Merry Christmas, NYC.

A chance meeting on a cold night.

Christmas Eve. S**t!  Holding a heavy winter coat closed, buttons long gone, I lean forward against the cold winds of December in Harlem.  Running out of drink mix in my dingy apartment, I've been to Angie's.  It’s a small illegal store selling mostly stolen merchandise out of  the basement of an abandoned building near my place.  Being a frickin' holiday, all the normal businesses are closed this time of night.  

Despite the bracing wind, the street stinks.  The entire frickin’ city stinks.  Smoke from burning trashcans I pass keep the homeless warm but fill the air with the the odors of gasoline and unwashed bodies.

You never know what kind'a goods Angie has.  It depends on what local hopheads managed to steal lately. But she did have Coca Cola.  Plastic two-liter bottle jammed against my chest inside the ratty coat, I'm on my way home.

"Ya wanna date, mister?" 

"Huh, wha?"  I spin to the side, into a crouch, hand going to the back of my belt in reflex.  I've been daydreaming, the teenage hooker catching me unawares.  I fight a pang of panic while looking into a wide eyed female face.  My reaction must have frightened her as much as her question did me.

At least I assume it's female.  Or would be if two-inches of makeup were scraped off.  Her body, in a too-thin cloth coat, resembles the cartoon of Olive Oyl of Popeye fame -- straight up and down.  Hell, she can't be over thirteen or fifteen years old. 

"Ya do or ya don't?  Come on, man.  I need the money."

"What the hell you doing, kid?  Does your mama know you're out here?"

"Show ya'a good time, Jack.  How bout a twenty, half-un-half?"

"Go on home.  Eat a cookie.  Drink a glass of milk and go to bed, uh."

"I'd rather eat you.  Does fifteen sound good?  I don't bite less-un you want me to."

My Coke bottle almost slipped free as she grabbed under the coat, trying for my balls. Didn’t make it, as a particularly chilly gust of air got inside before I could twist it free and close the opening.  Damn it! 

"Come on. Please?  I need the money real, real bad.”  She brushed sticky wet snow from anxious painted eyes.  “A girl has to eat, you know?"

Even an old reprobate can’t be completely heartless.

"You want something to eat?  Why didn't you say so?  I live down the block and have half a roast in the fridge."

"Ten, cash?  I'll take five off for a sandwich, okay?"

"Stop that s**t.  I'm not going to screw you.  You want something to eat, come with me.  If not, get the hell out of the way.  It’s cold and miserable out here.  I'm going home."

This is a rough, very rough, part of town.  Which is why I walk around armed.  Sure, there's a chance some cop will bust me for an unlicensed firearm ... but I'd rather pay a fine than die without a chance to defend myself.  It’s better to be judged by twelve than carried by eight.  Most of my neighbors feel the same.  Around here, it might take the fuzz an hour to get here, taking that long to talk four volunteers into a squad car.  

Homeland Security?  What a laugh.  Call "911" and say "rape," "murder," or "I've been robbed," and you're told to go to the station to file a complaint.  Do the same and whisper "terrorist" and the place is flooded with cops.  And that Po-lice Sta-tion a few blocks from here?  Hell, you can tell it by the twelve-foot barbed-wire fence.  Yeah, ain't we secure?  Well ... at least they are.

With no answer, I shrug, turn and walk toward home.  After a dozen steps, I hear a slow shuffling to my rear.  I'm instantly alert, hoping it doesn't become rapid -- in which case someone might be hurt.  Glancing into a reflecting store window, I see a dim but small figure behind me, the lack of curvature telling me it's Olive Oyl.

"Slow down, will ya?" she calls.

"Nope."  

An urban survival tip.  It's best to walk fast at night, down the outer edge of a sidewalk. That way, any mugger has to run to catch up, giving you warning.  When they wait in alleys, they can't see you well until you’re even with them or go by.  After that, it takes them a few seconds to decide.  By that time, you're far ahead and can hear the b******s coming.

I pass a brownstone where it's obvious the residents are new.  One of those save a building things.  It has a large cardboard Santa on the door.  The figure would have been lit, if nobody had stolen the bulbs, that is.  And the graffiti scrawled across his tummy suggests things Santa is NOT known for doing to himself.  Or to Mrs. Santa either, for that matter.

