Short Story: The Rich And Famous Of…

Short Story: The Rich And Famous Of Bakery Alley

Maggie sat shivering in her cardboard house, constructed of cast-off boxes, about six square feet of space. Suffering damp and cold, and a raw throat from straining to age her voice, were not the ideal conditions for a cosy night at home.

Chief, I’m going to get you for this, she thought. But for the moment, the thunder rolled overhead and the rain blew in sheets down Bakery Alley. She was going to have to survive this storm in order to finish her job.

I had to be crazy to let him assign me to this take-down. What I’ve had to endure for this job. I am thirty-two, but would anyone believe that now? I look ancient. The dentist’s contribution to my disguise was disgusting. He actually stained my teeth, assuring me it would wear off. Otherwise, Police Commissioner Paul Frazier, is going to rue the day he called me to this assignment.

My beautiful skin is ruined too, overly tanned to wrinkles, and my hair is the color of ash in a grate, utterly gross — no longer light brown. She sighed, and I’m glad I don’t have to look at my rheumy eyes. Amazing what contact-lenses can do. She pulled her dirty padded coat close around her. It was the dernier cri of the alley. Rags and cast-offs, filthy because everything came from the dumpsters behind buildings that portrayed elegant facades on Main and State Streets. She tried not to think about her body without underwear. They had warned her that she couldn’t be caught wearing Victoria’s Secret’s in this place.

With the next roll of thunder, came the thought: Somebody once said, ‘— what is unfashionable is what other people wear’. Hmm . . . Oscar Wilde, of course.

Nothing was comforting as the storm continued, with the exception of the wet marmalade cat. It silently squeezed in with her and curled itself around her hip, meowed and went to sleep — stinking of wet cat hair and something fishy. She rubbed him dry with a bit of the ragged, dirty blanket across her legs, but that was no help with the odor.

Lightning cracked, thunder shook the ground under her, and it was all she could do to hold back a scream as her makeshift door was shoved open. A huge familiar figure crawled inside her domain. A stormy night, and now this guy was invading her space. He had taken a liking to her that she didn’t appreciate.

"Maggie," slurred Buffer, "it is so damn cold and wet out there. Can I come in with you? I can’t find anything else. Some crazy kid ran me out of the back entry of the dress shop, and old Stanky was drunk and sick all over the stoop of the jewelry store."

"Well, you’re in, ain’t you? Just don’t touch me, hear? I ain’t for hire . . ."

"My darlin’, I couldn’t afford you — what the hell’s this? A wet cat. Gawd, Maggie you was really hard up to let him in. He just finished off some fish from the smell of him."

"He ain’t bothering nuthing. Go to sleep, Buffer."

"It would be easier with you in my arms, honey. We could keep each other warm."

Her lamp-tanned fist landed gently on his cheek, "— other side of the room, Mister, and stay there, or out you go on your butt," she commanded, and he moved at least one inch.

Buffer grunted, he’d gotten a good look at her in the flash of lightning. He was satisfied that she was all right, and that he was convincing as a drunk. He smiled and went to sleep.

Maggie considered him as he slept. He might have been a good-looking man at some time. Now he was an old man, perhaps in his sixties, yellowed white hair, brown eyes, snaggle teeth, ragged clothing, and he smelled very strongly of unwashed male. She should have made him get back out in the rain, but her soft heart caused her eyes to tear up. No one should have to live like this, not anywhere in this world. She snuffed her little candle.

In the darkness Maggie reached out to him, but quickly dropped her hand.

This world was a city block, a little different from the usual well-engineered ones that made up Hartford. The block was split in half by Bakery Alley. From the air it looked like one square building, hewn in half by some gigantic mediaeval sword. It was an alley of back doors, crumbling facades, graffiti and dumpsters. Redolent with the odor of urine, mold and rotting garbage, the more pleasant scent of some heavenly treat being baked each day provided a more acceptable name for the alley. Back-to-back across the narrow alley were two bakeries. Community Bakery faced Main Street, and Dunkin Donuts faced State Street. They ran parallel through town . . .Glover Avenue on the north, and Collins Avenue on the south.

My avenues of escape, Maggie thought of them.

The next morning, Buffer and the cat were gone when she struggled to her feet, headed out for the public Restroom to relieve herself. She managed to run some cold water over her hands and left. She had shopping to do, now that the rain was gone.

Stealthily, she confiscated — without a thought to this unusual convenience — an abandoned grocery cart from beside the Supermarket dumpster. The employees used the carts to bring out the spoils, but usually wheeled them right back in, unable to stand the stench. Also, she thought that they were probably afraid to linger in the alley.

She glanced up and down the alley, opened the dumpster, climbed onto the delivery dock, and discovered the bin piled high with fresh produce. She bent down precariously and began to forage for her food. From behind her, as she concentrated on the task, Buffer said, "Here, let me give you a hand with that."

"Damn it, Buffer. You scared me. Go away! Nearly made me fall."

He lifted her down with surprising strength. As a policewoman she was slender and very agile under all her garb, although only medium height. Ignoring her protests, he climbed up onto the dock and began selecting the best, causing her to wonder where the weak, shaking derelict wino went.

"Here’s a whole new cake, too, Maggie. You can share some with me. And look at this, I’ve got a good bottle of wine. We can feast."

"Buffer, I am not wantin’ to dine with you," she said sarcastically. He might not be drunk right now, but later. . . He was very stable as he got down.

"Dinner at six, honey. I’ll be home about then," he said firmly, and promptly left — leaving her holding the cake.

She shook her head, and started limping laboriously back to her cardboard house located between the boutique and the bank. She stopped. A couple of kids, eighteen, maybe, were strolling down the alley and she watched them approach, point to her and jeer, "There, Tank," said the small one, " is one rich and famous dame. Lives in Bakery Alley, no less."

