don't worry about it, this will all get better; I promise. I will go back to counseling with you and read the articles you gave me. I will try harder. Can we just please go to bed now.”

He sat with me on the floor, and cupped his face in his hands.

As he quickly conjured up a batch of fake tears he looked up at me and said, “That's all I want. I just want this to be better. I don't want to lose you. Don't make me mad like this anymore. It just isn't worth it, hunny. You know what I mean?”

I couldn't believe how this man's mind worked. How fucked up he truly was. That he had expected this to continue... forever.

When he finally helped me up from the floor, I made my way to our bedroom where I would curl up and pray that this was all a bad dream, and that he would quietly die in his sleep. Forever dissipating into the realm of to be forgotten by all, much like a bad dream, and then to resume life as it should be. I had said that prayer for many nights, for so long I couldn't tell you when I had begun. God never answered my prayers, I figure this was his way of making me stronger...forcing me to take care of him on my own. 

 

I now knew this was a journey I must make on my own.

 

Chapter 4, cont'd: A consortium of characters.

Hello everyone! miss me? don't answer that..... it's been a couple weeks. -sorry for the wait on my next post.- But luckily for me I have a fairly reasonable excuse, I'm busy. Busy writing a blog that doesn't spout the daily minutia of my life. That's what facebook is for.... no, my blog is not for the faint of heart nor is it for folks who read blogs to entertain themselves while taking a ten minute power dump at work.

I'm adding this particular commentary because I find most blogs to be utterly dreadful. -not all- Now, I am a big foodie fan, also I love bloggers who give me good movie/tv show tips. Since I find most prime time shows to be complete garbage and equally dreadful. Not to be crass -ok, maybe I do- no one gives a rats ass about how you love to run, pictures from your last vacation or how shitty your week is going. [well, at least no one wants to follow a blog that is solely devoted to such cuck. But for the fleeting no brainers of the world] My point is, if you are going to author a blog, post something of substance, something that will entertain. Something that doesn't focus solely on yourself. For Christ sakes, write something thought provoking! Ok- that's enough of that-

Soooo, here is a continuation of chapter 4: a consortium of characters. In this part of the chapter I introduce you to Ronald and Gina Steenley. The chapter is rather long, obv. since I am posting in two parts and this is still not all of it.

With that said, I have already finished writing chapter five. In that chapter my character kills Alex. That is the first murder of the book and perhaps the most cathartic, but rest assured not the last. Again, I'm sorry because you will not know how he is killed unless you buy the book.... ahemm...

Without including the end of chapter 4, one can safely assume that Ron doesn't get a friendly pat on the head and served a chocolate ice cream cone. Soon enough you will find out, not to worry.

Right now I am tightening up what I have already written and working on new material. I have seventeen chapters for this book. It doesn't stop there, as I have said this will have to be published in a series. For now, I offer you samplings of the first book....enjoy.

share, facebook it, send along with holiday cards.... whatever your little heart desires. ciao ~b


That morning my train plummeted through the cavernous dimly lit tunnel until my destination was incoherently uttered over a speaker that clung to life by sparse wires just above my head. My morning began like many others, Jay and I would scope out drive-thrus for the shortest possible line; a girl needs her coffee. Until we received a call over our radio, then off we went to a domestic disturbance only two and half miles down the road. Merely a quick jaunt down the potholed road, where the air feel heavy with a veil of deceit, where dysfunctional dementia loomed in the foreground. Welcome to Dorchester Massachusetts; where it rains and pours.

Along the way, my mind present yet miraculously absent, my view jostled and jolted in time with the wheels that bounded through the asphalt's pits and valleys. My view along the way, swishing past my eyes, were tiny trees that seemed to consume a maze of steel. Their lifeless branches embraced a meager supply of leaves. A parade of limbless greenery sprouted from the streets and populated the median of an otherwise concrete playground. The city's attempt at beautification was transparent with a parade of frail, mangled branches consuming corroded black steel; as though the streets were outlined with the silhouettes of a hundred feeble souls. At least that's how it felt in this part of town; it seemed the trees shared the sentiment.

-Coincidentally, this was the fateful day I had met Mr. Ron Steenley. Now thinking back on that particular morning, the trees and the gloom that pierced the morning sky were certainly foretelling of his macabre fate which laid ahead. The tree's silhouettes our faithful ushers into the outermost circle of hell, and the journey had just begun.-

When we finally arrived at the Steenley's home, the smells of cooking filled the hallways of their apartment building. It seemed there were several people overpopulating this wretched building and were coincidentally home in the middle of the day; judging by the residual sounds of midday TV and the offensive odor that saturated the hallway that assaulted your face the moment you walked through the front door. I would like to think there aren't many folks amongst us who have a proclivity for cooking their garbage. That morning, standing at the entrance of one badly weathered brick and mortar hell, it smelled as though someone had done just that. Dear Lord.

Apparently for weeks now, the Steenley's upstairs neighbor was hearing loud bangs and yelling coming from the apartment just beneath hers. As it turns out the loud bangs were Gina Steenley's body being flung like a dirty dishrag against their living room wall; accompanied by the filthiness Ron bellowed through the halls. With each bounding fling, Gina's body would shake the thin walls of the building to its core; sending ceramic fruit displays and pictures blasting from their well appointed positions.

