[ 2. In the Middle of Our Street ]

"Promise me, Vincent."

My face grew serious and I kneeled down so I was eye to eye with the person that just insisted I make a promise I intend to keep. She stared back with equal sincerity, big brown doe eyes boring into mine.

"I promise," I said, placing a hand over my heart, "to come back and tickle you as soon as I can!"

Jessie squealed with laughter when I reached for her sides and poked, prodded, and pinched. She tried to get away but I scooped her up, not even thirty pounds thrown over my shoulder with ease. "Stop! Mercy!" she hollered and I let her go, dropping her back onto her feet below me. Jessie's mom, Olivia, stood by with a small smile of admiration on her face.

"I do promise, though," I said to Olivia, taking a few steps into the foyer so we could talk. "I'll be back next week. Just send me the list."

"Thank you, Vincent," she said and wrapped her arms around me warmly. I melted into the embrace that never grew old the more I received them. The desperate craving for a mother's touch was stronger than the nagging instinctive feeling to tense up and pull away.  "Come around for dinner one of these days. The kids would love it."

I shot her a grin. "Only if you make your famous meatballs."

The goodbyes were always the worst part of my job, but the fact that we even could say goodbye was what kept me going. There were no goodbyes without hellos to start with. Jessie and her little brother Jared bid me a theatric farewell and I was on my way.

When the door shut behind me, I sighed in satisfaction. The fall winds struck my skin delightfully, bringing color to my cheeks and nose. Ron was waiting for me at the end of Olivia's walkway, arms crossed over his chest with a cigarillo perched between his fingers. I always liked the smell of them but couldn't stomach the taste.

"You hit the Rodneys yet?" I asked.

Ron nodded. "Last one's Mr. Ciraulo."

I grimaced, fingering the fabric of my flannel jacket as if it would magically finish the delivery and skip the part where I actually had to talk to Mr. Ciraulo. Ron snorted, only laughing because he wasn't the one that had to deal with the old-head every week. My ears nearly started ringing at the thought of having to hear the usual speech. You kids wouldn't know what hard work is if it bit you on your ass! When I was your age, I already owned a house and started a family.

My eyes scanned the area. It was so familiar to me. I used to rule these streets, way back when. I knew each path, corner, and crack in the sidewalk like the back of my hand. Little modest one-family homes bordered the street, similar to the one I lived in when I was a teenager. The city never came around to fix these parts because who was going to pay for that? Surely not the tax-payers, if they had any say at all.

Mr. Ciraulo's house was only a block down from Olivia's, but we took the car down anyways. Ron waited in the sedan parked on the street while I carried the cardboard box up to the door. It was near five PM and his porch light was on, the sky beginning to dim overhead. Mr. Ciraulo didn't tend to leave his house much anyways, so I knew he'd be home in all his grumpy glory.

My knuckles rapped against the worn walnut door with his house number on it. I adjusted the grip I had on the box and waited, but didn't hear anything from the inside. So I knocked again, this time with a bit more purpose. By now Mr. Ciraulo's dog Missy would be barking up a storm at his ankles while he shuffled to the door, grumbling under his breath about uninvited guests. But there was radio silence.

Feeling wary about it all, I turned the handle, shaking my head when I found it unlocked. I would never understand why old folk in the Bronx thought they were invincible or less susceptible to break-ins. And that's coming from an actual criminal. "Mr. Ciraulo? It's Vincent," I called out into the house, the familiar musty, old-book smell invading my nostrils as soon as I closed the door behind me. "Mr. Ciraulo?"

I left the box on the table in the entryway and started for the kitchen, but a lump of a figure caught my eye in the living room. My feet moved faster than my brain as I ran to the aid of the old man, mumbling his name to check if he was even conscious. He was laying face-down in front of his television, arms sprawled out like that of a starfish, his cheek squished against the carpet. His dog, an old terrier mix with matted white fur, was laying at Mr. Ciraulo's slipper clad feet. Her dark eyes plead with me to help her master, head on the floor between her front paws.

Placing a hand on the old man's back, I let out a sigh of relief when I felt he was warm and breathing.

Then the Mr. Ciraulo I knew and — never — loved spoke with his face in the rug. "Get me up, you son of a bitch," he spat, catching me off guard. "What, you think I was dead?"

I scoffed, flipping him over and hooking two arms under his armpits at my elbows to pull him gently to his feet. He collapsed onto his ancient leather recliner, the contention on his face reading clear as day.  I loitered in the living room, unsure of what to do or say without pissing him off more. Clearly the old man fell and was too proud to say thank you for the assistance.

