Going Onward for the Moment

When the shot went off and the red brick next to his head sang a whiny song of ricochet, Dexter Mancuso ran out of his sandals.

At a dead run, he rounded the corner of a long, dark alley.

Had his pursuer seen?

Not quite halfway into the alley but certain the guy was about to come around the corner, he grabbed the rusted edge of a dumpster and vaulted himself into it.

His left knee caught the edge of that thing on the outside. That thing the trucks used to pick up the dumpsters.

He saw them do that once.

That was the day they rolled Johnny Petrillo into the back of their truck with the rest of the garbage. The stuff that had been used up or outlived its usefulness.

And the trash guys, they didn’t even notice.

Well, the guy in the back might have. He was the one who jumped out to grab the few bags that didn’t make it into the dumpster. People dropped those things from the windows as far as seven stories up. And none of the windows were directly above the dumpster, so it was hit or miss.

Still, most people hit. One thing most people didn’t do was carry their trash down all those flights of stairs. It was trash. It wasn’t like it deserved a ceremony.

Anyway, the guy, he tossed those five bags in on top of Johnny. And the last one he brought up over his shoulder like he was throwing a fastball at Yankee Stadium. That one hit Johnny square in the face.

Maybe the guy did know. Who knew?

Dexter could see Johnny plainly that morning from a third-story window halfway down the alley. But maybe that’s because he knew what to look for.

Then the guy flashed a thumbs-up toward the cab and ran to catch the running board on the passenger side.

Then the guy up front turned on the compacter.

And that was that for Johnny Petrillo. Next stop, a barge in the bay or whatever.

Dexter landed on his back in the dumpster, then scrambled to his feet.

His sore, bare feet.

The bits of grit on the sidewalk and the dirt, rocks and shards of glass in the alleyway had not been kind.

He thought about reaching out, finding the black plastic lid for this half of the dumpster. But the guy might see. Or it might slip and bang on the side. Just as well. Half-open like that, the dumpster would look more natural. The wind hardly ever left any of these dumpsters completely closed.

Maybe the trash company should invest in springs for the lids. Maybe if the lids were closed, the people would stop dropping their trash from seven stories up.

Probably not, though. Probably the second guy in the trash truck would have a lot more work to do.

Probably good it’s hanging open. If it was closed even without them putting a spring on it, that might tell the guy someone was inside.

But it was a case of mistaken identity. Had to be. Joey Bones was out west somewhere. He was chasin’ down some broad for the big man himself. And Nicky the Nose was retired, permanently.

They called him that for his ability to sniff out rats.

And they retired him for his ability to change into one.

But nobody else even knew he existed. Did they?

He listened, but the only sound was his own labored breathing. Way too loud.

But no footfalls on the other side of it. Nobody crunching on the occasional gravel in the alley. Nobody sloshing and cursing as Italian loafers stepped in a puddle in the dark. Though it would serve the guy right.

Nah, it had to be mistaken identity.

Then again, how many people in the profession walked around in sandals and blue jeans and a tank-top muscle shirt? And a black Yankees ball cap?

He reached up to adjust his cap.

Well, he used to have a ball cap. It was probably back there on the street with his sandals.

He put his left hand on his chest, worked to calm himself. That would do it. A good deep breath, then let it out slowly.

Rosemary taught him that. She knew all sorts of things like that.

He took a deep breath and—

Gagged. Wrinkled his nose. Put his hand over his mouth.

The stench inside the dumpster was palpable and strong. Rotted onions, maybe. And some sort of decomposing something. A cat, maybe, or the remainders of a dog.

Maybe part of Johnny Petrillo

He crouched, and his bare right shoulder scraped against the side of the dumpster.

Did that make a sound?

No.

He shifted his feet, reached with the left one.

Whatever it was, the dead thing, it wasn’t very big. Or thick, maybe.

Then something beneath his other foot shifted.

He jumped and jerked his right foot away. And stepped full on the dead thing.

Whatever was under there scurried away, tunneling.

A quiet thud sounded as it hit the rusted steel near the corner in front of him.

He’d seen rats do that. When they were scared, they ran into a corner and stopped. Cornered themselves. Waited to be killed.

Maybe it was a way to force themselves into fighting back. Cornered like that, all they could do was fight back. Or die. At that point, probably one was as good as the other.

