HARD UPBRINGING (a Noah Milano short story) By J. Vandersteen "Mr. Milano, I need you to kidnap my son," Wanda Merrick said. You had to hand it to her, she really knew how to grab your attention. "Excuse me?" I said. Maybe I hadn't heard her right and all that heavy metal and grunge had finally taken it's toll and damaged my ears. "I asked you to kidnap my son." All right, maybe it hadn't. "And you want me to do that because?" I asked. She leaned a bit closer to me, almost toppling out of the office chair in front of my desk. I got a good look at her cleavage. She wore a white powersuit without a blouse underneath. I couldn't even make out a bra. I tried not to blush. "My son is in danger," she said. I leaned a bit closer myself. And not just to determine if she wore a bra. "Go on," I urged her. She leaned back in her chair again, brushing her auburn hair back behind her ears. "He lives with Stewart, my ex-husband. He... beats him. A lot." I felt the muscles in my neck tighten. I hated child abusers. Even more than I hated rap music. "I want you to get my son away from my ex before he beats him one time too many. I just can't let anything happen to my little Kevin." Her voice was shaking, her eyes getting wet. I hate it when they cry. Gets me all weak in the knees. Promising stuff I really don't want to do. My best friend Minnie calls it the White Knight syndrome. I call it being a pussy. "How old is Kevin?" I hoped the simple question would give her a breather, make the tears go away. "Nine," she answered. "He's so young and already has had to endure so much." And there went the waterworks. I offered her a tissue. "Why go to me and not the police or a social worker or something." She took the tissue gratefully. "Stewart thinks he's invincible. You see, he's a decorated cop. Robbery Homicide, considered a hero on the force. No one believes me, an ex-hooker he saved from the mean streets of L.A. Everybody says I'm lying, just to get custody of my child, but you have to believe me... It's not true, I just want what's best for Kevin." Robbery Homicide. Those guys are the best in the business. Tough, seasoned veterans. Even my Dad feared them a little bit. I really didn't feel like messing with them. My relationship with LA's finest was strained enough as it was. "I really think you should try the official route. The legal one." The tears kept on coming. "Please, I'll do anything for you if you help me," she pleaded. "Never say stuff like that," I said, swallowing hard. "You never know when someone asks you to hand in your first born." I regretted my words as soon as I spoke them. Sometimes I go a bit too far with the wiseass routine. "Sorry, I didn't mean to..." She nodded. "I know. Listen, Mr. Milano, I know of your past. I know about what you used to do for your father. I know you've broken the law before." They always have to bring that up, don't they? Once a gangster always a gangster right? Don't they take the time to read the words on my door? Under Noah Milano it clearly says 'security specialist'. Maybe I should go for capitals? "Where did you learn that? From your ex?" I asked. "I've never been convicted of anything, Ms. Merrick and I really want to keep it that way." She stood, straightening her skirt as she did so. Her legs were long and her skirt was short. Nice combo. "All right. You win. But if you change your mind, call me. Night or day. I'm in the book." I watched her walk through the door. She still had the hooker stride, the wiggle of the hips that seemed to invite you. God, I felt like a sexist pig. *** I was at my spineless best again. If I was a paperback I'd been thrown in the trash years ago. I just couldn't forget Wanda Merrick. I just couldn't ignore a plea for help like that. If something really did happen to that kid when I could've prevented it I'd never be able to forgive myself. I was carrying enough guilt with me as it was already. I decided to go and take a look at where Kevin lived. Try to figure out if things where as bad as Wanda wanted me to believe. If so, I could always decide what to do then. The evening was slowly setting in when I parked my Mazda a block away from Stewart Merrick's house. I got out and strolled over to the house. Just a guy taking a walk. The house was a copy of thousands of other houses in California. Brown Buick on the driveway, small lawn, very American dreamlike. The street was empty except for a kid on a bike. I strolled over to the house, making sure nobody could see me from Stewart's house, using the Buick for cover. The street was silent, except for the ticking of the Buick's engine