Smoked

“Exactly how many rolls of toilet paper have you stolen from us, Chris?!” Ed removed his eyeglasses and tossed them onto my employee file.

“It was stupid, I admit it!” I tugged at a string on my Supermart vest, craving a cigarette. “I forgot my wallet at home. I was going to pay for it tomorrow."

“If it weren’t for Tammy….”

I cradled my forehead in my hand. Tammy, a brassy sixty-year-old with a nose ring and pink hair, had knocked me down when she careened around the corner of an SUV. The “empty” box I was carrying to my car flew out of my hands, and Ed starred opened mouthed as shrink-wrapped packages of toilet paper skidded across the wet parking lot. Mini square glaciers skimming across black water. I stared at my lap, dreading the pranks.

“…for all we know, you could have an entire warehouse of products in your apartment!”

“I made one mistake. I’ll never do it again, I swear!”

“I’ll tell you what. The Delivery Department has been struggling to keep up since the pandemic.” Ed tapped his pen on his desk. “Report to Tammy in the morning.”

**********************************************************************

“I totally get it,” Tammy said, smoothing her frizzy hair under her Supermart hat. “Times are tough.”

“It’s not that I can’t afford toilet paper! Management does absolutely nothing and pays us minimum wage to do everything for them. It’s just my way of evening things out.”

She rolled her eyes. “When you’re older than 25, you’ll find that Management, like me, don’t give a shit.”

Dejected, I lit a cigarette and stepped into my assigned Supermart van. The first house on my route was a sleepy Victorian with flower boxes on the windows, a porch swing, and well-tended flower beds. I pulled up the order on the company’s smart pad and noticed there wasn’t a tip added to her order. I flicked my cigarette out the window.

A short old lady with thin white-blonde hair greeted me at the door. She wore a gingham apron that said Grandma’s Kitchen.

“Pearl Palmero?” I asked holding up the plastic ID badge around my neck. “I’m Chris from Supermart.”

Her eyes became half-moons as her round face crinkled up into a smile. “Would you mind bringing those bags into the kitchen, young man?”

The warm aroma of vanilla and chocolate enveloped me when I stepped into the house. Lace curtains hung in the windows. The living room was dominated by a grand piano and an overstuffed floral sofa.

“You play piano?" I asked, thinking of my tip.

“I just teach now.” She patted the counter where she wanted me to put the groceries. “My son sets up these deliveries for me. Says it’s better than me driving to the store every week.”

“He’s looking after you.”

“Pshaw,” she said with a smile and gentle wave of her hand. “Would you like a chocolate chip cookie? I’m about to take them out of the oven.”

“No, thank you, ma’am.”

“Well, thank you for my groceries.” She slipped an oven mitt on her hand. “Would you mind showing yourself out, dear?”

I gave her a tight smile and turned to leave. Another rich tightwad, I thought, rolling my eyes. I closed the door behind me and noticed a box wrapped in brown paper on the doorstep. It was lightweight and stamped with the word 'Fragile.' I hopped into the van with the package under my arm. Serves her right. Maybe she won’t be stingy next time.

When I finished my shift, I picked up Chinese food and thought about which episode of Game of Thrones to watch that night. I unlocked the door and my fingers fumbled around on the wall until I hit the light switch. Walking into my apartment, I tucked Mrs. Palmero’s package on a bookshelf between a bottle of Windex and a five-pack of deodorant among countless other supplies I’d stolen from Supermart over the years.

My cell phone rang. The word Blocked appeared on the screen.

“Did you open the box?” asked a deep male voice.

“What box?”

No response.

“You mean Mrs. Palmero’s package?”

Silence.

“No,” I said finally.

The caller hung up.

Starring at the box, I thought about opening it when the doorbell rang.

“Hello, Chris,” Mrs. Palmero said.

“Mrs. Palmero!” I stepped back in surprise.

“May I come in?”

Once we were settled on the sofa, she started fiddling with her jewelry. “I don’t know where to begin…..Have you ever looked at your life and thought, what happened?”

I nodded, wishing she’d get to the point.

“Well, my son is Jimmy Palmero. He’s the one who called you just now. I can tell from your expression you haven’t heard of him. Jimmy’s been accused of racketeering, drugs, that sort of thing. Never convicted, mind you. He just got in with a bad crowd.” She sighed. “He’s such a sweet boy, ever since he was little. We have lunch every Tuesday.”

“That’s nice….”

She pressed her hands together. “Jimmy stopped by this afternoon. He expected a delivery this morning, and when I told him there wasn’t one, he went ballistic. I went over my day, and you were the only one I interacted with, so he had you checked out.”

“Checked out?!”

“He just asked around.” She withdrew a small envelope from her pocket and handed it to me. Inside was a small silver key and a gym membership card for Robert Zaketti. “He wants you to go to a gym called Broadway Fitness downtown. Then, find Locker #9356 and bring the contents to me. I’ll be waiting for you at the café around the corner.”