Reaching my building, I turn around, waiting for her to come up.  It also gives me time to eyeball the street for safety reasons.

Looking downward, I see the top of a blond head, hair blowing across a broad Slavic face as she removes a stocking cap to give me a good shot of mascaraed eyes.  The tyke looks to be around 4' 5'’ tall.  I undo four locks on the outside door, then let her in ahead of me.  Next, I make certain all those locks are secured before leading her down a dreary hallway stinking of boiled cabbage and old piss, then upstairs to my second-floor apartment.

"Be very careful where you step,"  I warn while opening even more locks, "and I hope to hell you're not afraid of rats."

"Afraid?  You must be kidding?  I've been sleeping with them for the weeks.  I don't like the things much, but I'm not afraid anymore."

"Good.  You'll love these.  They're my pets."

"What kind of guy pets rats?  Icky."

"The kind that doesn't like mice getting into everything.  Rats keep mice out."

I don't tell her, but rats also scare away simple-minded burglars.  It's amazing to me how many people are deathly afraid of things like mice and rats.  Mine are bred as pets, very friendly and would never bite.  But intruders don’t know that.  I encourage my reputation as a "Rat Lover."  It's probably saved me from a few break-ins.  Most of my neighbors aren't very "nice," if you get my meaning.  Well, then, neither am I.  

Another survival tip, one I sorta forgot.  Be careful who you let into your pad.  Especially if you own anything of value, such as a television set or microwave oven.  Even if they don’t steal it, the word will get around quickly and someone else might.

 Turning to work on the locks, I let her in first.  The locking-rod that goes from floor, across the door, to wall-stud is slightly bent where I used it on Jeff the Jerk's head one night.  I’m not telling nothing, but Jeff sort of disappeared after that.  

By the time I turn around, she's already in the bedroom, out of her coat, and working on the buttons of a man's plaid shirt.  Her coat lies , discarded, on the kitchen floor.

"Hold it right there!" I call out.  "I said I'm not screwing you, and I'm serious.  If you want something to eat, I got it.  But that's all."

My two rooms and tiny bath is large for the area, meaning enough space to walk around in. And I do have decent furniture and keep it reasonably clean.  My ratties, six of them at the moment, aren't very good guards.  They’re  curled together sleeping at the foot of the bed.  One raises his furry head briefly before going back to sleep.

When she sits on the edge of the mattress, it wakes them and they scamper tentatively over to the kid.  She wasn't lying, reaching down to pet George while the others climb her shirt.  They love to nibble on and lick ears.

"These are cute.  Look at that stripe over his nose?  The ones in the basement where I sleep aren't so friendly or colorful."

"You sleep in a basement?"

"Yeah.  Since I got here, to this town.  When I can't get a date that gives me a warm bed for the night."  She allows me what she probably considers a sexy grin. “No heat, but they’s a lot’a old clothes and rags to burrow into.”

"Merry Christmas.  Your first in the Big Apple, rotten to the core and this street is the decayed pits."

"Apples don't have pits. They have seeds."

I put down the large soda jug before taking off my own coat.  Mine barely fits on the hook over hers.  Since she'll be leaving soon, I switch and put mine on the hook first.  Going over to a tiny kitchen counter, almost taken up by a book-sized sink and a large microwave, I get a couple of glasses out of a cupboard.  Pouring myself a drink of vodka, I open the mix.

"You wanna drink first?  If not, you'll find bread and mustard on the table.  The beef is in the fridge.  Help yourself to pickles and chips. You'll have to open the chips yourself."

Smiling, she visibly shivers, hands crossed over tiny breast buds.  Briefly, I wonder if they'll live to ripen, then shake the thought away.  I've done a lot of nasty things in this and prior lives, but never yet molested kids.  

"I sure could use that drink, mister?"

"Jones, John Jones." I slop Coke into the other glass, walking over to hand it to the urchin. "Here."

"Can I have some ... some of that vodka?"

I consider.  Well, it is cold as a witch's tit outside, and she's likely to go back to that basement. And, then, it is Christmas Eve.  Why not?  I go over and pour her a couple of fingers of booze.