He bent the toes on his left foot. Whatever the dead thing was, it was matted. Furry, maybe. So not human. So not part of Johnny Petrillo.

And dumpster temperature, so definitely not alive. But it was stiff. So it wasn’t rotten. Or it was beyond rotten. At least it wasn’t fresh and full of gas.

He’d seen a cat like that once too.

That was in an alley too, but not this one. And not in a dumpster.

It was lying near a drain pipe, and the water was drip, drip, dripping on its right eye.

He crouched and looked at it for a long time. There were lessons to be had in that cat.

It died on its left side with its head close to the building. That was okay. But it didn’t get its eyes closed before that ninth life left.

Then when it swelled up like that, the gas sort of rolled it toward its back and its right legs, front and back, were angled upward. So it was lying there, looking up at about a three-quarter angle, and that water was dripping on its eye.

It looked like some kind of glazed glass marble or something, except the little swirly thing inside was turned sideways. It would be side to side on a marble, but it was up and down on the cat. So it was right for the cat. It was like they’d turned a marble sideways. And it was kind of cloudy.

The water hit it. Drip. Then it stretched down off the corner of its eye and across the bridge of its nose. The little hairs there were even turned a little sideways, the way the drip was running. So the cat had been there for awhile.

But it wasn’t stiff like the one near his left foot. Or maybe it was the same one, though that was a different alley. He was pretty sure.

Anyway, this one was stiff, so at least it wouldn’t be gnawing on his ankle. So it couldn’t hurt him.

Well, unless it was dead of rabies or something before it was tossed in here.

Rosemary often said to watch out for rabid animals. “Never know what you might run across out there,” she said.

But he was pretty sure that one that day didn’t die of rabies. There wasn’t any foam around its mouth.

Or unless he got tetanus or something from the scrape on his knee or his shoulder.

That’s all he needed.

He listened again.

Still no sounds of anybody coming up the alley. At least not in a hurry.

He listened again. No, there wasn’t anybody out there.

You spend enough time in enough alleys at night, you get used to the sounds.

His knee was scraped pretty bad, but it was inside the blue jeans, so probably it was clean. Could tetanus get through blue jeans?

Rosemary would know. She knew all kinds of stuff like that.

But he’d have to hide it from her. If she saw it, she would insist he get a tetanus shot. Especially if he told her where he got it. Which he wouldn’t.

Whatever shifted under his foot a moment ago moved again in the corner.

He looked down.

He could see things in the dumpster now if he didn’t look directly at them. The top layer of trash rippled to the left. The burrowing something was headed for another corner.

Thud.

Found it.

Rosemary, she was a stickler for stuff like that. Doing things right.

Getting a tetanus shot when you needed one. Working a day job. Paying bills on time. All that.

And he was a soup sandwich waiting to happen.

That’s what she called him. A soup sandwich. Like that was even possible.

But he knew what she meant. He wasn’t sloppy or anything like that. That wasn’t what she meant. But he couldn’t do the things most people did. He just couldn’t. That’s what she meant. He needed the uncertainty, the excitement.

It was like all the normal people were bologna sandwiches. Some had lettuce or tomato. Some had both. Some maybe had a slice of provolone or colby-jack or swiss. And for them, that was enough. That made them feel unique and different from everybody else, even though they were all just bologna sandwiches.

But Dexter, he was a soup sandwich. Like that was even possible.

She could have said ham or salami or even turkey. But he was a soup sandwich.

But that was okay. One day she would see.

Her job at the hospital kept the rent paid and the utilities turned on.

For now.

But when he found that one big score, they were moving to the Bahamas. He’d already told her. And it was close. Really close. He could feel it.

And one once they got there, they’d live in the moment.

No more hustling for a buck, him in his way, running numbers or ducking bullets or watching to make sure the garbage got taken out. Or her in her way, cleaning bedpans or whatever she did.

Registered nurse. What did that even mean? Like she had to check in with a parole doctor or something?

But once they got there, they’d be lying on the beach. Rosemary would be sipping one of those little drinks with the umbrella in the glass.

And they’d watch the waves roll in, lap on the white sand beach, and roll back out.

That would be the life.

Knowing Rosemary, she would reach across from her chaise to his and take his hand.

She’d probably be dressed in a little white bikini. She was a fine looking woman, and a nurse, after all. And she’d have on a large, floppy straw hat, maybe with a scarf tied around the base of the crown. And big round shades.