Our anonymous informant, Dawn Carritta, a single thirty-three year old woman, had done for months what she thought was best and stayed out of it. She figured she didn't need the trouble of some angry half-cocked drunk hassling her about cops nosing around.

She claimed the commotion seemed to occur almost daily until the day her three-year old son, Caleb, looked up at her and asked, “Mommy, does that man upstairs hurt that lady? Why does he call her those bad names so much? I can hear him calling her bad names sometimes when I am going to sleep at night. We should tell him that isn't nice, huh Mommy?”


Two hours after Caleb's curious admission to his mother, we received a call. As far as a witness statement from Dawn, well the history of Ron Steenley spoke for itself along with the details Ron would predictably voluntarily supply. Luckily, most criminals don't have the savvy to withhold all the varied details of their respective sordid lives. Niavely thinking we are their appointed religious counsel of sorts. Like a collection of macabre trophies, Ron's record was a blue ribbon variety, with a string of domestics, 209A restraining orders for a varied number of women - approximately three still current- an A&B kicking around for a bar fight back in 2005 and just for fun... two aggravated OUI's.

Ron enjoyed drinking, problem was liquor was not Ron's friend. He went from jovial and talkative to downright mean; like a hissing cat, mean as the dickens, freshly fished from a pool. This would lend an interesting spin on any attempt at a coherent discussion with Ron when we arrived.

As we later discovered Ron, an iron worker, was laid off from his job and was collecting unemployment. His wife Gina, was home during the day as she would bartend nights at the Bell and Hand. Of course, Ron didn't mind taking every dime of his unemployment till it ran dry. Even when the union called with work he would decline with some piss poor excuse. As the calls for work eventually thinned out, he would sail along on his Commonwealth sponsored drinking benders. Now that your caught up, this should adequately lay the foundation for our appearance that day -enter stage right-.

We ascended the building's awkwardly thin staircase with deliberate footsteps until we reached the second floor, the warped floorboards creaked underfoot and shook the loose handrail that rattled with each step. It seemed nothing was stable in these parts, a stiff wind could bowl this rathole into oblivion.

After an abrupt knock on the door of apartment 2B, a few moments passed as we stood before the white door laden with grey greasy fingerprints smeared along its surface when it swept open a pungent breeze of booze and body odor wafted into the hallway.
With an irritable intonation in his voice, as though we had interrupted his busy day, Ron asked us, “What's going on? How can I help you two?”
With a stereotypical cop like demeanor Jay answered him, “Sir, we received a call that there was a disturbance in your apartment, and we were asked to come and do a well visit. May we come in for a minute?”
Ron replied with a sniveling tone while scratching his gnarly unkept hair with one hand and pulling up his oversized pants above his prominently displayed boxer briefs with his free hand, “Well, I'd rather you didn't, but yeah come on in. I got nothing to hide.”

Upon entering the apartment's narrow hallway after a short trip down a rust colored shag rug, the room would open up to a poorly furnished living room with a large flat screen television on the wall. There appeared to be a bedroom down the hall and a kitchen directly to our right that appeared dark and unoccupied.
Immediately I noticed down the dimly lit hall, a sliver of light illuminating the rust colored pile from beneath the bathroom door and I asked, “Is your wife home?”
Ron replied, “Yes, she's in the bathroom. She will be right out. What is this all about anyway, can I answer something here?”
Ron was doing his best to put on a convincing act, but sadly failed like a puppet whose strings were being orchestrated by an inebriated puppeteer. As he struggled to keep his foothold he stumbled forward a bit while clasping his hands and making his best attempt at affected sobriety coupled with humble offerings. But his slurred speech and awkward movements just made him appear transparent and pathetic. A typical drunk, but not so typical to see prior to noon. Ron Steenley was a grade A drunk, not even the best of them have him beat this time of day.



I stood back from the now uncomfortably close Mr. Steenley and replied, “Sure, Officer Maldonado can speak to you out in the hallway. Typically we like to question both parties separately first, if that is ok with you?”

He quickly agreed and seemed cooperative...for the time being. Boy, was he in for a surprise. In approximately one hour he would leave in cuffs, and that polite demeanor dissipated quicker than a fart in a windstorm. As the story goes, Ron would leave behind a trail of obscenities clinging to the badly tattered wallpaper along with smatterings of saliva and blood from one ill advised struggle.

Ron and Jay left to speak in the hallway, as I sat waiting for Gina. Their living room was infused with a heavy nicotine scent and the walls stained a deep mustard hue. Sporadic streaks of brownish filth infiltrated cracks extending from the ceiling and dissected Ron's only treasured memoirs: tattered wall coverings and paltry drapes encrusted with thick yellow patches of nicotine. Clearly this apartment had never seen the likes of Febreeze.


Coincidentally after I left the apartment, for what seemed like days, the smell of stale cigarette settled deep within my sinuses. While waiting for Gina I quickly ascertained the culprit, one nearly overflowing ashtray sat on a badly scuffed up flea market end table. On its edge, a tiny roach, so tiny if I didn't have time to sit for a moment and inspect my surroundings it would have gone virtually unnoticed. Frankly I didn't care, at the time I was more concerned with arresting the likes of that massive dick who was speaking with my partner just outside the door. Bigger fish to fry, my friends.

