BUTTONS

By Michael A. Maney

Amy Devlin, whom her parents call “Buttons”, is a bright and popular six grade student. She is a happy child, but that’s before tragedy strikes in the form of death. Now suffering from nightmares, the child’s education and life are compromised. Years later Amy is diagnosed with a personality disorder, which leads her politically ambitious father to hire protection – against herself. His remedy – hire bodyguards.Two retired members of the NYPD are brought in to watch over
this now twenty something young lady. And they will have to learn to deal with her personalities that can be sexy, mean, rough, or quite normal. They also have to put up with each other’s temperament along with a criminal element that include murder and betrayal.

Because of some sexual and violent content, this material is not suitable for minors.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael A. Maney
• Release date: Oct 28, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311703699

Michael A. Maney

New York City born and raised. Besides work, I play guitar and write a lot these days. With a dog named Max and a one bedroom flat, starving myself to keep getting fat. Getting older now, need only a drink or two. Sometimes I prefer ice tea and a room with a view. It's getting late now as I see, have the dog to walk but is he walking me? That's it for now, it's up to you. If you purchase my book....that's cool.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

The red brick, four-floor building that housed students of PS 66 in Queens, New York, had seen better times. Not up to the day’s standards, on many occasions, the rooms were stuffy as it lacked air conditioning to keep the children comfortable and alert. Also, a shaky boiler would require sweaters during the colder months. The hallways, stairwells, and rooms were dim, lit by low wattage bulbs. There were worn, scarred, oak-wood desks that the boys and girls occupied; although functional, they were reminiscent of those in the movie Blackboard Jungle. The ceilings suffered from mold and peeled white paint while the pale green walls were likewise in a lackluster condition due to cracks and crevices. Rumors the structure would be abandoned explained the lack of funds for the upkeep. However, the custodian would do his best to maintain the premises with the hope that plaster and a prayer would keep it intact.

It was two months into the school year for Mrs. Eleanor Grady’s seventh grade class. Mrs. Grady was seventy-two, thin, and short in stature at 5'2". Having spent fifty of those years at the public school, she kept herself presentable by wearing nice dresses and fashionable shoes. A narrow nose that supported thin-rimmed glasses along with her silver, shoulder-length hair completed her look.

Health had always been on her side, but the migraines that Mrs. Grady now suffered were become increasingly severe. However, so far, determination showed that she was in better condition than the place where she had spent most of her life.

A widow, while not blessed with children, she gave each boy and girl motherly affection, even when she was not at her best. Mrs. Grady had made it known that when and if the school building retired, so would she.

Since most of her forty students were excelling in their studies, on this day they were given an extra fifteen minutes of recess. The thrilled class took advantage of the gift; in the fenced schoolyard they played ball, ran, or gossiped. When they were called in, it took time for their adrenaline to dissipate. Finally settling into their seats, they opened the book Journey to the Center of the Earth by Jules Verne. Who wants to read Chapter Six out loud? Mrs. Grady asked with enthusiasm. As they sat, ten of the neatly uniformed boys and girls stretched their hands upward while vigorously waving to be picked. Mrs. Grady panned the six rows, deciding on the reader. Ignoring the volunteers, the eventual focus was a pretty girl sitting almost motionless in the back of the room – her sad eyes were planted on the wooden desk. Amy? We haven’t heard from you in a while; would you like to read for us? Without looking up, the girl shook her head in the negative. The teacher appeared concerned with the response but decided to move on. Okay; how about you, David? she asked as she pointed to the dark-haired boy, and he began to read.

The melancholy student was Amy Devlin, whom her parents called Buttons. A good girl, she wore dresses only on special occasions and to school. Most of the time she was a blue jean tomboy, playing soccer and following her favorite baseball team, the New York Yankees.

Amy was an A student up to grade six. But now in the seventh grade, she was clearly beginning to slip. Her angelic face that enjoyed life was becoming sullen; her crystal blue eyes no longer shone; and her blonde hair seemed dull. Once popular, the youngster was keeping to herself both at school and at home. And those scrapes and bruises – badges of honor from sports – were no more.