When men passed by, she’d lower her shades and check them out. Then she’d look at him and laugh, and she’d say something like, “Don’t worry, Dexter. No man can replace you.”

And he knew it was true.

Especially after the big score that got them to the Bahamas in the first place.

He’d dangle his left leg off his chaise, his toes brushing on the sand.

He bent his toes with the thought, kneaded the stiff pelt.

Well, someday. Someday it would be sand and living in the moment.

But first he had to make that score.

And before that, he had to get out of this box.

For now, he was doing what he knew how to do. What he had to do.

He was going onward for the moment. Not “for the moment” like “for the time being,” but for the moment like headed toward the moment. Like the moment was a goal. Which it was.

But for the moment sounded better.

He was living for the moment for both of them so they could live in the moment on the beach. But he wasn’t just sitting and waiting. He was going onward. Onward and upward, to the moment.

That alone was proof he was right.

Rosemary would say that was silly. That what he meant was that he was going on toward the moment, or something like that.

But she would leave it alone. She would let him say it his way, do it his way.

Maybe he ought to peek, see what’s out there. It had been awhile. Probably it was all clear by now.

He grinned and straightened, reached up for the edge, but stopped.

He listened again.

No, still no sounds of shoes on the alley.

And the guy only fired one shot. Not two or three like he knew what he was aiming at.

Maybe when he took off, the guy realized he wasn’t the right target. Mistaken identity, like he thought.

Or maybe it was the sandals. Very few guys in the business wore anything but black shoes. Or brown. Anything but sandals.

He wore sandals once a week to remind him of the beach in his not-so-distant future. To remind him of the moment. But even then, when he wasn’t wearing sandals, he preferred sneakers. He wasn’t sure he’d ever wear those brown or black shoes. Too stiff. Too constraining.

He could go onward for the moment as well in sneakers as stiff shoes. And the big score was coming. It was right around the corner. He could feel it.

So there was no need to rush.

The dumpster was comfortable enough, other than the smell. And he didn’t really notice that anymore since he knew the thing was beyond rotted. Whatever it was. Probably just a dog. Or maybe a cat like that one he’d seen.

He looked around. Mostly cardboard. Even some big pieces, like boxes broken down. And then office trash of some kind. Mostly paper, all crumpled up. Soft enough.

He had plenty of time. He just needed to be back before Rosemary got up to make coffee and head out to work. He wouldn’t want her to worry.

He could even rest a little if he wanted to.

He shifted, crouched again, then settled on a flattened box and stretched his legs out in front of him.

It would feel really good to stretch out all the way, but he couldn’t do that. It put him too much in mind of Johnny Petrillo.

But then, Johnny didn’t climb into the dumpster on his own. Johnny was put into the dumpster. That’s what you get for living in the moment. If Johnny was thinking, if he was going onward for the moment, reaching for the moment, he’d be in the Bahamas by now.

Not on a barge somewhere in the bay. Or wherever.

He closed his eyes. Just for a moment.

Going onward for the moment. He liked that.

* * *

When the half-lid that was closed slammed open, Dexter started and sat up, eyes wide. “Don’t shoot!”

He squinted, but he couldn’t see past the glaring light.

A voice growled, “Here he is! Hey, he’s over here!”

Then the voice was directed at him. “Whaddayou mean, runnin’ off like that? You hadn’t ought’a tempt fate like that, Dexter. You know that, right?”

“I didn’t mean nothin’! I don’t even know what I did!” Dexter frowned. “Wait a minute. Do I know you?”

The man shifted the light. “Nah, prob’ly not. But so what? C’mon, get outta there. Man of the world like you, you know the deal. You break the rules, you gotta pay. Whaddayou, six, seven?”

“Eight. Well, I’ll be eight in a few months. I know what I’m doin’ all right. I’m goin’ ahead for the moment. In fact, the big score is just around—”

“Dexter, is that you?”

Oh no. Rosemary.

Then someone else moved up next to the dumpster. “You get out of there this instant!”

Dexter stood and took a step toward the edge of the dumpster.

She turned to the man. “Officer, can you help him out of there please? The boy’s a soup sandwich waiting to happen.”

The officer laughed. “Soup sandwich. That’s a good one.” He grabbed Dexter under the arms and lifted him out, then set him on the ground. He shined the light over the boy. “Hey lady, looks to me like it already happened.”

* * * * * * *