Author’s Note
The idea for this story came from I know not where, though in retrospect I see that it’s something of a homage to the late J.G. Ballard, whose novel High-Rise made a great impression on me when first I read it. His literary signature was the application of a surreal, unsettling twist to familiar urban landscapes, and my own suburban daymare follows his lead.
“Gangs of Suburbia” is included in my first short story collection, A Cold Day in August: Thirteen Tales of Criminality Most Foul, which is available on Amazon as a Kindle edition and a paperback edition. If you read and enjoy this story, I hope you’ll share it with family and friends, and perhaps even go on to read the other tales that comprise A Cold Day in August.
Gangs of Suburbia
A Short Story by Thomas Gregg
Sitting at the table in her sunny kitchen, Emily Feldman was reassembling the 9mm Browning Hi-Power pistol that had once belonged to her father.
Emily was about to turn forty: She fretted these days about silver threads among the gold and lines around the eyes. A daily hour on the treadmill and some weight training kept her reasonably fit, however, and on the whole she remained presentable, still looking good in the black yoga pants and sleeveless black-shirt she was wearing. On her right upper arm blazed an elaborate multicolored tattoo: the letters E and L entwined with a rose and a stiletto.
The kitchen table was Emily’s impromptu work space. At her elbow was was a stack of flyers to be distributed at the upcoming Right to Choose rally, which she was co-chairing this year. Elections were coming up as well, and there was a scatter of literature bearing the smiling photo of Kendra Clarkson, the progressive female congressional candidate for whom Emily was working as a campaign volunteer. Her laptop displayed the Temple Beth-El Synagogue website. She and her husband were active congregants and Emily was the synagogue’s webmaster.
Her cell phone chimed just as she inserted a full magazine in the butt of the Hi-Power and hit the slide release to chamber a round. Emily picked up the phone. The call, she saw, was from her number two, Sandy Vernon.
“What’s up, girlfriend?”
“Hey, Emily. Listen, I heard that certain people have been dealing on our turf.” Sandy’s voice was hard. “I’m sure I don’t have to say who.”
“No,” said Emily. “You don’t. The question is, what do we do about it?”
“That’s up to you.”
“That’s right. Okay. We’ll meet at Sal’s. Say, twelve-thirty. Talk things over. Put the word out to the girls. And have someone pick me up.”
“Will do.”
Emily ended the call. She was frowning as she laid down two lines of cocaine on a cutting board and rolled a twenty-dollar bill into a tight tube. She snorted the coke, then picked up the Hi-Power and stashed it between the waistband of her black yoga pants and the small of her back. Black yoga pants or black jeans, black or cammo-pattern t-shirt, black running shoes, maroon windbreaker with black trim: those were the colors of Emily’s List. The name had been Ruth Holtzman’s idea and it lived on after she was gunned down outside the Panera Bread on MLK Boulevard. The Riot Grrls owned that one; one day the List would pay them back.
Emily got her windbreaker from the small closet in the mud room and shrugged it on. She was annoyed, having planned to take a train into the city for a nice leisurely lunch and some shopping. Emily really needed some alone time, but what could you do? Business was business. She passed through the great room of her house and out the front door. It was a blustery, overcast March day and a stiff breeze blew last autumn’s dead leaves along the sidewalks of the subdivision. Aside from that, everything was neatly kept. Emily chaired the Homeowner’s Association and saw to it that people followed the rules.
Her car was waiting, driven this morning by Jocelyn Luttwak, whose mother was currently serving time upstate. Jocelyn was nineteen, leggy and slender with long brown hair. Though she hadn’t lost her virginity yet, Jocelyn showed promise. Three weeks ago she’d broken the nose of a Harriet Tee who’d given her some attitude outside a club.
“Good morning, Ms. Feldman,” the girl said formally as Emily settled into the back seat.
“Morning, Jocelyn. First stop’s the Parker Building. After that, Sal’s.”
“Okay.” Jocelyn but the car in gear and eased it away from the curb. Emily didn’t like flashy drivers; they attracted attention. Anybody who squealed the tires or gunned the engine unnecessarily got a reprimand.
At the Parker Building she and Jocelyn took an elevator to the eleventh floor. The receptionist in the anonymous office suite waved Emily through the door of the interior office. “I’ll be ten minutes at most,” she said as she went in. Jocelyn nodded and took a seat on the sofa reserved for visitors.
