Night racer

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Leonard O’Donoghue was a bat. Not like he was a scrawny webbed winged cackling urchin with yellow speckles for eyes and a brown amorphous shape dangling from tall oaks in the manner of a folded umbrella left in the sun to dry.

Far from it. If nothing else, his green glassy eyes, that looked from a distance, like test tubes with thickets trapped within, told him off as one of the chiropteras. However, his knack for nocturnal adventures, and seeming hibernation during the day, could well make him one of their descendants.

Every 9pm, he was always wildly whistling Rihanna’s Shut up and drive, speeding through the red lights of the Bronx in New York, with a gloved hand flagging out of his black racing car, the one he called Red riding hood; it was a sleeper, this car, sleek and bouncy on the outside, like a tired BMW, but on the inside, its configuration defies any particular design ever known.

He built the car himself from the residual knowledge he gained from being an apprentice for his father, who designed and pimped straight cars into getaways for gangsters. He was called Phantom, Flash Fox, Shadow by those in his clique of which Sergio Ferrara, was the closest; they knew him to be a great racer and even teased him about equaling the likes of Michael Schumacher.

But for others, like Fiala, owner and manager of the nightclub/casino, Aegina, where Len frequented after a thrilling night race, the rider of the black sleeper was a night courier, scouring the whole of New York, delivering things that couldn’t be done during the day. This can be partly true, if delivering wayfaring girls to their homes and staying with them for the night could be counted as part of the deal.

During the day, Len was mostly wielding a camera taking shots of broads against outdoor scenes or examining 10 by 12 shots of straight legged, naked divas against the dim light from the blind frame of his office on the fifth floor of an apartment building in Little Italy, as well as drowning down huge gulps of latte every now and then.
Had his Irish identity been known, he would not have been given a chance in Little Italy as the whole area was dominated by a powerful Italian-American gang of great reckoning and nothing goes on there without their knowledge, not even the huge debt accrued by a florist in the area.

However, his Irish heritage, which can be traced to his English grandmother’s marriage to Conan is concealed by his all-American look, especially his dandy blond hair, bushy golden eyelashes, squinty green eyes and towering six feet, two inches height. As much as he adored his refined looks, it was later to be almost an impediment when he wanted to join an Irish-American cabal, The Westies.

But then, he was living the American dream, which was sealed by the phenomenal house he bought up at Staten Island. The bungalow built with terracotta bricks and painted brown, had an exterior that bespoke his modesty but the interior was flamboyantly decorated, and revealed the two sides of his existence. His home was his greatest companion, he delighted in howling loudly in mid morning, playing the part of a famous popstar, naked, pressing his clothes even as he prepared for work.

There were days, when venting his anger or letting out work stress, he splashed water out of his bronze rimmed jacuzzi, gurgling soda in his mouth simultaneously. No one knew of these idiosyncrasies and no one needn't know, because he rarely had guests up there. The hush hush of the environment, with his agreeable neighbours who had secrets lurked between their teeth, but who never spurted them out. The reason for this was clear: Next to Queens, most of the Italian capos and big men lived up in Staten Island.

Of course, all these were to change pretty soon, but not without the advent of Detective Barrie Paris into Len's world.
Although Len's photography was reserved for his daytime, he liked to once in a while steal the most portable one, the Canon D3000, into his night life, especially during summer, when the nightsky was clear and exhibited magnificent artistry of colours, the winter with raining snows making itself into monstrous shapes. Taking pictures of these still scenes thrilled him.