"Thanks.”  She gives me a s**t-eating grin.  “Can I call you John?  My name's Tammy.  And I really need a friend, especially tonight, God’s birthday."  I see large expressive -- even in all that cheap makeup -- eyes misting over before being wiped with one dingy sleeve.

I shrug.  Why did I invite the little b***h up here? I wonder.  Such an action is unsafe, unsanitary, and unlike me. Probably, I think, because even I don't like to drink alone on Christmas Eve.   Heaven only knows what diseases are incubating in that pretty package.  

God!  I go over to a lone living room window, glass in hand, to look down into a snowy windblown street.  Few dare to walk down there at this time of night, even in good weather.  God?  Jeez!  He sure as hell hasn't been around here lately.  I laugh.

"What's so funny?  Am I that ridiculous?"

"I was thinking of something else, sorry."

"Christmas is a time to be happy, smile and laugh.  Face it, Mis ... John.  You've got the Christmas spirit."

"The hell I do, you little witch." I spin around, spilling liquid on my wrist.  "Why the frickin' hell should we, either of us, celebrate the birth of that fictional freak of nature?"

She jerks her hand from Oscar, my smartest rattie, to cover her face.  Liquid-filled eyes looking at me, the b***h sobs loudly, head dropping to hug skinny knees.

"Don.... Don't shout and talk like that.  Please don't.  You scare me."  The words come out, muffled by flesh.  "God is all I got left.  Please don't take Him from me."

The rats, by now throughly frightened, disappear to some rat haven.  I can't help myself.  In moments, I'm down on one knee in front of her, reaching up to gently caress dirty blond locks.

"I'm sorry.  Really I am," I whisper, misty eyes peering into other, equally misty, orbs.  "Look, honey.  Why don't you stay here tonight?  I don't bite either, I promise.  And it's better than a cold basement on Jes … God’s birthday."  Now, why the holy hell did I say that?  Christmas spirit?  S**t.  I'm over that kiddie crap.

I stare at her until she raises her head, teary eyes seeking mine.  "Okay," comes out in a faint whisper.  "I don't even want any money."  More sobbing.  "I just don't want to be alone on this … this special night."

"I'm not having sex with you.  Now, you get that straight."

"Then why, mister, if you don’t believe in God or Christmas?"

"Maybe, just maybe," I have to admit, even to myself, "I don't want to be alone either."  I reach up, grab her head from behind and pull it down to mine.  "Maybe I do believe, just a little."  I kiss that nasty painted forehead ... and find it sweet.

***

“Knock, knock, knock.”

The couch is dirty, smelling of spilled booze and incessant farts from a diet heavy on beans, rice, and vodka.  In the spirit of Christmas, I let the kid have my bed -- not that it’s much better. At least I washed the sheets a few months ago.  

“Knock, knock, knock, bang, thump.”

Don’t get the idea that I’m all that moralistic. I’m not.  I was afraid she’d jump my bones if I slept in there with her.  I’m horny, but not that much.  Ten to fifteen-year-old hookers are in the “return them to the ocean” classification, ‘least until they grow a little.  They always do.  Puberty is relentless.

“Bang, thump.  Open this f*****g door.”

Uh!  I wake to one hell of a racket, front door threatening to break from its mountings.  

“Police.  We know you’re in there, Jones.  Open the f*****g door.”

I swing bare legs to the floor.  Feeling and finding I do have shorts on, I stand and stagger toward the door.  “That you, Jefferson?”

“Open it or lose it, Jones.  What do you care who it is? We’re the po-lice.”

I see a movement at my bedroom door.  It’s Olive Oyl.  “Don’t let the fuckers in,” she says, shaking a tousled blond head. “Tell them you’re not home.”

“Hold on,” I yell.  “I’m not dressed.”  I turn to the kid.  “Get your a*s back in there.  Don’t f*****g hide, but try to stay out of sight.”  She disappears back into the bedroom.  As I approach the door, I glance over at a secret panel holding a .32 semi, seeing it’s closed tightly.  They say they’re cops, but how do I  know that for sure?  

“I gotta get the locks,” I say, making a lot of noise as I undo the damned things.  I leave a chain on, just in case, placing my right hand near the hidden weapon.  I try to see through a glass peephole at one edge, not the obvious one in the center of the door.  That center one is a good way to get killed.  It’s for dummies.  Any armed intruder will expect your eyeball to be covering it and shoot through the door-panel.

