Betrayal Of Bridgette Riley

Bridgette tugged the stole close around her shoulders and set the brake on the rattling model T as it coughed itself off against the blackened snow bank covered curb in front of her flop tenement building. The streetlamp above the rusting black car popped and flickered out. "Shit!" She snapped angrily through her over rubied lips. Not really that she now had to navigate the icy sidewalks and stoop in her heels without light, as she was used to that, but it was the frustration of not having any word from Gino for four fucking days now. Banging the steering wheel with a small-gloved fist, Bridgette opened the door, let a silk clad leg, and heeled footstep out onto the packed snow street.

The rotgut tea in her stomach threatened to slosh her brain a bit as she slipped a bit on the ice. But holding her arms out, one swinging the loop of her small handbag wide for balance she managed to pick her way out of the car and slam the door with all the furry of a hot Irish temper. As if in echo she caught the sound of a couple of car doors shutting up the street, but she thought nothing of it as she walked around a large pile of filthy snow to the small niche in the snow banks that her slumlord had seen fit to shovel out for his paying residents' access.

Desperately trying to avoid snapping a heel, Bridgette ascended the stairs; not caring if she looked a tad bit unlady like in her manner. Who the hell would care at half past two in the morning anyway. Reaching the front doors, she pulled one partly open, bracing her ears for the rusting creak as she pushed her way through.

Bridgette tugged hard on the door to close it and she stepped over the hapless form of Mr. McManus, passed out at he foot of the stairs as usual, the homespun whiskey wreaking from his every pore. "One o' these days, the whiskey'll kill 'im, and he'll finally start smellin' better, God make it not be on a humid summer night that he passes," Bridgette said softly to the cold empty stairwell as she rolled her blue eyes and crossed herself hastily.

As she reached the third floor, she started trying to quietly click her heels down the dimly flickeringly lit hallway to her hole in the wall apartment, hoping that for once the nosy old hag, Hansen would for once be asleep when she passed her door. Two steps beyond the old maid's door, Bridget's hopes were, once again dashed. "Bridgette Riley! Out all night again I see, tsk!" The crone's scornful cackling voice squeaked out from the chain expanse of the peeling green painted door with the tarnished number one just behind the faded outline of the long missing three.

Bridgette clenched a fist around the handle of her hand bag and fumed briefly before wheeling on the old prude, "Why yes, Miss Hansen, I have been out all night, but seeing as I have to work for a living I guess I will continue to be out all night," Bridget's voice was a bit sharp with the old woman, but she was worried about Gino and her temper was tried. She jammed a glove into her purse and pulled out her cigarette case, which glinted a bit in the single bulb light of the hall.

"Well," Miss Hansen huffed over the clicking sound of the slightly tarnished cigarette case snapping open in front of her wrinkled nose, "you would do well, little missy to get proper work. If it is work that you call it." The old woman's disdain coated her words with as much venom as she could muster. "Unsavory men coming around here at all hours, and you with out so much as a dress when you go out in public wearing only a shift. And..."

"Listen here," Bridgette cut her off with an angry cloud stepping close to the cracked doorway so that the old woman's withered face was encased in smoke, "what I do for a living is none of your business! As is who I see or when I see them. As for what I wear, well," Bridgette pulled open her calf length red wool coat to reveal her spaghetti strapped soft green with now swinging from the sudden motion, beaded fringe dress, that hung flatly over small breasts. "At Buckingham's this hangs on a rack distinctly outside of the section where you can buy these," Bridgette said hotly as she propped her heel on the door jam and rolled the mid thigh hem of her dress up to let Hansen's old eyes focus on the black lace of her stocking tops, garter, and panties.

"Uhhh!" Snapped Miss Hansen as she slammed her door loudly and quickly fiddled with her lock from within. Bridgette laughed as she slowly removed her heel from the scuffmark she had left on the cracked paint door jam. Pressing the white paper of the cigarette to new red stains of her lipstick as she spun round and clicked her heels angrily down the hall fidgeting with her purse for her keys. As she pulled them out, they rattled and clinked and she missed the creaking of the front door opening two flights below.

Exhaling smoke slowly from her powdered nose as she held the key just outside the lock, Bridgette hoped that when the door opened the room would be warm and Gino would be waiting in the old and weathered second hand store leather chair. Jamming the key into the lock forcibly and twisting it fast with a jolt, she pushed the door open and stepped through.