However, these were nothing compared to the euphoria that enveloped him on any such celebratory nights that displayed fireworks, and what better day to witness these rapturous hisses and cackles than on the Fourth of July. Every Fourth July, he was usually on the suspension bridge that overlooked New York. Here, the fireworks and bonfires coming from the pit of the community were lucid and a rare splendid sight to see, and Len wasted no time in freezing with his camera these rare, splendid moments. With each passing year, the fireworks grew brighter and stronger.
And during one of those years, on that special day, the Fourth of July, he was on the bridge in his.., thinking how successful and smoothly the year had been going, as he had hit two photographic contracts, one with a reputable ad agency promoting perfumes, and the other with a fashion house fast on the rise. He was thinking of how much he liked working for the house, with their edgy clothes and clean cut fabrics that made women into confident, charismatic and flexible characters not whimpering, dolly school girls that only thought of make ups and boyfriends.

The models, for sure, appreciated the unpredictable styling and sultry sensuality the clothes proscribed such that pockets could be carved onto the hip region of sexy gowns and flaps with buttons intersected the breasts; belts were placed around the tilts of hats and back region of shirts and blazers were left transparent or cut in several places. Every piece of cloth he photographed caught his attention, but not as much as the people who made them, or better put just one of the people: the shoes and accessories designer, Kristine DeBernado. His girlfriend. The one that held up her chin and refused to date him until he knew her perfect shoe size, on his own.

Just the thought of her brought warmth to his cheeks and as he took pictures after pictures on the bridge, he let his mind rove back to earlier in the day, when she stooped to adjust the shoelace of a model's running shoes spluttered all over with paints, sort of like a graffiti. She looked boyish and beautiful in the purple jumpsuit, exposing her bony shoulders, and the brown hair held together into a bun. He wanted to, at that moment draw her up to himself and tell her so many things, how he had once again beaten Bald Bull in a race again, how he broken yet another record, but he ccouldn't.

She didn't know anything about than his name and his Irish background, and he preferred it stayed that way. All these ran through his head until he saw a vehicle speed past him while the driver made frantic effort to stop it. Suddenly, as if the car's brakes had gone beserk, the car colluded hardly against the bridge walls, staggered a little, tipped over quickly and into the water it fell. Len, uncertain of what to do, went down to the river and swam to the spot the car fell, if only to save the driver.
He did save the driver, a woman in her late twenties, and yes, the car did go berserk, she later told him. The brake must have been tampered with by a gang she had been investigating. It was her partner's car, she said, being a rookie under her training, she had given him a loan shark case of gangster she thought he could handle. Apparently through a bug he planted with approval, he had come up with some incriminating information even juicier than the loan shark charges, but in the process, he had made himself vulnerable to their attacks.

They altered his brakes, she lent his car because he was off duty, her car was with the mechanics and she needed to go see her ailing boyfriend. This senior public detective, Barris Paris with a set face who had more guts than any man could handle, and spoke vulgar words at any given opportunity didn't think to tel! Len all these until after her recovery she found her partner with his head laying peacefully on the table in his office.

On closer look, however, she saw he was very dead and all the evidences he had garnered over the months regarding The Westies, the group he was investigating were gone, and fortunately, he had not submitted his findings to the Ups. The post mortem autopsy conducted said he died of his already escalating hypertension coupled with too much alcohol that deadened his liver. She knew better. Bruce didn't even drink. He was a straight guy to the core.

Barris wanted justice, or maybe revenge. She felt it was her fault that Bruce died, had she monitored him closely, he would have had the good sense to avoid some dangers. But she didn't see the gang as such a huge threat. She needed an informant, someone smart, someone who could blend in. After weeks of rigorous brainstorming, she concluded that Len, with his Teflon Don look, Irish heritage (she had checked him up), already secretive lifestyle and vibrant night time life was the perfect guy for the job.

Of course, Len refused her at first, but when Kristine left him for a dashing, adventurous, dapper, richer guy, Eddie Radonijch, whom he later found out was the underboss of The Westies, Len took up the job. He needed to expose Eddie for what he was, and claim his woman back.

But life is not a scrapbook; things don't happen just the way we plan them or do they?

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Post created and written by @fumiakinpelu, Edited and posted by @camzy

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Images were gotten from Pixabay

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