This is Chapter One. I may experiment by putting up a chapter every week before publication.)
Preface
In
the retail world, some goods sold are considered hard (furniture, appliances,
linens, etc.) and some are softgoods: among the latter are all of the fun and
fabulous things that women are dying to wear to make them feel very good.
ONE
It
was early morning. No hint of the
pretty June day the weatherman had promised. When they say gritty streets, they meant this one. It was a midtown side street in New
York City’s garment district. Truck drivers maneuvered to connect with gates
and loading docks to disgorge finished garments. The drivers were grubby and cranky.
A
rack of Marc Jacobs Crayola yellow silk jersey tank tops with matching lace and
taffeta skirts rolled down to a showroom floater piercing the dull surroundings
with a tsunami of color. A rack of
white organza Armani trench coats followed. A rack of lime classic Chanel suits
with the skirts shorter than the previous season also followed. A trucker
jockeyed a twenty-four foot truck into the last empty gate. The guard waved him away.
“This
gate’s spoken for,” said the guard.
“Where
am I supposed to dump?” asked the trucker. Dump was a harsh word for the wool and silk Karl Lagerfeld
jackets.
“Not
here. Move it.” There was a
shotgun by his side and he made it visible.
“This
for you,” said the trucker. He
gave him the finger and then turned the finger sideways. “And this for your
horse.” The trucker continued backing up to the gate but didn’t unload.
Fulgencio
Coto, a driver for Witter Trucking had arrived ten minutes late. The spot he paid the guard to save was
gone. He’d have to unload with
hand-trucks. Fulgencio got out and went to chew out the guard. He was late because his pregnant wife
was in labor and screaming that her water broke. Ay Dios mio, el agua, el agua! He had to take his kids to his
mother’s house and put his wife in the hospital. He needed to finish up and get home.
It
was after eight and the street was getting crowded. Elevator starters and
janitors had arrived. Street
people skulked toward Penn Station to sleep a few hours in the waiting room before
the cops made them move along. In
the seconds Fulgencio’s truck was out of view a well-dressed dandy, Zander,
slid into the passenger seat. He
had on a full rubber mask of Humphrey Bogart topped by a wide brimmed Panama
hat. It was Casablanca on Thirty-first
Street.
Fulgencio
re-entered the cab of his truck.
Distracted, he went to put it in gear. He saw his bizarre guest and felt the 45 nudging his right
kidney and reacted with surprise and fear.
“Drive
out through the Lincoln Tunnel. Look straight ahead,” said Zander.
Fulgencio
turned to his passenger and got a smart crack to his head. “Okay, man, I don’t
look.”
They
drove through narrow cross-town streets, through the Tunnel, along the Jersey
Palisades onto the New Jersey Turnpike.
At an isolated spot along the marshlands, Zander put a hand on
Fulgencio’s arm. “Pull over, hand me your wallet and cell phone and get out.”
Fulgencio
complied and stood frozen in place by the side of the road.
“You
don’t move for six hours,” said Zander. He took a twenty out of the wallet and
threw it to the ground. He looked
at his watch and then down at Fulgencio. “My mother told me the morning belongs
to the angels. I don’t kill
anybody before twelve o’clock.” He waved the wallet. “But I know where you
live.”
After
a mile of driving, Zander took off his hat and pulled off the mask to reveal an
olive skinned man in his early thirties. He continued driving the Ryder 24
footer until he reached a stretch of the Washington Beltway. A sign said: WELCOME TO THE DISTRICT OF
COLUMBIA. It was barely afternoon and he had already easily accomplished the
day’s work. He had a truckload of
high-end goodies and his willing accomplice would unload them to the eager
soccer moms of the nation’s capital.
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