Helena opened the glass door to the bright marketplace. Directly in front of the door were two long aisles filled with an assortment of foods from Greek olives, tahini mixtures, and cans of garbanzo beans to various cuts of lamb, chicken and beef in the refrigerated counter to the right. She picked up a package of Ak-mak bread as she strutted in her three inch heels, her black suede purse swishing, her gold dangle earrings banging off her cheek surrounded by long curls of thick black hair. The young Iranian meat-cutter, preparing deli-cut ham slices for a short middle aged man in a tweed jacket with thinning hair, paused and caught his reflection in the large tortoise trim sunglasses she had perched on the nose above those plump red lips. The young man, mildly flustered, turned back and finished cutting, wrapped the slices, and placed them in a small brown bag while moving towards the cash register where the customer paid the bill and left.
Helena had replaced the package of bread on the shelf and continued to the rear of the store, rounded the corner and walked up the stairs. She turned a small oblong knob on the dingy white door which sounded more like a bleating lamb than a doorbell. The door creaked open, a thin hunched over man in his mid 60’s holding the scuffed metal knob. The room was stuffy, the furniture looked like it came out of an episode of All in the Family, a tweed style couch, tan and gold wallpaper, a small wood table, and two high back fabric chairs. She sat down in a chair between the wall and the couch, smoothing the edges of her black dress against her toned legs.
“Abou,” she began politely, “I have to have an answer tonight. They will not wait any longer.”
He limped from the doorway after closing it quietly behind his untimely guest. “Helena, I don’t have the money for them right now. My wife is not well, she is sick from the stomach with pains that come and go. I have to pay for all the doctor visits and our business is sluggish,” his voice trailing off as he slowly made his way into the kitchen. “Can I offer you some tea my dear?” He brought down two dainty china tea cups from a cupboard and sat them on gleaming white saucers.
Helena reached into her handbag. “That would be wonderful Abou.” The Organization wanted their money. They did not want any more excuses from this old market man. The two Mercedes Benz were well kept albeit ten years old, he could afford his wife’s chemotherapy treatments, and the old couple had taken a long cruise vacation the last four years in a row. Abou worked every day otherwise and the middle Eastern market did very well with its sales. The Organization would not be a mockery of tonight. She withdrew three gray composite pieces, sat them beside her on the green couch’s arm, and found two cylindrical objects she wanted below the first piece she withdrew.
He reappeared from the kitchen with a small silver tray carrying the two teacups, saucers, sugar, milk, and two spoons. Abou sat down on the chair across from Helena on the opposite end of the table. He took a teabag out of one cup, poured some milk in it, picked up a spoon and stirred the tea then pushed the tray closer to her.
“I love the smell of cardamom and cinnamon, don’t you my dear?” he asked as he raised the cup to his lip, the shiny ruby ring on his pinky finger looking conspicuously out of place in such a dank surrounding.
“Yes Abou.” Helena made no move towards the tea. “I love the smell of fresh cardamom and cinnamon very much.” Her mouth curled into a lopsided grin. “You know,” she adjusted herself in the chair, draping her left leg over her right, “I can’t leave her tonight without the money. They won’t allow it. Its gone on too long, makes them look,” she paused, shifting leg position again, “…weak.” She picked up the gray composite pieces and commenced assembling the odd body, each piece snapping harshly together. “The Organization feels you have not been respectful.” Helena picked up one of the cylindrical objects, placed it in a chamber. “You must pay.” She picked up the other cylinder.
Abou had been sipping gingerly on the tea, watching her movements, but there had been no noticeable recognition until she began loading the second cylinder. His mouth agape, he moved like cold molasses, setting the tea cup back down on the saucer in front of him.
“What are you saying Helena?” he asked, leaning back in the chair, his eyes like big brown marbles ready to roll out of his head.
She finished chambering the second piece of ammunition. “Abou,” she smiled wider now, “I’m telling you I must get the money from you…tonight. All five hundred thousand you owe The Organization for its help.” She picked up the short end of the makeshift derringer and leveled it at him. “If you don’t, I’m authorized to take whatever steps are necessary to retrieve the funds owed,” she said while manually cocking a small hammer backwards with a sharp click, “or make you an example for the community.”
