4. A Dangerous Idea

Depending on who you ask, not all of the white kids in Worthboro are rich and go to college.

Carla and Oscar live in a third floor apartment in the west end of town, that part of town some people from the other parts of Worthboro semi-jokingly call, the westside horror story.

Most of the buildings in the west end of Worthboro are three-story tenements, blocky and huge, built a century ago for the masses toiling in the Fall River’s textile mills, when cotton still fueled American industry.

While the textiles moved across the ocean, the tenements remained, more crowded than ever, crammed shoulder to shoulder amidst streets of asphalt and sidewalks of cement.

An oasis lies amongst the west end ruffage. Several streets that connect to Main; a well-kept enclave of Dutch colonial and American four-square, with a few Victorians for drama.

Most of the porches have thick wood columns that support vaulted porticos.

And every other property, it seems, has a pergola framing the driveway, which at this stage of spring sprout halos of grape vines.

This select slice of streets is known as the Portuguese part of the westside.

Nearly as popular as the pergolas and wine grapes are statues of the Blessed Mother, placed within flower gardens and stone patios.

Many of the large homes have been converted to multi-family living arrangements, combining relatives and friends as paying tenants.

Apartments here rarely make it to the Chronicle’s classified ads.

Leases are arranged word of mouth.

Oscar and Carla had been lucky, snagging their place shortly after graduation, Oscar’s Portuguese Mom being friends with the Portuguese Mom who owned the property.

The neighborhood was mostly second or third generation American and it wasn’t a big deal that Oscar and Carla wanted to get a place together.

They were so cute and everyone knew they were going to be married. Eventually.

The house they rented from was a three-story, American foursquare with multiple dormers. Three apartments were converted in the rear of the expansive dwelling; access for the tenants was provided by a metal staircase hidden from the street in the back.

Carla and Oscar lived on the third floor, a single bedroom unit where you stepped off the metal, outdoor landing directly into the kitchen.

The two of them had shared a pot of joe before Oscar headed to work.

Oscar sat at the small and square and laminated kitchen table, wearing one of his lottery shirts.

Carla, in pink sweats with BOTTOM printed across the bottom, washed the coffee pot in the sink, which was next to the refrigerator, which was next to the outside door.

She had a rare evening off from the restaurant and the subject of Rico had come up.

Oscar knew that Carla didn’t like him.

When she said as much, Oscar said, “But Hon, he’s so cool.”

Carla set the coffee pot into the strainer and turned from the sink. “He is cool.” Self-consciously swept a hand across her forehead, still getting used to the feel of the new perm, with the kinky curls and blond  highlights. Everyone said she looked so cute (except Oscar).

“I like Luci. I really do. Such a sweetie. Didn’t know her in high school, her crew, ya know.” Gave a quick shake of the head to express something she couldn’t find the words for. “There’s something. I don’t know. The way he just showed up. He doesn’t strike me as being honest. Not by lying, but … you know, not being forthwith. I guess. Sorry hon.”

Oscar looked thoughtful. He took everything that Carla said seriously.

“And the way he’s always watching,” she added. “Not to sound creepy, but he’s always looking at you before you look at him.”

“I think I know what you mean. The guy’s like, super observant. He’s really smart.”

Carla groaned with exaggeration. “God has a funny sense of humor, no? That face and ass and a brain to go with it. Who'da thunk it?”

Oscar laughed, more out of nervousness than agreement, though Carla took it for the later.

“When Luci ain’t around, the girls at the Nook talk about him,” she said. “They call him Rico the Spanish stallion. He ain’t Latino, is he?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. He can speak Spanish, but not fluent-like.”

Oscar stood from the small kitchen table and moved to the doorway. Looked outside. Added over his shoulder, “He said something once about being a mulatto.”

“What’s that? Black and white?”

“Yeah.”

Oscar turned. “So Luci’s working at the restaurant?”

“Yeah she’s doing great,” Carla said, proud. She sat in the same chair that Oscar had been. Added, “I wasn’t sure if she’d work out, ya know, but she hustles. Gets better every shift. I’m really glad I brought her in.”

“That was really nice,” Oscar said. “Rico says that a lot, you know.” Not waiting to see her response, he turned to stare out the door window, ready to leave for work.

Carla put her hands on the table. Checked her nails. “Where’d he come from, anyway?”

“I don’t know. Said he moves around a lot.”

Carla looked up at Oscar while he stared outside, lost in thought. The worry evident in her voice she said, “Just be careful around him, okay hon?”

***

The key to becoming a ghost, Henry had learned, had this ironic twist: you don’t become invisible by disappearing, you do it by blending in so perfectly that nobody knows you’re there.