During my wait I practiced my deliberate mouth breathing, and then she came out... looking exhausted and teary eyed. Haphazard crimson like patches were raised along the right side of her face with copious amounts of mascara smeared across her moist cheeks, her eyes still red from tears. Gina is a fair skinned girl, with the type of skin that would burn after five seconds of exposure to the sun. God forbid you give this woman even the slightest of pinches; it would assuredly produce a monster of a bruise. She was frail looking but had big breasts, the perfectly round and perky type; the fake looking brand of boob. I immediately noticed what looked like a long shallow scrape on her left arm.

Ordinarily Gina kept her hair straightened and groomed meticulously for work, but left with little time for grooming -contending with that morning's random unexpected blows- her hair was one blonde streaked hodgepodge. The most suiting description for Gina would be trailer trash Barbie, if there ever were one, Gina would fit the bill... in spades. Contrary to her harsh outward appearance, turns out she is very sweet and soft spoken. The girl had a certain something going for her, so it was hard to counter with the notion of why she was there, with Ron Steenley. Although Gina probably feared what most victims had, fear of retribution. An all too real fear that not even a thousand restraining orders could allay.

Gina approached me with an awestruck look, and immediately I could see pain in her eyes. It looked familiar, some were better at hiding that look than others, in the past four years I had nearly perfected this requisite technique...nearly perfected. She dragged herself across the room like a scolded puppy with her tail trailing along behind her. Her right hand clasped her left arm at its elbow, as if to hold herself together, she wore an oversized shirt, one sleeve extended beyond her wrist as she lowered her arm beside her. The sorrow displayed on her face seemed to melt beyond her sleeve and down to her trembling fingertips. Despite her hesitation to join me, she didn't seem too surprised to see me sitting in her living room.

Gina approached the coach and allowed her body to slowly slink along the armrest, slouching a bit into its corner, as far as possible from where I sat. An awkward silence filled the room as her eyes widened, and her delicate arm craned downward to retrieve a stray pack of Marlboros.

As Gina tore open the thin cellophane of her cigarettes, and shuffled for a lighter in her jean pocket, she asked in a rather cavalier fashion, “So let me guess why you're here. Did someone hear us fighting? Because this week Ron seems to have a bad case of PMS, worst than normal. I hate it when he has his man period. But honestly Officer, he does this a lot, nothing that won't pass, you know?”

I quickly dismissed her carefree approach and replied, “No, no I don't know, Gina. This isn't just a phase. Let's cut through the bullshit, because my job is to help people and I can't help you unless you tell me the truth. There is an anonymous informant in your building that claims to hear a lot of commotion coming from your apartment, almost daily. This person has no reason to lie to us, and judging by the way you look...neither do you.”

Gina began her story with a somewhat generic excuse for her husband's behavior. She alluded to his unemployment and how it “made him feel like less of a man”. -Funny, because this sentiment didn't seem to deter his affinity for continual couch surfing.- She claimed that him being at home seemed to make him a bit edgy.

She looked down at the index finger of her right hand and fiddled with an acrylic nail that was cracked down its center and was loose at its base. As she sat playing with the tiny plastic atrocity dangling from the tip of her finger she looked up at me with despair in her eyes and just shook her head. Anyone watching this exchange could easily tell how unmoved I was by her offered excuses for Ron's behavior.

After all I hadn't moved from where I sat. I didn't make headway for the door exclaiming, 'Oh is that all? Sounds perfectly legit to me!' Gina had to know that her distraught and disheveled appearance, coupled with Ron's past and the corroborating witness statement... this situation wasn't going to be easily explained away.

I extended my hand to touch hers, to offer some comfort as her body language clearly relayed her discomfort, she recoiled in her seat to avoid my touch. Once she rejected my comforts, I stood pacing the room to peruse the collection of dollar store frames that littered her living room walls. The predominant guest of honor hanging on the Steenley's wall, a little boy, about age six with squeezable cherub like cheeks and a thick crop of blonde hair sprouting from his head. In one picture, his eyes were tightly clasped shut with a smile that ran from ear to ear, in his chubby little fingers he proudly displayed a yellow matchbox truck.

I looked over at Gina and asked, “Who is this little guy in the pictures? He's a cutie.”
Gina answered, “That's my nephew, Devon. He is cute, such a little doll. I don't get to see him too often. He lives in New Hampshire with my brother and his wife. Sometimes I make a trip up to see him, but I have been real busy with work.”
Even though I had already assumed the answer for myself, I wanted to keep the conversation going, so I asked, “Do you have any kids Gina?”
Gina giggled as she pushed her snarly bangs from her face and craned her thin boney hand toward the ashtray when she answered, “Hell no, like I could take care of a child with the way my life is going. No thank you. I don't know if I will ever be ready for that kind of thing.”

I averted my eyes from their photo wall, a wall with conspicuously absent photos of the happy couple and I looked directly at her when I told her, “I am not sure you have to make that kind of decision for yourself now. You are still very young. You have plenty of time to turn your life around and make changes for yourself. Everyone screws up, don't be too down on yourself. Make changes, positive changes. Anyway Gina, how is your life? Would you describe yourself as a happy woman?”

