The Summer of Charlie Ponzi by Noel Hynd

Author:Noel Hynd [Hynd, Noel]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2021-02-12T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter 31

Boston, Massachusetts

Two nights later after work, as I walked in the neighborhood where Pierre’s was said to be located, the neighborhood dropped off block by block. I started to encounter broken glass on the sidewalks, some shadowy figures in doorways, and ominous shadows across the streets. The evening was dark. The absence of a moon or stars made it even more ominous. I walked faster.

I had memorized the address. I counted down the doorways until I got to number 15 Melton Street. My better instincts told me to retreat and give up. I checked my pocket to make sure the knocker was still where I had put it. It was.

There was no one around. No one in any direction. My urge was to turn, quick step, and get out of there. The blackjack remained in my pants pocket, but my hand was on it – just in case.

I cocked my head. My ears caught a hint of a speakeasy somewhere nearby. Faint music was coming from behind a couple of doors. I drew a breath. Winston had assured me of available partners who weren’t whores. It wasn’t making sense. But I decided I’d come this far, there was no immediate threat, so why not a few more steps?

I took a breath and proceeded.

I walked down some steps from the sidewalk. I came to an outer door. I went in. The door closed behind me. There was a second door. Metal in a metal frame. There was obscene graffiti on it, both words and symbols, and the faint smell of urine on the floor. I could hear music on the other side. It sounded like a Victoria turned up loud, not live music.

No guts, no glory, I told myself. Other guys found female companionship by being assertive and seizing opportunities. I drew another breath.

I knocked.

The peephole clicked open. An angry, accusatory eyeball scoped me.

“Yes?” said a voice behind the door.

I wasn’t sure what to say.

“Can a man get a drink?” I asked.

No response.

“This is ‘Pierre’s’, right?” I asked.

The peephole clicked shut. Seconds passed. I waited. A chain rattled from within, a series of locks fell, and the door opened halfway.

The doorman must have been six-four and broad, towering above my five-nine frame. He wore a military uniform, left over from the war. He was swarthy, muscular, and had a beard.

“Welcome,” he said in a flat deep voice. It was the chilliest invocation of the word I had ever heard.

“First time here,” he said.

“Yes.”

He laughed. “It wasn’t a question, babyface,” he said.

I entered. The door closed behind me. The room was so dark that for several seconds I could not make out the shape of the room. Nor could I focus upon the shadowy figures moving within it.

I moved forward. My eyes refocused. I was in a dank, converted basement. It stank of stale smoke and cheap hootch. There was a short corridor. I passed through it slowly. Two men going in the opposite direction brushed past me, leaving as I was entering.

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