In The Cards

He held out his hand. Kells shook it, turned and went to the door. We watched him pause with his back to the room like he was going to turn around and say something else. He didn’t and left quietly, closing the door with a soft click. Walter leaned back in his chair and showed me his damp palm.

“That sorry SOB sweats like a pig.”

I threw caution to the wind and corrected him.

“Pigs don’t sweat, boss. They don’t have sweat glands.”

Walter pulled out a fresh monogramed handkerchief and wiped his right hand carefully.

“Then why the fuck do people say that?”

“Maybe because pigs are fat?”

Walter folded his handkerchief and laid it on the desk.

“That’s why I hired you, Tommy. You’re smart, and crazier than a shithouse rat. Now go out and make your fuckin’ collections.”

***

I didn’t mind hearing that. Always let the man in charge know you have some brains. It’ll help keep him on his toes. So, I had the deli, the psychic, and the furniture store to visit. If I ran into Kells it wouldn’t matter. He won’t be collecting for Walter anymore and news travels fast. I went by Miss Drina’s storefront first, knowing she would give me a hard time making another visit necessary later in the day. As usual, her waiting room was empty but the tiny cameras in the gold painted decorative crown molding allowed her to buzz me in from her back room. I sat in one of her twin high-backed thrones feeling like the king of Siam. Tufted raspberry velvet upholstery will do that. Especially with the funeral home/whorehouse décor and the incense clogging my nose. I smiled for the camera and lit a cigarette. Having a six-foot two guy in a dark suit who looked like a cop visible to pedestrian traffic was bad for business. I counted to 30 and there she was, parting the heavy black drape to hand me her envelope. The dark circles under her eyes were darker than normal and no amount of bangles and beads could hide them. The envelope was thick enough to not require counting.

“Are you taking care of yourself Miss Drina, getting enough to eat?”

She pulled her fuzzy white shawl around her shoulders and pointed her chin towards me with a half sneer that showed a missing incisor.

“Don’t you watch the news, Tommy? Don’t you know about stress? It is everywhere.” Come inside, I read your cards for free.”

“I’m too busy today, Miss Drina, maybe next time.”

“Well then don’t blame me, I tried.”

I left the incense filled room for the more pleasant odor of the busy North Philly Street. I knew she would have given me some bad news. If construction scaffolding was going to fall on me or I would soon get rabies from a rat bite, I didn’t want to know about it. One of her adult sons, I think she had eight, was leaning against a next-to new, black Mercedes 300SEL parked at the curb. From his purple rayon shirt and big gold rings I could tell they were related. He smiled and gestured at the car like a gameshow host. At least he had all his teeth.

“You like this one, Mr. Tommy? Brand new 1970, big motor. Maybe another color? I can get it for you.”

“I’ll think about it Marik.”

“Don’t think too long, this one will go fast my friend.”

I was sure of that. Marik and his brothers rotated their stock of stolen high-end cars constantly, using the curb outside their mother’s building like a showroom. His Gypsy name means warrior. It never made sense to me that they would need to pay Walter for protection. It was just part of doing business and kept everyone happy. I was sure they were generous with the local gendarmes as well. Police Chief Frank Rizzo demanded it. After making the rest of my collections I walked home. The weather was nice. I got to thinking about Walter calling me crazy. Crazier than a shithouse rat he said. He was dead wrong. A rat might live in unsanitary conditions, but an outhouse. No way. Rats aren’t crazy they’re cunning and opportunistic. They will rule the world when we are gone. That’s a fact. I ducked into Stan’s Bottle Shop on the corner for a fifth of Bushmills and caught him napping behind the counter, eyes closed, right hand resting on the cash register. What was left of his hair sat above his ears like a pair of cotton balls. Gone were the days of black and pomade. I was tempted to shout, “Gimme your cash old man!” but his left hand was under the counter likely wrapped around his four-pound vintage Smith and Wesson. I said “Hiya Stan” instead. He opened his eyes one at a time, the right one slow to catch up.

“Well look who it is, Tommy the troublemaker.”

The scent of his Borkum Riff pipe tobacco hung in the air like a mist of aged bourbon. He claimed it helped sell more whiskey.

“You need one of those little tinkling bells over your door Stan, to keep you awake.”

He was looking for his pipe. It was right in front of him.

“Horse shit! This ain’t no ladies gift shop.”

