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ONE
KELLY
* * *
The last person in the world I want to hear from rings me as I’m getting on the train.
Further down the aisle, three men are talking at top volume. Beer cans are strewn across their table. Several empty bottles, a few more unopened.
They’re bragging about beating the shit out of some guy or other last night. “I pounded his head,” one of them is saying. “Like it was butter.”
“I swear to God he lost a tooth when I put the boot in.”
“You better hope Don Ricardo doesn’t find out. Guy was one of his associates.”
“I’m not scared of the big bad Don. He could walk in here right now and I’d get him to bend over and kiss my sweaty ass. Fucking Italians. Who’s scared of them except pussies like you?”
“I’d like to see you say that to his face.”
“I will, next time I see him.”
“Bullshit. You’d shit your pants if he so much as looked at you.”
“I wouldn’t. You would, maybe. I wouldn’t.”
Their conversation stops when they hear my phone ringing. They turn to look at the source of the sound.
I do my best to ignore them. I don’t like the look of them. Shaved heads, gaunt faces from too much coke. Or maybe meth. Matching leather jackets.
One’s got a gold hoop earring in his right ear like he’s a pirate. Next to him, his friend is grinning, revealing several blackened teeth and raw red gums. On the other side of the table, with his back to me, the last of them is licking his lips.
He’s got hair spiked into a Mohican like it’s 1979. They look like they’re about to pull a knife. I’m on edge, watching them out of the corner of my eye as I dig my cellphone out.
Unknown number.
The men go back to laughing and yelling about the guy who cried when they put the boot in last night. How if they see this Don Ricardo person, they’re going to cut his balls off and make him eat them.
The joys of taking the train.
Other than them, there’s only one other person in this carriage with me. She’s sitting across the aisle from the three men, her head buried in a book, earphones in, clearly doing her best to ignore the assholes who yell even louder as they crack open fresh cans.
I hit answer on my phone and press it to my ear. “Hello?”
“Kelly Fletcher?” It’s a man’s voice asks at the other end. A voice I’ve heard too often on my messages recently. “Yes, who is this?”
“The Kelly Fletcher who acted as guarantor for Leonard and Honor Fletcher’s secured loan?”
“Who are you?”
“You know who I am. I’ve left several messages about this issue.”
“I didn’t get them.”
He sighs, like he gets this a lot. “My name is Malcolm Freelander. I work for Colombo Savings and Loan.”
“Oh.” My heart sinks. “Listen, I know what you’re going to say.”
“Your parents are in substantial arrears, Miss Fletcher.”
