Fiction Short Story

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Fiction Short Story

by Herbert Holeman

Trader Joe

With a quick, smooth movement, the young woman's hand reached out and covered the small bag with her hand then she slid it across the table into her handbag. Then brushing a strand of dirty blond hair from her face with the back of her wrist, she rose from the table. "See you Joe," she said in a flat voice to the dapper young man who sat across from her.

With a knowing smile Joe watched her departing back until the din of the coffeehouse and the aroma of strong coffee reclaimed his attention. A squat, gray-haired man who carried a white espresso cup in his hand shambled up to the table. His shaggy eyebrows on his open, blunt-featured face arched questioningly. "May I join you?"

Joe glanced around at the crowded tables in the room and turned back to the shaggy-browed man. "Yeah, sure," he said.

The old man plopped heavily into the chair and set his cup down. He sighed, his breath labored. "Ah... It feels good to get off my feet."

Joe eyed his elderly companion and displayed the smile that experience helped to overcome reactions to the prominent birthmark on his cheek. The rheumy eyes in the old man's craggy face avoided his blemish.

"My name is Aldo," the old man said in a voice still retaining its old world inflection. He appeared content with the slight nod Joe offered in reply. They lapsed into silence.

A fair amount of time passed and occasionally, Joe flicked a glance in Aldo's direction and witnessed the old man's mouth twitch spasmodically. Once or twice the man's hand embarrassed him by giving an involuntary jerk. But on the whole the old man sat motionless in his chair looking out across the crowded room with his tweed coat unbuttoned, revealing a rumpled, coffee-stained flannel shirt.

Finally but still gazing about with unseeing eyes, the old man asked, "You come here often?"

Joe grinned. "Uh...no. Not really. How about you?"

Aldo leaned back in his chair, nodding. "Yes. I live in the neighborhood, you see."

"Really?" Joe didn't bother to feign interest in his voice.

Aldo took a long breath and wistfulness overtook his voice. "Oh yes, I have lived here a long time."

Joe had time to kill before the next score and decided to go along with the old man's reminisces. "I bet things have changed a lot."

Aldo shook his head. "Not really. Everything is pretty much the same," A sage expression appeared on his face and he looked down into his cup. "Only I live alone now, you see." He sat silent for a long moment before continuing. "It's getting harder to climb the hills too. The street I live on is so steep, they build steps into the sidewalk, but they don't help me much."

Joe nodded. Mention of a sidewalk with steps triggered his memory of such a street. Dismissing the thought, he waved his hand across the room and asked, "What about this place?"

Aldo hesitated as if remembering. His eyes roved the room, at the table's occupants and then beyond to the faded posters and black and white photos lining the walls. "Yes and no. That big shiny espresso machine has been here as long as I remember. This was a place for Bohemians, Beatniks, Hippies, and..."

Joe heard the hitch in the man's voice. He watched Aldo shake his head and glance around the room before turning back to face him with narrowed eyes.

"And other vermin too!" Aldo spat out.

The unexpected vehemence in the old man's outburst startled Joe.

Then Aldo pushed himself up from his chair. His voice had become low and controlled. "It's time for you to go now."

Puzzled, Joe kept his disarming smile, but something was wrong. He sensed a sudden stillness descending upon the room's occupants. At the same time a silence fell, broken only by the young woman with dirty blond hair striding purposely to their table. His smile faded as she stood directly in front of him.

"I went outside and field tested the stuff you sold me—it's so contaminated that it's lethal." She held up her badge at his eye level. "I'm an agent of the State Bureau of Narcotics Enforcement. You're under arrest!"

As if on cue, two men seated at a nearby table rose in practiced unison and in a swift movement pinioned his arms behind him.

Aldo held a crinkled wallet size photograph in the shaking hand he brought out from inside his coat. His eyes agonized and welled as he showed it to Joe.

Recognition flickered in Joe's eyes. He thought back to the girl with the wan, narrow face that was more wrinkled than it should have been at her age. She was the hollow version of the fresh-faced young woman in the photo. He remembered now. She once scored from him in front of her house on the street with the steps. He turned to Aldo and saw the bitter strained face of a man who lived in constant sorrow.

"This was my daughter, Maria," Aldo spat out, his voice quivering. "Before she died from that poison you sold her. She told me who sold it to her: a young man with a birthmark on his face who always had a nice smile.

The sly smile pasted on Joe's face now turned rueful and he shrugged his shoulders. "Shit happens," he said, wincing as the snap of handcuffs pinched his wrists. As the two agents hustled him out of the coffeehouse, Joe turned back to glance at the vacated table that had served as his trading post. Already a seedy type, looking to take over his post, was eyeing it. The knowing smile returned on his face. "New folks, new strokes," he said.

Copyright © 2004 Herbert Holeman

About the Author
Herbert Holeman, Ph.D. is a criminologist, and by avocation a mystery writer and avid mystery reader. He is a member of the Mystery Writers of America and his stories have been published in print and in E-Zines. Herb's law enforcement experience includes working as a beat police officer and a criminal investigator in San Francisco. Among his nonfiction publications is as a Department of Justice publication on outlaw motorcycle gangs and a National Institute of Corrections study of women correctional officers.