Apparently what I had said shimmied the floodgates free and released a torrent of details, as she replied, “Sometimes I am happy. Sometimes I am very happy with Ron, work and life, ya' know? There are weeks that everything is great around here and we are very happy. Ron will just do the sweetest things. He will sometimes make us dinner, he's a great cook, and he will buy me a bottle of Merlot. He knows that's my favorite. Sometimes I will come home and there will be flowers waiting for me. He buys them just because and well, sometimes because we had a fight. But mostly because he is just a sweetheart.”

She paused for a moment and then continued. No telling how one might obstruct this virtual word cascade now pouring from this seemingly broken woman. A once recalcitrant Gina, threw caution to the wind and just let it all out. I wish I could do just that, but with my upcoming plans for Alex, I kept my secrets locked safely away in the murky depths of my mind.

She continued with her story after wiping away tears with the back of her hand which was now shaded with ebony streaks of mascara. I extended my hand and gently touched her arm as she stared vapidly into thin air while recounting the sickening details.

Through her intermittent sobs she continued, “Then somedays it's like I am living with a different person. It's like a switch goes off and he is just a totally different person. I don't understand it, I just don't get it. It will be when I least expect it too. Like you know, somedays we will spend the whole day together, and yah know everything went great. Then when I am ready to go to work he will say something about how I am dressed or how I am wearing too much makeup. You know he will say something about how I look like a whore, and not to collect too many phone numbers because he will be checking my phone later. He says it like he's joking when he says stuff like that, but I've caught him looking at my phone a few times. This is strange, I mean I tell him all the time that I think he is handsome and I love him. I am just so confused about all of this bullshit!”

Her trembling voice trailed off melding with the somber silence of the room. She only paused for a brief moment and then continued, “So this one time, a few months back an old friend of mine, John Nagel, came into the bar where I work. He's a real estate agent and I started talking to him about his business, and how I always wanted to get into something like that. You know cuz I don't want to bartend my whole life. Anyway, he gave me his business card to call him about the real estate test, told me he could give me some prep materials and point me in the right direction. I slipped his card in my bar apron and just forgot about it. I meant to call him, but I never got around to it. That's only because Ron found it when he was doing laundry, or at least that is what he tells me. Sometimes I swear he just goes through my stuff looking for things to get pissed at me about.”

There had to be more to this story, since she wouldn't have brought it up otherwise, so I asked, “What happened when he found the card?”
Gina continued with a shameful tone and her best attempt at averted eye contact, “Well, it's no surprise that he trashed the card so I never got to call John. I told him a hundred times why he gave me the card, but he don't trust me. Can you believe that I still hear about that and it happened over a year ago? God, Ron was so mad at me! He accused me of having an affair for months. I told him to call him and John would talk to him about it. I told him that he would tell him what we talked about. Ron just refused and continued to berate me over and over, harassing me about this fucking business card. Like he wanted an excuse to be mad at me about something.”

She inserted a sarcastic chuckle as she continued while leaning over to stub out her already extinguished cigarette in the overfilled ashtray, “For a solid goddamned month he made me sleep on the couch. A whole fucking month!!! One night I got brave and tried to climb into bed and he kicked me out with his foot. Left a wicked bruise for a whole week, and then once I got up I asked him if he would just forgive me. You know, even though I didn't think I really had anything to be sorry about. He told me to 'shut the fuck up and leave him alone'. That whole month, every night I would cry myself to sleep hoping that it would be over the next day. It was hell, just pure hell. Then one day, out of nowhere, he came up to me and told me he had forgiven me and told me not to let it happen again'. It was just fucking insanity. ”

The sadly sobbing Gina began to dissipate and unveil her woman scorned as she began, “You know I still hear about that shit?! The night before last he asked me if I thought of John while we were having sex. Like ok, yeah, I think about him. Sooooo not happening! That whole day with Ron went great, no issues and then that subject reared its ugly head. Honestly, I was so pissed that I just rolled over and ignored him. Of course, Ron persisted and asked me, 'Well, do you?' Like I said, sometimes I think he just likes to torture me. Sometimes I just don't get the guy?! It's like I want him to love me, because I feel like I love him. And then well, days like this I just don't know.”

She had flaunted the perfect segue when I asked, “What do you mean when you say 'days like this'?”
“Honestly Ms., I just don't know if I want to tell you what happened. You have to understand that I just don't want the hassle of court and I just feel like it would be so embarrassing. That's why I just haven't told anyone about any of this. I honestly don't know how it ever got like this.”
Then I began with my hypocrisy fraught lecture, “Gina, he needs to be held accountable if he is hurting you. It is never alright to hit someone, ever. You need to tell me the truth if he is hitting you. If you don't tell the truth, he may never learn from this. He may never change and he may become even worst than he is now.”
Although, I had never taken my own advice, I had a more simple solution than courtrooms and police reports. A solution of which Gina would eventual discover, by default.

Either way, I was determined and had already made up my mind that day, Ron was indeed, leaving in cuffs.
So I reworked my angle a bit, “Ok then Gina, let's start over. Why don't you tell me how it came to this? I mean when did all this fighting start with your husband?”
She looked at up at me from her clasped hands, “Oh, it has been like this for years. I have been with Ron since high school and it has just been a roller coaster ride since we first started dating. All our friends knew he would explode when you least expected. It got to the point, my girlfriends stopped calling me and we were spending more and more time with just each other; because no one wanted to be around him. He would get mad at me in front of people and I think it made them feel uncomfortable.”

