[right][sub]__________

𝚆𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚎 𝙳𝚊𝚠𝚜𝚘𝚗,
𝙰𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝙱, 𝙽𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝚂𝚒𝚡𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚆𝚘𝚘𝚕𝚠𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚁𝚘𝚊𝚍,
𝙼𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚊, 𝚆𝙸 
__________ [/sub][/right]

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Winnie’s gnarled, sandpaper soles shuffled across the dust-coated floorboards of her apartment. She took a shower. The water that sputtered from the limescale-crusted head spat across her leathered skin, a piss-stream of lukewarm water slipping between her cracked folds, hunched and heavy with years of manual labour. She cupped her brittle-boned and wrinkled hands, lumped with callouses and patches of puckered bleach burns, splashing her sagging skin with lethargy and woeful weariness. This life was turning its back on Winnie. She’d grown tired of other people’s messes; Dreaded the phone ringing, swallowed back tears as she deck scrubbed on her hands and knees, twitched at her moth bitten curtains with every police siren that wailed outside her filthy apartment… The thrill of being Minnenoona’s street cleaner had long faded, a burden too weighted for her arthritis-riddled spine. The towel Winne plucked from the back of the bathroom door smelt stale with yesterday’s wash and it crunched in her nicotine-stained fingers, still stiff at her touch. The rough fibres scratched across her flesh, crinkling her skin like rizla paper, grunts of effort grumbling in her throat as she moved those aching bones. This body didn’t cooperate with her the same no more. It winced and whined at her, a petulant child in an aged shell. Hobbling back into the bedroom, the Cleaner stepped shakily into her corduroy overalls, stained and frayed at the hems. Her overgrown fingernails, permanently bedded full of miscellaneous dirt, fumbled with the buttons flapping on the ends of their loosened threads.

[quote] “[i]Winifred, goddammmit[/i]” she muttered to herself, shaking her head at the Madam’s facetious arrogance. It wasn’t her name. The Queen of the Whorehouse couldn’t even use her real name. How many times had she corrected her? She’d lost count over the years.[/quote]

How she wished, now more than ever, that she’d never taken that off-job all them years ago. She could’ve earned a humble salary doing the honest work, couldn’t she? But no. Winnie’s Wash went from simple mop and bucket to carpet-rolled bodies and blood-stained sponges. It was a risky path she’d chosen; Harbouring the darkest secrets for the no-gooders of this guttered town. The trust these charlatans put in her went beyond her custodial skillset. Sure, she had an eye for it. Indeed, she had the hardened kneecaps and blisters to prove it. But it was Winnie’s silence that cost those thugs the big buck. Though it was easy to turn the other cheek to crime when she knew very well there was little standing between her and the eye of a barrel. It would only take one loose-lipped hint. One wrong name. One knobbled toe out of line. Winnie’s Wash would be snuffed out quicker than a stain from a starched shirt. So, good ol’ Winne toed the line. She made out her invoices for end of tenancy cleans, office cleans, weekly house cleans… Legit paperwork for a less-than-legitimate business. At first, she enjoyed it. Those kingpins running to her every time they got trigger-happy and power hungry made her feel… Needed. It gave her purpose. But now?… Now, she wished there was a way out. A back door she could slip out of, cut the cord of her phone, change her name, take up sewing or playing Gin Rummy down the boozer. There was no chance of an Irish goodbye for Winnie. She knew too much. So even now, at the ripe ol’ age of 59 and just shy of 60, Winnie’s Wash continued to clean up after the damned in Minnenoona. Begrudgingly. With a bitter taste in her mouth and the sting of bleach in her silver nose hairs.

Just as she was about to fetch the keys to her van, the trill of the phone cut through the air. She mumbled impatiently, cursing that Madam’s inability to simply await her arrival, snatching the receiver from its cradle and lifting it to her ear.

[quote] “[i]Winnie’s Wash[/i],” she snapped, expecting to hear the dulcet tones of Pearly Sackville invading her canal.[/quote]

It was a low, gravelly voice that greeted her. One that she recognised all-too-well and made her skin itch.

