THE "MADE" NICKY FELTONE

The place is immaculate, just like he said it would be, save the spot where Feltone sits.  His chair is surrounded by the refuges of fast food containers and 20 oz. diet soda bottles.  His girl, a skinny waif no more than 14 by my estimation, slinks behind his filthy chair.

 

“Take your socks off, girl.  This ain’t the Taj Mahal.”

 

The 14 year old does as she’s told, setting her bare, white feet into a puddle of day-old soda behind Feltone, slinging a frail arm around his bloated neck.

 

“So?” he asks of me. 

 

“I hear you’re the one who gives all the skinny ‘round here,” I say, watching another teen pixie stroll up to his throne as she takes off her little ankle socks and tosses them in my general direction.

 

Feltone waits as the second girl arrives by his side.  He takes a long, strong whiff of her.

 

“This could have been you, you know, Sequoia,” he tosses.  “Sitting where I am now.”

 

“Yeah, I know.  Make with the give-give.”

 

“How long we been straight, you and me?” he asks, paying no attention to me in the process.

 

“I’d wager seven years, Nick, give or take.  Even back before

Zion City.”

 

“Seven years, Sequoia.  Think about that.  From the time we were running the beltline back in Spateville all the way to now.  Seven years.  Shit.”

 

I give him the “what gives” look, shoulders hunched, palms open.

 

“Is this how you expected the graph to line up?” he asks me.  “I mean, me in the catbird seat, you with the sword of Damocles dangling over your head?”

 

“Can’t say I thought this far in advance, really.  Figured I’d be out of this business by now.  And you?”

 

Feltone takes the soda-footed girl’s toes in his mouth.  I continue, trying to look away and keep from puking.

 

“Well, I though you’d be dead,” he says, choking with laughter on her big toe.  He palms her heel and pulls her toe from his lips.

 

“You’re a fucking crack-up, you are,” he chortles.  “You got anybody to take with you on this thing?”

 

“Depends.  What’s the skinny?”

 

“Oh, always with the questions.  Some people call her Ezra, though I only knew her as Lady Baltimore back in the lean days.  Flew with the Clean Six at one time, or so I heard once.  Either way, she’s Emma’s replacement.  So, again, you got anybody you want to take with you?”

 

“Tough to say.  Jazzbo’s out.  Freaknik’s doing time up at Oxbow.  Might be able to pull a few favors from East Bay Ray.  Why?”

 

Feltone pats the second waif on the ass and guides her towards me from his chair.

 

“Philly,” he spits at her,” see that Mr. Sequoia gets all skinny that he requires.”

She leads me back to the felt-covered entranceway, her heels hardly touching the ground as she walks.

 

“Hold on, Nick,” I yell, pulling away from her.  “I was told I wouldn’t go into this blind.  You have to toss me something here!”

 

“Oh, Philly will be very thorough, hon.  You’ll excuse me.  I just have to get back to my rat killing.”

 

 

As I’m led through the felt, I hear the sickly whimperings of the “Made” Nicky Feltone as he slurps on the toes of the 14 year old who seems to be making no attempts to break away.  My day is not turning out as I’d thought.




-SLL