The Things We Do for Love

 By Sophia Rosenberg
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Michael was halfway to the bar when he slowed the motorcycle and let the engine drop to a low growl. The main street was nearly empty at this hour, just long rows of shuttered storefronts and flickering neon signs that reflected in the wet pavement. He turned into an alleyway whose entrance was hidden between a pawn shop and a cheap motel with a red VACANCY sign that buzzed like a dying insect. This was the alley where the streetwalkers hung out. Michael scanned the sides of the alley as he rode through. It was common to see women standing around, all in the same “uniform” of high-heeled go-go boots and mini-skirts, but luckily the only one around was the one he was looking for. 
 
Cheryl was leaning against a brick wall somewhere in the middle of the alley, behind a fish processing business. Moonlight reflected on the green Spandex of her top and her pale arms were folded against the cold. Michael coasted over to her, braked and let the motorcycle lean onto its stand. Cheryl looked up when she heard the engine die. “Well, look who it is. Is that Michael Lee Addams paying me a visit?” she said playfully.
 
Michael pulled his helmet off and shook his long hair free. “Just passing through,” he said. “Thought I’d see if you were still alive.”
 
She smiled. “You check on all the working girls like that?”
 
“Just the ones I know,” he answered, standing and leaning against his motorcycle. He reached into the pocket of his jacket, pulling out a bottle of Corona Extra and taking a big swig before offering Cheryl some.
 
She stepped closer but shook her head. “Trying to keep a clear head tonight,” she explained.
 
“That’d be a first.”
 
She rolled her eyes. The mascara underneath them was smudged a little but hardly stood out against the other makeup she had caked on. Her eyelids were heavy with teal eyeshadow, her cheeks an unrealistic pink, and she had on thick, false eyelashes. Michael thought it was almost clown-like. She looked prettier without makeup, and without the stupid popular perm haircut she had now. Two years on the street had sharpened her face, but Michael still saw flashes of the girl who used to sit at his kitchen table at three in the morning warming baby bottles for his son. When she would smile at him tiredly, baby Tommy in her lap, her dark eyes sparkling as her black hair fell past her shoulders, that was the most beautiful she’d ever looked. Almost like Lucille before he lost her. 
 
For a moment neither of them said anything. They could hear a car pass on the main street but couldn’t see it from behind the building. Michael took another drink.
 
“Are you going to the bar tonight, or just enjoying the scenery?” Cheryl asked jokingly.
 
“Is that my cue to leave?” Michael replied, mocking offense.
 
“No, it isn’t. Don’t go to the bar just yet.” 
 
Michael frowned slightly. “Why not?”
 
Cheryl glanced around cautiously. “Because,” she said quietly, “I need you to do something for me.”
 
“What kind of something?” he asked suspiciously.
 
Cheryl didn’t answer right away. “You know a guy named Steiner?” she asked.
 
Michael shrugged. “Can’t say I do.”
 
“Rob Steiner. Older man, gray suit, hawk nose.”
 
Michael shook his head. “Nope.”
 
“Well,” Cheryl said, “he remembers me.”
 
Michael gave a short, dry laugh. “I’d hope so if he’s paying.”
 
She ignored that. “He’s one of my regulars. Comes around once or twice a week. Same place every time.” She gestured toward the motel at the mouth of the alley. “Gets a room, stays about an hour, talks too much the whole time.”
 
“Sounds like a real gentleman.”
 
“He’s a bookie. Runs numbers for some bigger outfit. Sports bets, mostly. Football season he’s practically drunk on money. He carries it in a briefcase. Brown leather one, like your jacket.”
 
“So?”
 
“So every time he pays me, he pops it open right there like he’s showing off. Reaches in and pulls out a stack like it’s nothing.” Cheryl shifted her weight, the heel of her shoe scraping softly against the pavement. “I’m telling you, Mike, there’s thousands in there. I’ve seen it. He sometimes has extra in his pockets, too, and if he does he’ll pay with that. He’s meeting me tonight. Monday nights, same as always. Parks around the corner on the other end, then walks through here to the motel. He’s always drunk.” 
 
