ONE

 Twelve a.m.
Saturday and the Friday night movie crowd escaped the theater filling
the  cold night air
with teen spirit. The vibrant I'm-going-to-be-young-forever  attitude
made their way to
their respected vehicles. Cars from the past to the present littered
the theater
parking lot. Sixteen to eighteen-year-old earning the trust of their
parents to  go out and
have a good time came to an end. Well, at least some of the teen
kings and queens, over  the
giggling and I'm-in-love eye contact came your typical teen business
of going  to a
late-night party and hitting the drive-through for a bite to eat.

     A
sparse crowd  decided  enough excitement for one night and
agreed  to head for home. Two teens, both
seventeen, made their way to a bright red Nissan Juke. This couple
shared a stare from
their fellow adolescence.  A bi-racial couple  now the
norm- like homosexuals out in the
open.

     These
two youths, black and white, both the elder children of two of the
most prominent crime families
in Metro City. Reginald Grant, Reggie, by his family and friends, the  oldest of  G's
four children. Six-foot-four five star shooting guard  headed
out of state to
attend college  in the north on a basketball scholarship. A
chilly night, he donned a red hoodie,
loose-fitting baggy blue jeans revealed his boxers and untied white
Nike.

 His companion
 the oldest of four belonging to Macone. Helen Macone,
Irish-Italian destined for
the Ivy League on an academic scholarship, though her dancer legs
could  have gotten
her an arts scholarship to any university of her choice. Her gray
conservative attire from
head down to her feet and  blonde hair worn in a librarian bun.
Reggie opened the  door
for Helen. She strolled inside the car and he hustled to the driver's
side escaping the
cold. Neither  family knew about the forbidden
romance.

     Reggie
and Helen gazed into each others eyes,  leaned in, and locked lips.
 Reggie turned the ignition. The Juke exploded. 

The future of two youths proved life
is  short.

      Spaghetti
Warehouse at 100 North Park Avenue beside the city mono-rail tracks.   It looked like
its namesake: a big block shaped building  stained glass windows and brick
armor  faded 100 percent red hue. On the inside the decor
screamed pure restaurant
patrolling  waiters, waitresses, and a Maitre d'. Pictures,
paintings, and  movie posters
of movie stars decorated the walls. A  bill of fare listing
Italian cuisine:
Lasagna, Fettuccine Alfredo, and, Spaghetti and  meat balls.
  Popular  eatery
 attracting standing-room-only  crowd every night, which
 why it  surprised  citizens when
it defunct.

        Proprietors
turned a  five star bistro into the hottest night club in Metro
city. Nadine the club's
name. They took advantage of its  space dividing the factory in
sections keeping the brasserie
ambiance, but not the original cuisine except for four  types of
pizza; sausage bacon,
pepperoni, cheese and hamburgers; single  and double with or
with out cheese on  the
card.  Your choice to dance and drink or eat, dance, and drink
Tables  minimum in the front part of
the club for lounging, smoking, listening to piano, saxophone a small
stage built for one
singer the owner herself.  Stools for sitting as long as the
bar. The club name, Nadine,
honored the middle name of the late Sheila Green, who raised them as
her own.

 Claire's
circle called her Song Bird, her stage name because of her hypnotic
siren voice.  She  graced
the stage from time to time, but booked most of the acts for her
club. Her close friends  called her Birdie.

    She
made  a profit gambling. Nadine housed a mini casino  joint
down in the basement. It wasn't
   Las Vegas though it cost you a thousand to enter
the hole of poker chips and slot machines.
The  basement sealed off, but enough room for two Black Jack
tables and five small round
tables for poker players. It came equipped with two muscular
bouncers standing on
opposite sides of the elevator dressed in  black muscle shirts,
slacks, and loafers.

 Two eye- candy
hour- glass figure waitresses clad in sleeveless black body-
hugging mini-dresses,  hose, and heels moved among the
tables serving drinks. A mid sized bar with a stocky bartender serve
drinks. The club  closed upstairs and only four patrons remained
playing poker.

    All four  cold-blooded
killers; what  club Nadine catered to, but every killer left
their bad attitudes at
the door and weapons in their vehicles. One  of her club
benefactors and dearest
friend, Chubby Pone.

    Pone, sat at the
table holding a winning hand. He loved stepping out into the night
clad in black and
white Doc Marten's wing tips with rubber soles, black slacks, a crisp
white shirt, black vest
 laced with twelve small Ninja throwing knives, and a black
bowler  enhanced his chiseled  clean
cut baby face. His counter parts: Sonny, a past -his prime
almost-senior-citizen, average height and a saggy pudgy
body, he proclaimed himself as the world's oldest teenager.

He wore a brown
 fedora, pink shirt, tan slacks, and brown loafers:  Stick
looked like a walking skeleton  with skin as pale as ivory. He
wore a gray suit, black shirt with a loose fitting thin gray  tie, and black
 pointed roach-killer shoes  good for killing roaches who
tried to hide in a corner
joked his buddies. The last of the four poker players, Big Ben
Donovan.

 All six-nine
and three-hundred pounds of what he said soul-brother muscle. Black
as coal, bald
head as smooth as a baby's bottom and pet word  shit ending with
a D sound at the end. He
wore a green polo shirt, black slacks and penny loafers.

     The
game  nearing the end as it came down to Pone and Big Ben.

    “What's
that you drinking?” asked Big Ben in his baritone voice.

    “Malta
Goya.”    A beverage that wasn't a beer, wine, ale,
or even soda.

 A carbonated
malt drink that appealed to Pone. He discovered the drink  when he ate at
a Venezuelan diner.
                                                                                                                                               

 “Shit'd…
that some kind of new beer?

    Pone
held up the brown long-neck-shaped bottle examining the label.

