Page 30 of Working for the Mob

The morning rush hit us harder than the day before, with people in line until we closed at ten. I must have made twelve pots of coffee, although I drank a fair amount myself. After just those few hours, my feet hurt and I didn’t want to move.

I expected Art to show up and save my feet from further infliction, but he never did. I kept on scrubbing surfaces until we reopened our doors at eleven.

It didn’t take me long to pick up the flow of the lunch rush, but it did have a higher turnover and I found myself wiping down tables more often.

As I made my personal vengeance on a coffee stain, a particular conversation caught my ears.

“Did you hear what happened to Eddy McLaurin?” I overheard Virginia Brighton saying to her friend, whose name turned out to be Meredith. “The one that runs the brothel on the west side?”

“I heard that he didn’t show up to church on Sunday morning,” Meredith said. “’And it's not the first time.”

Meredith let out her witch’s cackle that made me grind my teeth. She wore her hair in a tight bun, with little beads.

“Well, they found his body on his front porch just this morning,” Virginia said, and the plump short friend gasped.

“I didn’t hearthat.”

“Georgie said that it was two clean shots. Straight in the heart. And the body was as ripe as a pumpkin on November 1st.”

“Who would do that?” the other lady asked.

“I think we both know,” she said, and her friend huffed an agreement. I knew as well.

This sounded familiar. Too familiar to the stories that reached our ears in the high society of Manhattan. This was the work of the mob, and I knew exactly who was responsible.

“Do you ladies need anything?” I asked them. I comped their coffee that morning as an olive branch after yesterday. Today, they were considerably nicer to Lucy, who rang their order up correctly the first time.

It turned out that Officer Brighton hadn’t bought Virginia flowers for a couple years, and receiving them from a stranger meant the world to her. I owed Art for driving me to pick them up and then to her house, but I wasn’t going to tell him that.

“We’re fine, thanks,” Virginia said, although her friend continued to scowl at me.

???

“This bread we picked up from the new baker––it’s just not good,” Lucy said. She picked a piece of crust off her sandwich and chewed it.

I was hardly listening to her. We were taking a break before we needed to clean the café and prepare for the next morning.

My thoughts still swirled around the shooting from the night before. I had spent the morning trying to brush away the thought of working for the mob.

I knew the Neccis were the mob when they employed me. I had not forgotten. But hearing about Eddy McLaurin’s body scared me. Even if he was a sleazeball pimp that ran a brothel.

“I think it’s the salt,” Lucy said. “I don’t think they used enough. I’m going to go see if it’s like this in the next loaf.”

I nodded without really hearing her as she hustled into the back room.

I wasn’t a bad person for working for the mob. I didn’t have much of a choice to begin with, and it’s not like I was helping them with any of their illegal activities. I was just running their café and ledgers. And I made sure everything with their ledgers stayed kosher.

I swung my head at the creak of the door, expecting to see Art. However, an unfamiliar man walked through instead. I couldn’t help the disappointment that bubbled in my stomach. The logical part of my brain told me to ignore it. Although my feet certainly felt it, I found myself missing the hours in Art’s office.

The newcomer was tall, dark, and handsome, with an emphasis on the handsome. Both his button-up and pants were neatly pressed. He smiled and tipped his fedora at me.

“We’re closed,” I said, and pointed to the sign.

“I’m not here to buy anything,” the man said. “Art sent me down here to make sure everything was alright.”

“Art sent you?” I asked.

Our last meeting replayed in my head.

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