Michael huffed. “And you’re telling me this, why?”
 
“Because,” Cheryl said slowly, “while he’s busy with me, somebody could come up behind him and take the case.”
 
Michael blinked once. Then he laughed. “Are you serious?”
 
“I am.”
 
He laughed harder. “You’re asking me to rob a guy?”
 
“I’m asking you to help me get out of this,” she said seriously. She took his arm.
 
“Why don’t you just steal some extra when he passes out?”
 
“Because he’s still a man. If he catches me and things go bad, nobody cares if some hooker dies on the street.”
 
Michael didn’t say anything. There was a reason he checked in on her, after all.
 
Cheryl squeezed at his forearms. “But you’re a big, beefy guy. You could take an older man like him, if you had to.”
 
Michael scoffed. “There’s a million ways to get out that don’t involve robbing some drunk bookie in an alley.”
 
“Oh yeah?” Cheryl said. “Name one.”
 
He didn’t.
 
She stepped closer, her voice softer now. “Come on, Mikey. One grab and we’re done. I could leave this block tomorrow. You could send money to help Tommy for once instead of excuses. Maybe even get custody back if you can prove you can provide for him.
 
At the sound of the boy’s name Michael tensed and pushed her away.
 
“That kid ought to have something from you besides a last name, Michael Lee,” she said, reaching for a strand of Michael’s hair. He didn’t react. “We could all be a family.”
 
“We tried that once,” he said roughly. Cheryl had moved in shortly after Lucille died, when Tommy was still an infant and Michael was vulnerable and needed the help, and maybe some love back in his life as well, or at least a dead ringer for it. But he called things off after two years when Cheryl started working the streets. Feelings didn’t matter. He probably loved her too, but he wouldn’t share his bed with a woman that sold the privilege to others. 
He snapped back into reality. “You’re talking about stealing from a guy who works for gamblers,” he said finally. “You don’t think those guys might notice?”
 
“He won’t know it was you. And there’s no proof I’m involved.”
 
Michael looked down at her dubiously.
 
“He’s older than you think. And drunk most nights. Tonight won’t be any different.”
He considered it. “You got this whole thing figured out, huh?”
 
Cheryl nodded. “I’ve had time to think about it.”
 
“How much time?”
 
She gave a small, tired smile. “About two years. Ever since I started working this block. I told you, he’s a regular.”
 
Michael turned his half-full Corona bottle around in his hands. “If he has so much money, charge him more then.”
 
“I’m not allowed to set my own prices. Besides, I don’t want to keep doing this. And don’t you want more? Don’t you want to send Tommy something besides birthday cards and not worry that a few packs of beer will blow your pay-check—”
 
“That’s enough, Cheryl. You’re asking me for help, remember?” 
 
Cheryl kissed his cheek. “I’m sorry.”
 
Michael looked away. She wasn’t wrong. He knew he was a dead-beat father. He knew he drank too much. He blew his money on drinks. When Lucille’s sister Nancy suggested taking custody, Michael knew she was right. With Lucille gone, then Cheryl gone, Tommy needed someone steadier than him. Even if Nancy had never approved of his marriage to Lucille, and Michael hated to prove her right. He wiped the pink lipstick off his cheek. 
 
Cheryl cleared her throat. “Steiner will be back here like usual. You stay in the shadows. When he’s distracted with me, you come up behind him.”
 
“And do what?”
 
“I think you’re tough-looking enough to only scare him and get your way. But you could knock him out if you have to.”
 
Michael rolled his eyes. “You make it sound real simple.”
 
“It is simple.”
 
“Simple things get messy real fast.” Michael bent down and set his beer bottle on the pavement so he could crack his knuckles. “How soon is he arriving?” he asked.
 
“He always comes Mondays between 11:30 and midnight.”
 
