In the Closet

Seven…eight…nine, yes, that’s right, nine steps, forty years ago; nine heavy footsteps echo on the tiled floor approaching the other side of the door. I see the knob begin to turn, then stop, as several voices enter the kitchen, and the footsteps retreat to attend the new arrivals. At first subdued and then growing louder with the confidence of people unaware they are being heard, introductions are made and acknowledged without a name being spoken. I’m sorry; that’s wrong. Forgive me. Not all the voices were loud and confident. There was one voice lost midst the terse discussion -- a voice no longer male or female, muffled and whimpering in the sheer terror of not knowing what would come next. Waiting…

Crouched behind the door of my dressing room, which was, in fact, little more than a broom closet containing an iron-stained toilet and an old chipped corner hand sink with half a handle for the hot water, my mind was racing. The reflective backing on the locker-sized cracked mirror hanging just at chin level had oxidized over time, clouding the edges along with most of the mirror surface, creating a Picasso effect for my makeup check. But, that would come later, if there was a later. At this moment, I had to be quiet, and wait...

Preparing to sing at the 10:00 o’clock show, my performance gown swung from the ten-penny nail pounded into the back of the door. Turnaround space was at a premium and, as I moved, the tulle netting of my overskirt kept catching on the chipped enamel paint edges that revealed the years through the exposed layers of varying colors, while my hanger made small scraping sounds much amplified in the almost hollow room. I knew without question that my safety depended on my being quiet. This was Miami Beach, mid-60s, land of La Costra Nostra, better known as The Mafia, and most hotels were under their sway for both protection and profit. You didn’t have to be a part of it to know that it was all around and any disrespect would make you a target. Just, do your thing, close your eyes, and keep your mouth shut. And, wait…

 I had to find a comfortable position that would prevent spastic muscle movement, hanger sounds, or, worse, discovery. The band was playing loud enough to mask most of the kitchen sounds but I had lost track of when their set would be over. Unlike the refurbished public areas of this 75-year-old hotel, off-limits rooms were still in the queue for another owner or influx of cash to bring them up-to-date. The closet’s skeleton key dangled by its leather strap over an ancient keyhole that allowed me to hear and to some degree see into the kitchen. That meant making a sound could expose me, something I instinctively knew I really didn’t want happen. To discover me, waiting...

Eyeball to the keyhole, I saw a floor model band saw centered in the old-fashioned hotel kitchen next to a long rectangular stainless steel table cleared for the next fresh cuts of roasts, steaks, ribs, and stew meat. I stared in horror and began to tremble as I heard the man in charge bark an order, then watched as three coatless burly men in aprons took hold of the terrified young man who was violently struggling as they secured him to the table, which they then turned crosswise to the saw. Waiting… I wet my pants…

It was easy to pick out the leader of the black suits at the far side of the room. Standing with both feet solid on the ground, a detached look on his weathered face and just slightly apart from the others, his jeweled hands and expensive suit told me he wished to appear above the others and, maybe, even suave. But, in truth, he only achieved slick suave, not classy suave, a distinction he would be incapable of recognizing. The others, his followers, were like all sycophants, slightly bent at the knee and heads angled in a subtle subservient way, waiting for the next request or command, but never relaxed or speaking first. Like waiting for a curtain to rise, he signaled for silence with a raise of his hand and the large jeweled rings bounced rainbows around the room

This was just business to him; time to collect a debt. Hearing was difficult but I was able to make out that the young man had borrowed a large sum of money that he had simply not paid back as promised and this was causing Mr. Suaveless a loss of respect, which could not be allowed to get around, as it was bad for business.

When asked by the aprons what he wanted them to do, it became even more difficult hearing as he lowered his voice, saying something about…” leave a piece per grand, so, that’s thirty, yeah, thirty pieces-- like Judas, yeah, leave him in thirty pieces.”

The whining of the saw and the gag placed in the man’s mouth did help to muffle his screams, before his head rolled off the table onto the polished floor. I vomited into my tulle overskirt. As directed, the three men continued until the debt had been paid in full. By the time the band stopped playing, the room had emptied, leaving nothing more than their warning in a pool of blood on the stainless steel table, the young man’s head returned to the table. I could not think; I could not move while shaking uncontrollably behind the door, waiting…

I was still in the same position when they found me. No, not Mr. Suaveless and his men; but, the police who had been called when the screaming waitress had been able to calm enough to call for help. Yes, it’s been forty years, but I make no sound. I know they are out there. They come every day. I don't know why they keep coming back. I didn’t know them – or, the man on the table. I don’t think they knew I was there; but, I can’t be certain. Don’t you hear that? Seven, eight, nine steps, and the knob turns and, then, the pretty smiling lady enters, carrying a tray of food-- this time. When she leaves, the steps start, again. I count them, every time. I will not open the door. I will not open my mouth. I am waiting…

Oh, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking I'm making this up. But, if that’s true, why won’t you go see? You just sit there and point your finger at me and tell me I don't know what I'm talking about. I know you lie to me. You say you don't, but you do. And then you laugh. At me. Oh, not to my face. You wouldn't dare, to my face. You’re just like all the others and you can’t make me do it. No, no, I will not make a sound, not a single sound because, don’t you see, I’m still waiting...