Three

Specialty Socks

  A Good Pair of Socks Can Carry You Anywhere!

  But his eyes were focused on the blurred lines of the city streets. Focused on the rusty brown sedan. Windows stained with the spirits of shadows. Roger did not bother looking at the license plate. He had all he wanted to go off of. The sedan stopped outside of a bistro. From it, two old men emerged with two massive body guards. The guards stopped at the door, while the hunched old men entered. From what Roger could see, they looked like floating demons, clad in long black coats. Atop their heads they wore black pork pie hats like warlord crowns. Roger, losing all sense of fear, stepped across the busy street, heading for the bistro.

  At the door, he was stopped by a well suited host.

  “Excuse me, do you have a reservation for lunch?”

  “No. No, sir I don't. I was hoping to stop in for a quick coffee. I heard this place has the best coffee in town.”

  “You heard right!” The host laughed, exposing a horse's mouth of teeth. “But, I'm afraid it's based on reservation. Perhaps you could try tomorrow? We have several open tables for brunch.”

  “I'm actually passing through,” Roger said, stuffing his hands in his pocket. He felt the cold pistol looming in his right pocket. “Ramon sent me.”

  The host's eyes widened and his mouth opened slightly. He bit his lower lip gently and dipped his head. “Oh. Okay, alright then. Please, sir come in. The coffee will be on the house and please give Ramon my best wishes!”

  For a bistro that required a reservation, it was empty except for the two old men. They sat with their backs to the door, facing a painting mounted on the wall. The sun and the moon, hanging parallel in the same sky. They were abstract, but if they had eyes, Roger thought they would be looking at each other. Roger made his way straight to the table and slid in on the other side of the booth. The pistol in right pocket and grown warm and slimy as it basted in the sweat of his palm.

  The two old men were identical. Two pairs of the same black sunglasses at besides two black cups of coffee. The steam rose up to distort their faces. In the warm light and through the fog, they looked like old age wizards.

  “Hello, Roger,” the man on the right said. “We've been expecting you for some time.”

  Roger let out an exasperated sigh and rolled his eyes. “Fuck, how do you know me already?”

  “We are old men, Roger,” he said again. “We may forget the days of the week, but we do not forget faces.” The other old man tapped on the left side of his chest. “And we see the face of your father. We miss the man so very much. He was a good man.”

  “What's his deal?” Roger said, pointing to the man who tapped his chest.

  “Forgive my dear brother. We know you, let you know us. My name is Edward and this is my twin brother, Marco. Marco had his throat terribly damaged in an accident years ago. Since he has lost the ability to speak. So unfortunate. He had such a lovely voice.”

  “Yeah, well. If you miss my dad so much why did you kill him?”

  “ He was a good man,” Edward said, hanging his head. “A good employee. He wanted to take you and your mother away from Oldtown. I don't know where. However, he was going to do so by talking to to police. They were going to give him sanctuary to wherever he wanted to go. An admirable effort for his family, but it's something we could not have. I do hope you understand.”

  Roger felt like he was fidgeting in the booth. Sweat began to pour from his armpit down his ribcage. It was soaked up by the elastic band of his underwear. Roger was clenching his teeth so hard that he could feel the roots cramming into his soft gums. Finally, he sighed. He let go of the pistol in his pocket, wiping the hand on his pants. It left a dark streak on the fabric on his leg.

  “Okay,” Roger said, hanging his head. “I get it. I don't like it, but I understand why you had to kill my father. But,” he felt fire return to his face. He felt his voice stammer again. Not out of nervousness this time. “Why did you have to take his ring?” He asked through his teeth. The two old men slid their pupils towards each other. “That was something passed down to my father from his and it was supposed to go to me and my son.”

  “I know what ring you are talking about. I was there when your father got it.” Marco shook his head. “No, retrieved it,” Edward continued after his brother's correction. “That would be a better word. What your father said was true, Roger. It was a ring of his father's. Until he was robbed. It got taken by some two bit criminal when he was young. Once your father garnered some power and favor with us, he took it back. It was... Well, violent.” Marco shook his head and wiggled his index finger in front of Roger. “Marco is right, though. We ordered a hit. Not a theft. We knew that ring was promised to you. Your father talked of it a lot. However, your father talked a lot. That's kind of what has brought us here, after all.”

