THE ENFORCER (The Gafanelli Mob #4)

1. Tell Me

Tell Me

DELILAH

Today was my day. Or, it was supposed to be.

I pace the brown tiles of the shop, the letter wrapped inside my fingers. The edges of the envelope scratch at my skin, the paper biting, but I barely notice. I’m too busy ripping the seam to shreds.

Tearing the paper inside out, I scan its contents, my hands shaking as I read every word. My heart sinks with each syllable.

Ms. Delilah Castalano-Cook,

We regret to inform you that your application for a loan has been denied. We thank you for…

I drop the letter to the floor, letting it drift to my feet. My hands lower to my hips and I plant them there, my fingernails digging into the fabric of my skirt.

Shit. Today was not my day. But I can’t think about it. The front door is now open, and the first customer of the day waltzes in, a frown on her fleshy face, a large purse in her hand. She waves a credit card, black and gleaming, through the air to the beat of the slow-tinkling Blossom Dearie song playing softly in the background. I plaster a gleam in my eye and smile.

“How may we help you?”

“Only if you can perform a hysterectomy.” She sighs heavily, her shoulders slumping. “Sorry. I need fifty cupcakes for a third grade birthday party.”

My smile is real this time, the gesture spreading across my face. I know the feeling. “Of course. Right this way. The hysterectomy section is on the left.” I wave my hand. “And to the right, we have the cupcakes.” I lead her to the counter. I splay my hands across the surface. “What will you have?”

Thirty minutes, seven tube-tying threats and several gallons of frosting later, Mrs. Hannah Baker walks out with two of my best cashiers and three boxes of my cupcakes. I sigh.

Okay, maybe it was half my day.

Opening my phone to the e-mail app, I practically sprint to the stock room, hiding among the shelves, as I type in a blank box, the taps of my fingers echoing in the small room. My fingers fly.

Peabody,

I hope you’re reading this in some small café, a song in your heart and a smile on your face. I received a letter from the last bank. Another rejection.

I’ve become used to them at this point. Carrie suggests I plaster them to the back wall, create a mural for when the first acceptance letter comes through. I suggested that I make a voodoo doll out of the loan officer and prick his p***s with pins, but I guess that’s just the difference between us.

I’ve already written the next letter. I did what you said. Used the formal letterhead for the shop. I’m headed to the post office now to send it, but I just wanted to stop and say: I wish I could run this new note by my lawyer.

I miss her. I miss my sister. In short, I miss you.

Don’t forget to brush your teeth at night. Always wipe front to back. Save me a smile. Because the day you disappeared, you took mine with you.

With all my kisses and pinky promises.

Your big sissy,

Del

I shift on my feet, pushing away from the shelves. Strands of my earth-colored hair fall over my face, and I push them, and the tears they mingle with, away. Grabbing the keys from the front counter, I call out to my returning cashiers, yelling out a garbled message about the post office and I hop in my Audi, parked around the corner, my legs unsteady, my heart hammering a million beats per minute.

It only takes a half a mile to get to the Post Office, but by the time I make it, my fingers are hurting, almost permanently pried to the steering wheel as I park in front of the bland-looking building, my letter still in my hand, tiny paper cuts now decorating my fingers.

I step out of the car. Making it inside of the mail room without any more injuries, I stand shakily in line, my fingers still beating that damned Blossom Dearie beat from the shop on the lines of my skirt, the drumming calming my humming nerves.

I make it to the counter.

Ms. Sherry Ella Carrington—that’s Sherry with a “y”—grins in my direction, her cocoa brown face glowing as she plants her hands on the gray-slate colored counter. She looks down at my constantly moving fingertips.

“That type of day, huh, Ms. Cook?” she whispers with a wink.

“You have no idea.” I stop fidgeting long enough to hand her my letter. “Another one for the banks.”

“And the last?”

I shake my head, my hands itching to keep thrumming, my body brimming with that nervous energy that has plagued me for damn near a decade. Ms. Shelly understands. More than most, actually, and she nods, her grin quivering at the corners, her eyes growing glassy.

“This is the one,” she says, her honey-coated voice strong and steady. “Today is your day.”

I laugh, a rasp in my throat. “You always say that, Ms. Shelly.”

“That’s because I know. I can feel it. You’ve got to go with the feeling, your gut. Ya see, ‘cause there’s only two ways to make out spoiled milk. Using your sense of smell and your gut.” She raises an eyebrow. “And in the case of actual spoiled milk, better to use your smell first before the milk ever hits your gut.”

A smirk plays on my lips. “Wise words from a decent woman.”

“And you better know it.” She slaps a stamp on my letter and shoves it into the mail shoot. “Good luck, Ms. Cook.”

“Thank you, Ms. Shelly. Have a great day.”