She refrained for a moment until I prodded her to continue, when she said, “ Well there was this one time, in front of a couple we knew, he slapped me pretty hard for like no reason. My girlfriend, Tina, her boyfriend at the time got up and pushed him on the floor. They were in each other's faces yelling and stuff. It was just awful and I was wicked embarrassed. Honestly, I don't even remember why he slapped me that night, it couldn't have been anything too bad. But Ron was drinking and sometimes when he's drinking he gets really mean.”
Then for the first time since I had been there she looked me in the eyes and said, “It's always been pretty bad, but it goes in cycles. This month has been pretty bad.”


I leaned toward her and touched the long shallow scrape visible on her arm and asked, “So, what happened here?”
Without any hesitation she replied, “That is from today.”
I replied, “It looks pretty painful, how did it happen?”
With a look of concern on her face and a trembling fear in her voice she asked, “I think you probably know how it happened, and if I tell you then how do I know he won't come back home after he is arrested and hurt me again? I am afraid that he will come home and try to hurt me again. How will you protect me?”

I tried to reassure Gina by telling her a temporary restraining order would be in place until his arraignment and during that time she had better apply for a permanent restraining order with the court. With the restraining order in place, I told her not to give him an inch and call if he should rear his ugly head. She seemed a little more at ease with my response, but the truth is... no one could offer unyielding security. The sad reality is, at times the truth will not set you free. Sometimes, in fact, the truth may kill you, but not if you kill first.

Chapter 4 - consortium of characters

Hello! I know it's been two weeks. Sorry. been busy busy. But busy writing on top of butt wiping and other assorted motherly duties. So here is chapter four -part of it-. In this chapter I introduce two characters, ok maybe more than two. -two bad guys, ok?-. In this excerpt I introduce Frank Olivieri... next will be Ron Steenley. They are a suckish collection of dudes.

Also, it should be noted that I am amending the title of my book to: "Dead Beats. the beginning." Turns out I need to write more than one book to include everything I have to say. There's a lot of disturbing/humorous plots prancing through my twisted little mind. So I will be sticking around for a while. ::sigh:: y'all are just gonna love me!!

As usual, comments, praise random showers of unabated flattery are always welcome. : ) Hope everyone is enjoying the lovely fall weather we are having. Looking forward to more pumpkin carving, scary movies and Halloween! ciao be well, ~b

Chapter 4...a consortium of characters.

“I’m tired of you sayin’ I should be prayin’.
I know it’s me against the world, I’ve been turned out.
Been thrown down to the killing floor.

Some people say I need to pray, Feels like it’s me against the world. I’ve been turned out. Been thrown down
to the killing floor, Down to the killing floor.”- Lyrics from “Killing Floor” by: Black Stone Cherry.

After my rather unexpected furious face smashing foray, with the crazy adequately amped up, I was somehow able to numb myself to my otherwise panic riddled state; like an emotional barometer I had finely honed. With time, I mastered the technique of numbing myself to his prattling presence and pitiful pleas to work on our marriage; what a joke. But with my distance finally becoming apparent, his crazy was off the charts. I was surprised he hadn't noticed my distance till now. Truth is, this man was so self absorbed I am surprised he hadn't been engorged with his own shit via osmosis. A girl can dream. In fact, it's amazing he noticed anything but for the mirror he constantly stood before, admiring himself.

The following morning in the wake of my unbridled rage, with its dust still clinging to the air, I was met by Alex stewing with rage at our kitchen table. The air was heavy, like walking into a vat of pudding.

With a wavering intonation in his voice he pulled a seat out and begged me to sit and talk, “Please come sit next to me so we can try and talk about this, Mira? Please. I don't want to go through the day like this.”

I turned my back to him and opened the fridge looking for the gallon of milk. -fuck balls, all out of milk...I will have to stop at Nancy's market on the way to work. Milk does the body good.- Coincidentally, I was more concerned about the milk than anything he had to say. Immediately he noticed my indifference and began pounding his fist on the table, demanding we talk. A rapid progression of wood wallops were intently designed to capture my attention. I had no desire to engage him now or otherwise.

Swiftly exiting the kitchen I went to grab my backpack from the hall closet, but the door was abruptly obstructed by one tear streaked monster. He stood before me and poked me in the center of my chest, needling me with his sausage like digit.

With his face squarely placed in mine, suddenly his tears had miraculously dried and were replaced with one familiar snarling sneer as he began berating with his deep growl like tone, “You aren't getting my fucking house, you bitch! You aren't fucking getting it, so don't even think about it! You and your kids better start packing up your fucking shit, you asshole! How are you going to stop the financial bleeding around here if you leave? I will go down with this ship and so will you! If you think I am leaving, you are mistaken, bitch! Because I will just keep coming back and plant myself right in your goddamned living room! You will get no peace! None!”

There was nothing I had to say to him, not a word. With a forceful thrust, I pushed him away turning my body from his; then turned my face into my hands and covered my eyes. I intimated sobbing sounds with a side of violent shoulder shrugging. In an attempt to console me, he approached placing his hand on me. Before another foul word was uttered from his heinous lips, I turned around and shoved him square in the chest and sent him sailing about three feet back.

Continuously shoving him till his back was flush with the adjacent wall, then politely reminded him, “Stay the fuck away from me. Stay the fuck away from me and my kids. Leave me the fuck alone and everyone will be fine. Let it go and stay out of my way.”