Stan had a point. He didn’t even sell wine or beer, just booze. I was glad Stan wasn’t on my collection list. I’ve known him too long. A few years back Walter the boss granted me a big favor by letting Stan’s Bottle Shop slide. Stan would never say it, but I knew he appreciated it. My Friday night bottle was already bagged on the counter and Stan made a show of ringing up “No Sale” on his ancient Model 40 NCR, shiny solid brass and heavy as a safe.

“You know Tomasso, you’re the only wop who drinks this stuff. You sure you’re not a Paddy?”

I took the bottle and headed to the door.

“I’ll check and get back to you Stan.”

I pulled open the door and yelled over my shoulder.

“Ding-a-ling Ding!”

A good start to my weekend.

***

My apartment was on the third floor of a narrow pre-war brownstone. They were built narrow and deep to make better use of a city block. Below me was the Parlor floor and below that was the first floor and the stoop with steps to the sidewalk. Perfect for a single guy who planned on staying that way. I tuned into WFIL to hear some pop tunes while I made a couple sandwiches. Roast beef and Swiss on rye with Guldens. Not as fancy as a steak hoagie from Pat’s but I’m no cook and it suits me just fine. Backed up with two fingers of Bushmills with one rock. The radio jock Jim Nettleton cued up some good tunes. The Temptations, Three Dog Night and Marvin Gaye. But when “Sugar Sugar” by the Archies came on I clicked off. Took my dinner to the couch, put my feet up and watched Hogan’s Heroes. That Sargent Schultz is a real kick. Another round of Bushmills and I nodded off halfway through Petticoat Junction. Time for bed.

***

A loud thump woke me up. The Little Ben on the nightstand glowed 3:20 am. I figured that Rhino the Great Dane that lived upstairs had rolled off his couch. It came again, louder this time but from downstairs, then a voice.

“Hey neighbor, its Jimmy from down the block can you help me out?”

I didn’t know all my neighbors but the only Jimmy I knew was in the ground in East St. Louis. I took my pillow gun, a .22 Beretta over to the bay window that overlooked the front steps one flight below and peeked. I saw the tops of three heads, not one, and the redhead with the girlish hair style had to be Kells. I didn’t think he had the stones to come after me. I snuck down the stairs in my socks keeping to my left to avoid the squeaking bottom steps. I could feel the tension of these guys through my front door. If they had a way inside, I was ready to start shooting. I spoke loud and answered the question.

“I can’t help you out, but I can give you some advice. I have a clear shot at you and your friends, so if you plan on sleeping in your own beds tonight, you might want to leave now.”

Had they heard me? Did they get the point? No answer. Then I heard cheap Florsheim’s scuffling down the steps and the slam of two heavy car doors. Then a whisper of tires that faded away. I waited a couple of minutes in case they were just going around the block and looked out all the Parlor floor windows. Being the corner house, I could see plenty. Plenty of nothing at 3:45am in mid-October. Knowing I had just delayed the inevitable, going back to sleep wasn’t an option. Stepping into the kitchen, I fired up the old brass Pavoni espresso machine and made a selection from my humidor. A Partagas Cuban robusto and a double espresso would help me plan my day. It would not be a normal Saturday.

***

When the sun came up and lit William Penn on the top of city hall I dialed in the local news on the radio. An ad for Habbersett Scrapple made me hungry so I made some toast. I quit eating that crapple the day I left home. Like they say, it’s made from everything but the “Oink”. I was due at Walters office with my collections at Noon sharp. I called to give him a heads up about my late visit from Kells and company. He could chew on that until I showed up. I must have dialed wrong. The recording said the number was out of service or disconnected. Dialed again and got the same voice. What the hell? I would find out when I got there. After a shit, shower and shave I tried the office one more time. Nothing. I locked my briefcase and headed for the door, pausing at the kitchen to lean in and turn off the radio. It was the local news, and a serious voice read out an address that caught my ear and I stopped cold.

“Thirteen twenty-nine Olney Avenue, The Arthur R. Golden Professional Building”.

There was more.

“Was the scene of a four-alarm fire late last night that caused extensive damage. Fire department officials and the police department have not yet made statements as to the cause and possibility of victims still being in the building.”

