Short Story by Michael
            A. Kechula


            
The Skim Box


            
 

            
"Quick! I need change for the phone.
            There's a woman lying on the pavement. She may be dead."

            
The fry cook flashed a frosty, get-lost
            look at Mike, then resumed his late night conversation with a
            customer.

            
"If you don't believe me, look for
            yourself." Mike hoped the dare added authenticity to his
            plea. All he needed was a lousy dime to call the cops.

            
Acting as if he'd been asked to donate
            blood to save the guy who raped his sister, the cook yanked the
            dollar bill from Mike's hand, slammed the no sale key, and slapped
            coins into Mike's palm.

            
Mike ran to the wall phone, inserted a
            dime, and dialed 0. "I tripped over a woman's body,"
            he told the operator, who immediately rang the police.

            
The phone rang at least a dozen times.
            Where are the cops? He glanced out the window, just as
            a foot patrolman walked by. Hanging up, he grabbed the refunded
            dime, and ran outside.

            
The cop had moved the woman into a doorway.
            Her head flopped back and forth, as he shook her shoulders. "Wake
            up, Martha," he said loudly. "How many times have I
            told you to stay off my beat when you're drunk?"

            
When he shook her again, she responded
            by hurling vomit onto his uniform. "Sonovabitch!" he
            yelled, making a hasty exit. Martha's legs gave way, and she
            slid back onto the pavement.

            
Mike leaned close to her face. The stench
            of vomit and alcohol turned his stomach. "Are you OK?"
            he asked.

            
Martha's eyes popped open. "Damn cop!
            Leave me alone!" Throwing her hands to his face, she dug
            fingernails into his cheeks. He recoiled from the sharp sting
            of her vicious attack. Running down the street, he pressed a
            handkerchief to his face. A street light showed dark blotches
            smeared across white cotton.

            
His watch showed 1:40 AM. Playing Good
            Samaritan made him miss the last bus from Manhattan to New Jersey,
            by ten minutes. Now, he'd have to wait four hours. There was
            no place to go-everything was closed. He couldn't even wait inside
            the bus terminal-they'd never installed benches.

            
Mike thought of the bus departure area
            on the fourth floor. It was like an outdoor parking garage. If
            he went there, at least he could sit on the ground.

            
As expected, the departure area was a morgue-cold,
            silent, isolated. He tried to read a paperback, but the overhead
            lights were too dim. He tried to doze, but couldn't get comfortable
            on the frozen concrete. Shivering, he thought about the Martha
            fiasco. Why didn't I just keep walking when he tripped over
            Martha's body? I'd be home and under the covers by now.

            
At the peak of frustration, the terminal
            door flew open. A man stepped through, singing loudly, "Eh-Mambo…Mambo
            Italiano…Eh-Mambo…Mambo Italiano…."

            
Mike hadn't heard that bouncy Rosemary
            Clooney tune in ages. Ten years ago, in the early '50s it'd been
            the favorite song of his best buddy, Tony Coco-Coconuts.

            
Long forgotten feelings of sadness and
            missing Coconuts, struck him with surprising intensity.

            
The well-dressed stranger sang louder as
            he mambo'd toward Mike. His arms were extended as if holding
            an imaginary partner. "Eh-Mambo…Mambo Italiano…Eh-Mambo…Mambo
            Italiano…." he sang, gliding forward and sideways.
            "Go, go, go you mixed up Siciliano…All you Calabrese
            do the mambo like-a crazy…."

            
Mike was glad to see another human being,
            but wondered how anybody could be so exuberant at 2:15 AM, on
            such a cold night.

            
Suddenly, the man stopped singing. "Hey
            Mikey," he called. "How you doing, old buddy?"

            
Mike didn't recognize the stranger.

            
"Don't you recognize me all grown
            up?"

            
"Coconuts?" Mike stood up, fighting
            an impulse to run to the stranger and throw arms around him.

            
"None other. At your service, Mikey
            Kay."

            
Only Coconuts had ever called Michael Antonio
            Kaczmarczyk by that name.

            
"But Coconuts is-"

            
"It's a matter of belief," the
            stranger said, extending his hand.

            
Mike didn't lift his hand, but the stranger
            grabbed and shook it vigorously. Contrary to expectations, the
            stranger's hand was warm. This was bewildering. If he weren't
            so exhausted, Mike would have run for the nearest exit.

            
"I don't understand. I was at your-uh-Tony
            Coco's fun-"

            
"It was a nice one too. Right after
            my thirteenth birthday. Remember the thirteen flower cars that
            Snuffy sent?" The stranger chuckled. "He musta bought
            up all the flowers from Paterson to Newark. Remember why?"