“I don’t want to get mixed up in anything.”

“My son would never do anything really terrible, but these so-called friends of his…. Jimmy says if he doesn’t get what’s in the locker by tomorrow, they’re going to do something horrible to him!”

“I don’t know….”

“You took the package from my porch easily enough. This is the same kind of thing.”

“I guess.”

“My son is willing to pay you.” She paused. “How does ten thousand dollars sound?”

My eyebrows went up. “Ten thousand dollars to bring you what’s inside some locker?”

Mrs. Palmero nodded. “Where’s the box now?”

I retrieved it from my bookcase, and when I held it out to her, she took my hand and squeezed it. “We don’t get to pick what type of people our children grow up to be, Christopher.”

*********************************************************************

At noon the next day, I pulled into the parking lot of Broadway Fitness. A perky blonde was folding towels when I approached the front desk. She smiled and scanned Zaketti’s membership card. Her expression changed for a second and my insides instantly went watery like liquid Jell-O. Then she smiled again and said, “Have a good workout, Mr. Zaketti!”

Pull it together, Chris! I chided myself. I raked my hand through my hair and entered the men’s locker room. What have I gotten myself into? There could be anything in that locker! I cursed myself for agreeing to do this and then cursed myself again for taking Mrs. Palmero’s package in the first place.

Locker #9356 was one of the half-sized lockers near the showers. I slipped the key into the lock and it popped open. I held my breath and opened the door. The locker was empty except for a black iPhone. Relief flooded my veins. See? I told myself. No big deal, and I'm ten thousand dollars richer.

I dropped the phone into my satchel and left.

“Gee, that was quick!” the perky blonde said.

I waved her off. “Just forgot something.”

When I got to the café, Mrs. Palmero was waiting outside sipping earl grey tea. The steam rose and curled in front of her face. “How did it go?”

“Easy enough.” I handed her the iPhone, eager to be rid of it. “So, that’s it, right?”

“That’s it.” Mrs. Palmero dropped the phone into her pocketbook and took out a pack of cigarettes. “Would you like one, dear?”

“Yeah.” I took it gratefully. “So…what happens now?”

“You mean where’s your money,” she exhaled smoke. “You’ll find it in an envelope outside your door this evening. Thank you, Christopher. I can’t tell you how grateful we are to you.” Mrs. Palmero smiled and patted my arm before walking away.

I hummed on the way back to the parking lot, elated to be done with this mysterious errand. I tossed my cigarette butt out the window and punched the address of my next delivery into the GPS.

About fifteen minutes after I merged onto the beltway, a series of sharp jabs pummeled my stomach. Without warning, I threw up all over the steering wheel. My bowels felt loose as the abdominal pain became more severe. Car horns blared around me. I lost control and drifted across the highway. Brakes squealed and glass broke, and then I was free-falling through space like a puppet cut from his strings.

**********************************************************************

Mrs. Palmero was edging cookies from a hot pan onto a cooling rack with a spatula as the local news blared on the TV. The black iPhone sat charging on her counter next to the brown paper box.

“Oh, boy! Whatever you do, do not take I-95!” the traffic reporter exclaimed. “Police are still on the scene of a nine-car pileup caused by the driver of a Supermart delivery van who was pronounced dead at the scene. Supermart has declined to comment at this time.

“Sources say police uncovered an identification card of crime syndicate leader Bobby Zaketti among the Supermart driver’s belongings. Zaketti, who was reported missing last Wednesday, was last seen with Jimmy “The Knife” Palmero on Tuesday….”

“I told ya he was perfect, Ma!” Jimmy said, reaching for a cookie.

Mrs. Palmero slapped his hand. “Those are for Lenny! Give these to him and be sure to thank him for the cadmium. The laced cigarette worked wonderfully.”

“Yes, ma’am!”

“Now, let’s see.” Mrs. Palmero removed the brown paper from the box and gently opened the lid. Inside were a pair of male hands cut off at the wrist.

She took out the right hand and placed the thumb on the iPhone’s home button. Try Again. She pursed her lips and tried the left hand. The phone unlocked.

“Ah, so Bobby was a lefty! That’s why you take both hands, son. Just in case.”

“Ya know, sooner or later, the cops’ll figure out that poor bastard didn’t have nothin’ to do with me or Bobby.”

“Grandma, grandma!” A boy and a girl, eight and ten years old, bounced into the kitchen. “Can we have some cookies?”

Mrs. Palmero quickly replaced the lid on the box. “I suppose if you’ve practiced your music….” They toppled over each other racing into the living room.

“Don’t worry about the cops, Jimmy.” Mrs. Palmero stood on her tiptoes and kissed her son’s cheek. “I’ll take care of it, just like I always do.” She smiled, then wiped her hands on a dishtowel and joined the children at the piano.