I switched it off and stood there, the skin on my shoulders and back turning ice cold. It wasn’t likely that Walter would have been in the office that late. But it was a Friday night, and he was known to entertain young ladies on occasion, far from his wife and the big house in Elkins Park. I probably should have called there, but I wanted to see this mess for myself. I boarded the Broad Street bus headed south. I own a Highland Green “Bullitt” ’65 Mustang fastback but keep it in a storage unit. Getting around town by foot, bus and cab is easier when you don’t have to worry about where to park or who’s eyeballing your car. One man walking on the street is anonymous. On a bus, same thing. Once you are in a car, people notice.

***

With my briefcase on my lap, I tapped out some paradiddles and watched the city slide by. It looked the same as always, but after making two familiar left turns and a right, I saw water running down the gutter. It hadn’t rained in over three months. I signaled to be let off a block from Olney Avenue and stepped down to the curb. That’s when I smelled the smoke and saw the yellow police tape. The building was barely standing, windows blown out, piles of blackened file cabinets and wrecked, wet furniture tossed around. Melted venetian blinds swung from the third-floor offices. One fire truck remained to finish mopping up. I might have tried going in, but a pair of Philly’s finest were sitting in their squad car keeping an eye on things. Better to not be connected to the Arthur R. Golden Professional Building anymore.

***

I kept walking and stopped at the first phonebooth I found. I had no idea what to say to Walter, assuming he picked up. How many rings do you listen to before you give up? I counted nine when Marilyn, Walter’s wife, answered. She sounded upset.

“Walter? Is that you?”

“Uh, no it’s me, Tommy.”

“Oh Thomas, my god, do you know where Walter is? He didn’t come home last night!”

“Well, I was hoping he was with you.”

“There’s someone at the door, just a minute.”

“Marilyn wait, don’t go!

Her receiver dropped with a sharp clunk, then nothing. I could picture her rushing from the kitchen, along the hall and past the big living room into the foyer and the heavy oak door. Too far to hear any voices, but two pistol shots came through loud and clear. Footsteps next, coming closer on the hard wood. Leather soled Florsheim’s? Maybe. Then a soft click as the phone was hung up. I still didn’t know where Walter was, but I had a hunch, and it wasn’t good.

***

Just how bad were things going to get? Part of me didn’t want to know. Maybe I should have had Miss Drina read my cards after all. I stood there holding my briefcase with the six grand that should have been in Walter’s safe by now. It was lunchtime on a brisk, sunny Saturday. The Mayfair Diner was a good greasy spoon joint only three blocks away. I wasn’t in the mood to eat, but a cup of coffee would help me think. I took a red stool farthest from the door, added one sugar and a touch of cream and worked backwards. What had just happened? Answer. The boss’s wife was shot and likely dead at home. Prior to that, the boss’s place of business was torched. And before that, Kells and company had come for me at my place. Add it all up and what do you have? A dead boss, a dead wife, and me who was still walking around but for how long? My yellow sheet had plenty of arrests, three convictions with time served, going way back to St. Louis. I wasn’t in the murder business but wasting that faggoty redhead Kells could be my first. There were money matters to take care of. Philly is lousy with old banks that look like cathedrals, so I picked one nearby. The Fidelity Trust Company, founded in 1880. A nice lady with a blue rinse and orthopedic shoes helped me acquire a safe deposit box. A perfect place for the cash I carried. I wanted to avoid a big deposit into my checking account at Merchant’s Bank for obvious tax reasons. Back on the street with an empty briefcase, I almost tossed it into a city trash can. Carrying the damn thing always made me feel like the businessman in the movie, The Man in the Gray Flannel Suit. I had to laugh because I was wearing one, dark gray, but not flannel. I decided to go home and change into some worker’s clothes that I would need later. With any luck, the news or the evening paper would have something on the Goldman building fire and the shooting in Elkins Park. All I had to do was wait and put a tool kit together.

***

And wait I did, but it was not a total waste of time. I built a roast beef on rye and washed it with a glass of Tropicana. WFIL was playing bubble gum music but no news. I’m not good at sitting still. At 6pm The Evening Bulletin hit the streets and so did I. My average Joe outfit of coveralls, watch cap and toolbox blended right in with all the citizens heading home for a hot meal. There was a fresh stack of papers at the news dealers and Carl was cutting the twine as I walked up. He was blind and could identify every coin by the sound they made hitting his little dish. He claimed to feel the difference between paper currency too, but I never tested him. When my quarter hit, he grinned and asked, “You want your change, pal?”