[quote] “[i]Winnie. It’s Tony Genovese. You workin’ the graveyard shift?[/i]”[/quote]

Duchess, Winnie’s tabby cat, wound her way around her ankles. She mewed, tail brushing across splintered shins, demanding breakfast 4 hours too early. The Cleaner huffed a strained laugh, fingers fiddling with the knotted phone cord, browned teeth gnawing at a flap of loose skin on her bottom lip.

[quote] “[i]Dirt on the street don’t need sleep like I do, Mr Genovese. I can’t remember the last time I got them 8 hours the doctor ordered… How can I help you? I’ll be free in ‘bout an hour.[/i]”[/quote]

Tony’s hacking laughter crackled the speaker. Winnie heard him take a drag on a cigarette. The rubber cord slipped and slid in her sweat-slicked palms.

[quote] “[i]No, no, Winnie. I’m not callin’ ‘bout a job tonight. I’ve got somethin’ a lil different for ya… Somethin’ I know you been wantin’ for a long time.”[/i][/quote]

Duchess mewed again. This time, more adamant than before. Winnie ran a clammy palm along the length of Duchesses back, fur sticking to her skin like a discarded lollipop on carpet. 

[quote] “[i]See, my boy ain’t come home. He ain’t come home for a couple days now. No word from him, no nothin’. And that’s unlike my boy. He wouldn’t miss his mama’s vodka rigatoni for no damned body. And she’s worried sick, my Maria, you know what she gets like dontcha, Winnie? Left his plate out on the table gettin’ cold for hours. Says she’s got this horrible feelin’ our Luca’s out in the cold god knows where. So I ain’t got a job for ya. Not yet, tesoro. But I want you to keep them ears to the ground for me. Listen out for anythin’ that could help your old amico Tony out.”[/i][/quote]

He cleared his throat. Duchess let out a strangled meow. Winnie hadn’t filled her lungs in minutes. They burned white hot as they begged for her to inhale.

[quote] “[i]I’m sure you’re wonderin’ ‘what business is this of mine, Tony?!”[/i] the mob boss chuckled to himself, enjoying the feel of referring to himself in the third person. That Italian-American accent was like speaking in heavily punctuated cursive. “[i]I wanna let you know that I listened when you said you’re gettin’ real tired, old girl. And I know you wanna kick the game. Before the game kicks you, huh? So?… I’m gonna offer you an out.[/i]”[/quote]

Winnie’s knees nearly folded like a deck chair. She braced herself on her cluttered bedside table, pressing the receiver so hard to her ear that her skull and the plastic nearly merged. 

[quote] “[i]You hear anything, Winnie, anything that helps me find my boy? I’ll get you out the game. No ifs no buts. Clean cut. Just like that. You know I can do that for you don’t ya, tesoro? Easy!”[/i][/quote]

The Cleaner heard Tony Genovese snap his signet-ringed fingers in the background to drive home his point and a silence fell that felt like a woollen sweater on a wet body. Duchess meowed, long and impatient.

[quote] “[i]Whadya say, Winnie? Ya like the sound of an out, right? Tell ya what. Why don’t you go move in with your daughter Lisa and that sweet grandbaby of yours?[/i]” Tony’s tone had shifted down an octave. Low. Rumbled. “[i]Those early years really do fly by. Why it feels like only yesterday my Luca was makin’ mud pies and blowin’ bubbles in his apple juice… You don’t wanna miss that, Winnie. Little Holly should know her Nona. Whadya say, huh?”[/i][/quote]

So that was that. That was how Winnie’s Wash made yet another deal with yet another devil. Though this one felt more like shackles made of cotton candy. This one promised her what she’d been begging God for the last 8 years. Tony Genovese was her fallen angel. Her ticket off the crazy train. He’d tie up loose ends for her, let the mob know Winnie was out of business but that it was all taken care of. He’d shut up shop for her. And that carrot being dangled was enough. Enough to have her picturing a life without blood-stained carpets and overalls. All she had to do was keep an ear to the ground for word on Luca… And by chance, she was driving straight to just the place she could start asking questions… But not before she cracked open a tin of chum for Duchess and tossed the empty can into the ever-growing pile that was mounting up in the sink. Winne cleaned up other people’s messes… But she never cleaned up her own.