Again her hopes were dashed. The room was frigid cold, and completely dark. "Damn," Bridgette said in a combined cloud of smoke and crystallizing air as she shut the door behind her. She didn't bother with the lock, as it was far too cold to worry about anything but the radiator with the cold drifting off the lake like this. Blindly stepping a few paces into the room Bridgette fumbled for a bit for the pull chain to the lamp until it clicked on and lit the sparse room with its off white glow. Bridgette sighed as she looked longingly at the empty chair, its faded oxblood pleating revealed no set of broad shoulders, no outstretched muscular arms; just a few missing buttons and a tuft of protruding stuffing from an ancient tear.

Pulling the faux stole that Gino had bought her from her shoulders with one hand and her helmet shaped hat from her bobbed cut blonde hair with the other she hung them both on her hall tree. Passing the small round table, next to the red chair, Bridgette hastily crushed out her cigarette ignoring the lingering single, weak plume of smoke off the still flickering embered end. Glancing at the stick phone, wondering if it would ever ring, she quickly clicked her way across the poorly polished and greatly scratched hardwoods to the radiator and cranked its creaking knob.

Bridgette stared for a minute at the radiator's peeling white paint and dark rust as if her eyes could force it to heat up faster. Then deciding she would be better served by a stiff drink than by her complaining radiator she stomped her heels towards the kitchen pulling her gloves off as she went. Kneeling before the sink, she pulled both cupboard doors open and reached in behind the ever-dripping snaked pipe to receive the tall short-necked brown bottle. The label, hastily applied as to be off center and cockeyed read 'ladies hair tonic'. Bridgette couldn't help giggle a bit as she stood up and tugged at the cork, "Well, if it doesn't blind ya, it'll sure curl yer hair, Bridgette," she said aloud to herself as she toasted herself before bringing the rim of the bottle to her lips.

The "scotch" fired her tongue and throat in the way only cheap hooch can. Bridgette could feel the smoky glow of the whiskey flooding her cheeks and chest on its way down. "Phew," she said aloud as she brought up a hand to fan herself as she pulled a glass from the cupboard that lacked a door on her way back into the living room. She took off her coat, as the combination of the clunking radiator coils and her hair tonic began to bring her to some level of comfort. Hanging up her coat, she kicked off her heels and immediately realized her mistake. However, her feet were dead tired and swollen from hours of being in heels at O'Shaunessey's, the ice cold of the hard floor swept through her silk clad soles sharply.

Turning from the hall tree, Bridgette stared at the door as she thought she heard footsteps in the hall. Then shaking her head she told herself that it was probably for the bum across the hall, more of his needle loving friends no doubt at this hour. Gino would have knocked or tried his key already. She had to stop thinking about Gino, and she shook her head trying to force his big grinning face from her mind; sending the tiny gelled curls that ringed her face at the end of her straight hair shaking. It was too late, if he was going to see her tonight, he would have been to the club to listen to her sing, or he would have been here in the flesh already. Him and his damned "big deals" all the time.

She knew he worked for the Northridge's, and he always had something up his sleeve. Part of that was the attraction he held for her, well that and well... She shook her head a gain and tiptoed over to the chair. But really, he had always called before when he had disappeared like this. But no word, nor hide nor hair for four days. Bridgette had to admit this time she was getting worried. Pouring herself a big glass, "All right girl," she said to herself in her best cheer 'em up pep talky voice, "you need a good hot bath to clear your head." As she downed half the scotch she added, "And to warm your damned self up."

Taking the half emptied glass, her lighter, and her cigarette case with her, she entered the bathroom and turned on the squeaking pipe. She lit a cigarette then stopped the drain to allow the tub to fill as noisily. Sipping some more scotch, she lifted the cocoa style dress off her body like a beaded tube. Tossing it into the hamper unceremoniously, she looked at herself in the quickly steaming mirror. Her breasts itched under her bra, her lipstick was smudged, but just a bit, and her cheeks were pink from whiskey and cold.

Finishing her scotch, she stopped preparing for her bath and went back for a refill and the bottle. Just as she began pouring a second glass, she thought she heard the door creak, or a slight knock. "Gino?" She asked quietly, setting the bottle and glass next tot he phone. Then definitely she heard a single rap, quiet, on the door. "Gino!" she exclaimed and she leapt on her toes across the cold floorboards. Her bra restricted petite breasts baubled slightly as she raced for the oval doorknob. Just as she skidded to a halt and reached, a smoke clutching hand for it snapped open and the door was flung wide.