Unfortunately, Luci lived in the nasty part of Worthboro's west end, which, like all mean streets, had its own set of rules.

Henry, as good at being Rico as he was, had been noticed by the wrong person.

Chuck had always been big and aggressive.

Had he grown up in a different neighborhood with different parents, he might have vented that volatile combo on the athletic field and been morphed into a contributing citizen; instead, Chuck was dealing drugs before he was out of the sixth grade; now 25, he shaved his head and rode a Harley and belonged to a gang and at six-foot-four and 275 pounds, he was an intimidating enforcer, a dangerous thug, who happened to be in love with Luci (at least Chuck’s interpretation of love).

Thus, when Chuck saw Rico with Luci, he wanted blood.

Worse, Luci was acting like she was crazy about the little douchebag, touching him on the street where everyone could see.

A permanent red haze settled over Chuck’s entire being.

Luci was his girl and anyone who showed up in his neighborhood better know it. (Maybe Luci didn’t know it yet, but Chuck knew that she’d come around … one way or another.)

In the meantime, that spic-looking fuck was gonna get a beat-down.

Or worse.

Westside gossip moved like the wind and Rico soon caught the scent of the threat.

Luci encouraged him to stay somewhere else. For a while.

“You don’t know him,” she said one night, in the single bedroom apartment they were now renting, panicked and crying.

“I know plenty of guys like him,” Rico said unconcerned, playing a video game on the flat-screen he had just bought.

Luci implored, “No baby, he’s a bad dude. That asshole is the reason nobody asked me out since high school. Until you.”

Rico continued to play his game and insisted that he wasn’t worried, which only made Luci more worried.

Making him all the more dangerous, Chuck was not only large and cruel, but a capable brawler. He never backed down to anyone, especially during the occasional spell in the joint, where he had no choice but to face off against guys as big as he was.

From Worthboro’s west end through the menace of Fall River and into New Bedford, Chuck was a known guy on the street.

A predator you avoid crossing paths with.

Inevitably though, the paths of Rico and Chuck crossed.

On a Saturday night, just a few blocks from the apartment they were sharing, Luci and Rico were with friends at a crowded house party when Chuck showed up.

Friends alerted Luci, who grabbed Rico.

As the music blared, the two sped out the backway and rounded for the street, heading through the drive filled with cars when Rico suddenly darted away, across the front lawn, back toward the main entrance, calling that he’d forgotten something.

Before Luci could even raise her voice in protest, Rico dashed up the steps and disappeared inside.

Emerged barely 30 seconds later, hustling down the walkway to where Luci was now standing on the sidewalk.

“What’d you do?” she said, wild-eyed as she stared behind Rico, at the main entrance where she expected Chuck to emerge like some kind of raging bull.

“Nothing,” Rico told her, but grabbed her hand and hurried her along.

“What’d you forget?”

“No worries Chica,” he said, pulling her along the sidewalk. “Let’s go home.”

What Rico did was surprise (totally stunned, really) Chuck by walking into the crowded room and slipping next to him and saying into his ear (because of the loud music), that they should meet and talk this misunderstanding over.

Chuck, in utter disbelief at seeing Rico right there in front of him, thrust his big face six inches in front of Rico’s and flecked him with spittle, snarling, “Here’s fine! Or you can pick a spot, ass-fuck!”

Rico leaned to the side and for a split second Chuck thought he was actually going to kiss him on the cheek, but Rico spoke directly into his ear, saying, “Let’s talk on Bleecker, around the block, in an hour, after I’m finished with Luci.”

Then he stepped back and winked and slipped through the crowded room and sped out the door.

Chuck was too stunned to even chase after him. Figured what the hell and about an hour later, left the party.

Walked to Bleeker Street only a block away.

The sound of the party faded, but those last words Rico said sure hadn’t.

“Gonna finish with you tonight, motherfucker,” Chuck muttered, carefully observing the dark street around him.

In this part of the westside, street lamps are dull and widely spaced.

Narrow, weedy verges separate a pock-marked road from a sidewalk gone disjointed by neglect.

Cars huddle bumper to bumper on either curb.

Dark and angular tenements brood in shadow, scars of yellow around closed shades.

Chuck was sure the pussy wouldn’t show, but damn!

Rico rounded the corner onto Bleeker and headed up the poorly lit sidewalk. Nonchalant.

Chuck, like Rico, was educated on the street and did not take chances.