He nodded. “You really think this will fix things?”
 
“It fixes enough.”
 
“For who?”
 
“For both of us. And for the kid.”
 
He nodded.
 
She touched his cheek tenderly. “Thank you, Michael.”
 
She wanted to kiss him, he could tell. He could see the love in her eyes. Lucille used to look at him that way. He wondered what Cheryl saw in him. His tall, burly build intimidated most women. She knew he was a drinker, an absent father. He knew she was a sweet girl, underneath all that colorful makeup he didn’t like, underneath all the men. Who else was there for each other? “Cheryl,” he said gently.
 
“Hmm?”
 
“If we get the money and you quit this job, why don’t you move back in with me?”
 
She looked up at him with a big smile and wrapped her arms around him tightly, her face nuzzled against his chest. “I’d like that.” 
 
When she pulled away, he hopped onto his motorcycle and drove down the alley. Soon after, from the other direction, a man stepped out of the darkness near the corner, with an aquiline nose and a gray suit, carrying a brown leather briefcase. “Well, if it isn’t my favorite girl,” came Steiner’s voice. 
 
Cheryl laughed lightly as he approached. “Thought I might see you tonight, Rob.”
 
“Tough day at work. Lots of legal stuff to deal with today. Ledgers, debts, IOUs. Paperwork never ends. But I won’t bore you with all that, pretty girl.”
 
Cheryl smirked. “Sounds like you need to relax.” 
 
In the shadows, Michael waited for them near the end of the alleyway. They were nearing him. He could overhear Steiner chuckle and tell Cheryl, “You always say the nicest things to a fella.” Michael could see him now, could see the briefcase, which Steiner held loosely like a woman would hold her clutch. 
 
“Do we have a room already?” Cheryl asked.
 
Steiner shook his head and looked around. “Why waste the money tonight? This place looks quiet enough.”
 
Cheryl laughed softly. “I don’t usually know you to be cheap.”
 
He pulled out a wad of cash from his pocket. Probably wouldn’t risk opening the case in the middle of an alley, Michael figured. Cheryl dropped the cash into her boots, and Steiner grinned and placed his briefcase on the ground against the wall so he could reach out to pull her closer by the waist. He started to kiss her neck, and quickly and quietly across the pavement Michael made his way until he was only a few feet behind Steiner. His hair was balding and graying but he did not look wrinkled or frail. Since the briefcase was in front of Steiner, he wouldn’t be able to simply grab it and run.  
 
Michael grabbed the collar of Steiner’s suit and yanked him backward. The man lurched in surprise. “What the hell—” The fight started immediately. Michael slammed him against the brick wall which left a gash on his head. He turned and punched Michael in the nose, causing him to stumble back. Seeing Michael bleed made Cheryl wince. Steiner caught that and turned to her. 
 
“You little whore—” he snarled. He grabbed her by the arm. “You set me up? You know this man?”  
 
Cheryl struggled, trying to pull free. “Rob, I didn’t—”
 
“Don’t lie to me!” He shoved her against the wall, his hand tightening around her wrist.
 
Michael recovered and punched Steiner in the chest, hard. Steiner groaned and pushed Cheryl in front of him by the neck, choking her, while his other hand moved suddenly toward his suit-jacket pocket. He pulled out something shiny. Michael didn’t wait to see whether it was a knife or gun before he was reaching for. He just swung. His fist caught Steiner across the side of the face with a loud crack. The man staggered sideways but didn’t fall. Michael hit him again. This time Steiner collapsed hard onto the pavement.
 
For a moment nothing moved. Cheryl stared down at the man, breathing fast. “Mike,” she whispered. Steiner lay on his side, trying to sit up but groaning faintly before his head fell back. A thin line of blood ran from his head across the concrete. Michael stood over him, breathing heavily.
 
“Grab the case,” he said.
 
Cheryl quickly bent down and picked up the briefcase. They hurried away together down the alley, and only when they reached the motorcycle parked near the end did Michael stop.
 