The old man’s breath came in short bursts as he urgently unbuttoned the almond colored shawl cardigan sweater to relieve himself of the heavy knit covering. He looked left then right, the phone on one side, his cane on the other near to the door where he placed it upon retiring for the evening after working his shift. Helena knew he could get to neither first. She leaned forward, the strange gray pistol moving closer to his chest.
“Which will it be?”
“I can give you two hundred thousand now, but I can’t get the rest until tomorrow Helena. Please,” he begged, his voice whiny and small, “ you have to tell them just one more day.”
“We’ve waited nearly nine years while your business has thrived Abou, and still you do not pay.” Helena had risen and gradually moving towards Abou, pistol in front, dress swaying gently, each step disappearing softly into the worn carpet. “The Organization has been patient with you, but it’s obvious you have mistaken our kindness for stupidity.” She stood a mere meter away, feet spread shoulder length, gripping the gun loosely but securely, her eyes fixed on his frozen stature.
“I’m a man of modest means Helena. I have put all my monies into the store and my wife. We spend very little on meager pleasures and have paid the rest of the monies back as swiftly as possible.” He was fixated on the plastic piece moving towards him with the tall woman in black, still wearing sunglasses at this late hour. His ragged breathing was now accompanied by multiple beads of sweat on his face and forehead. He swallowed, licked his lips, and pressed them together. “But,” he began again, “the cancer has spread and my wife’s condition has worsened. The bills take most of the store profits and I can’t afford to pay both her bills and The Organization. Please,” he got down on his knees, clasping his hands together in a tight ball, looking up at the tall olive skinned woman, “please, give me more time. I promise to have the money together by the end of the month.” He crawled closer to her.
“Abou, we are not heartless. We’re just business people.” She stepped back a foot and squeezed off a shot directly above the nose and between his eyebrows. Blood, bone, and brain mass splattered out as a single hole the size of a .37 magnum opened up on the backside of his head. “Now my friend, you are relieved of your worries.” She turned and walked into the bedroom, where the man’s wife had been laying, struggling to get out of the bed. Helena stopped at the foot of the peach lace comforted bed. “I wouldn’t want you to suffer without your husband and the medical services he affords you.” Helena raised the weapon level with the woman’s face, squeezed the trigger and a sharp smacking sound reverberated through the room. The woman collapsed back onto the bed, her white pillow becoming pinkish, then a bright red, her eyes staring straight at the ceiling. Helena took a yellow straw hat from off the bedside dresser and placed it over the woman’s face. She pivoted around on her heel and strolled out into the living room where Abou was slumped over, prayer-like with his arms swung around his head, the blood running out the hole like lava running down a mountain. Helena stopped next to him, mentally photographing the scene, then strolled towards the door picking up the black suede purse from the couch arm while sliding the handpiece inside, slung the strap over her shoulder as she opened the door. She pulled her dress down, retrieved a compact from her purse, checked her lips, adjusted her large framed sunglasses, plumped her hair with her free hand, snapped the compact shut, returned it to the purse, and shut the door behind her. She made her way down the stairs, through the aisles by the meat counter. The young Iranian man turned from the cutting counter and smiled innocently at her.
“May I help you?” he asked in his best broken English.
“A small container of hummus and six falafel please.”
He grabbed a small clear plastic container, scooped out a large serving on tan mush with bright red sprinkles and green curly leaves on it. The container filled, he snapped the lid on, placing it on the counter, counted out the falafel, and placed them in a small brown paper sack. “Is there anything else I can get you?”
“No, thank you,” Helena smiled back at the young man. She took the bag and picked up the container, walked over to the register and pulled out a ten dollar bill. The young man rang the purchase, handed her the change, and waved goodbye with the same goofy grin on his face. Helena blushed at The Organization’s newest employee as she turned to the glass door, pulled it open exiting the market, and disappeared into the night air.
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