Dozens of dangerous people wanted Helen dead. She ratted them out to save her father, a top crime boss cursed with six daughters and no sons. He hoped for a boy to carry on the family business but had to settle for Helen. Born fourth in line, Helen had no taste for girly things. She inherited her father’s barrel chest, thick limbs, and talent for violence. Some of her aunts clucked, “poor Helen,” as they considered her little gorilla body, but Helen embraced it.
Helen became one of her dad’s most trusted and feared enforcers. She could beat a delinquent dock worker to tears but still leave him able to work. When the Feds came for her father she cut a deal to save him, spilling all she knew about the East Coast crime syndicate. When offered a slot in the witness protection program she said, “Fuck that bullshit. I’ll fight my own fights. But I’m gonna need a job. A tax job.”
***
Standing on line at her favorite coffee shop, she shifted her feet impatiently, unhappy about the speed of the line.
Look at them all. Snobs with jobs, so worried about their stupid little lives. Chasing Facebook-sponsored dreams that dead-end with a leased car and a nose ring. Went to college—for what? Going to take a while to pay off those college loans driving an Uber and flinging coffee. That’s right, I’m talking about you, barista boy. Tattooed up to the armpits and he can’t remember to leave room for cream. Trying to flirt with little Miss Thing. That’s right honey, you take your sweet time. The whole world waits for a nice piece of ass. Better make use of it while you can sweetheart, soon enough you’ll be just another piece of furniture like me.
Hey, what do you know? Tattoo Tommy pries he eyes off little Miss Hindquarters long enough to take my order.
“Drip coffee, room for cream,” Helen said. “And a piece of apple crumb cake.”
No way he gets this right. Not today. Can’t blame him for checking her out. That dress is tighter than drug smuggler’s asshole. Every cock in the coffee line has noticed her. Looking while trying not to look. Take a deep drink for God’s sake. She’s a work of art! And what are you women looking at? Jealous. She’s just using what she’s got. Not her fault. All these bitches giving her the stink eye. Jesus, what now? I’m defending her? Old broads like me need the help, not this one. Must be gettin’ soft.
“Skinny triple mocha,” the barista called out.
Look at Tattoo Tommy smile. I ain’t getting a smile like that, I guarantee it. And did he—yeah, there’s his phone number on the cup. How many of those must she get in a day? Ten? Twenty? What’s his line going to be?
“Your smile just made my day,” the barista said.
You sad son of a bitch. Drooling over her like a sex predator improved your day? Is that your line? Eyeballing her, like all the other dickss in line, somehow makes you what? Special? A creep? A stalker? I should break your kneecap just on principle. Maybe castrate you too, because God knows you’re gonna get some poor girl knocked up and keep your crappy genes in the pool. I’d be doing a public service.
“Drip coffee and apple cake,” the barista called out.
Filled right to the brim. Motherfucker. Maybe he thinks he’s doing me a favor, like he’s giving me bonus coffee. I’m asking him to do less, not more, so he should be a master. No tip for you Tommy. Now I gotta pour this scalding coffee into the trash without splashing myself when all you had to do was leave me a little room. Maybe I’ll break both kneecaps. But damn, that crumb cake. Just the smell is like a nice, big, shot of smack. Tommy, all is forgiven, you stupid java monkey.
Helen approached the cream and sugar station.
Okay. Raw sugar, brown sugar, Truvia, Splenda, cinnamon, chocolate—where’s the goddamn regular sugar? Are you kidding me? Good old-fashioned American sugar? Maybe I should start getting one of the froufrou drinks like Miss Thing. Nah, then the pricks win. Ah, here we go, hidden behind the napkins. Now what do we have here? Soy milk, goat milk, raw milk, whole milk, two percent, skim, vegan creamer, where’s the—aha, half and half.
A tubby man in bespoke jeans walked behind Helen, bumping her elbow as he dropped his latte cup in the trash, knocking her crumble cake to the floor.
What the hell? Are you kiddin’ me? All over my shoes! They’re open-toed suede! That little shit is gonna—Helen recoiled. Jesus how much body wash did he use? Goddamn fog of poison gas follows him like a bad feeling. And out the door he goes. No apology. Didn’t even slow him down. We’ll see about that. Where’s that lid?
Helen headed out the door after him.
Easiest tail ever. His fumes linger for blocks. A blind hobo could follow this guy. Aha, into the building he goes. Time for Stinky to go to school.
***
Sent to far-away Idaho, the Feds parked Helen in a cubicle surrounded by tax drones. In an effort to stay alive, she monitored the personal and financial information of every name she dropped, along with their families and associates. Able to see the baddies coming, she alerted the authorities who detained, arrested, tortured, or otherwise deterred them from their mission. Helen knew eventually one would slip through. But it would be over quick. Those guys are pros. In the meantime, she mostly made peace with her quiet life. One of the highlights included coffee and apple crumb cake at her favorite shop. To keep her skills sharp, she sometimes injected a little justice into the world.
***
Helen followed him into the elevator.
“What floor?” she asked.
“Seven,” he said, not looking up from his phone.
Guess what boy-o, we’re going all the way up! Let’s see how things look from the roof. Dammit. Coffee cake worked its way into my shoes. Sticky toes are the worst. Reba is going to have some fun today.
Reba was Helen’s favorite weapon—a twelve-inch-long piece of rebar as thick as a rolling pin. She kept it tucked in in the back of her pants any time she left her apartment.
Seven, eight, nine—he hasn’t noticed, the dick. Ten, eleven, twelve. And out he goes. This is too easy. Will he even notice—aha, there we go. Time to reorient stinky boy.
“This isn’t my floor,” the man said.
“It’s such a nice day, I thought we’d enjoy the view,” Helen replied.
“What?”
Smack the phone out of his hands, punch to the throat, grab the wrist and twist until the tendons start to pop.
“What the hell?” the smelly man croaked, “Let go!”
“Let’s go check out the roof, shall we?” Helen said, steering him down the hallway.
Smack his head against the door, give him a big shove, catch his foot, and down into the gravel he goes.
“What are you doing!?” the man wheezed.
“Manners, little one. You need to learn some manners.”
Bash his face to make him turn away, then beat on his kidney until a rib cracks. While he’s down there, I’m gonna show him my shoes.
“See what you did to my shoes? They’re ruined. But all you had to do was apologize. Accidents happen. But why bother? Who cares about some dried-up old broad?” The man started to retch.
Step aside to dodge that puke. He’s bleeding inside. His pea brain shifted to survival mode. Only the most important functions matter. That latte has to go.
“Here’s the newsflash, sweetheart. Bad news is, you’re going to piss blood for a week. You’re going to look like a goddamn fountain of strawberry Kool Aid!” Helen paced around him. “The good news is you’ll still be able to piss. So be grateful. You won’t sleep because of the pain—every breath is going feel like your insides are coming apart. But while you’re not sleeping, think about what a little prick you are and how an old lady reduced you to a whimpering puddle in under a minute. And learn some manners!” Helen took the elevator back to the street.
Dock workers. Those guys could put up a fight. They’d last, what, probably five, ten minutes at least. These baby men now fold faster that a gypsy caravan. I wonder how Pop is doing? Better than those jerkoffs I turned in. He never thanked me. Guess he couldn’t get caught being nice to a snitch.
[Helen didn’t only pick on baby men. Sometimes she picked somebody she thought could beat her. Nothing keeps you sharper than a fight you might actually lose.]