The People v. Eleanor Warwick

The out door suddenly swings in and strikes the busboy, causing him to stagger backward and drop his tray.

“Sorry!” the short fellow shouts as he dashes into the kitchen. Cooks and dishwashers watch, stunned as he flies past them. He side steps stainless steel islands and wet floor signs as he eyes the glowing red EXIT sign across the room.

The angry shouts behind him encourage a faster pace. His pursuers are still hot on the trail. He isn’t sure what the three large men plan to do if they catch him, but he has no intention of finding out.

This was supposed to be a fairly simple job. Things have quickly gone wrong. He definitely has to start making sure the people his clients pay him to survey aren’t organized crime figures.

Slamming his entire body weight against the crash-bar, he forces the door open. Stumbling out into the alley alongside the restaurant, he glances around frantically to determine his next move.

A man with the gun blocking off his access to the street stops him in his tracks. Before he can turn to run the other way, his pursuers tackle him from behind and drive him hard into the freezing, wet ground.

The men gather around him, letting fly with kicks and stomps. He covers his face with his arms and wails like a terrified child. The beating comes to an end as their boss chases them off.

Sharp brown eyes stared down at him as he licked his wounds. The man is Nate Beroni and he’s supposedly a low-level mobster. Straightening the lapels on his dark blue blazer, Beroni delivers a quick kick to his ribs.

“I’m only gonna ask you once.” Beroni begins, tossing away a toothpick. “Who are you and who sent you? If my guys have to make you talk, you-”

“My name is Marvin Towles! Your wife hired me! She wants proof you were cheating on her!”

The confession spews out so quickly, the separation of the sentences is difficult to pick up. Beroni stares blankly. “My wife?”

“Yes,” Towles confirms, wiping a small amount of blood from his mouth. The sight of the red fluid nearly makes him retch. “She wanted pictures of you and your floozy. Her words.”

“Wait a minute. You a P.I. or somethin’?”

A slight nod is the only response.

Beroni lets out a sardonic laugh. “Oh, shit, man. I’m sorry ’bout that.” He motions to his guys. “Help him up, help him up.”

Two of the goons grab Marvin and roughly pull him to his feet. The mobster throws an arm around his shoulders and walks with him to the mouth of the alley. “You have to forgive me. Usually when people are snappin’ pictures a’ me they’re FBI or somethin’.”

“Well,” Marvin answers with a nervous chuckle, “we all make mistakes.”

“That’s a good man. Now you run along and I’ll deal with my wife. Okay?” Beroni delivers a forceful slap to Marvin’s back that turns into a shove.

Marvin stumbles away. He resists the desire to break into a full run. All considered that went much better than he feared. Walking away with his dignity is actually pretty easy.

“Oh, hey, Marv.”Marvin turns to face Beroni, flanked by his threatening allies. “If I ever see you again, I’ll kill ya.”

After staring a moment, the investigator turns away slowly. Almost in spite of himself, he’s soon dashing down the street as fast as his chubby frame allows.

Dignity is overrated, it seems.

Marvin is sucking air by the time he makes it to his affordable economy car, two blocks away.

He collapses against the vehicle and tries to catch his breath. This is hardly how he prefers to spend his time. Being chased by thugs and threatened by mobsters is not the life for him. It’s times like these that his failed music career frustrates him the most.

Marvin can’t imagine Bob Seger ever having to snap pictures of unfaithful spouses to make ends meet.

Aggravation aside, Marvin is an optimistic dreamer at heart. Every time his job brings unfortunate circumstances upon him, he finds comfort in the unfailing belief that his life will change for the better. He doesn’t know when, he doesn’t know how, but there is never a doubt in his mind that it will happen.

The ring of his cell phone shatters his lofty thoughts. Pulling the device from his pocket to find it badly damaged. He groans at yet another setback. Without being able to see who is calling, he decides to ignore it. It’s likely Beroni’s wife. That’s a conversation he’ll save for later.

“Screening your calls?”

Marvin flinches so badly, he drops his phone. It slaps to the concrete, likely damaging it further. Paying it no mind, he spins around. “Mr. Willard? Oh. Was…um…was that you?”

“It was.” Henry slips his phone into his coat pocket. “I have a job for you.”

“How...how did you know where I was?”

“I fail to see how that’s relevant. Would you like the job or not?”

“Well, I, uh, I don’t,” Marvin stammers nervously, “really...want to be around you...right now.”

Henry narrows his eyes. “And why is that?”

“You know...because of the...” Marvin glances around before leaning in and whispering, “Blackwells.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Marvin. They can’t hear you in Boston. And I already told you; they won’t care about you.”

“I’d just as soon avoid the situation altogether.” He gathers his phone and opens the door to his car.

“Don’t you even care how much money is being offered?”

“No, sir.”

“Seven thousand dollars.”

Marvin freezes. “What? You’re going to pay me seven grand?”

“Oh, heavens, no.” the wizard answers with a chuckle. “Someone else will be picking up the tab. I’m just making the introduction. What do you say?”

In all honesty, Marvin would rather shoot himself in the foot, but Henry intimidates him, advanced age be damned. No gigs are coming, but the rent still has to be paid. Hanging his head slightly, he nods.

“Yeah, all right.”

The reluctance in his voice does not escape Henry’s notice. He just doesn’t care. “Excellent. You can follow me there.”

The wizard turns and paces toward the silver Mercedes parked nearby. Marvin curses himself for not seeing it there. Getting as far away from Beroni and his goons was the more pressing concern. Sliding into his driver seat, he slumps against the steering wheel for a moment.

Here we go again, he thinks.

Turning the ignition, he pulls out into the street as Henry’s car whizzes by. With a heavy sigh, he mutters to himself over and over again.

“It’s gonna get better. It’s gonna get better.”