cooling off, and the sound of the kid's pedals. I could see easily through the curtainless windows. I reached one of the house's windows. Through it, I could get a good look into the kitchen. What I saw there made my stomach tighten. I felt the blood rush to my head and my heart started to beat uncontrollably. A child was laying on the kitchen floor, bruised up, bleeding. Standing over him was a big man with a cheap suit that had 'cop' written all over it. I was furious. I kicked in the door, drawing my Glock at the same time. I instinctively found my way into the kitchen. The guy in the suit turned to face me, his face full of surprise. Before he could say anything I had my left hand around his throat and the gun in my right hand jammed against his head. I threw him against the big white fridge in the back of the kitchen. A child's drawings were stuck on it with little Smurfs magnets. My cheeks were burning, and I was breathing heavily from anger. The guy turned white. "What the fuck did you do to that kid!" I spat. "Are you fucking crazy? I should fucking kill you right now!" The guy pushed me back. "Relax, motherfucker! Who the hell do you think you are? How do you dare to come busting into my house like that? If you're so damned concerned over my kid, why don't you help me instead? He's so badly hurt! Shit, I don't want to lose my little boy." It dawned on my that I'd been acting like a raving lunatic. I'd be better off trying to help the child. Check his injuries, call an ambulance. I let the guy, obviously Stewart Merrick, go and kneeled down next to the child. I checked his pulse and yelled to Stewart that he should get an ambulance right away. I started to give the kid CPR. I pumped his chest like crazy, ordering him to start breathing. I vaguely heard Stewart talking to someone on the phone. He seemed pretty distressed as well. Maybe he hadn't intended to hit his kid this hard. Stewart kneeled next to me shouting, "Save him, goddammit! Save him!" His presence next to me made me come to my senses. If the kid wasn't breathing by now, there wasn't any chance I could make him. I shook my head and got up. I felt tears burn in my eyes. I shook my head. "It's too late. He's gone." I could hear the sirens in the distance. I staggered over to the kitchensink and put my head under the faucet, cooling off my head. Stewart just sat there with the kid, ordering him to breathe. It reminded me of myself, years ago, when my mother got shot by a rival family. I knew there was nothing that any of us could do to save that child. The only thing I could do was avenge his death. I swore Stewart was going to pay for his deeds. *** Two plain clothes cops arrived along with the paramedics. Both wore their badges on their belts. One of them was a tall, young Hispanic guy in a suit that seemed a bit too flashy for a cop. The other one was a short bald guy with a Mickey Mouse tie. I always have a hard time taking people with cartoon figures on their tie seriously. The Hispanic guy walked over to Stewart, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Stu, are you all right? What happened, man? We heard on the radio an ambulance was heading over to your place. We came right away." "You want to know what happened? Your Stu just beat his child to death," I bristled. The bald guy pressed me against the kitchen table. "Who're you supposed to be? What the hell you think you doing here making accusations like that?" I shoved him back. "You shouldn't be bothering me! I just saw this man..." "Shut up," the bald cop interrupted me. "Sit down and wait until I ask you a question." I managed to control my anger and sat down on one of the wooden chairs in the kitchen. I could see the paramedics check the kid. They were shaking their heads to each other. I could see the pain in their eyes. I wondered if they ever got used to death. I knew I never would. "The kid's dead?" the bald cop asked one of the paramedics. "I'm afraid so," the paramedic answered. He's got some bad bruises but from the looks of things his skull's been smashed in. I think you guys'd better call a Technical Team and a M.E. and stuff. Shit, it's always the worst when it's kids, ain't it, Broussard?" Broussard nodded, scratching his bald head, eyes on the floor. "Sure is. Sure is. All right, I'll go call the techies. Don't touch anything." "Yeah, I know the routine," the paramedic said. While Broussard used his cell phone to call the Medical Examiner the Hispanic guy interviewed Stewart. "Stu, what happened here exactly?" "I don't know, Miguel. I just came home, went into the kitchen to get a drink. I figured