Three dark overcoat clad men pushed in, "Hey wai...." Bridgette tried to protest just as one of the large men cut her off with a backhanded slap to the right cheek. A square cut diamond imbedded itself into a bruise on her pale skin as the rest of her cheek lit red hot from the sting. Her head snapped back, she would have fallen if it weren't for the second man catching her mid fall. One over coated arm ensnaring her near starved waist the other planting a meaty hand over her rubied lips, clamping them shut tight. The third man simply glanced back down the corridor then quickly shut the door.

Bridgette tried shouting into the beefy palm over her mouth uselessly and began kicking her stocking feet at the one who had slapped her. Her small hands balled into fists as she thrashed about. Her cigarette breaking on dark camel hair, scattering tiny red embers that disappeared before landing as microscopic ashes on her icy floor, as she kicked the man who held her backed quickly into he room. The one who slapped her took one kick just too high to miss his vitals before he grappled two ankles in two large hands that clamped down painfully, twisting the silk over her skin in his grip. Within mere seconds the only things that Bridgette could hear were the flood of fear laced blood in her ears, the loud rush of water into her overflowing tub, and the heavy breathes of three strange thugs.

Gino glanced warily at the white Cadillac as e drove past it. Seeing that no one was inside and catching Bridgette's tired old ford down the block, he patted the leather suitcase of money sitting in his passenger side of the worn seat across from him and turned off Sullivan St., heading off into the distance. Pressing the accelerator, Gino said to himself "She'll understand. I'll call her in a few days from Kansas City when things cool down a bit. She'll be fine." With that, he sped away on ice packed roads not even looking back.

Bridgette's blue eyes were held wide with fear and shock as she was held by two of the over coated men. One squeezing her ankles so tight that her brand new stockings were shooting through with leaping runs just over the dents in her skin his fingers were leaving. The other was backing into the room slowly as he clamped her mouth tight in his meaty fist. His other arm was wrapped tight around her waist holding her to him, where she could feel a heavy bulge rubbing her small rounded ass through his thick coat. Her mind was too stunned to know what to fear the bulge to be.

Her eyes followed the third man who rapidly pulled a nickel-plated pistol from his overcoat pocket and then rushed to the half opened bathroom door. The door banged loudly off the sink as he kicked it the rest of the way open. His pistol covering the empty water of the tub, he spun quickly then crossed to the kitchen, holding the drop over her stove. Finally, he kicked her bedroom door open and held the small dark room under the deadly gaze of is forty-five. Finally, he lowered the gun to his waist and called back over his shoulder, "The son of a bitch ain't here, boys." With that he turned and went o Bridgette's window, peered through her soiled and badly worn lace, using the barrel of the pistol to pull the curtain to the side enough to scan the emptiness of the ice packed street below.

"Damnit!" He cursed along with a few words of his incomprehensible Italian as he lowered the gun to his side and turned back to face the mutedly wrestling trio at the other end of the room. Bridgette's eyes locked on his face and watched his dark eyes narrow as he stormed across the room towards her. Her breath was a panicked rush, held tight by a crushing hand, and filled with foreign scents against her nose. As the third man drew up, right to her face with his own nose, that seemed flattened as if it had been broken and never healed correctly. "Bridgette," he hissed in a low voice, right to her face as he raised the deadly nickel plated piece to her blonde temple, "I am going to have them put you down now, but you are going to answer my questions and not make any noise, understand?"

Bridgette's heart was racing so fast she thought her rapidly rising and falling breast could not restrain it. The blood in her veins seemed to be echoing around the room as loud as a freight train thundering through the night. All she could do was stare at that flat nosed man holding a gun to her head. "Understand?!?" he demanded pressing the barrel of the pistol hard against her head, giving her the focus of pain to his question and she nodded her understanding hastily "Good. Frankie, Pauli, let the twist go," he ordered as he pulled the gun back away from her head, but kept it leveled at her face.