  “Well who did it, then? If you didn't order a hit, it had to be an ad hoc decision. Who killed my dad and took his memory from me?”

  Edward shrugged his hunched shoulders and looked at Marco. Marco took off his pork pie hat to reveal a brown spotted head. He sat the hat upside down on the table in front of him and began to run his index finger around the inner rim of it. Several times. Until he stopped. Marco grabbed a napkin and produced a pen from his coat pocket. He slid the brown napkin to Roger.

  “Wrench Vance?” Roger asked.

  “Oh yes,” Edward said. “Old Wrench Vance. You know, because he fixes things. Listen, we don't take too kindly to mooks overstepping their bounds. Taking orders into their own hands and going to far and such. This is a business. And no matter the business it's based on respect. It seems that Wrench not only disrespected your father, but more importantly, he disrespected us. The vile gall. Especially on such a tough call as Alex. It took days to come to a final decision. Under any normal circumstances, Roger, if you killed one of our men we would have your head in seconds. However, for this, you have our permission. Do what you will, Roger. And we're very sorry for your loss.”

  Roger went to the address that Marco and Edward had provided him. A shabby apartment building in industrial Oldtown. The highest of floors were clogged with the gray smog that poured from the industrial paper mills. Security was a foreign philosophy here, as Roger walked right into the apartment complex that Wrench was supposed to be at. Roger climbed the flights of stairs. Old paint peeled from the walls that surrounded him. Lead probably. The tenement looked like a museum recreation of old time England. Roger half expected to see Tiny Tim hobbling down the stairs. Fifth floor, The smog outside poured into the corridor through a poorly caulked window. Room 33. Roger took no time. He pulled the still warm pistol and shot the lock. Another loud bang rang out in the corridor. He kicked in the door.

  Wrench looked up to see a figure in the mist.

  Roger waited a split second until the sun shifted in the sky. New light poured into the cloudy room. Although he could see an amorphous shape through the mist, he could see the beams of sun light sheen off of a small metal surface. Roger fired twice. Wrench fell dead on his shanty floor. Roger took slow steps, savoring the taste in the air, the smell, seeing the glare of the metal grow more and more bright. He was slow in his approach until the gleam filled his pupils. Below, he saw Wrench was still moving. Whether it was the rising and falling of dying breaths or just the rustling of an injured man, he did not know. Remembering his father's promise, he lifted up his foot and brought it crashing down onto Wrench's head. Roger bent down and promptly tore the silver ring off of Wrench's warm fingers. The finger's felt rough and dry. Instantly, Roger's mind waded back to the lake with his dad.

  A small boy sat in a dark closet. Only a small sliver of light tumbled in. Through the small slit, he saw a man murder his father and take his father's silver ring. The ring that his father had promised to him when he came of age. The boy saw this vagabond stomp out of the room after a long time. He slid through the industrial clouds and followed.

  Roger was still but a young man. Not like a grizzled veteran
his father was. Not yet. As he descended the stairs, he felt the ring almost slide off of his slender finger numerous times. Roger was back on the streets and proceeded back to the main artery of Oldtown. Downtown. He weaved through the clotted sidewalks. To his left, he saw Watson's Specialty Socks. Right next to it, a jeweler.

  “Size nine, right?”

  The small boy heard the words through a thin glass window. He felt in his shorts one more time to be sure. He was right. His father's snub nosed pistol was still there.

  Hours earlier, Ramon looked at the streets of Oldtown one more time. He sighed and stomped out his last Palmetto Red cigarette and walked into Watson's Specialty Socks..

  “Hey, Watson! I need a pack of Palmetto Reds and a nice pair of dress socks.”

  “Where do you need them to take you?”

  “Anywhere.”

  Watson, a tall gaunt man with circular lenses in his glasses, escorted Ramon through the back of the store and out the back door. There, a small car was waiting with a driver. Ramon climbed into the backseat, where shadow stained windows disguised him. Immediately, the car was on the road. Away from Oldtown.

  About The Author

  Bill Goodman is a person who is thankful that anyone ever read something he wrote. If he even brought anything positive at