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This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book “the Statue” cc&d, v270 (the April 2017 issue) You can also order this 6"x9" issue as a paperback book:  |
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Girl from 3rd Street
Patrick Roberts
He found her sleeping it off under the 3rd Street Bridge, clad in a dirty T-shirt and overalls. She smelled of alcohol and worse, and she dribbled spit and slurred her words. The girl didn’t mind being carried to his car; she was probably used to it. He had noticed her hanging around 3rd Street, hustling the guys in front of the mom-and-pop stores. She had even bummed a cigarette from him the day before yesterday.
Then it hit him. Fate was knocking at his door. She was cute and street-smart, and he needed help working the congressman, who was known for his philandering. Funny how smart but stupid politicians could be, all in the same day. Tony was going to feel her out, dirty as she was. Cinderella was sleeping in his bed. If she was trainable, he could lose the muscle and put a twist on the score involving the politician.
The dark-haired Italian from Frisco went to work. He fed, clothed, and smooth-talked her into staying—day after day, week after week—until he bathed the street smell from her nymph-like body. She was feminine and willing; she really thought her knight in shining armor had arrived. “I told you, Star, don’t overplay it,” Tony told her. “Cute is not sexy. These guys want sluts in Gucci shoes.” Tony drilled the lessons into the gorgeous makeover. She really was the real deal.
Two months passed. He could see Star had come from a good family, probably well off. When they drove up California Street, she would point out different places. “Look, the rich and famous.” The wise guy was gaining confidence in the petite brunette. Day after day he instructed her in etiquette, dress, and manners. She might have lived on the streets but there was a polish to her, and where it came from Tony Anello didn’t give a damn. He was happy with the way it was going.
That Monday, he received a phone call. The congressman had just checked in to the Fairmont Hotel. The lessons and long hours were about to pay off. The Italian from North Beach was ready. He just prayed she was—the snotty-nosed kid from 3rd Street who was now a Star.
Congressman Richards carried his own bags into the lobby of the Fairmont Hotel. He was low-key but anxious for his weekend of fun and games in a town notorious for discreet encounters. He checked into a modest suite with a view, using an assumed name, of course. The knock on the door was the bell captain. He was expected, but nobody knew it was really Tony, dressed in a red and white uniform. It had cost him plenty to bribe the real bellman. “Mr. Collins, sir, I’m sure your stay will be a pleasant one,” Tony said. The two men spoke kind obscenities while the congressman reached for his billfold. “Thank you, sir. You won’t be sorry—trust me. She’s tops on my list, Mr. Collins.”
Tony left the room. He paid the informant waiting near the elevators two thou for his pound of flesh. This was the guy who knew the politician’s moves in the city. Without him, there would be no score. There was another knock on the door to suite 6. It was Star, draped in a smart Anne Klein dress and wearing Channel No. 5. Richards opened the door. His jaw dropped in awe of her sex appeal. Then he noticed a strange expression on the girl’s face, like she had seen a ghost.
She almost fainted, then made an excuse about walking up the flights of stairs. Star was staring into the face of her uncle on her mother’s side. Was it a test?, she thought. Maybe something went way wrong. “Well, you’re everything I expected, dear,” the congressman said. “May I offer you a drink?” What Star needed was a snort of coke from her old connection. Still trying to make sense of it, she apologized. “I’m sorry, I’m catching my breath, but I forgot to pay my driver. I’ll only be a minute. The pretty teenager made her way downstairs to the rear lobby. Tony was waiting. “Are you fucking kidding me?” he said. “What do you mean, Uncle Jerry?”
The Italian couldn’t believe his ears. “Did he recognize you?” She laughed crazily. “What a question from a man like you! No, he didn’t recognize me. I wouldn’t be here now if he knew it was me.”
Tina respected the wise guy; he’d turned her life around. As it turns out, she was from an influential family. They argued, ranted, and then laughed it off. What a cute little criminal she turned out to be. It was on to plan B, which meant an even bigger pay-off. Life under the 3rd Street Bridge just got richer, and Star, after saying no four times, agreed to fuck her uncle, literally, out of—eventually—a cool mill. It wasn’t like she hadn’t sat on his lap as a child, wondering what was poking her on her thighs.
The man cried out in ecstasy—God, Mary, and everyone else in his filthy mind—a fantasy played out for hours with Star. He felt ten years younger and a big dick taller. The best piece of ass he’d had in years. The arrogant fool didn’t know what hit him. He walked the girl to the elevators. Star pocketed cab fare. “You know, you look familiar,” he said. “Oh, well, must be the city—everyone here looks alike.”
She entered the cab at the stand in the parkway and told the cabby to blast the song on his radio: “Big wheels keep on turnin’.” She reached in her purse for the camera. Star and the uncle were caught on tape in six different positions, including some unheard of. Damn, she thought. They were doing remarkable things with technology these days. The cab pulled up to the Mexican joint where Tony was waiting. He too was smiling. He could tell by the look on her face that she had videotaped every turn of the head, pardon the pun. It wouldn’t be long before they cashed in on the dirty politician.
It was Taco Tuesday, but they didn’t serve Mexican food on the French Riviera, just Crystal Champagne and strawberries. The two crooks sat on the white sands of the Riviera, kissed, and held hands. Each pinky finger sported a two-karat diamond. “Tony, did you notice the prime minister is spread across the headlines?” She sipped the Crystal. “Fuck me, Jesus, I created a monster. Your uncle’s body isn’t even cold yet. Hand me the damned newspaper.” Tony smiled with that dago charm. “Anything you say, Mr. Anello. Nice weather we’re having.”
The debutante from Tuscan was no longer clad in a dirty T-shirt and overalls.