A distorted convex bubble on the other side shows it’s three men, two in suits and one wearing a police uniform.  

As I open the door, the two suits come in, leaving the lowly patrolman in the corridor.  Yeah. I thought I recognized his voice. One is Jefferson --  detective third-grade Jefferson.  An insufferable a*****e for sure.

“Where were you last night, Jones?” he asks.

“Here alone, drinking and watching television.  You know, that f*****g ball falling down in Times Square?”

“You’re thinkin’ a New Yea--”

“Shut up, Patterson.  What time you get here, and did you see or hear anything out of the ordinary?”

“I dunno, detective.  Maybe about five?  Before the sun went down, anyway.”

“You see a small hooker, a juvie, on your way in?”

I shake my head.  “Why?  What she do?”  Out of the corner of my eye, I see the other detective stick his head into my bedroom. “The bed isn’t made,” I tell him, “and watch out for the rats.”

“What rat--  My God.”  Face suddenly white, he retreats.  I see George Rattie under one corner of the bed, seemingly growling at the intrusion, Jeffery fakes a rush at the doorway.   Big bad po-liceman, scared of tame rats in NYC. 

“Get out of there, Patterson.  We ain’t got no warrant.  Jones doesn’t deal in dope.” He looks back at me. “But maybe does with underage hookers?”

“What’s with the hookers all of a sudden, Jefferson?” I ask.

“Mrs. Pabloski was killed last night, on the third floor next door.  You know her, 87?  A weak defenseless 87.”

“Yeah, I know ... knew her.”

“Well, one’a the bums outside saw that underage fluff coming in here, after dark.  She had a guy with her ... maybe the killer.”

“Wasn’t me,” I lie. “The guy couldn’t ID him, uh?”  

Out of eighteen rent-controlled apartments in this building, there are only two rented by men, an ex-con child molester named Peter Perkins and myself.  The rest go to retired old ladies, the landlord's favorite tenants.  Peter’s so gentle I sometimes let him feed my rats when I’m gone. He’s solved his problem and lives off a small family annuity.  Na, I’ve never seen him with any kids.

Jefferson sorta smirks. “Only the bum’s second night around here.  He don’t know the residents yet.  He did talk to the kid,” he sorta grins and shakes his head, “or so he says, yesterday.  So he recognized her from that but not the man.”

“Too bad he doesn’t swing both ways, Jefferson.” I laugh. “If he’d screwed the man instead he might have been more helpful.”

“Well,” Jefferson says, a professional smile on his puss, “if you find out anything, let us know.  You have my card. If you see the kid, let me know, ASAP.  There’s a small reward.  If she isn’t involved, I’d like to get her back home.  That’s another consideration.”

On the way out, he turns.  “Have a merry Christmas, Jones. I ain’t gonna.  Me and Patterson got this entire street, both sides, to search.  F**k Christmas.”

“I second that, Mr. Po-liceman.”

As the door shuts behind them, I hear a loud “screeeech” from the bedroom.  Running in, I find Oliv … Tammy standing on a chair by a window ledge, trying to pry the dirty glass open.  She could have saved the effort, the dirt on the window’s hiding a row of sturdy bars on the other side.  Anyway, it doesn’t open. I’ve nailed it shut.

“I gotta get out of here,” she whimpers as I lift the girl off the chair to drop her onto the bed, scattering rats as she hits the mattress. “I’m not a murderer.”  Oscar and Petey recover quickly and scamper back to jump on her neck where she unconsciously pets them.

I gotta pick up some lettuce today, I consider, since the ratties kept that detective from finding the girl.  How, I wonder, do people go through life being afraid of small creatures like mice, spiders, snakes, and rats?  My rats scarf up lettuce and other veggies but won’t touch meat.  I can’t say the same about the two-legged ones I used to handle.

In any case, I gotta get rid of the girl before Jefferson charges me with child molesting.  He’s not the type to believe in platonic relationships with child hookers.  Maybe I can give her a few bucks and put her on a cross-town train?

