Little Black Book

Moving to Aurora, Illinois was not easy. Especially, when you do it in a rush. Especially, when you do it in the middle of the night. Months before Her spontaneous move, She had packed a bug-out bag . . . just in case. It helped. A little. Finding work as a Waitress in nearby Naperville was easier than the move. Lots of privately owned restaurants. Most of the kitchen staff was paid under the table, so what was one more illegal employee. An employee with such a pretty face and arousing smile convinced the owners and the customers that She really, really cared if the mugs were full of coffee and the wait station was full of ice. Beauty and a good work ethic can make you enough money in the restaurant industry to live on. For a while.

When Her girlfriend Alyssa asked Her to help clean her section after a particularly busy Saturday night, She said yes. She didn’t mind helping, and it never hurts to have a friend owe you a favor.

“Sure, babe. Why you in such a hurry?”

Beaming, Alyssa said, “D’you remember that tall guy I met at Rudy’s last weekend? I’m meeting him for a drink.”

Rudy’s was an after hours spot that catered mostly to restaurant staff who usually got out of work too late to make it to regular bars. No one was ever sure if Rudy's operated legally. No one actually gave a shit. The two gals made quick work wiping down the tables, refilling the salts, the peppers, and the sugar caddies, and cleaning the floor beneath the tables. Alyssa was already heading towards the front door with a wish-me-luck look on her face when She gave both of their sections one last look to make sure they were ready for the closing manager’s inspection. That was when She found the little black book wedged between the booth cushion and the wall of one of Alyssa's tables.

She called out, “Alyssa, who was sitting here last? That couple? The guy with slick-back hair?”

But Alyssa was already out the door. Thinking only of tall Mark, and not hearing Her questions.

“You know you look just like that little Italian girl from the Sopranos. The one who played Meadow.”

Jason, the closing manager, was not the first man to make the comparison, but he was the least attractive. Older, married, and past his prime, Jason flirted with all the girls at the restaurant with no measure of success. The way he saddled up behind Her with little warning did not frighten Her, but Jason skeeved Her out something awful. She knew men like him in another life. They were harmless if you knew how to deal with them.

Growing up in an Italian household like Hers, The Godfather, Goodfellas, and The Sopranos were the pop culture references of Her brood. If She had a dollar for every time She heard or overheard someone comparing her to Jamie-Lynn Sigler, She would have enough money to run Her own crime family.

“She’s Jewish,” She said trying to deflect his attention away from Her.

“What?”

“The girl who played Meadow Soprano is Jewish, not Italian. “

“Still, you’re the spitting image,” he said pausing on the word “spitting.”

“Can you check our sections? Are we good to go?

“Are you going to Rudy’s after?”

“Nope. Early night and an early morning for me. I’m working a double tomorrow.”

“Too bad. Yeah, you look good . . . your sections, I mean.” It was obvious what he meant.

“G’night,” She said while unconsciously tucking the little black book into her apron along with her money for the night. She gladly walked away from Jason, out the door, and into her Kia that she bought with cash soon after she arrived in Aurora.

Freshly showered with a hot cup of tea in Her hand, She felt like Herself later in Her studio apartment. She didn’t want nor need company, so the tight space had more than enough room for Her and Her thoughts. Her uniform, crumpled in a pile on Her bedroom/living room floor still had the grossly familiar restaurant aroma of kitchen oil and co-worker’s cigarettes emanating from it. A whiff of that toxic cocktail reminded her to count her money from her night’s work and organize her personal bank to make change for cash-paying customers that would come into during tomorrow’s shifts.

It was then that She found the little black book again. Curious of its owner, she snapped the thick rubber band that kept it shut and its contents semi secure. She moved Her new bug-out bag off of Her kitchen/dining room table and onto the floor. Now she had room on Her mini IKEA table to flop open the little black book and look inside it for an ID. Some name or phone number. Instead she found several pages of several series of numbers and abbreviations. The abbreviations looked like the shorthand that you see on the board at an airport noting the origin and destination cities for the flights coming and going. NY for New York. BOS for Boston. PHI for Her hometown of Philadelphia. She knew enough about gambling to recognize the point spreads, the overs, and the unders.

“Fuck,” She thought, “This is literally a bookmaker’s book.”

