Merrick

In The Bronx, above a dry cleansers, the hot dog vendor was trying to explain to his

Russian backers, what went down, the encounter with the large man. The most vital

talking he’d ever do. Fail to convince them and he was sauerkraut. A friend had told him

‘Borrow twenty five grand, the vig will be about two hundred a week. But in six months,

you’ll be free and clear, own the business yourself. The Russians will provide the cart,

get the meat etc. cheap. Never ask…………….never what’s in the meat and don’t eat the

things, ever. Oh, do not fuck with those guys, give them their money every week, they

will protect you but screw with them, you’re dead. Nobody, not even Russians fuck with

……The Russians.’

And he’d been right on target, even ahead. Until………….

One Russian stood behind him, Mr. Silent, he never spoke, just looked at you with cold

eyes. The other, in front, classic interrogation technique. He had a scar, like lightning

running all length of his face, on the right side. It looked like it had been high lit by blue

ink. Not re-assuring, such a memorable scar would have made most people in his

business worry about ID. That he knew this would never happen was too frightening to

contemplate. He led the vendor through the events again. Then pushed,

……………………………the man was there

…………………every day?

Why? To what? Stare at the sky. The workers in the sky./

Why?

You don’t

………………………………………….know?

He described the man again and again. Scarface, stepped back, grabbed a bottle of Stoic

from the table, drank from the neck, then handed the bottle across the vendor to Mr.

Silent.

The vendor could have done with a heavy slug of it himself. He wasn’t offered. Sweat

was cascading down his face, though the room was icy. Scarface rattled off a volley of

Russian to the other.

Who grunted.

The vendor didn’t know had a death sentence been passed. Scar face bent down, stared

into his face for over two minutes. The vendor was afraid to speak. He’d learned to only

answer questions, never volunteer them. Amazing how one solid punch to the back of the

head brought you up to speed on the etiquette of torture.

Finally, the deathly stare was over. Scar face stood up. Wrote something on a piece of

paper.

Said

‘You can go.’

The vendor wanted to ask if he was to continue business and realized, of course. They

wanted paying. Scarface pushed the note at him said

‘New place to sell, until we say.’

He got to his feet, his legs literally shaking. He made it to the door. Scar face, said

‘You need drink?’

Tossed the bottle at him and he never knew, how in hell he caught it. He was on the street

in ten seconds, trying to put distance between them. Not that you ever could witht hose

animals. He needed that drink so bad, raised the bottle, it was empty. A sound carried

from the room he’d been in, a low growling, laced with violence, it could almost have

been laughter.