Kevin was probably in his room upstairs or something. Then when I entered the kitchen I found him lying there on the floor, lifeless. I just went into shock for a moment. Can you fucking believe that, Miguel? I'm used to seeing dead bodies on a regular basis, but when I saw my own son lying there, I just went fucking numb." Then he directed his gaze to me. His eyes were full of fire. "Then this fucking lunatic came in and threatened me." "I was just trying to save the kid," I said. "Yeah, right," Miguel said. "You're coming with us pal. What's your name?" Shit. "Milano," I said. "Noah Milano." Miguel's eyes went big, like he'd just caught a super sized fish. He grinned. "Noah Milano? Robert's kid? We just bagged the son of a big time mobster? Oh, that's fucking grand." I sighed. "I guess telling you my dad never got convicted won't help?" It didn't. He slapped the cuffs on me. It was a feeling I knew well. *** I was lucky. Stewart pressed no charges against me, so I got off the hook. I don't know why he let me go. I could see Miguel and Broussard would've loved to keep my ass in jail for a few weeks. Maybe Stewart figured if he let me off the hook I would do the same for him. Fat chance. For some reason I felt obligated to go to Wanda and see if I could tell her what happened before she heard it from the cops. I hoped I'd be more tactful about it then they would because, for them, it might've gotten routine. I called a cab and had it drive me to where I'd parked my car. I considered for a moment walking around the corner, just to check out Stu's house. I decided against it though. It was probably still crawling with cops and they wouldn't approve of me sneaking around there. That thing about the criminal always returning to the scene of the crime. I just started my engine and nosed out of the street, heading for Wanda's place. *** I parked my car at the appartment building where Wanda lived. A fancy Audi was parked in front of it. The license plate said 'WM 01'. Fancy car and a flashy license plate. I didn't really figure her for the type. I entered the apartment building. The place was a dump. The wallpaper in the hall was yellowed and torn. The elevator didn't work. I wondered if the tenants had running water. Wanda lived on the 4th, so I had to take the stairs. Good thing I jog on a regular basis. Once every year. Wanda's appartment was the last one in the hall. I knocked. Nothing. I knocked again. Wanda's voice replied, "Who is it?" "It's me, Noah," I said. I figured this wasn't the time for knock-knock jokes. "I need to talk with you." "Just a moment," she said. A couple of minutes later the door opened. She looked like she'd been sleeping in a gutter for three months. Her hair was a mess, her mascara was all over her face and she was so pale she made me think of a mime. I hate mimes. Almost as much as rap music. She pressed into my body and started to cry. I guess she'd already heard the news. Her body was warm through the silk bathrobe she wore. I could smell cigarette smoke in her hair while I stroked it. The door fell shut behind me. We stood there for a few minutes. Or a few hours, time didn't seem to exist for a moment. It was nice to comfort someone for a change. Normally I spend more time beating people up. Finally she seemed to regain her voice and obviously felt a little awkward. She stepped back and smoothed the bathrobe in the same way she'd smoothed her skirt a day ago. It pulled tight around her well rounded body. "I'm sorry," she said, wiping away her tears. "I'm sorry if I've made you feel uncomfortable." "You didn't," I assured her. "I guess you heard the news about your son. I'm very, very sorry." She nodded. "I know. I was so afraid this would happen." "I feel... responsible in some way," I said and caught myself rubbing my chin. Nerves. "If I hadn't hesitated to help you I might've been on time." She shook her head vigorously. "God, no," she said. "Don't feel like that. At least I have someone who believes me now. You must testify against Stewart! You need to help me avenge my son's death!" There was a lot of anger in her face. She wasn't pretty when she was angry. "I'm not entirely sure I can, Ms. Merrick," I said. "I didn't exactly see your ex-husband beat Kevin. I only saw him with the body. I'm not sure if that's enough." "Can't you...lie for me. I mean, tell the police you saw him beat Kevin. I mean, it's obvious he did, so why not say you saw him do it?" she pleaded, stepping closer to me again. Her robe fell open a bit. Her breasts were white as whipped cream. I like cream, although it makes me fat. Lots of things