Instantly, Bridgette fell to the icy floor as the twin iron grips released her into a pathetic pile on the hardwood floor. "Pauli, watch the window. Frankie, see if he has been here and left us a little somethin'," the man with the pistol directed. With that, his two accomplices started carrying out his orders. The taller thinner one who had held her ankles went to the window and watched through the stained lace at the empty street in front of the building. The larger, heavier brute entered the kitchen without a sound before he began flinging cupboards open and rifling through dishes. Bridgette could here the occasional sound of breaking glass as he set to his work with a sadistic glee.

Bridgette pushed herself to a sitting position, but before she could take any other action she felt her head jerk back as her short blond hair was grabbed in a gloved fist, "Now, you filthy little twist, where is he?" the man who did all the talking demanded from her as he stepped in close to her face. Towering above her, holding her head back forcing her badly smudged lips slightly apart, the barrel of his gun held at waist level just a breath away from hr open lips.

"I-I don't know," Bridgette stammered in a shocked terror filled voice. Before she could say anything more, she was sent sprawling again to the floor as he released her bobbed hair only to backhand her left cheek with empty hand. The sound of calfskin leather gloves slamming into soft flesh filled the room before Bridgette's head thudded off the cold, hard floor. Bridgette began sobbing with a cough. She lay on the chilled woods too terrified to move. The chill biting viciously through the thin material of her bra at her small breast, her nipples pulled taught in the cold.

"Wrong answer, bitch," the flat nosed man growled over her. "Now it would be a lot better for you, if you help us out here. Why would you want to protect a double-crossing bum like Gino anyway? I mean a man who kills his best friend so he can steal his boss's money, do you think he is worth protecting?" Bridgette did not answer he mind was too stunned with fear and shocked at his man's words to react. She just lay sobbing on the floor at his feet as she heard heavy footsteps leaving her kitchen and crossing the living room floor.

The flat nosed man heard the steps to and with a nod of his head he barked over his shoulder, "Frankie, shut off the tub before you check out Gino's slut's bedroom." The footsteps stopped and then restarted in a different direction. Bridgette waited, frozen in fright sobbing on to the floor as she heard the squeaky pipes shut off. Then she heard the tinkling of perfume bottles being dropped to shatter on the bathroom tiles and further sounds of careless rifling of her bath.

The footsteps returned, "Nothin' in there either, Vinny," Frankie said in a thickly accented deep voice before clicking off through the bedroom door. The sound of drawers being yanked open and their contents being spilt recklessly over the floor sent wave after wave of chill through Bridgette as she lay prostrate and weeping on the floor.

"Now," Vinny began calmly to speak once more as Frankie noisily tore her boudoir apart in the other room, "I am going to ask you nicely just one more God damned time; where is your boyfriend?"

Bridgette began to bawl in earnest, covering her bruised face in her hands at Vinny's question. His icy threat echoing in her mind as the sounds of tearing cloth, clinking hangers, and the clattering of shoes issued forth from her bedroom doorway. "I said, where is he." Vinny snarled over her. "Pauli, didn't I ask this slut a question?" There was a laugh in response to his last question from the edge of the window. "I thought that is what I just did, but now she won't even acknowledge her guests, don't you think that is rude?"

"Uh, yeah, I do think that is rude," Pauli chuckled staring out the window as he unbuttoned his overcoat standing over the radiator revealing a large black curved handle to the heavy revolver tucked into his waistband. "Maybe Vinny, you oughta let 'er know how a good little hostess should treat her guests, friends of man no less." The slim and tall Italian chuckled to himself as he glanced up and down the lamp lit street, staring at its emptiness.

Vinny towered over Bridgette and chuckled with his partner briefly. Then his laughter just stopped, ominously short. Bridgette felt a wave of fear wash over her like an icicle tide. For a moment that seemed to stretch on for hours, there was no sound at all in the room. Though, it was scarcely more than few sob laden breaths in reality before she felt the sharp edged and flat weight of a wing tipped shoe planted on her spine between her shoulder blades, crushing her like a discarded butt on the sidewalk to the floor. Bridgette gasped as her panicked breath was forced from her lungs. The small orbs of her breasts were made into flat sponges on the floor. Her arms and legs twitched as sprawled she tried to escape or gather breath. The heel biting the flesh just below her bra strap painfully dug its way into her back. "Now doll," Vinny sneered from above, with his nickel plated nineteen-eleven model colt dangling from his loose grasp pointed its business opening at the base of her skull, "tell us where he is, make it easy on yourself." He emphasized his point by twisting his foot cruelly into her flesh.