by Paul Teodo & Tom Myers

The bell jingled over the door. Frankie looked up. His apron stained with dried blood. A cleaver in his right hand and the limp leg of a of a recently slaughtered lamb in his other.

The man filling the doorway did not look hungry. “How can I help?”

“You got a nice place here.”

“I like it.” Frankie stepped from behind his table.

“Just opened?”

“What can I do for you?” Frankie was expecting this. He tossed the leg on his butcher block, it splattered on the table’s bloody planks, making a sickening sound.

The man took notice. “A butcher huh?”

“What can I do for you?” Frankie stepped closer, knuckles deep purple, gripping the cleaver with vice-like power.  The metallic scent mixed with sawdust filled the silent room.

“The guy here before you fixed shoes. A cobbler.”

“I know.” Frankie inhaled deeply trying to calm himself.

“Well,” The man shrugged, then smiled, “we had a thing.”

“What do you want?”

“This neighborhood’s quiet, peaceful. No trouble. You know what I mean?”

“I don’t like trouble.” Frankie walked to the immense sink, contemplating what the man had said. The store was still. He flipped on the water. He waited patiently, the water’s hissing swish breaking the edgy silence, not looking back, he shoved his gnarled digits under the steaming water. He scrubbed each arm, hand, and finger with anger. “Like I said,” he turned, drying his nicked and scabby extremities, with a brilliant white towel, twisting it with venom as if it were the neck of one of his chickens. He glared, with deep black eyes, towards his non-customer. “I ask before, what do you want?”

The man reached into his overcoat. His right hand disturbing a neatly pressed pocket. His eyes narrowed. “You pay a little to me to keep watch over things, everything is good, you don’t....” He looked down towards his pocket. He wriggled his fingers again. The pocket doing a slow shuffle. “you don’t, it’s not so good. How would you say? Then we got a problem.”

“Get out of my store.”

“Think about it Frankie. It’s good business. I’ll be helping you out. Kinda like a guardian angel.” He removed his empty hand from his pocket. He laughed. “Yeah, I’ll be your fuckin’ angel.”

The man grabbed a hunk of jerky from the large glass jar resting on the meat counter and tore a piece in his mouth. “Fuckin good Frankie,” waving the ragged end of the cured meat in his hand. “It’d be a shame Frankie,” he moved closer, “if something happened.”

Frankie wanted to pounce. His rage, only restrained by his fear.

“We’ll do good together, Frankie. Everybody needs an angel.”

***

The door slammed shut. The bell jangled with no pleasantry. Frankie stood wobbly in the powdery sawdust, steadying himself, face in his hands, massaging his bulbous nose and cauliflower ears trying to rub away his fear and anger.

“Frankie, what is it?” Sophie stepped from the cooler, a black floor length wool coat draped over her broad shoulders.

“Nothing,” he said.

“Nothing? You happy fifteen minutes ago. Now you rub your head like you have spiders. What is wrong?”

“Nothing, like I say, Sophie. Nothing wrong.”

“Who was that man?”

“You saw?”

“I see, Frankie.” She pointed to the tiny window in the door of the rumbling silver cooler, crowded with slabs of meat hung on cold steel hooks.

“He the juice man.”

“Juice man?” Sophie peeled off her fingerless gloves and removed her coat, revealing her wrinkled blood-stained slacks, bright red rubber boots, and hooded sweatshirt; St Ignatius stenciled across its front. “What is juice?”

“Protection Sophie. He says he is angel.”

“Angel?”

“Here, America. Everybody wants something, from others.”

“We sell good meat.”

“Some want more.”

“More? More than meat?”

“Yes. Money to protect. Andres, who sold store to us warned me.”

“Warned what?” Her brow furrowing, her neck crimson. “What did he warn Frankie?”

“He say that men in this neighborhood make you pay money for them to protect you.”

“From what?” Sophie’s voice rose over the cooler.

“From them.”

“Who…them?”

“Sophie, this is how it is. You open new store. Man come, says you must pay for protection. Protection from them. Other-wise. They make trouble.”

“Frankie, we left our country to come here. To leave bad people. Not to have men with protection.”

“I know…I know. But nothing we can do. Nothing.”

“We cannot do nothing.”

“What can we do?”

“Something…I do, something.” She stormed out of the shop. The bell above the door, crashing to the floor. “I do something!”

***

“Holy Moly Frankie! Why is Sophie so mad?”

“Benny, you done with windows?”

“Yeah, but I saw Ms. Sophie runnin’ down the street yellin’ and cryin.”

“Let’s look at windows.”

Frankie took Benny by the arm and marched him out the door. “And the bell! It ain’t there no more. Look!” Benny pointed to the sawdust floor. “It’s there on the floor! What happened Frankie!”

“The windows.” Frankie pointing, “Look, smudge. Not good.”