            
Mike's mouth went dry; his hands trembled.

            
"You look scared, Mikey Kay. Relax.
            The Capo Di Capo sent me." He pointed upward. "You
            know-the Boss of Bosses. Hey, you'll be glad I came. Now, tell
            me why Snuffy bought up all the flowers in North Jersey?"

            
"Because-" Mike's teeth chattered
            so much he couldn't form the words.

            
"Because why? C'mon-you know the answer,"
            the stranger said playfully. "Don't be afraid to say it."

            
"Because he accidentally shot-"

            
"Bata-bing!" That's how Coconuts
            had always confirmed a correct answer. "Bang, bang, bang!"
            The stranger said, his hand imitating a pistol.

            
Mike couldn't stop shaking. He thought
            about making a run for the door. He tried to remember the prayer
            his Italian grandma had taught him to dispel evil apparitions.

            
"Take it easy, Mikey. I won't hurt
            you. I just wanted to hear somebody say what happened. I've been
            away so long. So many have forgotten. Think hard. What happened
            when Snuffy shot up my dad's store?"

            
"A bullet ricocheted."

            
"Bata-bing! I was in the back eating
            cannoli. Then, wham! My last bite of food for eternity. You know,
            Mikey, I really miss cannoli. Will you eat one for me, tomorrow?"

            
"Sh-Sure."

            
"The connoli at Rocco's on Passaic
            Street is the best. Where they hang the salamis and provolones
            from the ceiling. lt'll be fun watching half-a-Wop, eating cannoli.
            What's your other half? I forget."

            
"Ukranian."

            
"Never could spell your Uky name,"
            the stranger said. "How about spelling it for me, one more
            time, Mikey."

            
"K-A-C-Z-M-A-R-C-Z-Y-K."

            
"Those C's and Z's always mixed me
            up. Me, who always got A's on my spelling tests at Number 12
            School. Hey-I guess you're wondering why I'm here."

            
Mike nodded slightly, knees knocking.

            
"Can you believe they made me a Rewarding
            Angel? I check the books of good deeds, to make sure people are
            rewarded. Every unselfish deed is recorded in the books. I looked
            up your name. Your accounts are out of balance."

            
"Out of balance?"

            
"Yep. I'm here to fix that. You're
            overdue to receive your just deserts."

            
"My just deserts?" Mike felt
            a tinge of relief.

            
"I brought you something special-a
            map to Snuffy's skim box. He used it to stash all the money he
            skimmed from numbers collections. A little at a time, so nobody'd
            notice. Over the years, he stashed fifty thousand. He died yesterday.
            Shoot-out in Newark. Nobody knows about the skim box he buried
            by the river. Now it's yours." He passed the map to Mike.

            
Mike stared at the map with unbelieving
            eyes.

            
"Mikey, don't let a bunch of thankless
            fools, like Martha, change you. Keep on filling up pages in the
            good books. Rewards may be delayed, but I guarantee they'll show
            up. Charity and compassion are always rewarded."

            
He turned away, began dancing the mambo,
            and headed for the terminal door. "Eh-Mambo…Mambo Italiano…Eh-Mambo…"

            
The door opened on it's own. The stranger
            disappeared inside the terminal.

            
Fifty thousand dollars! More than I
            can earn in ten years!

            
His mind flooded with visions of lollygagging
            at Miami Beach; hanging around Hollywood to glimpse Marilyn Monroe,
            Sandra Dee, Lucille Ball; playing golf with Bob Hope and Bing
            Crosby.

            
He laughed hysterically. Suddenly, he raced
            for the door to the terminal.

            
"Coconuts!" he yelled, yanking
            the door open.

            
He looked around and saw nothing but sterile
            marble walls. He brought both hands to his mouth forming a megaphone.
            "I promise I'll get a cannoli, tomorrow. I hate that stuff.
            But, I'll go to Rocco's and eat one anyway. Just for you."

            
His words bounced off empty terminal walls.

            
 

            
Michael A. Kechula is a retired
            tech writer. His fiction has won first place in seven contests
            and second and third place in four others. He's also won Editor's
            Choice awards four times. His stories have been published by
            107 magazines and anthologies in Australia, Canada, England,
            and US. He's authored a book of flash and micro-fiction stories:
            "A Full Deck of Zombies--61 Speculative Fiction Tales."
            eBook available at www.BooksForABuck.com and www.fictionwise.com
            Paperback available at www.amazon.com.