A Nice Place to Die

By Charles Finger

“I’m really more of a yogurt man in the mornings,” Mr. Nelson prodded at the untouched croissant on his plate, the golden orange glaze cracking under his ring finger, “but for such important business as yourself, I can settle for a pastry.” Mr. Nelson flashed his brilliantly white teeth and bit into his breakfast.

Adam Henry sat in a small cafe, “Gazette,” surrounded by New York businessmen and tourists alike, acutely aware of the pistol pressing into his knee. The man holding the gun was Sam G. Nelson, a loyal employee of Eugene Locke, another man to whom Adam owed a large sum of money he was meant to repay five days ago. Mr. Nelson’s finger rested expectantly on the trigger of his gun.

Mr. Nelson had three very notable features. First, he wore a pristine, solid grey,
three-piece suit. As long as Adam tried, he couldn’t find a single wrinkle. Except, of course, near his right hip, where a concealed holster typically held his gun. Second, he had the complexion of a frightened ghost and black hair gelled down flat. Together, these two traits worked to display the palest forehead Adam had ever seen. It was almost translucent, with veins criscrossing every which way, clearly visible at any hour or light level. If Mr. Nelslon’s skull wasn’t quite so thick, he suspected he would be able to see his brain. Finally, Mr. Nelson had the whitest teeth humanly possible. They were clearly a point of pride for him since he flashed them at every opportunity he could. He was smiley in a way, I suppose, but mostly he was just blinding people everywhere he went. In the daylight, his teeth looked as though a giant had taken an eraser to Mr. Nelson’s mouth and wiped his teeth from the world, leaving blank paper behind. In the night, he actually glowed like a second, larger, moon.

The cafe wouldn’t be the worst place to die, Adam thought. The smell of melting butter and brewing coffee prickled at his nose. The brilliant yellow of egg yolks, his own untouched breakfast, occupied the bottom of his peripheral vision. The walls of the restaurant were painted a dark muted blue color that reminded him of lavender and the blue parts of the sky at dusk. Warm light from the infant sun flooded the cramped restaurant, gilding the blue and illuminating falling dust as it fell onto the booth where he sat with Mr. Nelson. The booth was one of many in a line of red leather benches against a wall decorated by various mirrors of all shapes, sizes, and apparent ages. Hushed early morning voices mixed together to form a pleasant ambient volume. Occasionally Adam caught a few words from the din.

“Yes, I understand she’s distraught, but…”
“…to take his report and shove…”
“..the French toast, please, with a bit of champagne.”
Somewhere in the kitchen a glass broke.

“Adam.” Mr. Nelson’s voice cut through the chatter, pulling Adam back to his impending demise. There they were again, those white teeth, staring at him in a grin he struggled to find genuine. “Mr. Locke is very concerned about the returns on his investment, and you have been a difficult man to find.” Mobsters had a habit of speaking this way, Adam had discovered. Every phrase an innuendo. It was a trend he found increasingly annoying.

“They’re too white by the way.”
“Excuse me?”
“Your teeth. They’re too white. Looks unnatural, like you left the gel on too long.” And away they went. Mr. Nelson’s obnoxiously white teeth had been replaced by his pursed lips and rapidly reddening face.

“You’re a real motherfucker, you know that.”
“Language, Nelson, we’re in public.”
“I have a gun. Touching you.”
“So it seems.”

“I can pull the trigger.”
“That you could.”

“Where’s the money?” Back to business. That wasn’t a particularly interesting story, actually. Adam suffered from what he liked to call a gambling dedication, and what his remaining family and friends liked to call a gambling addiction. Regardless, the money he owed to Mr. Locke was long gone, lost on an ill-advised bet on the New York Giants. His last hope of survival now rested on the Giants again, on a game they would play that very day at noon.

“Ask that Jones bastard. I swear he was throwing to the other team.”
“That’s not what I like to hear, Adam, not what I like at all.” Mr. Nelson had regained his composure. He was grinning again, though his mouth now remained firmly shut, making his grin look more like a grimace. The muzzle of the gun left Adam’s knee but remained under the table. “I’d shoot you in the gut if your kidneys weren’t so damn valuable.”

“Are they really? Facinating.”
“You have exactly twelve hours to call me with good news, Adam. I hope you’ve got a plan.”

“Kind of a cliche, don’t you think?” Adam lowered his voice mockingly. “You have twelve hours. I want my money. Kidneys.” Mr. Nelson did not seem amused by being mocked.
“Mr. Locke has graciously decided to cover your breakfast this morning. Get out of my sight, and get the money.” Adam stood to go, leaving Mr. Nelson, and his eggs, at the booth behind him.

About five hours after his breakfast with Mr. Nelson, Adam sat in a crowded bar
watching his life unfold. He was, of course, watching the Giants play on one of the many TVs scattered around the room. The bar was a small brick building wedged into the ally between two metal New York behemoths. From the street, it looked almost like a tavern for bugs between two cassette tapes, and that one shrank down to go inside. The inside of the bar was shrouded in a perpetual gloom. There were few windows, and at first inspection, most of the overhead lights were burnt. Couple the two features and even at 4 pm on a sunny day the bar had the light level of a poorly lit freeway in the wee hours of the morning. Additionally, the entire interior had been painted a horrific yellow. It was truly the worst thing that had ever graced any wall ever. It had been painted on so carelessly that Adam could still see the brushstrokes however many years after the initial application. Small patches of red brick shone through where the painters had missed spots and not bothered going back. Together, the yellow paint and low light had doomed the bar to never attract anyone with the kind of money to keep it afloat. Why Adam had chosen to subject himself to such an assault on the eyes only God knows. But still, Adam sat on one of the blue bar stools at the yellow bar in the tavern for mites and watched the Giants miss a game-winning field goal.

