ST2.9 | "Behind the Deli"

PROMPT: Baseball is winding down; football is starting up. Basketball players are at camp, and hockey players are on the ice. Meanwhile, Uncle Nicky can’t stay away from the track. That's right, this month, we want stories about sports. About the dreams involved. About the gambling. About the competition. About the broken bones. If it involves sports and it’s noir, we’ll see you at the finish line.

BEHIND THE DELI

by Leslie Elman

Behind the deli, four guys sat on plastic crates and played poker with cards slick with grease from the griddle. Sunset triggered the sensor on the floodlights bolted to the strip mall wall.

Tom brought his Dodge Charger to a stop and killed the engine. The guys behind the deli took no notice as he entered the dry cleaner through the rear door. Once inside, he waited, screened by a curtain of plastic-wrapped suits and dresses.

At the counter, Milton scanned the barcode on a customer’s receipt. The motorized clothing rack engaged, starting a swaying parade of garments—up from the basement, around the back and down to Milton, who plucked the customer’s order off the line and hung it on a hook within her reach.

The customer glanced at the Vandals’ schedule affixed to the back of the store’s cash register. “Ugh, they’re starting again?”

“Pre-season in two weeks,” Milton told her.

“Followed by six months of listening to my husband complain about them.”

“You never know. It could be a good season.”

The woman groaned. “They stink. They always stink. Wish I was paid what they’re paid to stink like that.”

Spying Tom amidst the dry cleaning, Milton squeezed a sympathetic smile in his direction.

When the woman was safely out the front door, Tom stepped out from behind the clothing. Milton said, “Coach, good to see you,” and handed Tom a bunch of garments on hangers twist-tied together. The dress on top didn’t look familiar, but Tom knew it was futile trying to keep track of Aubrey’s wardrobe. Aubrey did a lot of shopping.

“Gonna be a good season?” Milton asked cheerfully.

Tom shrugged. “We might surprise some people.”

He left the cleaners the way he’d come in. Milton had offered him that courtesy a few seasons back, after a particularly unpleasant encounter with a fan. The fans took their football seriously here, claimed the team like they owned it—tossed you treats when they were pleased with you and kicked you when they weren’t.

Outside in the parking lot, the snap in the air smelled like football—cold, hard, invigorating. Tom closed his eyes, inhaled through his nose, and exhaled through his mouth: the yoga breaths Aubrey taught him. In, two three four. Out, two three four. “Let the dark stuff go. Let the lightness in,” she said. In, two three four. Out, two three four. He pictured autumn leaves scissoring lazily to the ground and felt lighter—or maybe just light-headed.

When he opened his eyes, he saw the emerald green (“Green like money, Tom-Tom”) Mercedes AMG with its “F-N-D” license plate parked in a darkened corner of the lot. Tom unlocked the door of his Charger, tossed the clothes onto the back seat, and was halfway into the driver’s seat when he heard a man’s voice call, “Tom-Tom!” The floating autumn leaves in Tom’s imagination hit the ground and were crushed to dust. He stepped out of the Charger.

“Why’re you throwing those pretty clothes around like trash, Tom-Tom?” Effendi Wilson was all muscle and mouth. A one-time golden prospect who hadn’t lived up to expectations, he was the best the Vandals had, and he would never be good enough.

“Wilson,” Tom said flatly.

Wilson sucked air through his teeth in rebuke. “Hang those pretty dresses up right, man,” he said. “You don’t want me tellin’ Aubrey you treat her stuff like that.”

Tom narrowed his eyes, but even at a respectable six-foot-one, 190, he knew he wasn’t about to win a stare-down with a man-mountain like Effendi Wilson. He flipped the driver’s seat forward, fished Aubrey’s dresses out of the back seat, and hung them from the assist grip.

“Tom-Tom.” Wilson played a drumroll with his fingertips on Tom’s head. “You gotta watch a woman like Aubrey. Old dude like you. You don’t treat her right, she’s gonna go looking around.” Wilson shifted his shoulders, rearranging his muscles. “Plenty for her to look at. Know what I’m sayin’?”

Tom set his lips together, ran his tongue over his teeth, sucked air through his nostrils, said nothing. He got back into the Charger and started the engine.

“You listen to what I’m tellin’ you, Tom-Tom.” Wilson grinned a filthy grin. “And tell my girl Aubrey I said hi.”

Tom reversed the car abruptly, causing Wilson to flinch. “Ooh! Big man, Tom-Tom!” Wilson pushed aside his suede jacket and placed his hands on his hips. Tom glimpsed a handgun tucked into the waistband of Effendi Wilson’s jeans. Shifting into drive, he pulled away, tires crunching over gravel and crushed glass on the cracked asphalt. In the rearview he saw Effendi Wilson walking toward the strip mall. The guys behind the deli were picking up their crates and cards and calling it a day.

***

On the practice field, Effendi Wilson broke through the line, turned to receive a pass, bobbled it off his fingertips, and was summarily knocked on his ass by a defensive back before the ball hit the ground. He shook his head and chuckled. They ran the same play again. Again, Wilson went down on his ass, a little harder than the first time. You had to be pretty damned obnoxious for your own defense to want to lay you out during practice.

Effendi Wilson was that obnoxious.

He trotted to the sideline where Tom stood with only his clipboard to defend him. “Tom-Tom!” Wilson grinned and played a drumroll on Tom’s head with the same fingertips that couldn’t hold onto the ball. “You get those pretty dresses home to Aubrey?” Wilson hovered behind Tom, close enough so that anyone who couldn’t hear them might think they were discussing the practice. “Bet she looks good in them dresses.” Wilson sucked lascivious air through his teeth.