She kept a diary with Buttons inscribed on a maroon leather-bound cover, but Amy had ceased entering her thoughts. The last entry was simply, Brian was hit by a car today and he died.

It had taken some time for the school to become aware, the death of Brian, her slightly older brother was most likely the cause of Amy’s declining grades and somber mood. Mrs. Grady advised the principal, Ms. Ramona Ortiz, of her concerns. A week later, Amy’s parents would meet with the latter.

Ms. Ortiz, thirty-five years old and single, was somewhat young for a person in her position. Of Puerto Rican descent, she had shoulder-length black hair and green eyes. With her caramel skin, it wouldn’t be a stretch to call her sexy. In fact, the rumor was that she had a provocative side. The story – she used it as an advancement tool to her present position. The reality – she was personable while making herself available to teachers, students, support staff, and parents.

She began at the school as a teacher ten years earlier. When Amy entered first grade, Ms. Ortiz was already the assistant principal, and as the years passed, there were no issues with the child, so it was unusual to receive a negative report. But the principal went with the assumption that no child was perfect.

CHAPTER 2

It was in a simply furnished office that Amy’s parents met with the woman in charge. Light green window-shades were down and a single bulb in the overhead light was on as Ms. Ortiz sat behind a nondescript wooden desk.

Ms. Ortiz was wearing black-rimmed glasses that portrayed a studious appearance. But with a white sweater that accentuated her assets, it seemed contrary to an intellectual. She held Amy’s school file that was kept in a manila folder.

As the principal looked downward, she appeared concerned while she perused the pages. In front of her, Mr. and Mrs. Devlin each sat uneasily in a plain wooden chair as they watched the principal scrutinize their daughter’s records.

Dressed in a navy blue suit was a tan Larry Devlin – a ruggedly handsome dark-haired man of thirty-five. He fidgeted with his red tie before loosening it from his white shirt collar; the maneuver permitted the musky fragrance of his body cologne to escape into the room. His wife, Ann, an attractive, light-skinned petite blonde, crossed her legs and adjusted the hem of her gray skirt a couple of times. It was apparent that she too could not get comfortable. Possibly the meeting with the principal brought up memories of their own assorted educational escapades. At one point Mr. Devlin looked toward the bookcase on the left, and if you had asked him to name the title of a single book displayed, he probably could not. But he had begun to lose patience as he glanced at his gold wristwatch and audibly exhaled.

The attractive principal placed Amy’s records flat on the desk. Removing her glasses, she positioned them next to the file. As the educator folded her hands, she focused on the Devlins – they braced themselves. Mr. and Mrs. Devlin? Ms. Ortiz stated with authority.

That’s us, announced Larry Devlin, sitting at attention with a forced grin.

To begin with, I want to thank you for coming, she said graciously; the couple nodded. I believe at the last parent-teachers meeting, I only met with you, Mrs. Devlin. But you do look familiar, Mr. Devlin. Have we ever met?

I think that I was out of the city for that meeting, and no… I don’t believe that we crossed paths, replied the husband.

You look so familiar, the principal said with a narrowing of her eyes. Your wife said that you’re a builder?

I’m more of a destroyer; I own a demolition company.

Isn’t demolition dangerous? she asked with interest.

If you don’t know what you’re doing, it can be, he said with confidence.

I’m sure you know what you’re doing, she said with a flirtatious smile. Mr. Devlin returned a sheepish grin while his wife, in a ho-hum fashion, was apathetic to say the least. Anyway, Amy’s teacher, Mrs. Grady alerted me to your daughter’s low grades and lack of motivation, said the principal.

I cannot believe that Grady is still here, replied a now interested, wide-eyed Ann Devlin. I had her in third grade and she was so sweet.

And she still is.

Ms. Ortiz, the death of Amy’s brother from a car accident affected her a great deal, said Mr. Devlin.

I know. Brian was a good boy.

He was more than that, he said and continued. I believe he was going to grow up and be something special in whatever he did.

I am sure he would have, Ms. Ortiz said with sympathy and there was a moment of silence. So, does your job take you away from home, Mr. Devlin?

Sometimes.