“And the kick is NO GOOD! Don’t go anywhere, ladies and gentlemen, we are going to overtime!” The announcer exclaimed. Now that was just obnoxious. Honestly, at this point, Adam thought he would rather be dead than be existing in limbo. But alas, if he could control football games, he wouldn’t be in this situation anyway. Adam sighed and almost fell backwards off his stool, forgetting there was no backrest. Sipping on his drink, he remembered the cafe where he didn’t eat that morning. Finding himself pining for the red bench, the dusk blue walls, and the rusted mirrors, he scowled. Ironic, he thought, to have been more comfortable with a gun pointed at his stomach. Though, considering the unsavories he was surrounded by, he figured he probably had more than a couple pointed at him now. Adam chuckled at his own wit and looked back up to the TV, checking if the commercials were over yet. Presented with an advertisement for car insurance, He decided he was better off leaving the bar, living what little life he might have left instead of drinking it away with booze he couldn’t afford.

For the second time that day, Adam found himself standing on a sidewalk in New York with nowhere he particularly felt like going. He considered the police station but concluded he would most probably be shot by whatever grunt Mr. Locke undoubtably had tailing him, and despite his earlier claim, he did actually prefer limbo to death. So instead he just walked. He didn’t know where he was walking, though he thought it was in the general direction of Staten Island. It’s worth noting he was wrong, actually walking in the direction of Harlem. This turnaround is how Adam found himself very confused in Central Park, completely unaware that
the Giants had made a herculean drive down the field, only to be intercepted in the end zone and defeated. He was doomed.

Another seven hours after he found himself in Central Park, Adam was feeding ducks. He had bought a loaf of bread he had every intention of eating at a bakery at the border of the park, subsequently learned of his own impending death, and rapidly lost his appetite. So now he sat on a bench by the water edge and thought back over the events of his life. What he remembered more than anything was his conversation with Mr. Locke two months prior.

Adam had gone looking for Mr. Locke in a high rise office building, finding his name alone on the directory next to a higher floor. He had been surprised by how ordinary the mob boss’s place of business had initially appeared. Stepping from the elevator, however, Adam was greeted by the least ordinary office he had ever seen. Inside the office building, bathed in the midday light, a lounge papered forest green and filled with victorian furniture and ornate woodwork stood in stark contrast to the elevator and view of the New York skyline. Sitting on a small chair, seemingly alone in the room, was Eugene Locke. “What can I do for you, Mr. Henry?” Locke had said.
“Well, Mr. Locke I-”
“Eugene! It’s Eugene, I insist.” Eugene Locke did not look like Mr. Nelson. He wore a dark button up shirt he left untucked, a pair of stained corduroys, and a pair of thin ovular glasses. His thin stubble looked as though he had done nothing with it at all and his hair, which was a dark brown, almost black, was short and well kempt. He always held a glass of wine, but never seemed to drink. He had a demeanor that put you at ease, even as he talked about how much money he would be able to get you for a litre of your blood. A look about him that said: ‘I’m a good man in a bad world.’ It is important to understand Eugene Locke was not a good man. He had simply been good enough at business that he eventually stopped having to do the killing himself. Unfortunately, that had not dawned on Adam quite yet when he decided to ask Mr. Locke for a large sum of money.

“Right then, Eugene, I’m in a bit of a pickle. See I’ve had a rough day at the horse track and rent’s coming up so I thought I’d come to you and-”

“Say no more, I completely understand. I’m sure we can work out a loan of some sort, the only thing we need to decide on is collateral. You do have collateral don’t you Adam?” Slightly irritated that Locke had interrupted him again, he shook his head. Mr. Locke frowned. “That does make it more difficult, but you were right to come to me. I can give you something. Less, but something without collateral. Understand through, Mr. Henry, I don’t give out loans on good will to people I don’t trust.”

“Of course Euge-”
“It’s Mr. Locke, Mr. Henry. I need you to understand that I do not appreciate people who
betray my trust. Can I trust you to repay me, Mr. Henry?”
“Yes Eu- Yes Mr. Locke”
“Good.”

Now, in what Adam believed to be the final moments of his life, he could see plainly that Eugene Locke was not a good man. He checked his watch. He was meant to call Mr. Nelson with good news forty minutes ago.
“Hello, Mr. Henry” Adam didn’t turn around. He didn’t need to, he had been reminiscing about Mr. Locke’s voice for the past half hour.
“Hello, Mr. Locke”
“It’s Eugene, Adam.” There was pity in Mr. Locke’s voice now. The kind of pity that made Adam think: ‘Eugene Locke is a good man, in a bad world.’

Charles Finger is a senior at Benjamin Franklin High School in New Orleans. He is 17 years old and still waiting on college decisions to know where he’ll be going in the fall.