“You keep it, Carl.”

“Thanks Tommy!”

Was it my voice? Was it my aftershave? Someday I would ask him how he knew. The southbound bus I boarded was loaded with domestic workers. Ladies of color riding home to darker neighborhoods where they would clean and cook for their own families. I listened to the laughter and gossip with pleasure. It was probably the first time they had a chance to sit down all day. The small Police Blotter section mentioned both events that worried me. The coroner had been busy. Two burned bodies from the fire and one female shooting victim from a nice white colonial in Elkins Park. Not connected as yet, but that would come.

***

A temporary chain-link fence was already up in front of the remains of the Arthur R. Golden Professional building. It might keep out amateur looters but not determined pros. The padlock had no marks from bolt cutters, so it looked like I was first in line. My Elite-37 lock pick set hadn’t failed me yet. It had been over ten years but it’s just like riding a bike. You never forget how. In ten seconds, I was re-locking and heading down the service steps to the basement door. Heat rises and so do flames so I expected the basement to be intact, wet maybe, but not burnt to a crisp. But the deadbolt on the door had been busted all to hell. From a fire department axe, or one of Rizzo’s finest? I stepped inside and the ceiling was still dripping like rain with three inches of black water on the concrete floor. My flashlight leading me around piles of soggy legal file boxes to the upright double door Mosler safe against the back wall. The doors were open wide. No cash, no coins, no paper of any kind. The reason for me being there getting my feet and ankles wet was over. I checked the dial and tumblers. No damage. It had been opened the proper way. But by who? Only one person I knew had the combination. Was the boss still alive?

***

Sitting at my kitchen table watching my socks and shoes drying in front of the open oven, I tried to add things up. I needed some paper and pencil, and some Bushmills. I could hear the evening news on the tv from the living room. They had moved on from local sports to the weather, so I got up to switch it off. It would be ten or eleven before any real news came back on. Back in the kitchen I made two lists, things I knew, and things I thought I knew. The first was easy. Fact, someone was gunning for me. Fact, arson had put us out of business. The second one was more complicated. Walter Amato the boss was missing and/or dead. His wife Marilyn was most certainly dead. So, was I lucky, or just next? There was no one I could call not being a made guy so I would have to wait. Call the local precinct? No way.

My socks and shoes were dry and warm, so I put them on. It felt nice. I would have to remember to do that when the cold weather set in. If I was still around. All the agida gave me an appetite. A Mrs. Swansons turkey pot pie would hit the spot. I got it going and waited with my lists, another Bushmills and a shitload of questions.

***

Maybe my old O’Keefe and Merritt oven wasn’t accurate. The pot pie was burnt. Or maybe I nodded off. Either way, the late news was on and gave me some answers. My boss Walter Amato was indeed dead, as burnt as my pie. His wife, Marilyn who always treated me kindlier than her husband, was also dead, from two gunshot wounds at home in Elkins Park. The cops had nothing and all the businesses that paid us protection were mum and happy to be off the hook. I was on my own. If Kells was now with the Bruno-Scarfo family my goose was cooked or burnt, to keep the trend going. There was nothing in my apartment of any value. I could bail out anytime. I rented month to month and was all paid up. I had the six grand at the Fidelity Trust safe deposit box and my account at Merchants Bank could be withdrawn and closed in a quick visit. That would make $7,442.67 cash total. Enough for traveling money. I packed two suits, a few shirts, underwear, socks and shoes. I left my razor by the bathroom sink. Growing a beard sounded like wise move. I left my suitcase and garment bag by the front door. It didn’t look like much. What else was there? Three things. My Beretta, my cigars and the Pavoni espresso rig. Into a pillowcase they went. I called Anytime Taxi for a cab and unplugged the phone.

***

I always tip well so it arrived out front double quick. Leaving my stuff behind just inside my locked front door I hustled down to the curb and got in. It was a new guy, Black but not American. His ID photo on the meter was so dark it looked like gun range target. The name underneath had too many letters, all vowels with a couple of “W”’s thrown in. I gave him the address on Dauphin Street and sat back watching the neighborhood glide by, probably for the last time. The Walker Self-Storage units were at the end of the dead-end block. The ten-spot I folded into his opening in the dull plexiglass divider earned me a nod and a wide smile of big yellowish teeth.