His right hand slid slowly to the handle of the gun shoved into his pants, at the small of his back; though, he could easily see that Rico, wearing only jeans and a baseball player t-shirt over his narrow frame, wasn’t carrying a weapon.

“All righty then,” Chuck said softly.

Grinned savage in anticipation.

Waited another moment and released the handle of the gun and allowed both hands to show. Palms open.

Rico kept coming.

Chuck relaxed his body and kept his hands at his sides to show that all was cool, but stayed on the balls of his feet, prepared to move, unable to believe the audacity of this stupid, skinny fuck.

As Rico closed, he made a slight adjustment to the pipe-shaped device hidden in a practiced squeeze between his right palm and wrist.

A deft move, like the feint a basketball player made on a crossover got Chuck to shift his weight and then Rico slid low and left, flicking his wrist to extend the telescopic swing stick and dragging the steel rod below the cap of Chuck’s knee.

The blow wasn’t hard, but didn’t have to be.

As Chuck adjusted his weight to lunge after Rico, excruciating pain shot through his tibia, causing him to involuntarily bend over.

Rico, moving gracefully past Chuck with a long stride, pivoted and swung his arm in a backhand, the baton making a wide arc, twisting his torso inward so that all of that kinetic energy transferred along his arm and into the weapon as it slammed into the side of Chuck’s head and ear.

A dull, wet sound and the big guy grunted and stumbled to the sidewalk onto his hands and knees.

Quickly adjusting his feet for maximum leverage, Rico brought the weapon up and down three times, striking the top of Chuck’s head, vicious, skull-fracturing blows that ensured that when he eventually woke from the coma, an already unimpressive IQ would be halved and Chuck would never hurt anyone again.

Or for that matter, be able to feed and clothe himself.

Chuck lay unconscious and bleeding as Henry continued at a walk, unhurried, but scanning the shadows around him.

There was no one to see.

The whole thing hadn’t taken more than a few seconds, just as he figured.

***

Oscar and Rico met regularly at The House now.

Usually for a quick beer and town gossip.

Tonight that beer had turned into four going on five; thus, the meaning of life was taking on new meanings.

The two young men sat across from each other in the last of the blue booths lining the wall that led to the corner with the jukebox.

Brown beer bottles on amber napkins.

Oscar, grinning and giddy, leaned against the backrest.

Rico, always a live wire, leaned forward, elbows on the table. Said, “There’s a saying that the only thing left spontaneous in modern life is sports and crime.”

“Of course,” Oscar answered. “The gods plan everything important. Leave only the piddly shit for us.”

Rico muttered, “The gods, right.”

“Sitcoms,” Oscar blurted.

“What?”

“They also show how life is spontaneous and unpredictable.”

“Yeah? How so?”

Oscar took a sip of beer. Tilted the bottle towards Rico and said, “Take a few, unremarkable people who by themselves, are completely unworthy of admiration, but when they’re together?—magic happens! Like Seinfeld or Friends.”

Rico looked thoughtful.

“I like it,” he said. “People, individually, nothing to admire. But when you look at what we can do as a group, I suppose that’s better.”

Oscar said, “Yeah, but at least sitcoms make us laugh.”

Rico tipped his bottle back and said, “Touché.”

It was winter when Rico first approached Oscar. That night, he’d simply been curious, relieving boredom, and, as always, exploring new angles.

Now, with spring arriving, in addition to the occasional beer together, Luci and Rico regularly met with Carla and Oscar at The House.

Rico genuinely looked forward to seeing his clever new … acquaintance, a rarity in his life. (Henry didn’t have friends, but Rico was allowed, part of the blending in with the herd thing.)

Rico had to admit to having grown fond of the little guy.

Per usual, Oscar wore a work shirt, having met Rico after his shift at the lottery.

He asked, “Was there a draw tonight?”

Using a purposefully awful accent of a Boston dude with a Jamaican accent, Oscar said, “Foolish mon, it be hump day. Evee-bawdee saw-poda be fuckin. No draaah on Wednesday. Mon.”

Rico asked, “How’d you end up there, anyway?”

“My uncle,” Oscar said in a normal tone. “He’s been there like, forever. Like, 20 years. But he’s cool and when he found out I went to New England Tech for computer shit, he said he’d get me in there. Get me hired.”

“That a school?”

“Yeah. I did a six-month certificate thing. All I could afford. It’s in Warwick. Near the airport.”

“So you’re like one of those hacker guys?”

Oscar laughed. “Fuck no. I learned some basics. UNIX. SQL. Some Visual Basic. But you don’t need a degree to work there, anyway. The Lottery. They only start you a couple dollars more than minimum wage.”