    “Non-alcoholic
malt beverage also made with hops.” He took a sip. “Sweet… not bitter.” said Pone.

 Ben
frowned and shook his head. “Give me a classic beer anytime.”

     “Keeps
me alert on my way home.”  Pone  dealt with car chases on
his way home including
unwanted gun-play.

  “How
come you the only one I see drinking that Shit?” asked Ben.

    “You
ain't sweet on the owner.” said Stick.

    The
room got quiet  Pone  gave Stick a stare down. Stick
crossed the line and  knew  it.  He put his
foot in his mouth and, like a snake  his long lanky body coiled.

     “When
you boys going to finish this damn game?” asked Sonny in his raspy
voice.

  “It's
late and I need to get home.”

     “Shit'd…
been pass your bed time, old timer.” said Ben.

     Sonny
took a deep breath and raised an eye-brow. He and Stick already
folded and stuck
around for the conversation. Stick finished off his Vodka Martini and pulled
the Olive off the tooth pick with his teeth while Sonny clutched his
Gibson after being
called an old timer.

     “Sonny,
finish your dink. That damn onion making my eyes water.” said Pone.

 He never
understood the drink, a dash of dry Vermouth and two ounces of Gin
with a slice of
onion. thought
Pone.  “Ben, it's late… lets finish this.”

    Five-thousand
dollars on the table. Pone studied the large man. He could tell Ben
craved one of his
signature stogies; smoking  not allowed in club Nadine. Each man
took one last card from
the deck. Ben nodded with approval.

     “What
you  got big man?” asked Pone

     Ben
laid out three Queens and two Jacks. A full house. He leaned back and
his chair creaked
struggling to support his weight. He toasted then downed his beer.

     Pone
glanced at his cards, the cards on the table and then at Ben who
displayed a confident
smirk on his face.

     “Well,
nothing like a good woman  if you got three and two of them
brought  their sons
along.” said Pone.

     Ben
started to giggle until Pone laid down his hand. Three Kings and two
deuces known as a
full house Kings high. Ben stared at Pone. He knew his com padre had
two  nick names:
leave him alone Pone and lucky eight. Pone pool shark as well.

     Ben
sighed. “Shit'd.” He shook his head watching Pone collect his
winnings.

  The rest
of the observers breathed a sigh of relief because they wanted to go
home.

   Pone
and Ben rode the elevator together.

     “Mind
if I holler at you if you got the time?” asked Ben.

     Pone
and Ben took a seat at the bar.

The temporary
 bartender a Sicilian name Antonio. He supervised the restaurant
and the reason
they  served Italian cuisine on the menu, and Birdie's
boyfriend. Birdie used  her expertise
handling music entertainment and left comestibles in Antonio's hands.

 He knew the
connection between Pone and Birdie and didn't like it; he accepted
the bond between
the two  because he loved Birdie.

 He told Pone
and Ben he'd be in his office; to let him know when they finishedtheir
conversation.

     Ben
nursed his Moose head.
”So he cool with you and Birdie?”

     “If
he can't keep her, it won't be because of me.” said Pone.

  Ben
cleared his throat then took another swallow of his Moose head. Pone
sipped his Goya.

     “You
remember Al McGee?” asked Ben.

     “Your
sometime partner.” replied Pone.

     “He's
gone missing.”                                                                                   

Partners
 far and few considering your partner could  become your
enemy if hired to kill you.
Pone didn't believe in having one for  possible back stabbing .He preferred to work alone for  in the killing business who
better to trust than yourself. He knew some
jobs   called for two men or women who made a living in the
business too. If he needed
support,  Pone knew his poker buddies wouldn't
hesitate to assist  him.

     “What
do you mean missing?” asked Pone.

       Assassins
and hit man alike once a job finished tend to lie low waiting out the
murder investigation. Disappearing at least three months till
things quieted down.Pone didn't know
much about McGee except what he heard from Ben.  Ben carried the man, did the
heavy lifting when they did a job together. Not good
since it took a cold-blooded person to do what they did for a living.
Pone  considered
McGee a tick, leach draining blood off another man's work. Pone
detected a strong
friendship between Ben and McGee so he kept his personal feeling
 about the  man to
himself.  Pone wanted to tell Ben maybe McGee took a solo job
and fucked up.

     “Gone…
disappeared… vanished.”     Pone sighed.
”You know for what we do, sometimes we have to
hide.”

     Ben shook his head. “Naw
man, not Al… he don't need to hide. He don't fuck up.”

    “Nobody's
perfect, Ben.” said Pone. “Some of us have no business to be in
the  business,”

     “Al's
always careful.”

     Pone
studied the giant. He saw the concern as well as heard it in Ben's
words. He also
knew about Ben and Al's partnership before he mentioned it. Pone took a
large gulp of his Goya.

     “Okay
it's getting late so spill it.”

     Ben
nodded. “Al got a woman, Ruby and a couple of kids.”

     Pone
frowned. “When you say woman...”

     “Shit'd… he ain't, but we need loving too.”                                                                                             

     Pone
never understood why men in his profession got married or why women in the business did the
same. It made problems when enemies found out about the ball and chain.  Cold-blooded
assassins took out the spouse and kids no matter how pristine. The life of a killer already
complicated to involve others. The inculpable clueless what their love   interest
did for a living and those who knew showed an ignorant blind-eye to   the easy
lifestyle and money.  thought
Pone.

 Pone
took another sip of his Goya. “You met this Ruby?”

     “Yeah.”
sighed Ben in his deep base voice. “She called me a week ago
worried  because she
hadn't heard from Al. The longest he'd gone with out contacting her is two days…
that ain't like him. He loves his family.”

     “Did
he go on a job?”

     “We
did things together. The only time he went any where by himself was
to bars and clubs.”

 “Any
club in particular?”

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