I was all done. That morning, in my living room, my monster's jarring frame jolted as I stared into the whites of his shocked eyes, then widened with disbelief and awe. I delighted in the seeming helplessness exuding from his every pore. He wasn't fighting back, surely this was a limited time offer. It was indeed time to get the fuck out of dodge. It was as though the tables had turned, but I wasn't interested in learning what was on the other side. With haste I made my way to grab my backpack and practically galloped out my front door.

Clenching my bag in my angry throbbing fist, I made my way to Nancy's market for my morning dose of cool calcium goodness. It was a morning ritual that could not be bypassed no matter what pressing matters loomed; a vice of mine that was not so bad after all. The madness of mind consuming murder, perhaps not such a positive one.

Typically on my morning walks I would ponder the details of Alex's murder, thinking on every detail. At times pangs of guilt stung my conscience. I continuously convinced myself that killing him was the best way. Mini pep talks would infiltrate my mind. This was the best way, the best way for things to go. The only way. If I let him go, I would unleash him. I would set my monster free to track down new prey. I would certainly read about some poor woman left for dead and badly beaten... and one missing Alex. Surely, I was doing the right thing. The only thing that could be done. There was no other way.

Turning the corner of one fractured decrepit street corner, I navigated it with distinct movements to avoid one fractured ankle. An abrupt right turn led me through the badly cracked front door of Nancy's store. Duct tape and ribbons of silvery tape constructed an awkward maze on the lower half of her door. Hmmmm...this was a new development.

Concerned with the presence of Nancy's newly acquired duct taped decoration I asked one brightly beaming Nancy, “What's with the door Nancy? Did you have a problem here or something?”

With an ear to ear grin monopolizing her portly face she responded with a hint of levity and laughter in her voice, “No no, Ms. Mira, nothing like that. There was just an accident with the cola vendor last week. His cart hit the door and made a big crack. We have to wait on the insurance people now to fix it.”

She carried on as her rotund frame jostled and exclaimed through her animated laughter, ”Ha ha, just my luck! Hey, How are you?! I haven't seen you in a while! Want a cup of tea? You should stay and have a chat with me. Gets lonely around here sometimes, you know? Hey, why is your face so red? Did you run here or something? Haha!”

Nancy Privetti, a wonderful blessed soul of a woman, the same face I had greeted at that very store for the past thirty memorable years of my young life. As I stood there listening to her, I thought how unusual it was that just moments prior I was consumed with my killing plans. Having just received an unanticipated invite for tea and scones, I found it oddly amusing. Did she see murder in my eyes? Because I could feel it consuming me. Or was I the same doe-eyed kid that bought a pack of nerds from her with a half a nickel less than retail cost? She would smile, send me on my way and tell me 'It's ok, I'll put it on your tab'. Of course she didn't see what I was thinking or feeling for that matter?

With an exhausted sigh of relief clinging to my words I replied, “No, Ms. Privetti I'm sorry I really got to run. You know lots of police work to do today, as usual. I'm glad to know that everything is ok and no bad guys are giving you a hard time. Maybe another time, I will come by and have some tea with you. Maybe a nice quiet Sunday morning.”

With a subtle hint of disappointment she replied, “Yes dear of course, I understand. You keep the city safe for us now.”

I nodded and turned down an aisle toward the milk cooler with chips, corn nuts and slim jims surrounding me as I made my way. As I walked down the aisle I noticed a man standing in front of the beer cooler with his young daughter -about eight years old if I had to guess-. An awkward looking girl wearing clothes, that by the looks of it, she seemed to have outgrown long ago. She wore filthy shoes with laces that were untied and covered in thick streaks of mud. Her fiery red hair looked as though it hadn't been brushed with gnarly bangs dangling across her milky white skin. Right before I was able to snatch up my morning milk, I couldn't believe what I saw next.

Out of my peripheral vision I caught the quick motion of her father's hand grabbing her arm as he lifted the left side of her body six inches from the floor by the apex of her elbow.

He looked her in the eyes as she whimpered in pain, and growled in an attempted hushed whisper, “If you fucking ask me again I am going to beat the piss out of you when we get home. Do you understand me? Every time we come to the store I can't buy you something. I told you that before.”

I am uncertain what demon crawled up out of my ass that day and made me do what I did next but it happened. It just happened. As my heart was pounding, my blood seemed to run cold into the very epicenter of my heart as a seething anger enraptured every fiber of my being. I walked up close behind him grabbing his right arm at the base of his wrist. I drew in close enough so no one but he and I knew there was now a Glock .40 neatly pressed against the base of his spine.

He had in his right hand a twelve pack of Natural Ice that was released from his grip and fell abruptly to the floor once my gun was wedged just above his Fruit of the Looms. Nancy called out when she heard the commotion, asked if everything was 'ok'. I assured her that I had just dropped something...no worries I had it.

He stammered nervously when he asked, “What the hell are you doing lady? What are you out of your mind?”

In a calm restrain, as calm and collected as I could muster I whispered in his ear, “Shut your lousy mouth. You aren't going to make a sound. Not a fucking sound. Nod your head if you understand me.”

Trying to turn his head to see me out of the corner of his eye he rapidly nodded with his big pumpkin head.