Rico said, “But you’re doin’ all right?”

Oscar nodded. “If they hire you as an operator and you finish the training—and that takes like a month, they bump you a dollar. If you take the internal courses they offer, you can get raised to level two and then three. You get a dollar more per hour each.”

Rico nodded, liking Oscar’s efficient way of explaining. “Good for you,” he said, meaning it.

Oscar asked, “What do you do, anyway? I mean, really.”

Henry had well-prepared bios for the personas he’d established over the years, but there was a comfort level with Oscar that he hadn’t felt in … well, not since he was a little kid and hanging out with Pop.

“I work for a real estate investment trust. Find suitable properties and try to determine their investment value.”

Oscar looked surprised. “Really?”

“What’d you expect?”

Oscar looked shy for a moment, then in a near perfect echo, “S-pose you get that a lot bro, no?”

Rico laughed. “That’s really good.”

Oscar couldn’t help but blush.

Rico said, “No, what happens is they move you around. A lot. Keeps a fresh perspective on the territories. So a couple months ago, I got moved to Mass. From New York.”

Oscar looked thoughtful. Said, “Yeah, but what do you do?”

“I spend a shit-ton of time driving around, looking at property, going through local papers, the registry, town records. All kinds of records to dig up. Kinda boring, but sometimes kinda fun, right bro?”

“Gotta make a living.”

“You think you’ll stay at the Lottery?”

Oscar’s shrug was non-committal. “I don’t know. Sometimes I don’t think I can do it another week. Sometimes I think I’m stuck there forever and maybe that’s cool. Depending on the mood, the wind, I don’t know.”

“What about acting and the comedy stuff and all that?”

Oscar shook his head. Looked at the table. “I spend a lotta time writing stuff down. You know, trying it on my friends, but.” He made a gesture that was non-committal.

Rico leaned forward and said, “Bro, have you thought about doing a club? I mean, they’re all over and people are generally pretty cool. They’re expecting amateurs in amateur hour, ya know? But it’s a way to get noticed. In Providence. Boston. There’s even a few pretty good ones over in Hartford, if you wanna go that far.”

“At least nobody knows me there,” Oscar said. His eyes remained on the table.

Rico studied Oscar for a moment, then kindly, “Seriously bro, you’re a funny guy. Talented, I mean. You’ll pull it off someday. Surprise everybody, ‘cept me.”

Oscar looked at Rico’s brown eyes; eyes he saw as sweet and kind and beautiful. Blurted, “Would you go?”

“What?”

“If I got the balls to do a club. Do the open mic thing. Would you go, you know, for support?”

“Count on it bro.”

The pair clinked beer bottles.

The House was mostly empty this late on a weeknight. Just a few stragglers finishing pizza.

The bartender swabbed the long wooden bar.

The stools were tucked in.

The jukebox slept.

Oscar, lost in alcohol fogged thoughts, used the tips of his fingers to slide the beer bottle back and forth.

Watching him, Rico said, “Carla’d go.”

“Course she would,” Oscar answered too quickly.

“She’s a good lady.”

“I know that,” Oscar said, again too hastily. He shrugged his shoulders in that non-committal way.

“When a lady looks at you the way she does, that’s a good thing,” Rico said.

“What if it’s a guy?”

“Here, it’s not. But you should probably do something about that.”

“I know.”

Oscar’s eyes were moist and back on the table. He slid the beer bottle around.

Rico watched, wanting to be more of a friend. Ask questions. Get Oscar to open up about … whatever. But that kind of friendship didn’t belong in his playbook; though, at least he had decided not to use his sexuality to take advantage of his new … friend.

“So you write anything down lately,” Rico asked.

“Nah,” Oscar said. He wiped a forearm across his nose. Fueled by the booze, the mood pendulum had swung to melancholy.

But he wasn’t embarrassed in front of Rico.

Oscar knew he liked him just for being Oscar.

And Oscar knew who he was. What he wanted. Needed.

He had to tell Carla.

And Rico inspired that confidence.

Oscar looked at Rico and saw not just a friend, but someone he desired. And it didn’t matter that he wasn’t gay. Rico was … different. Someone he could escape with, even if it was just friendship. He thought of the first time he saw him.

“Remember what you asked me, that first night we met?”

“What?”

“About getting you a winning ticket?”

Rico smiled. “Yeah?”

Oscar smiled back and said, “Well, it’s like a long shot, but I thought up this idea. It’s more like a movie idea. Really. Maybe. For a TV show or something. Everything would have to go perfect. And fast.”

Rico said. “Lay it on, bro.”

Oscar leaned over the table and told him.