that are bad for you are nice. I suddenly got the feeling Wanda Merrick was one of them. I stepped back. "I don't think so." "No," she said. "You can't let me down again! You can't." She stepped closer to me again. I panicked. "I need to go. I need to think about it," I said and hurried out of the appartment like I'd been in a lion's cage. Although I felt more like a clown than a lion tamer. *** I drove back to my place. I needed to think for a while. Think hard. I didn't feel good about the thought of lying to the cops. I didn't feel good about the prospect of having to lie in court. I didn't really know why though. I'd lied quite a few times to the law in the past. But I always said that the past was behind me. After a while I noticed an LAPD patrol car in my rearview mirror. It flashed its lights and overtook me. I slowed down and pulled over. Two uniformed cops got out of the patrol car. They were tough looking guys, their shoes and badges polished like Telly Savalas' head. I got out of my car as well. The cardoor fell shut behind me as I walked towards them. The summer sun burned its unrelenting heat on my forehead. I noticed the cops had their hands near their unclipped holsters. "This is the part when I ask you 'what seems to be the problem, officer' right?" I said. "Shut the fuck up, wiseass," one of the cops said. He was wearing a big macho moustache. Probably had to make up for a small dick. "Get your hands on the car and spread your fucking legs." "Sorry pal, you're not my type," I said. It was then I noticed the cop with the moustache looked like he belonged to the village people. "Besides, I always liked the Indian guy better." He drew his gun. "Get your fucking hands on the car now!" "Allright, excuse me," I said and followed his orders. The roof was so hot I almost blistered my hands. "I knew I should've said 'Native American'." Then there was a sharp pain in my ribs. I hadn't even seen it coming. My hands slid of the roof and I had to strain to stay upright. "No," I coughed. "You've got the wrong guy. You've got me confused with Rodney King!" This time I did see the nightstick coming. It was the other cop, grinning sadistically as the stick surged towards me in a wide arc. I slipped my left arm under the nightstick and grabbed his wrist with my left hand, his upper arm with my right. I pushed his forearm down by the wrist and his upperarm up. There was a satisfying snap and the nightstick fell to the ground. The cop started to squeal like a pig. In his sunglasses I could see his partner approaching me from behind, ready to pistol-whip me in the back of my head. I turned, my right fist clenched. I was too late, however. Suddenly there was a flash before my eyes and the world was filled with colors I'd never seen before. This had to be what you saw when you ate magic mushrooms. Then I saw the gun coming once again. I managed to sway out of its way, but got treated to a boot in the ribs. I thought I heard one go. Coughing, I fell on my knees. There was the gun again. The sunlight was reflected on the shiny gunmetal gray of the barrel. It was the last thing I saw before the lights went out. *** I heard something ringing. My alarm clock? Was it time to get up already? Then I recognized the ringing. It was my cell phone. I opened my eyes and had to close them immediately. I was staring right into the sun. The yellow globe burned in my eyes. I was lying in the sand, next to the road. Just where the cops left me after they'd kicked my ass. I searched for my phone. It was still in the pocket of my leather jacket. I managed to make some kind of sound into the speaker when I answered it. "Noah? Are you all right?" a concerned voice asked me at the other side of the line. It was my best friend and Medical Examiner extraordinaire Minnie. "Actually, I'm not feeling too dandy," I spat out some sand. There was some blood mixed in it. "What do you mean?" Her sweet voice sounded even more concerned. "I just went two rounds with the village people," I said and got up on my haunches. "But I think I can still drive. Listen, I'm coming over to your place if it's all right with you. I'd appreciate it if you'd have a first aid kit handy." "Don't tell me I have to play doctor again?" I chuckled. It made me bend over in pain. "You love it and you know it." *** I managed to drive to Minnie's place. When I entered her appartment she looked even better than she usually did. A brown-eyed angel with a first aid kit. She supported my weight and walked me over to her couch. "God, Noah! You look like crap," she said. "Thanks, Slammer," I said. I'd been calling her