About the time I get back out to the kitchen to heat water for instant coffee, there’s another knock on the door.  I sigh and go over to check.

“John.  It’s Mrs. King from upstairs.  Do you have a minute?”

Recognizing the voice, I open the unlocked door.  

Mrs. King, four more old ladies and a sheepish-looking Peter the Molester come trooping in.

“What can I do for you ladies?” I ask, uncomfortable in their stern presence.

I see a strange light in Peter’s eyes before they quickly swing back to me.  The ladies have no such avoidance, smiling as Olive -- I mean Tammy -- comes slithering through the bedroom door.

“Uncle John,” she asks, happily, “who are your friends?”  She’s all smiles.  “You have to introduce us.”

Christ!  Uncle John?  Now I have a hooker for a niece.  The skunk has me by the short hairs.  With witnesses to her being here I can, on her whim, be sent to jail for years.  If it ever gets back to Jefferson?  Well, I don’t want to think of that.  It’s what I get for sheltering the b***h on Christmas Eve.

“My name’s Tammy but everyone calls me Olive,” she tells the crowd.  “I’m fourteen-years-old.”

Jeez, I think ... rub it in, will you?

After further introductions, during which Olive is invited up to f*****g tea, the ladies get down to business.

“We want to hire you and Peter to organize security for us,” Mrs. Perkins says.  “We’ll all chip in. It won’t be much money but we girls want some sort of protection.  Maybe you can change the locks and put in alarms or something?  We'll pay for it.”

“Mrs. Pabloski dying has frightened us girls, a reminder of how vulnerable we are in this stone tin can,”  Mrs. King says.  She looks over at Peter.   I can see his eyes drifting back and forth, as though trying not to stare at Tammy.  As I well know by now, quitting old habits can be a b***h.

Jesus, I think.  You want a burnt-out old mobster like me and a convicted child molester to “guard” you?  What the hell has the world come to?  And, I can’t help sighing, it looks like I’m stuck with Tammy.  If I put her back on the street Jefferson would snap her up in a flash.  Her word and that of the ladies can put me back in the state Bastille pounding big rocks in’ta little ones.  

The girl is still smiling as she pours herself a cup of coffee.

The end, so far.  I have no idea how long this will get or when the next section will be posted.
By Oscar Rat, the only honest-to-god virtual rodent writer on the Internet.

Reviews

[Wathanya.5KY3]

Ah, ideas and inspiration are sometimes like shooting stars, striding so bright and so far, only to burn out abruptly, aren't they? Still, I enjoyed it. Maybe it will come back up one day. Looking forward to finding out what John's gonna do with Tammy, not in that sense, mind you.

A few things caught my eye, well, apart from the numerous double spaces.

1. I've been daydreaming, the teenage hooker catching me unawares.

- unawares => unawared

2. With no answer, I shrug, turn and walk toward home.

- you have Oxford commas everywhere else, so I'm pointing out the missing one after "turn"

3. The tyke looks to be around 4' 5'’ tall.

- the " after 5 looks strange on my monitor, like a |9 rather than ||

[OscarRat]

Let’s see, now, Wathanya.

1. I've been daydreaming, the teenage hooker catching me unawares.
- unawares => unawared
* Acceptable according to my dictionary.
“1. without forethought or plan; inadvertently
came upon the diamond unawares”

2. With no answer, I shrug, turn and walk toward home.
- you have Oxford commas everywhere else, so I'm pointing out the missing one after "turn"
* You got me there.

3. The tyke looks to be around 4' 5'’ tall.
- the " after 5 looks strange on my monitor, like a |9 rather than ||
* Looks a little strange though technically correct on mine. Probably a matter of fonts. I’m using Century Schoolbook 14 on a Linux system. My fonts were ported over from Unix or MSDOS.

Thanks. I’m surprised at only one real error.

[Wathanya.5KY3]

I have learned something new. I saw "unawares" and immediately thought it was a typo since S and D are so close together on the keyboard.

Are you surprised at the amount because it was small or the opposite? ;P

[OscarRat]

No matter how I try, I usually have several. For instance my ancient comma shaker often leaks or gets plugged up with wild colons.

[Wathanya.5KY3]

I feel you. And I think that’s why editing and proofreading are both fairly high-paying jobs.