Emily emerged from the inner office six minutes later.
“We might be on for today,” she said to Jocelyn in the elevator. “You up for it?”
“Sure.”
“Heard from Gretchen lately?” Gretchen was Jocelyn’s mother.
“Yeah,” the girl replied. “She’s doing okay. I miss her, though.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Emily said. “You know we’re looking after her. And she knows we’re looking after you.”
“Sure.”
They drove to Sal’s, Emily using the time to answer some text messages. Most of the girls were there when she arrived, sitting around two large tables in the back room that Sal reserved for the List. He paid protection in the form of free lunch and discretion, though Emily made sure that the wait staff was well tipped.
The List’s distinctive tat blazed on every right upper arm but Jocelyn’s.
“Hey,” said Sandy. She was a freckle-faced strawberry blonde in her mid-thirties, a bit plump. She slapped palms with Emily. “We on for today?”
“We’ll see,” Emily answered as she sat. “You too, Jocelyn. Grab a chair. It’s time you started hanging out with the grownups.”
They ordered drinks—white wine for the most part—and Emily told the waitress that after the drinks were served they wanted privacy. Until then they chatted about this and that. Most of the girls had kids and those of school age were stashed in exclusive private boarding schools in upstate New York or western Massachusetts. No member of the List would be caught dead sending her kids to a public school. Public schools were the List’s bread and butter.
“All right,” Sandy said after the drinks arrived and the door was closed and locked. “The deal is this. We’ve acquired a competitor on the west side. Somebody’s been dealing vape and pot and coke and E in and around Kennedy.”
Edward F. Kennedy Consolidated High School was the biggest school on the List’s turf and its students were major customers.
“The Harriet Tees, I suppose.” That was Patrice Oliver. She bore the Tees a special grudge, attested to by the scar that bisected her left cheek. “I told you before, Emily.”
“Yeah, you did.” Emily sipped her wine. “But we don’t make trouble unless someone makes trouble for us. That was your personal business,” she added, indicating the scar. “This is List business. Okay?”
She stared at Patrice until the younger woman nodded and looked away.
“Right,” said Emily. “I’ve had a talk with the representative of our associates in New Jersey and they agree that we need to shut this down now, before it becomes a bigger problem.”
There was a murmur of approval around the table.
“What exactly are we talking about?” Heather Davenport asked.
Emily nodded to Sandy who said, “A couple of students. Seniors. Blacks. The Harriet Tees recruited them as maggots. That’s according to my snitch with the Tees.”
“Well, Kennedy’s been getting blacker,” Emily observed. “It was going to become a problem for us at some point and here we are. Have you got names?”
“Nope.” Sandy shook her head. “I think my snitch knows who they are but he doesn’t want to say. Probably we could squeeze it out of him.”
“I’d prefer to keep your snitch on the payroll for now,” Emily said. “Which reminds me. Why aren’t we hearing this from our maggots at Kennedy?”
“Good question.” Alice Russo, who ran Kennedy, shrugged. “Maybe the Tees are paying them off.”
“We’ll have to see about that,” said Emily. “First things first, though. We need to shut this down. Now. Today.” She turned to Jocelyn. “You’ll identify the Tee maggots for us. Dress like a student. No List colors.”
“I can take care of this for you, Ms. Feldman,” the girl said. “I mean, the whole job.”
“From today it’s Emily. And yes, sweetie, you’re going to take care of the whole job for me. We need to send a message.” Emily smiled. “Something for the Harriet Tees to remember us by.”
“We could negotiate a deal with them,” Gloria Hart suggested. She was the List’s great conciliator. “Divide the pie.”
“Sure we could,” Emily agreed. “And if they’d come to us with a proposal I’d have heard them out. But instead they waltz in and tear off a strip of our business. That doesn’t exactly put me in a mood to negotiate. Everybody okay with that?”
Everybody was. Emily told Jocelyn to get the waitress. It was time to order lunch.
At Kennedy the cops were on hand as usual: two blue-and-whites positioned to supervise the chaos as school was let out. Emily gave them no more than a cursory glance. The cops would be no problem. They were well compensated to look the other way when List business was being transacted. Sandy parked in a handicapped space with a good view of the school’s main entrance.