Slammer ever since she'd managed to drink me under the table with Tequila Slammers. "You look pretty too." She set me down on the couch. I almost crushed a plush Carebear with my butt. "Take off your shirt," she said. I smiled and winked. "And I thought we were just friends." "You're in no position to make any sexist jokes. From the looks of things I'd be able to whup your ass right now." I nodded. "I guess you're right. All right, doc." I pulled my tee shirt over my head. The fabric chafed the places I'd been hit. It hurt like hell. Not as much as the time I got my peepee between my zipper though. "Christ," Minnie said as she got a look at my bruises. "Who did this to you?" "Your colleagues of LA's finest," I said. I winced as she gently touched one of the bruises. "I pissed them off, accusing one of their colleagues." "Who did you accuse?" she asked and started to wrap me up in bandages. We used to play doctor when we were kids as well. Of course, with Minnie that meant we really played doctor. "A guy from Robbery Homicide. Hardcase name of Stewart Merrick," I said. I glanced at the bandages. "What do you think I am? A mummy?" "Shut up," she said. Then she shook her head. "God, I can't believe you. You really accused Stu Merrick? That guy's a hero among most LA cops!" "So I noticed," I said. "Enough of a hero for a few fascists to kick me around like a pinata. Why do they look up to him like that anyway?" "Quite a few things, actually," Minnie said. "I believe he actually took a bullet for his partner once. He's a guy who's known for not taking any crap from anybody." "That's not Stewart Merrick, you're talking about. That's John Wayne!" I exclaimed. She gave me a gentle push that almost made me scream in pain. I decided to keep my smartass remarks to a minimum. "There's more. He saved this hooker from the streets. A lot of the guys on the force were skeptical of this at first, especially when he married her. But eventually he gained their respect, saying he was going to teach that woman to respect herself again. To give the other girls on the street an example, so they'd quit the life as well. It wasn't easy, though. Her pimp, Hispanic guy called Billy Manero wasn't that willing to let his best working girl go. Seems she'd been popular with the better paying customers. He didn't want to dissapoint his customers. Stu had to kick his behind to make him back off." "Did you say Billy Manero?" I asked. The street was silent, except for the ticking of the Buick's engine cooling off. Meaning Stewart had just gotten home when I'd arrived. Did he have the time to beat his child to death in that small amount of time? I believe he actually took a bullet for his partner once. That's the description of someone who beats his kid? "Yes, I did," she said. "Why, do you know him?" I could smell cigarette smoke in her hair. But why hadn't Wanda been smoking in my office, when she'd obviously been very distressed? "No, but I think I'm going to get to know him soon," I said and got up from the couch. "Hey," Minnie said. "Where do you think you're going? I'm not done yet!" I shrugged into my jacket, not bothering to put my tee shirt back on again. "I'm going to solve this damn mess." "But," Minnie protested. I glanced over my shoulder as I got out of her appartment. I grinned as I said, "Yes, I know. I've got a great one, don't I?" *** I was still a bit weak in the knees when I got out of the Mazda and walked over to Wanda's appartment building. I went inside and tackled the stairs again. It took me even longer than the first time, but I managed to get to the second floor. Now I knew how those guys that climbed Mount Everest felt. I knocked at Wanda's door. "Yes, I'm coming. Please, take it easy." Her voice was shaky, like a tear was stuck in her throat. The door opened. Wanda was dressed like a hooker. She was wearing leather boots, a leather skirt hitched all the way up to heaven and an unzipped red leather jacket over a baby blue bra. She might as well have been naked. She seemed very surprised to see me. "Oh, it's you," she said. "I take it you were expecting someone else?" I asked, glancing at her outfit. She blushed. It made her look a bit cuter, and just as sexy. "No, I - I was just getting ready for bed," she said, folding her arms over her breasts, hugging herself. It was too late for her to try and look chaste, however. "Nice jammies. A lot better than my Spider-Man boxers," I remarked. Then I diverted my gaze to her boots. "And I thought I was strange, wearing my socks in bed." She didn't know what to say about that so she just did her best to laugh. She