Tom kept his eyes on the practice field, where La’Shawn Stillman, a new recruit wide receiver, deked around his coverage and made a fingertip catch. “You watching, Wilson?” Tom said. “That’s how it’s done.” The rookie, face glowing with a sheen of sweat, headed to the sideline, where his teammates greeted him by pounding on his shoulder pads.

“You don’t tell me how it’s done.” Wilson spat something frothy on the ground at Tom’s feet before putting on his helmet and heading back onto the field.

A cold wind lifted the hood of Tom’s jacket off his back. He closed his eyes, inhaled through his nose, and exhaled through his mouth until the lightness reached him.

Effendi Wilson caught the next pass he was thrown, pumped his fist, and shouted “F-N-D!” like the license plate on his green-like-money Mercedes. Then he pointed the football at Tom as if it were a loaded weapon.

***

The first time Tom saw Aubrey was in a hotel bar, which was neither as tawdry nor as titillating as it sounds. She was on the road doing safety compliance checks at a factory that made ceiling fans. He was on the road to meet a junior college kid the scouts thought might make it in the pros. (The factory passed; the kid didn’t.)

The hotel bar was the only place in town that served food past 8 p.m. Tom had a burger. Aubrey ordered the house salad and wound up eating most of Tom’s fries. He was honest and lonely. She was smart and bored. They enjoyed being together and there was genuine affection between them even if their marriage—the second for both—hadn’t managed to eliminate his loneliness and her boredom.

His job as wide receiver coach of a professional football team was something other guys would covet more than any neighbor’s wife. And yet— In his mind, he heard Aubrey say, “I thought it would all be more fun.”

It might have been more fun if the Vandals were a winning franchise or in a top-tier city. They were neither. The working-class city was unlikely to change for the better. As for the record, much of it came down to bad luck or poorly calculated gambles, like signing Effendi Wilson to a four-year contract.

***

Tom wasn’t surprised when the offensive coordinator called him in to talk about a personnel problem, but he was steamed when the OC said the problem was Tom himself.

“I’m hearing complaints,” the OC told him.

It was pointless to ask “Who from?” but Tom did anyway.

The OC waved off the question. “Get the wideouts doing their jobs.”

“Or you’ll find someone else to do mine?” Tom knew the team could replace him a dozen times over for what it would cost to replace Effendi Wilson. “Going on record here, I was always against picking up Wilson.”

“Good for you,” the OC said. “Play the hand you’re dealt, Tom.”

When Tom told Aubrey about his conversation with the OC, she reacted as he knew she would, expressing empathy yet open to the possibility that the problem might be something Tom did, or didn’t do, or could have done. “Three sides to every story, right? Yours, his, and the truth. Fendi’s got an ego, sure, but he’s all right. He’s always nice to me.”

Tom noticed that Aubrey was wearing the dress he’d fetched for her from the cleaners; the one he hadn’t recognized. He noticed that she called Wilson “Fendi” like a fan—or a friend.

“What’s that look?” she asked.

“Nothing,” Tom said. “It’ll work out. Don’t worry.”

“Do I look worried?”

No, Tom thought. She didn’t. She never did. It was one of the things he loved about her.

***

Effendi Wilson’s Mercedes pulled into the parking lot behind the strip mall just as Tom was tossing the dry cleaning into the back seat of the Charger. Meeting Wilson out here in the suburbs once could be a coincidence; two consecutive weeks seemed intentional.

The driver’s side door of the Mercedes opened, and Wilson stepped out. “Tom-Tom! How you doin’ Tom-Tom?”

“What are you doing here, Wilson?”

“You think I’m following you? Yeah, that’s right. I wanna be where you are, Tom-Tom.” Wilson snickered. “Don’t you worry about what I’m doin’ on my own time. You got other things to worry about. Your job. Your wife . . .”

Wilson reached out to pat Tom’s head.

Tom clocked him on the jaw.

For a moment, time froze.

“Damn, Tom-Tom!” Wilson’s face registered disbelief. He rubbed his jaw, shook his head, bent at the waist with his hands on his knees. “Damn . . .”

Blood pounded in Tom’s ears and throbbed through his fingers. “You don’t mess with my job. Or my wife, Effendi.”

Wilson was still doubled over when Tom pulled out of the parking lot.

***

Effendi Wilson missed the next morning’s practice. Tom noticed, of course, but Wilson was a no-show often enough that no one remarked on it until they broke for lunch and one of the trainers asked, “You heard what happened to Wilson?” Tom put a forkful of pasta in his mouth and shook his head.

The trainer said, “Someone in the suburbs beat the crap out of him.” Tom chewed until the pasta liquefied in his mouth. He wasn’t sure he could swallow. “Turns out Wilson was playing high-stakes poker in the basement of some deli. Out where you live.” Tom choked the pasta down and coughed. “Maybe he owed somebody money. Or shot his mouth off one too many times. They found him the parking lot beat to— You all right?”

Tom nodded. In, two three four. Out, two three four.

“So, looks like you got a job, buddy,” the trainer said. Tom squinted, not comprehending. “Replacing Wilson,” the trainer said. “How’s that kid Stillman working out?”

In, two three four. Tom considered the prospect of a season without Effendi Wilson. Out, two three four. He pictured La’Shawn Stillman’s face glowing with sweat and promise. He felt the lightness reach him. “Stillman,” Tom said. “Yeah. Good. He’s good. He’ll do the job. No problem.”

Leslie Elman (on Bluesky @leslieelman.bsky.social) is an Edgar Award-nominated writer whose short fiction has appeared in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, Vautrin, and Mystery Magazine.