As I continued with my instructions, “Right now I have a Glock .40 pressed up against your spine. If you piss me off once you will be looking at your guts falling out of your zipper. What is your daughter's name?”

He was quiet for a few moments, hesitant to answer but then stammered a barely coherent sentence as he whimpered out his answer, “Nora. Nora Joy I call her.”

Strange. How could she have joy with a father like this? I looked down at the little girl, she had no clue what was going on. That's how I wanted to keep things. No need to upset the poor thing anymore than her father already had. Dickhead.

She looked up at me and asked a series of random questions with a heartwarming overtone of innocence, “Are you my daddy's friend? Daddy says if I am good today I can watch Disney channel before bed. Do you like Disney channel? I have an apple for snack time at school. I love apples.”

I smiled as I informed her of our plans for the morning, plans that didn't involve tea sipping, “Yes hunny, I am your daddy's friend. We are going to make a fun trip back to your place so you can watch Disney and play with your dolls. Do you have dolls?”

She looked up at me with glimmering eyes and nodded, “Yes I have lots of dollies, can you play with me?”

I answered her, “No I am sorry sweetheart, I have to talk to your daddy about a few things then I have to go to work.”

Looking away from Nora, I pressed the barrel of my gun until its front sight was nestled deep inside the fleshy nest of fat overflowing his pants.

With my attempt at unwavering unequivocal command, I whispered in his ear, “Now you are taking me to your place, and you aren't going to make a goddamned peep but for your home address. If you run or make one false move I will shoot you dead right were you fucking stand. Nod your head if you understand me.”

He nodded his head and as he continued to walk a few paces before me, we began our journey to the dungheap he called an apartment. Along the way, I looked down at Nora who walked beside me. She was a sweet looking little girl, she walked beside me giggling to herself -she seemed delighted with the notion of company-. Swinging her arms as she began to skip along, her undersized shirt swung back to reveal a path of thick bruises along her tiny forearm. Instantly, I became enraptured with rage.

Once inside the stank filled hovel, I knelt down and held little Nora's hand and asked her to go to her room while her daddy and I talked. She smiled and walked down the hall to her room, only to return later... begging me to play.

He sat in his recliner that he had clearly coveted since it had been purchased circa 1974. He looked up at me and asked with a tone of hesitation in his voice, “So what the fuck is this all about? Have you lost your mind lady? Your a goddamned cop? I could turn you in for this shit!”

I quickly drew my weapon and pressed it against his right temple holding it hard and steady against the right crease of his eye, causing him to recoil in his fleabag chair and plead, “Stop, ok Stop, I just want to know what is going on!”

I stood back and studied him, taking a moment just to take in the sloth-like pitiful appearance of Frank Olivieri. The man looked like a rat, with a large pointy nose, thin legs and arms with a bulging distended belly; along with the nasty smell and hygiene to match.

Crouching down and placing my hands along the wooden arms of his chair, I placed my face near his and said, “You are going to answer my questions, only the questions I ask. Nothing more. I am not here to have story time and I don't give a shit about you. I am here because of that little girl and because of what I saw you doing to her in that store. We are going to get down to business, and it starts now. Do you understand?”

He nodded his head as he continued to recoil in his filthy seat. He was good at the head nodding routine.

As I stood upright I effected a deliberate tone in my voice as I began with my questions, “Let's start with what's your name, shall we?”

He answered, “Frank, Frank Olivieri.”

I replied, “How long have you been hitting your daughter and leaving those marks I saw on her little arm?”

He raised his eyebrows and with a tone of dissension in his voice he replied, “I don't know what marks you are talking about lady. Nora is a clumsy girl, she falls a lot.”

I withdrew my weapon and placed it snugly just beneath the bulging spot in the crotch of his jeans; with the barrel of my gun neatly nestled against his denim covered scrotum I continued to prod him, “Don't make me pull the trigger and cut the bullshit. I told you, this isn't happy time. I saw what you did and I heard you tell her you were going to beat her. You aren't fooling me, so spill it.”

In an attempt to remove his nuts from the barrel of the gun he leaned back too far causing the chair to flip backward. Quickly I pulled him up from the floor by his left arm -just as he had done to Nora-, and threw him onto the couch. I didn't have time for this, fuck that chair.

Nora's sweet voice chimed into the living room from down the hall, “Is everything ok daddy?”

I replied, “Yes, Nora just stay in your room for a little bit. We are almost done talking. The chair just fell back by accident.”

Nora replied, “Ok, that's ok. I will stay here.”

Squatting directly in front of Frank with my weapon leaning against my left knee pointing squarely at his loathsome face, I resumed my questions, “Ok Frank, back to square one. You ready?”

With a whimper and a crackle resonating in his pathetic voice he replied, “Yes. Yes I am ready. Sorry it won't happen anymore.”

I replied, “So answer the question, when did you start hitting your daughter?”

With a look of desperation on his face he replied while fighting back tears, “I don't know, sometimes I lose my temper I know I shouldn't. I am real sorry lady, listen I will go to counseling if that's what you want. Don't torture me lady. I am just trying to take care of my little girl you know, it's tough being a single father.”

With conviction I pounced to my feet and growled my reply into the center of his face as a loomed over him and his then shivering frame, “I already told you I don't care about you. Don't piss me off, Frank.”

He stammered with a quivering lip as he replied, “Yes, ok. I know I know. I'm sorry.”