sounded like a car having trouble starting. She was obviously as tense as an itchy trigger-finger. "I've got some things I'd like to discuss with you," I said. "Do you mind if I come in? After you slip into a bathrobe or something of course." She hesitated for a moment, but finally she nodded and let me in. As soon as I was inside she dissappeared into her bedroom. I took a moment to look at the picture of Kevin that was placed on a cabinet on the right wall. It was standing next to an old fashioned clock and a little statuette of an angel. Too bad there hadn't been a guardian angel looking out for Kevin. Above the cabinet there was a mirror. Usually I'm quite happy with my own reflection. Today I wasn't. My face reminded me of a piece of rotting fruit. It was bruised where the cop's gun had hit me and had lost too much of its color. I could hear the sound of a car engine through the open window. The sound stopped and was followed by the sound of metal on metal. A car door being closed. I walked over to the window. Just as I'd expected. It was a fancy Audi. I couldn't make out the license plate, but I knew what it said. WM01, WM as in William Manero. Or Billy Manero for short. A wiry Hispanic man, dressed in a blazing red leather jacket, red pants and a big white hat made his way from the car to the front door. He was smoking a cigarette from a pipe. Then he dissappeared from my sight. Soon he'd arrive at the door. I pulled my gun and jacked a shell in the chamber. At the same time Wanda entered the room, covered up by a pink duster. She recoiled at the sound of it. A little gasp accomponied it. "Relax," I said. "It probably won't be necessary, but I've been beaten up enough for one day. It's just for insurance, you know?" She nodded, but I had a feeling she hadn't even heard what I said. There was a knock on the door. Wanda glanced at me, like she was waiting for my approval to open it. I nodded. She shuffled over to the door in bunny slippers. She opened the door. The Hispanic man smiled at her. A gold tooth caught the sparse light in the room. "You ready?" he asked Wanda. "We got a lot of money to make, you know?" "I don't think so," I said. That's when he noticed me. Pushing Wanda aside, roughly he walked into the room. "Who the fuck do you think you..." He stopped in mid-sentence when he noticed my gun. He made a step back, his cigarette falling from his mouth. "Whoa, man! Relax, dude! No reason to be pointing a gun at me. We're all friends here, right?" I shook my head. "No Billy-Boy. We're certainly not friends. Nothing personal, it's just something I've got against child-beaters." Then I aimed my gun at his forehead. "Ah, fuck that. It IS personal." I stepped forward. He had to make another step back to avoid my gun from pressing against his forehead. "Because I think you're a dirty little pimp. A dirty little pimp who beat up a little boy to convince his mother to get back to walking the streets again." "I don't know what the hell you're talking about," Billy said. He was sweating like a pig. I ignored his words and stepped forward again. He tried to step back, but the wall prevented him. I knocked his hat from his head and put my gun against his forehead. "That's why Wanda hired me to kidnap the kid. Because she knew you'd hurt him. She wanted me to go and get him so she could hide him. But I was too late. You'd already gotten to him. You beat him. You beat him just a little bit too hard and killed him, didn't you? Didn't you, son of a bitch?" "Yeah, he did," a firm voice spoke. A tall, broad man entered the room. It was Stewart Merrick. His face was rigid, caught in anger. I noticed the butt of his gun sticking out from his jacket. "Step back, Milano," he said. "He's mine." I nodded. I could relate to the guy. I holstered my gun and walked to the door. I gave Wanda a last glance over my shoulder. "Take care," I said. She nodded, tears in her eyes, her lower lip trembling in fear. The sound of the door falling shut behind me coincided with the sound of gunfire. THE END J. Vandersteen has been writing all his life. With the Internet he found a chance to share his work with the rest of the world. His main influences include the old guys like Hammett and Chandler as well as wit slingers like Harlan Coben and Robert B. Parker. He's also a big fan of alternative rock and comic books, which explains a lot of the pop culture references in his work. Currently, he's busy writing his first full length Noah Milano mystery novel, for which he's trying to find a publisher. Everyone who's got something to say to him is encouraged to contact him at .