“I missed that one Frankie. I messed up. I’m sorry. Really sorry. I’ll do better.”

“And look,” Frankie pointed again, this time at the dried horsefly stuck to the glass. “Horsefly no good Benny.”

“A horsefly! Yeah, another mess up.” Benny, head down, kicked at the dirt “stupid, stupid, stupid!”

Frankie cursed himself silently. Benny was the neighborhood kid. All neighborhoods had them. They had them in Ukraine. Kids that would hang around, looking for ways to feel less bad about themselves than they already did. Parents in and out of their lives. Becoming men long after they’d reached adulthood. Andres told him about Benny too. “He good boy. Hurts no one. Just wants to be helpful, busy. Good boy. A little, how you say,”  he tapped his head, “potzy, not right.”

“Stop.” Frankie touched Benny’s shoulder. “You not stupid. I have bad day. Horsefly not problem Benny.”

“Why?”

“Because horsefly no big deal on window. Nobody see.”

“Why are you having a bad day?”

“Ah…” Frankie could not hide his situation. “People bad sometimes Benny. I had to…” Frankie shook his head. “Not your problem. Mine.”

“And Sophie?”

“What?” Frankie’s mind was trying to track down Sophie.

“And Sophie’s problem too. If someone is bad to you, he is bad to Sophie too?”

“Benji, Benny.” Frankie smiled and placed both hands on Benny’s cheeks. “You a good boy. Smart, good boy.”

“I ain’t smart.”

“You smart. More than some think. Smart.”

“I wanna help. Can I help you?” Benny stood on one foot rocking back and forth, a pained look on his pockmarked face.

“Go!” Frankie pointed to the back room where the toilet sat behind a cracked door.

“I’ll be right back!” Benny hopped past the cooler door and vanished into the back room. Frankie waited patiently. Sometimes he’d have to knock, or pound on the door to get Benny to show his face. “Benny what the hell were you doing in there? ”Benny’d shuffle out looking like an eight year old who knew he got caught stealing a cookie, but wanted you to think he’d gotten away with it.

Finally, Benny appeared smiling as if he’d just solved a puzzle that had been sitting on the table for a hundred years, but was missing one last piece.

“What’s that?” Frankie pointed at the paper bag Benny had in his hand.

“For the horseflies. Next time.”

Benny was a mystery. One that Frankie was not interested in solving on this day.

“See you Frankie. I gotta go.” Benny walked out the door. The bell no longer visible on the sawdust floor. “Maybe I can help you.”

“Thank you, Benny. Thank you.” Frankie wished it was that easy.

***

Sophie closed the door quietly. The bell did not jingle. “The bell?” She asked, her voice diminshed.

“It fall. I find later,” Frankie said. “Where have you been?”

“What are we going to do Frankie?”

“God provides.” Frankie took her hand in his. He pulled her close, her tears muffled. “Bastards.” he whispered. “Bastards.”

***

The door swung open. Standing in front of them was a pair of serious men. Frankie recognized the type. Cheap suits, Fedoras pulled down low, a bulge under their pockets. “Are you Frankie Divjak?”

He wanted to run, to bolt out the back door. They terrified him. What did they want? “Yes.” He said barely audible.

“And you, ma’am?” the other said.

“His wife, Sophie.”

They opened their pockets and flashed their badges.

“Have you ever seen this man?” The shorter of the two shoved a photo in front of their eyes. Sophie cringed, her hand covering her mouth. “I know it’s pretty gruesome. Sorry ma’am.”

“You?” The taller of the two, nodded towards, an astonished trying to subdue himself Frankie.

The eyes were familiar. The glare. But the man was slashed, ripped, and torn. Nothing left of him, just a pile of bloody meat.  “No, never.” Frankie said softly.

“I know the pictures are pretty gruesome. But he was seen entering your store a few hours ago.”

“We have many customers. People come in, go out. I just try to help them with meat. I do not remember him.”

The tall one studied his partner. “If you do remember him or anything at all please contact us. Okay?” He handed Frankie his card.

“Yes officer. Okay, for sure. Okay.”

The men left. The door did not jingle. Frankie crushed the card and tossed it into the trash.

***

Frankie and Sophie sat silently in their new and empty store holding each other. The store they had wanted forever, but were about to lose. Minutes, hours, an eternity passed.

The door opened. There was no jingle. Benny entered. The brown paper bag under his arm, a peculiar aroma wafting in the air.

“Benny.” Frankie said.

Benny moved past them to the back room. He returned empty handed.

“Benny, what did you do?”

“I found your bell.” Benny said.

“Benny…” Frankie began.

Benny raised his hand stopping Frankie again. “I am glad I was able to help.”

Benny reached high above his head, reattached the bell to the door jam, and smiled. “Thank you, Frankie. We’ve had a good day.”

He departed.

The bell jingled once again.