As I stood back I noticed the saturated denim where Frank had just pissed himself, just beneath his bad ass skull and crossbones belt buckle. Talk about irony, and he thought he was going to "beat the piss" out of someone today. Good, I was glad I scared him... But I was becoming exhausted already with this guy, plus I didn't want to be late for work.

I continued, “Frank, how are you supporting your daughter?”

He answered, “I get disability and workman's comp for now.”

I replied, “Is that it?”

He answers, “No I get Social Security disability income for Nora because she has autism.”

With disgust and despise now dominating the inflection of my voice I replied, “What the hell, you are beating your autistic daughter? Man, you really are one sick puppy aren't you.”

He just stared at me with his pitiful eyes as he sat there in his piss soaked pants. I wanted to beat him within the inch of his life as he slouched back on his Brady Bunch looking couch, but I wouldn't do that to Nora. That wouldn't be right. I brushed off that fleeting desire and propped upright the hideous chair that had been pushed back onto the floor.

Now sitting squarely facing Frank, taking in the musty smell of his pea green chair as it pervaded my nose, I continued, “Do you have someone you know that can take care of Nora. Someone other than you? Someone you trust?”

He sat up with a look of relief in his eyes, wearing the expression of condemned man that had discovered a probable means of escape as he replied with a heavy tone of alleviation, “Yes ma'am, my mother, Edna Olivieri, she lives in South Boston. She's real good with Nora. I'd trust her anyday.”

Tiny footsteps pattered down the wooden floor of Frank's hallway, and around the corner peered tiny green almond shaped eyes covered by wisps of scarlet red hair. I looked away from Frank and saw Nora giggling in her cupped hands with a Barbie doll at her feet. The poor thing was dying to talk to me so I called her over. She bounded across the room with barbie in hand. Without hesitation she proudly propped herself on my lap, with her boney bottom digging into my left knee she looked up and smiled at me with her extended hand offering me her half naked barbie doll. When I looked down at her hand that was clasping the doll by its hair, it was then I noticed it. A deep welt in the shape of a skull in the center of her hand. Just like the one on daddy's belt buckle. That dirty rotten son of a bitch.

As I grabbed her hand and studied the imprint I asked her, “Who did this, Nora? How did this happen?”

Nora pulled her hand out of mine as she coyly replied, “I don't want to talk about that. Can we just play dolls?”

I held Nora's fragile hand in mine and said, “It's ok Nora, you need to tell me, daddy said it was ok.”

Nora glanced at her father and said, “Is that true daddy? Is that ok?”

He sat stoic with a look of disgust in his eyes glaring at me, and then answered his daughter, “Yes, you can tell her Nora. It's ok.”

Nora looked up at me and in a matter of fact like tone she replied, “My daddy gets mad at me sometimes and yesterday I snuck a can of soda into my room after bedtime. Well, he caught me with it and I had to get spanked with his belt. Sometimes I do bad things and sometimes my daddy has to spank me. It's ok though, I still love my daddy. I just have to stop doing bad stuff, that's all.”

After she shared this horrifying story, she looked up at me with her carefree demeanor and again insisted upon playtime. My heart melted, I felt like taking her from him that day. I had thought about reporting this, but he had to surrender his parental rights to someone who cared. Someone who knew Nora, like her grandmother. I didn't want her to get lost in the system, it was just a bad place to be. He needed to hand her over to Edna.

Later, I did my homework on Edna, no record, a well respected widow in the community, retired, and would love the daily companionship of someone as lovely as little Nora. That's where she had to be, and it was going to happen...otherwise Frank my have an unfortunate accident. Hell, that may happen anyhow.

Disgusted with what I had just heard, I looked over at a now sobbing Frank and told Nora that she had to go back to her room for a little while so her daddy and me could finish talking. After she smiled at me and nodded she hopped up and ran down the hall to her room. She seemed like such a well mannered child, I couldn't wrap my head around why he would do such horrible things to an innocent child. Honestly, I just knew something had to be done and what was best for her wasn't here. I loathed this giant sack of shit sitting before me and it would have done me no greater pleasure than to extinguish whatever shred of humanity that clung to his meager soul.

As Frank sat before me sobbing into the palm of his right hand while covering his eyes, I told him, “Here is what you are going to do Frank. I am going to make myself clear. I am going to come back here and check in, in one month. You are going to get yourself a lawyer. I don't give a shit how you do it, just do it. You are going to draw up papers to surrender your parental rights to your mother. I will check back, and you won't be able to hide. So don't try to. If I come back and find out she is still here and nothing has been done or your not at least working on it, you will regret it. I will find out, so don't try to be slick. I will hunt you down and put a bullet right between your eyes. Oh, and don't get cute and try to report me, I'm a well respected cop, you're nothing but a piece of shit. They will never believe you. Now Frank, don't make me come back here and launch a bullet straight through your nutsack.”

I stood to my feet and as I marched out the front door, the sound of loud dramatic sobs and whimpers trailed off in the distance as I made my way further down the chilly halls of the seedy apartment building. Off to work, with a pep in my step. The corners of my lips and eyes felt as though they were pinned against my face, tightly curled upward, as I grinned all the way to work. I even laughed to myself as the train jostled my body against the steel beam to which I clung. That just made my day, Thanks Frank.