Cheryl looked up at him breathlessly, her heart pounding. She gave him a quick kiss, but he barely processed it. He was wondering if Steiner would recover or if they’d just left him to die. He wasn’t sure which he preferred. No, no, what was he saying? Who was he? He was Michael Lee Addams to the government, auto mechanic to the customers at his day job, just another drunk to the bartender, hopefully still Daddy to Tommy. He was not a murderer to anybody. He shouldn’t have hit Steiner so hard. He was only defending himself. 
 
“Open it,” Cheryl said, interrupting his thoughts. Michael took the case from her hands and snapped the latches open. The lid lifted slowly. Both of them leaned forward. Inside were neat stacks of papers, folders, envelopes, and a checkbook. There was no money.
 
Michael turned white in disbelief. He started flipping through the contents, as if bills were hiding between them. More ledgers. Lists of names. Columns of debts and betting amounts. Nothing else.
 
Cheryl stared into the briefcase. “That’s not right,” Cheryl whispered. “I’ve seen the money in here. I swear I have.”
 
Michael slammed the briefcase closed. The look in his eyes frightened Cheryl. She’d never felt frightened by him before. He’d only hit Steiner so hard out of fear he’d hurt Cheryl. Now he was mad enough to do it himself.  Cheryl stared into the briefcase like the money might still be hiding somewhere beneath the papers.
 
“It must be in his car,” Cheryl said quickly.
 
“Or maybe he already made the delivery tonight,” supplied Michael, clenching his fist. “Or maybe he doesn’t carry thousands of dollars around women like you who wouldn’t be meeting him here if you had any money of your own.”
 
“No. I’ve seen it, Mikey. Every time he pays me, he opens the thing right in front of me.”
 
“It’s Michael to you,” he snapped. 
 
He took the briefcase and walked back to where Steiner lay, unconscious. Cheryl bent down and put her hand on his chest, then checked his pulse. “Nothing,” she said helplessly. “He’s dead, Michael! He’s dead.”
 
Michael set the briefcase down beside the man and Cheryl stood up. “What are you doing?”
 
“Giving it back.”
 
“There could be something in those papers,” she insisted. “Names, checks—”
 
“And? You want to start a new job collecting debts?”
 
Cheryl fell silent. Michael wiped his hands on his jeans. He noticed some blood on his knuckles. He wasn’t sure whose it was. He remembered his nose had bled. His jacket sleeve came out redder than he expected as he wiped it off.  Look at him. Literal blood on his hands. Nancy was right, someone like him couldn’t raise a kid. Look how easy it had been to kill a stranger. 
 
“I should go,” he said.
 
“Go where?” Cheryl asked.
 
“Clean up. Then I’ll figure something out. You should stay out of here, too.”
 
“Are you going to see Tommy afterwards?” she asked gently.
 
Michael didn’t respond. She knew him too well. “Kid’ll probably be asleep by now.”
 
“I know.” Cheryl took a deep breath. “Did you really mean that? About me coming back if things worked out?” Her eyes were teary. 
 
“I did,” replied Michael. “But things didn’t exactly work out.” He turned and started walking away, each step heavy. When he reached his motorcycle, he swung a leg over, tucked his long hair into his helmet, and revved the engine. The roar filled the alley, echoing off wet brick. He drove off. 
 
Cheryl stood there for a long, long while. Somewhere, the faint wail of sirens pierced the night. She glanced back at the alley, at the place where Michael had vanished. The Corona bottle he’d left on the ground caught her eye. Still half full. She picked it up, her fingers shaking slightly, and took a long swig. 

About the Author 

Sophia Rosenberg is a first-year student at ICC who has loved writing since childhood. A devoted lover of the arts, she enjoys theatre, choir, writing, and both listening to and playing music. When she’s not at school, Sophia can often be found painting, gardening, or catching a good rock concert. Known for her fashionably overdressed style, she hopes to pursue a career as a dramaturg or translator.