The swarming students constituted a mixed bag. The majority were white but there were plenty of blacks and some Hispanics these days. Emily frowned, thinking that eventually the List might have to take up Gloria’s suggestion and cut a deal with the Tees.
She spotted Jocelyn, wearing distressed jeans and a hoodie, complete with backpack. Emily smiled. The girl fit right in. She moved deeper into the crowd and Emily lost sight of her.
“Think it’ll be all right?” asked Sandy.
“She’ll do fine,” Emily said.
A few minutes later a text message from Jocelyn came in: made 1 ???
go, Emily replied.
She barely had time to put down the phone before three shots sounded, followed by a chorus of screams and shouts.
Sandy stared the engine and shifted into reverse. Moments later Jocelyn emerged from the scrum. Good girl, Emily thought. She wasn’t running, just walking at a brisk clip. Jocelyn crossed the street, heading for the car. The cops were out of their cruisers and one of them glanced at her before moving in the direction of the commotion. She reached the car and got in the back. Sandy backed out of the parking space and headed up Hoover Boulevard, being careful not to squeal the tires.
“You okay?” Emily asked, turning to look at Jocelyn. The girl nodded. She was a bit wide-eyed and her cheeks were flushed but otherwise she seemed calm. Good girl, Emily thought again, recalling her first time, the way she’d been trembling all over as she dove into the back of the panel truck.
“Everything go okay?”
“Sure. He never saw it coming. Two in the chest, one in the head, exactly like you told me, Emily.” Jocelyn drew in a deep breath. “Then I dropped the gun on the ground and just walked away. And it was so fucking weird. Nobody even tried to stop me.”
‘Nobody ever fucking does,” Sandy said, laughing. “Nobody wants that kind of trouble.”
Emily didn’t care for bad language and normally she would have administered a reprimand but under the circumstances she let it slide.
“All right, then.” Emily held up a hand and Jocelyn slapped palms with her. “You did good, girl. We’re going to take you home now and I want you to lie low for a couple or three days, just until the dust settles. It sounds to me like you got away clean but we’ll put someone with you just in case. Sandy, can you take care of that?”
“Sure. Mia can stay with her.” Mia was a thirtysomething fitness freak with a black belt in karate: the List’s chief enforcer.
“I’ll call in a few days,” Emily went on, “and we’ll talk. About your future.”
They let Jocelyn off at her house and waited until she was safe inside. “Where to now?” Sandy inquired.
“I don’t know about you, girlfriend, but I could use a drink.”
There was a bar and grill on MLK that the List favored and Sandy drove them there. Choosing a secluded booth in the back, they ordered Cosmopolitans, chatting about kids and husbands and clothes as they sipped them. After a few minutes Emily turned the conversation to business.
“We should be ready,” she said. “In case the Tees take this the wrong way.”
“You think they will?”
Emily shook her head “Not really. I know Laqueta. She pushed us a little, just to see if we’d sit still for it. I don’t think she’ll go off on us just because we terminated her maggot. But I want everybody on high alert, just in case.
“You got it.”
“Also I think Jocelyn should get the tat,” Emily said. “The girl did a good job today.”
“She’s on the young side,” Sandy observed.
“She lost her virginity today, on List business.” Emily’s voice was firm. “She’s earned the tat, Sandy.”
“Okay, fine.”
“Another thing.” Emily’s voice went from firm to hard. “Kennedy. We need to do some housecleaning there. I’m giving it to Jocelyn. Alice hasn’t been taking care of business, obviously. Anyhow, it’s time she took a step back. She’s what, fifty-six?”
“And Jocelyn’s only nineteen.”
“Yeah, well, when word gets around—and we’ll see that it does—that she personally capped that Tee maggot, she’ll have plenty of respect among our maggots.” Emily smiled. “And she’ll find the ones who sold us out, if that’s what happened.”
Sandy finished off her Cosmo. “Want another one?”
“Better not.” Emily sighed. “Arron and I have a thing tonight. A fundraising dinner for Kendra Clarkson.”
“Oh, right.” Sandy laid a couple of twenties on the table. “I haven’t been following the news. How are they rating her chances?”
“Are you kidding?” Emily laughed. “Our girl’s a sure thing. After all, she has the backing of Emily’s List.”