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You know, sometimes you just have to bite the bullet. I was waiting in a little coffee shop off of Elmont Blvd. & Raskin. A real hole in the ground. Not the worst place I’ve ever waited for an informant in, but, it was definitely going on my top ten list of places to send everyone I ever hated in life, and wanted to blow up. This would be the place I’d send them. A few well thrown grenades out the driver’s side doing 90 and blammo! Bye-bye Big Joey the high school bully. The place was a throwback to the Nuevo-trend that was sweeping the ritzy part of this city. 50’s retro style. It had Checkered floors. Dark red tables, without legs, were bolted to the wall by rusty screws and nuts. The ‘L’ shaped counter had padded post stools with the shop name in neon red colors written in bubble script. A wall mirror ran the length of the counter. The adjacent wall had pictures of the kind of things that made the 50’s oh so glorious. Mass marketed pictures of famous stars smiling, endorsing the products you’d find out later in life were killing you, but they said were great, wonderful, sexy, and your friends were doing it, why not you? The only thing missing from the wall was a black and white sign over the outside door entrance that said, ‘No Colored Will Be Served’, that would complete the ambience perfectly. The grill of a ’57 Chevy sat high on the wall. It was once a shiny chrome. Now, a dull gray. An example of Progress.

The joint had all kinds of people taking up residence for coffee or cappuccino or whatever momentary caffeinated/ non-caffeinated drink that was all the rage. Punk rockers with spiked hair and pierced body parts and tattoos. They were ten years late to look like outcasts. Now all they were raging against was the inevitable change into a suburban or urban worker in a 9 to 5 job like their contemporaries. Unless they died from some kind of drug overdose. The only way they had to stay true to the rebel cause they so wanted to believe in, that doesn’t exist any longer. Everything’s out in the open. I hate sitting in here. Where the hell was Chulo anyway.

Chulo was my informant. Calls me up 6 in the morning, waking me out of a very well deserved sleep with my rented company. I think she said her name was Nicky, but it didn’t matter. Her real name was $250 and she worked for all $250 the night before. But, anyway, Chulo rings me up, screaming about some info I could really use on a story I was working that went cold about a month ago. I put it on the back burner and worked on a few fluff pieces that were gathering dust on my desk. He said it was big, but he needed to see me in person. And me to bring my wallet. Chulo was reliable, for someone who couldn’t remember what it was like to walk on his two legs. He slithered more than he ever walked. But he had good contacts.

I sat at one of five round tables scattered about here. Mine was the one closest to the large front window that gave a full view of the side walk and four-laned highway that looked like it stretched for miles. On the other side of the highway there was another strip mall, and the same type of people that walked on this side. I had time, so I sipped at a coffee with Creamora and sugar. Yeah, C-O-F-F-E-E. I know the whole concept of normal coffee is a foreign thing, but, it is still drunk by those of us that remember when Dragnet was on the radio, and TV was science fiction. The waitress, who was about as young as those packs of boxers I’d just bought a week ago, looked at me funny when I ordered a simple coffee. No latté double decaf, no half-caf, no chocolate shavings or lemon, and no damn double Espresso. Just…..a…. coffee! So, I sat there, waiting for Chulo. Next time, I set the place for a meet. Time crept by, and I was on my third cup. Patience wasn’t one of my redeeming points. The weather outside was a Gulden’s mustard sunshine colored day. Clear and as lifeless as the plastic people walking by with their shaved white Afghans with designer collars, trotting along. Sports cars roared by and came to a sudden stop at the traffic light. People waiting, flooded into the crosswalk. I was about to drop my $3.50 on the table and take my leave when Chulo came running across the four-laned highway like the devil was on his heels. Cars screeched to a halt, and drivers cursed at him. By the look on his face, he didn’t much care. He got to the edge of the side walk, and met my eyes. He called my name, His lips made the movements that spelled out my name, and yelled out for help. I was about to run out of the front door, him closer to the front window, when a dropped-to-the-ground canary yellow ’78 El Dorado rolled up along side him, passenger side rolling down black tinted windows, and let loose a double-barreled scream that slammed him face forward, into the café window. Spider cracks streamed out across the glass from where his face had hit. He slid down, crumbling into a pile onto the ground. I finally got out side. The El Dorado was gone. I cradled Chulo in my lap, his blood covering my legs. He grabbed my hand, speaking in short bursts,
“D-Donald, s-sorry I was late,”

“Don’t try to talk! I’ll get you some help! Someone call an ambulance! Stop standing around, someone, anyone, call an ambulance for Christ’s Sake! Hold on Chulo, helps on the way! You hold on-“

“Don’ wory ‘bout me Donald. It ain’t gonna matter. Take this-“

He slipped a piece of yellow notebook paper into my hand, with a red handled key.
“What is this? Chulo, where does it go? What does it unlock? What does this have to do with why you called me here? Chulo? Chulo………”

He didn’t answer me. I felt the wet warmth of his blood, soak threw my pants, cover my legs. Ten minutes later, the ambulance came. I closed his eyes, he deserved that much dignity.

THIS WILL BE GOING INTO MY SELF-PUBLISHED ANTHOLOGY

SO LOOK OUT FOR IT!

I WAS ON A ROLL, WRITING THREE DIFFERENT TYPES OF SHORT STORIES

AT ONCE. THIS WAS TWO OF THE THREE. 'CHANCES ARE' WAS THE OTHER,

AND '8BALL (YATTSU TAMA SONO ZA ASASHIN ) THE ASSASSIN' WAS THE OTHER. (WHICH BY THE WAY, TWO OF THE THREE WERE PUBLISHED. (HEH-HEH)

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