"Yeah, sure, Bro. Hollywood dolls in the alley. She’ll just get in the way. We don’t need her nosing in. She could ID us."

Maggie cackled, and offered them a carrot. With names like that I couldn’t identify God himself, she thought. She wanted to say, gentlemen, meet Sergeant Maggie Sheridan. But, she couldn’t chance disrupting her surveillance of the alley.

Pulling Bro away, Tank said, "Come on, she doesn’t know what’s happening. Probably on something herself. Come on, the Man’s comin’ with our stuff."

Maggie huddled over the grocery cart and checked not only her produce, but also the buy that went down, as a man in a name-brand suit stepped out of the Tobacco Shop back door. There was an exchange of words too low to hear, an envelope passed hands, and several plastic bags were accepted by the youths and tucked into pockets. The man from the Tobacco Shop, all elegance, went back inside, and closed the door. The boys started down the alley, lighting up a cigarette which they shared.

Maggie was frustrated. She started talking to her mitten-clad fist, "When is this coming down, Chief? I am beginning to believe I’ll be sixty-five forever. All right, all right. Yes, I’ll be in my cardboard castle if you need me. There will probably be a few more buys — who? The guy from the Tobacco Shop? No, I am sure he isn’t the proprietor, unless he owns the place . . . no sir, I believe the old man owns it . . . okay, yes sir — out."

Maggie limped home. She looked around before going inside with her food, but there was no one in sight.

"Wonder where Buffer is now," she muttered, and squirmed inside to fix herself a warm meal, using a little container of canned heat. She sighed, her day would be spent roaming up and down the alley, going through dumpsters for food, clothing, bedding — anything the department store discarded. Maggie never wondered at the amazing items of comfort she was able to confiscate, because she watched the exchange of drugs and whatever else illegal took place in her alley. Her keen mind and eye were fixed on the one man who came everyday now. He was the one they wanted, she was certain.

Satisfied, she ate much the same as most derelicts and returned to duty in the alley.

Buffer, to all appearances was drunk, passed out in the bank doorway. His empty wine bottle lay beside him. His hand rested on a jug trickling wine onto the street. From lowered eyelids he watched the usual derelicts come and go, saw the drug exchanges, and recognized The Man. He had been waiting for weeks for this guy. He muttered and rolled over, felt the kick in his back and yelled drunkenly, "Hey, wash it. I ain’t done nuttin t’ you. Back off. Lemme be." Buffer extracted a gun from inside his old army coat and waited tensely. Not now! he thought.

There were three of them. Having no further use for him, they trod on down the alley.

Buffer murmured into his glove, "Now! Let’s take it down, now. But be careful with Maggie. She still doesn’t know about me. Just tell her it’s coming down. Okay, let’s go."

Maggie was one of the police officers who broke the drug ring that night in Bakery Alley. She was very busy, but listened for the shouts identifying her fellow officers . Creampuff ! rang out in the alley, a confusion of humans struggled in flashing lights, swearing and cries of pain as the drug team proved their worth. They were fast, backup had arrived and only a skirmish was needed to subdue those men whom they knew to be members of a disgusting industry. A tussle or two and bloodied noses, the stun gun had to be used on The Man, and several officers cautioned them about their language in front of ‘a lady’. Handcuffs were snapped onto those who Maggie identified from her surveillance. Subdued, placed in vehicles and taken away, it was abruptly finished, the alley was lighted only by a dim streetlight at each end.

High-fiving each other, the team watched the cars pull away. Maggie stood, weary but exhilarated at the same time. She scratched her rib cage, then her head.

"Go home, Sergeant Sheridan — Maggie. Get some rest now, you’ve earned it. The world is a bit safer, now. Your disguise was perfect. And totally disgusting," her chief told her.

Maggie smiled and nodded, and turned to look around for Buffer who was nowhere to be seen. At least he’d had the sense to get to safety. She would miss him.

She took the alley cat with her. She had named him Buffer.

Showered, scrubbed and restored, she went back to work two weeks later and, despite her deep tan, she was radiant, smooth skin, clear grey eyes, shining hair, and trim in her uniform. The magic had been the warm baths with olive oil for her wrinkles. The marmalade cat was also restored to dignity and health.

"Hello, Maggie," someone said, as she approached her desk.

She turned. She would know that voice anywhere. "Buffer?"

But of course it wasn’t Buffer. It was a man, and what a man. He was towering over her, rich brown hair, blue eyes, close-shaven, wearing a beautiful suit. His grin melted her right down to her short boots. "Oh, sorry. I thought you were someone . . . it is you! Buffer! You were one of us all that time!”

She slammed a little fist into his arm and immediately regretted it, for at that instant someone said, "Sergeant Sheridan, meet our new Lieutenant, Lance Ross. He’s been transferred up from Oklahoma. Like you, he’s single, and will appreciate you showing him around."

Officer Brady’s intercom blared music: "It’s so nice to be with you" blasted into the room, was quickly subdued to dispatch radio. Brady had disappeared, back to his little console.

‘Hello, again, darling Maggie," said Lance Ross, for only Maggie to hear. "I’ll be home by six, honey." He gazed at her.

Maggie gulped, and said rather weakly, "I’ll have to feed the cat first."

His eyebrows went up, "The cat? The marmalade cat?"

She nodded, swallowed and shook all over.

"That is my cat, Maggie Sheridan. I looked all over hell for him. What have you done with him?"

"I named him Buffer. He lives with me now."

Lance gazed at her, his pupils in those blue eyes had enlarged. "So, okay. I’ll be home by six anyway," he whispered. "To see you both."