I watched him go and looked around for anything going on and punched in the code. The gate rattled open, and I walked past the first ten units to number 11. The tiny piece of clear scotch tape I’d left on the shackle of the padlock over a month ago proved no one had tried it. I keyed it open and had to squat to lift the rusty corrugated door a little more than halfway. Fifty-three inches was enough to clear the top of the car. It didn’t turn over on the first try so I waited a bit to not flood the engine. I put my Master padlock in the glove box and tried again. It fired with a deep bark and rumble, then settled into a smooth idle of 700 rpms. The thin coat of dust begged for a stop at the carwash but that would have to wait. The kid from upstairs was sitting on the stoop when I pulled up. He knew my car and liked it.

“Can I get a ride Mr. Tommy?”

“Not today pal, I’m in a hurry, but how about you watch it for me, okay?”

He looked disappointed so I took out a five-dollar bill and tore it in half and gave him one.

“You get the other half when I come down, sound good?”

He nodded, put his hands on his hips and scanned the street looking tough. I went upstairs and took a look around. I couldn’t remember how long I’d lived there. It could have been anyone’s place. The bottle of Bushmills had one drink left. I rinsed out a glass and finished it. For old times’ sake.

***

I humped my belongings down the steps and tossed the keys to Marvin, my junior security guard.

“Open the trunk for me.”

He was acting all serious and the fact that he never seemed to spend much time in school guaranteed he would likely end up in a baggy blue uniform and thick soled shoes, eyeballing shoplifters at the Pantry Pride supermarket. I handed him the other half of the fiver.

“Don’t spend this on candy or some stupid shit, okay? Give it to your mother, someday you’ll be glad you did.”

He ran up the steps two at a time and turned around and waved. I had a feeling he would take my advice. There was one last stop I wanted to make, mostly out of curiosity. I cruised past Miss Drina’s storefront and pulled around the corner. I didn’t want her son’s customers assuming my ride was for sale. I walked back around to find Marik by the door on a folding chair drinking a Fresca. He wore a soccer jersey. The Tottenham Hotspurs.

“That’s a fine car you have Mr. Tommy. I can get you real big money for it.”

“Not for sale, Marik. Your mother in?”

“For you, always my friend.”

I stepped inside, waved to her security camera and sat on the velvet throne to wait. She was not long. She came out looking tired, clutching a sparkly green shawl around her shoulders.

“I know things Mr. Tommy, and things are not good.”

“That’s why I’m here Miss Drina.”

She held the black drape aside for me to enter.

“Come.”

It was almost too dark to see, but I got to a chair across the round table from hers. Her chair was taller than mine, to give her an all-knowing air I figured. She pushed a button on a fake electric candelabra that cast odd shadows. She took my left palm and leaned in close. She smelled like paprika. Then took my right palm. She said nothing and let go. Leaning back in her chair, eyes closed, showing deep blue powdered lids. I thought she was asleep then she spoke.

“You are a very lucky man yes, with very big troubles.”

She got that right, but she’s no psychic. She reads the papers and watches tv like everyone else. I had hoped for a more colorful future, and a safer one. Like in St. Louis maybe. She looked up to the ceiling in the corner behind me and pointed.

I turned to see a small video screen showing a black and white feed from the sidewalk outside her door. There was no sound. Her son Marik was arguing with three guys. Their backs were turned toward the camera but one had the girlish red hair I knew well. Miss Drina stood and shooed me through to her private rooms in back.

“There is a door Mr. Tommy, use it now please.”

I wanted to thank her but came up empty. She gave me a hard shove and I stumbled past the clutter of one dark room into another piled high with boxes and found the door. The bright sunlight blinded me. When my eyes adjusted, two things became clear. My Mustang ready to go, and the city of brotherly love that had nothing more for me.

BIO: Philip DiGiacomo is a former painter and actor from New York. He studied creative writing with Lou Mathews, Colette Sartor and Ben Loory at UCLA. He lives with his wife, the painter Hilary Baker in a 100-year-old farmhouse in Ojai, California. It’s where he writes, reads, cooks, and sometimes races an old Porsche. His work has been published in, The Nervous Breakdown, Literary Manhattan, The Examined Life Journal, Fleas on The Dog, Halfway Down the Stairs, Fish Food Magazine, Inkwell, Delmarva, and other online journals. His story collection “With an Ear to the Wall” will be published by Serving House Books in September 2026