"I brought your usual," I said finally. Maybe if I acted like I hadn't seen that pitiful display, he'd appreciate the delivery more. "Food, toilet paper, your prescriptions, dog chow for Missy. And, of course, the New York Post. Do you want me to bring you anything?"

Mr. Ciraulo scowled, the wrinkles on his face seeming even more wrinklier. "When you kids gonna give it up?" he snapped, shaking hands reaching up to pet Missy, who jumped onto his lap. "You get a tax write-off for charity work, or something?"

"I promise I won't bring flowers to your grave when you die, Mr. Ciraulo," I retorted, the clap-back mostly unintentional, which made the deepened scowl on his face all the more satisfying. "But until then, you have to suck it up and accept that we just want to help you."

I stepped out of the living room and took the initiative of putting the groceries I'd brought away for him. Then I brought the newspaper to the old man who, without a lick of gratitude, took it anyway. Figuring he'd taken that fall and had no intentions of getting back up for a while, I heated some beans and Spam up for him in the kitchen. Ron would surely be wondering what took so long, but I couldn't leave the grumpy old-head like this, no matter how hard he pushed me away.

I'd had some experience with stubborn elderly people in my life.

"Why doesn't the girl come anymore?"

I looked up from where I was filling Missy's bowl in the kitchen. His voice carried through the house, despite him not moving from the chair.

"Because the last time she came, you grabbed her butt and made her uncomfortable," I called, receiving a grumble in response. Once the dog's bowls were replenished, I collected the meal I prepared for the man on a tray and brought it to him. I smiled sweetly, placing it on his lap. "Now you're stuck with me and if you try to grope my butt, I'll punch you in the throat."

"You are a rude young man."

"And you're an ungrateful old fart," I said, petting Missy on the head one last time. "I'll see you next week, Mr. Ciraulo."

With that, I left him to eat his beans and canned meat. It was always refreshing stepping out of his house. Between the old person smell and the ridiculousness of conversations with Mr. Ciraulo, the outside world was a breath of fresh air. I carried my empty box to the backseat to put with the others. I heard shrill laughter of a child and glanced over my shoulder, wondering if it was Olivia's kids running around down the block.

I froze in my spot.

Parked on the other side of the street, about halfway down the block, was a sleek, black Camaro. In the daylight, I could see subtle red accents in the grill and tire rims. The windows were tinted so dark I couldn't see inside, making the severity of the situation even more daunting. He was in there. I knew he was. Nobody in this neighborhood could afford a car like that.

I was being followed.

Ron flinched in the driver's seat when I slammed the back door shut. I moved silently, but quickly, into the passenger's seat. "Go now," I said, an edge to my voice that I wished I could hide better.

"What—"

"Ron, go."

We were off in seconds. I stared in the side mirror, waiting for those familiar headlights to switch on and for Hayes, if that was even his real name, to follow behind. I held my breath, surely scaring Ron in the process. But the Camaro didn't follow. In fact, I feared I'd imagined it's existence the farther away we drove.

I thought about voicing my concerns to Ron, but the guy didn't need anything else to worry about. He was already one inconvenient commercial break away from an aneurism these days. Then he'd tell Georgette, who would probably call off any future heists we were planning on. I couldn't do it without them. Truly.

"Mr. Ciraulo threaten to shoot you again or something?" Ron asked.

"Something like that," I tried to laugh. He saved us both by turning the radio on and leaving me to my thoughts.

I couldn't shake the nerves. If he was following me, why? Maybe he was a detective and this was just part of his investigation. He had all the reasons in the world to just arrest me or bring me in for questioning. If he knew I was in the Bronx, then he knew we'd sold the chains I'd stolen last week. And if he knew that, then he knew I was guilty. So why was he lurking without action?

My stomach lurched at the thought of Ron and Georgie going down for this, too. He obviously saw me with Ron today. Georgette went with me to sell the chains because she knew their worth better than I did. He may have been around then, too, so that made both of them accomplices.

While Ron was like me and didn't have too much to lose, he was still a good man. He was more active in the giving back part of our job. When we'd met years ago, we bonded over our similar upbringings. He made his mistakes over the years and was hardly a saint, but he was trying to make things right. I couldn't let him take the fall when this was all my idea.

And Georgette? She had a little girl at home, only three years old. They were taken care of and her discretion was most important of the three of us, Ron and I agreed. That little girl needed her mom.

"You alright?"

I turned my head to Ron. "I'm... yeah, I'm good."

We rode back to my place in an unsettling quiet. I bit my tongue the entire time so I wouldn't admit what was bothering me. Or worse, call off the jobs. If anything, Ron would support whatever decision I would make regarding what we do, but I felt we were in too deep to turn back. I couldn't let this random guy that was all of the sudden following me around worry me so much.

Everything was going to be fine. I just had to be more careful.