With a wave I stagger awkwardly back to my parked Audi, a grin finding its way to my face. Hysterectomies and loans aside, today just might be my day. At least, I’m hopeful. And when the sun breaks through the gray of this overcast day, I almost believe it. Almost believe that my bakery business, the cupcake shop that I affectionately named The Sweet Spot, will stand on its overcrowded San Francisco street another month. I almost believe that the next bank will approve my new business loan. I almost believe in the concept of “belief.” And just as that belief takes hold in me, clearing out the clouds of my gray mind, it’s broken by the sound of a text message pinging my phone. I turn the screen towards me, and the belief shatters further.

I’m so sorry, babe. Can’t pick up Mel today. Got pulled into two other meetings for the new acquisition.

You’re the best. Kisses.

Darren

He signs the text message with a signature like any other message he sends. I can’t feel the kisses he sends through the phone, and whatever sunlight was cracking into my morning is shut out by the roll of thunder in the distance, ominous storm clouds crowding the sky as they move into my periphery and into my heart.

I start the car, rolling it forward. Back to the bakery I go, and five hours later, after the semi-busy day in the shop slows and the gray of the sky turns black, I barrel out of the front door, facing the barrage of rain that now beats on the San Francisco Bay, turning a moody Monday sad.

I breathe in the cool March air. I breathe out the last remnants of belief.

And when I pull up to Melanie’s building, my spirits lifting despite the deadened color of the afternoon, my fingers fidget, the anxiety I’ve lived with too long to forget now coming back in full-force.

It’s the rain, the letter, the text messages—the day. I take a deep breath, reciting the lyrics to one of the shop’s many ambient jingles, beating a rhythm against my steering wheel with the heels of my hands.

I feel the anxiety threatening to swallow me, and instead I swallow it, pushing down the stomach bile that tries to crawl up my throat. Don’t listen to it, Delilah. The panic is in your head. Nothing more. The words I hear in my head are not my own, but Penelope’s, and I miss my sister all the more, the memory of her sweet, soothing mantra a reminder of what I’ve lost.

My parents. My sanity. Her.

I remember all that I’ve gained since the bad dreams began, and I look towards the window, expecting Melanie’s blonde head to come bobbing my way, but as the crowd outside the red-brick building thins, I see nothing beyond its gate.

No tiny hands. No blonde curls. No Melanie.

The panic in my throat starts to solidify and as I reach for my driver’s side door, the sight of her teacher makes me throw it open. Cold wet drops of rain run over my head and face, and I stagger across the street towards the wide-eyed instructor, the round shape of her almond eyes confirming the fear I’ve already felt.

Melanie is missing.

Mrs. Cheng peeks at me through black bangs and an even blacker umbrella, trying to tell me so, but I can’t hear her over the pounding rain against the pavement. Over the drumroll of my pulsating heart. My steps match the pace of my racing pulse, and as I slosh towards the sidewalk on the opposite street, I don’t recognize my own screams.

“Help!” I shout. “Somebody, help me! My daughter!”

Nearby parents collecting their own children look towards my cries. A few come over.

“What’s wrong?” one asks.

“My daughter! She’s missing!”

My head swivels, my brunette strands slinging across my face. I can’t see the street anymore through the icy rain and the salty tears. A sob escapes my throat as I search the school grounds, wet grass squeaking underfoot, the mud mingling with the squishy sound.

I’m probably covered in it as I run. I don’t care. My esophagus has crushed on its own, and I struggle for breath with every foot of ground I cover, my body betraying me as it stumbles over the mixed mash of grit, gravel and grimy earth.

“Melanie!” I screech. I listen and hear nothing but the rain. The foreboding beat of an empty street. And then the faint cries reach my ears. Muffled and buried beneath the rumbling thunder.

“Mommy!” A sound so soft I almost fear that I imagined it. I turn towards the tiny shout. And there she is.

My Melanie. Huddled near the building. Her soft blonde curls stuck to her forehead, a small frown on her sweet face.

I don’t think; I run, rushing to her side. Through the slick and now small distance between us, I sweep her up into my arms, holding her small body close, squeezing her so hard I might hurt her.

I sob into her little shoulder and pull back to look at her, my eyes skimming her scrunched expression, my fingers framing her innocent face. I gaze into her blue eyes.

“Where were you, honey? You scared me to death!”

She breaks out into a tiny cry, her red lips blowing outward. “I’m sorry, Mommy. I was holding Mrs. Cheng’s hand and then I saw the doggy over here. A small white doggy with brown spots and a black nose.”

My voice turns gritty, the words sticking on my tongue. “What have I told you? Never wander off by yourself, Melanie.”

“I know that,” she squeaks as we crowd under the tiny awning overhead, the thin fabric barely blocking us from the barrage of sloppy wet drops. “But the man said the doggy needed help.”

My face furrows. “What man?”

“The man with the white puppy. He said the doggy needed help. I wanted to…to…” Her voice trails off as she sees the anger written across my face, my brows pulling together so tightly my face begins to hurt. I hug her again, holding her close as she begins to cry.

Ms. Shelly lied. I lied. To myself.

Today was definitely not my day. And the animal that lives inside me, the one that was born the day I became a mother, silently takes a beating, the beast inside my body quietly raging as I consider the man who tried to lure my daughter away. Wishing his life were in my hands.