Betting slips were folded and tucked into the book along with 4 simple maps. She only knew they were maps because She recognized the street names surrounding a nearby park. It was the park where She went for outdoor yoga on Her off days that were sunny and warm. There were not enough of those days because She had moved to the Chicago area in early fall, just as the pro football season had started. Still, she knew the layout of the park pretty well. A feeling as cold as outdoor stadium seats ran through Her. Now, She no longer wanted to find the owner. She could not bring Herself to throw the book out, but She did not know just what She should do with it. Into her bug-out bag she stuffed it next to the emergency cash and other tools She brought with her from Philadelphia. The breakfast shift was coming early, and She made good on her promise to Jason to make it an early night.

Two cop cars were parked outside of the restaurant when She came in for the first of today’s two shifts. She could not know right then that She would not work either of them. Cops made her nervous, well, with everything that she had been through before Her sudden cross-country move. As soon as she came in the front door of the restaurant, Jason gestured in Her direction and said to the two uniformed police officers, “That’s Her.” Sudden, inescapable dread shot through her. This was worse than the feeling she had while examining the bookie’s little black book. She looked Jason in the eye, and what she saw there distracted her from her panic. Was he crying?

The beefier of the two cops, asked, “Miss, can we talk to you for a minute?”

She knew She could not run until She knew what they were here for. Why was Jason crying? She took it as a good sign that they were not taking out handcuffs as they sat themselves down at the booth closest to the door. She joined them but counted how many steps it would take to bolt out of the booth and through the front door, hopefully towards freedom.

The thinner cop broke the silence. “There’s no easy way to tell you this, but late last night, we found the body of Alyssa Sandetto. We understand that she was your friend.”

“What? No! I just saw her last night.”

“Her ID was on her. I am sorry to say, but we’re certain it’s her.”

“Alyssa was with Mark,” She blurted out.

Looking at his notebook, “Yes. We found the body of Mark Miller along with your friend Alyssa.”

The details of the shooting of her friend and the guy she was seeing washed over Her. There was no time to mourn. Only time to give the cops a good show of grief. Only time to believably answer their questions, with her best, “I’m sorry. I wish I could help you more, but I just don’t know anything.” Only time to get the hell out of there, back to Her little apartment, and get ready for Her next step.

She was in and out of Her apartment in minutes. Not Her first rodeo. She slung the bug-out bag over Her shoulder, and she could feel the spine of the little black book bouncing off of the small of her back. That and the solid metal of a snub-nosed .38. A box of ammunition rattled in the bag as well as She picked up her pace through the halls of her building and towards the parking garage attached to her apartment complex.

She would have liked to help the cops find Alyssa's killer, but she really had nothing for them. Besides, the longer she spoke to them, the greater the chances that they might recognize her. She could not risk that. Inside the parking garage, alone in Her car, She took out the little black book without even knowing what She was looking for. The map She recognized slid out first. She noticed a detail that She missed last night – a small, feint dollar sign near the park’s pavilion. She still had some money that She brought into town, and She saved what She could from working at the restaurant. But She had to leave and start over . . . again. If there was a chance that this was a map to a cash drop, She had to delay blowing town and check.

She waited until dark to follow the map. In and out unnoticed She thought would be Her best option. She was not the only one to have that thought. The man with the slick-back hair beat her to the drop. She recognized him easily from Alyssa's section last night. Gun drawn but at Her side, She quietly headed towards Slick-back and another man. Neither saw her.

“I wouldn’t have shot either one of them if that tall douche bag didn’t come at me,” Slick-back said to his cohort. The other man was holding his own bug-out bag filled with almost $5,000 in cash.

“Yeah, but that Alyssa was a piece of ass. Whatta waste.”

The .38 spoke up first. BLAM! The cohort fell dead in a heap. One shot. One kill. Her father had taught Her well.

Slick-back, shocked and covered in the spray of his cohort’s blood barely had time to say, “Who the fuck are you?!”

“My name is Angela DeNofa. My father is Nicky DeNofa of Philadelphia. You know him!”

“Wait! Wait!! Our families can work this out!” he pointlessly begged.

The last words that the man with the slick-back hair ever heard were, “You’re not the first gangsters I’ve killed.”

The .38 breathed fire, and justice for Alyssa was instant.

It did not take Angela too long to decipher the other 3 maps and find the other cash drops. All together, She left town with over $20,000 of mob money. She added it to the stash She took from Her father’s men in Philadelphia. Scared but hopeful, She headed further West, ready for anything.