My husband is a very good father, Mrs. Ortiz, Ann Devlin defensively interjected.

That would be Ms. Ortiz, and I don’t doubt that at all, she said with fascination, leaning forward in Larry’s direction; Ortiz reclined back. But I am just wondering, Mrs. Devlin, if Amy is also having trouble because you at times are the only one in the home, or are there other issues?

There are no problems at home; are there, Hon? she asked with a nudge of her elbow.

Devlin flinched and replied, No; not at our house. He leaned forward and became emphatic in his tone. If I come home in the middle of the night, I make sure Amy is safely tucked in, and even though she is sound asleep, I’m positive she knows that I’m there. But if you believe that being home more will help Amy, I can make special arrangements.

It may or may not help. But the thinking is that Amy should be held back a grade. For the parents, hearing that last statement, the air appeared to be sucked out of the room. Mr. and Mrs. Devlin stared at Ms. Ortiz for a few moments. They tried to be stoic but their silence and a slump in posture gave them away. It may seem drastic. However, we have a new seventh grade class in January – she won’t be too far behind. And I truly think that it will benefit her to start fresh.

Ms. Ortiz, said Mrs. Devlin as she wet her strawberry lips and adjusted her position in the chair. Being left back would absolutely crush Amy. Surely because a student’s grades drop temporarily, it doesn’t justify something so rash, and considering that Amy recently lost her brother.

We did not take this lightly. After speaking to the school counselor and her teacher, we agreed that this is the best course of action.

Amy is going to be so upset; is there anything that we can do to change your mind? Mrs. Devlin asked with an anticipatory wince.

I’m sorry. Ms. Ortiz paused. Does Amy have any hobbies?

She did like sports at one time; Brian and Amy would practice soccer together, replied her mother.

She likes to draw. In fact I think that she is very good, Mr. Devlin said proudly. Why do you ask?

I just wanted to know what makes her happy.

Oh, replied Larry Devlin. Should we tell Amy about being left back?

I wouldn’t just yet. Why don’t we meet sometime in December? Then we can all explain the reasons to Amy. On that note, the meeting was over; disappointed, the Devlins reluctantly exited the office.

CHAPTER 3

At 3:30 P.M., with all the children dismissed, the halls were empty except for a school worker mopping down the area, filling the air with an ammonia odor. Amy’s parents walked toward the exit at a steady pace with their shoe-heels clicking an echo off the marble floor. With a push of the cast-iron door, Larry escorted his wife out and down seven concrete steps, through a black iron gate, and onto the sidewalk. Their car was just around the corner, but as they began to walk in that direction, Ann had to get something off her chest.

Hold it a second, Larry, she said with a slight grab of her husband’s jacket, and they both halted.

What’s up?

Ann walked in front of Larry and crossed her arms in a defiant fashion. Did you sleep with her?

What?

Larry? Did… you… fuck her? Ann reiterated in staccato.

Fuck her? Fuck who? he responded incredulously.

Ms. Ortiz. Come on, she knew you and you knew her; I could see it in your eyes. And since you did know her, you most likely slept with her.

I don’t know her.

Larry, I realize there is no love in our marriage, and I don’t mind fulfilling your disgusting little fantasies, like the vampire and the French maid, she said with a cringe. And for once, I’d like to play the maid.

Ann…

Let me finish, please, the Mrs. said with a hand-up stop signal and she continued. I don’t want a divorce, for Buttons’ sake. But if you fuck somebody else, first, I don’t want to know about it. And second, you’d better not bring anything home with you.

Those are non-issues.

Say okay, Larry, she demanded.

He sighed. "If you insist; okay."

Good. But on the other hand – she clearly has a thing for you and maybe we can use that to our advantage.

So now you want me to fuck her?

Please, Larry. I haven’t purged all week, so don’t give me a reason. All I want is for you to charm Ms. Ortiz into not leaving Buttons back. Ann had begun to walk toward the car.

"Wait a second, hon, Devlin said and she stopped. What’s wrong with keeping Buttons back a grade? It may help her."

No; it would just produce negative feelings, and I want her to work hard, get a good education, and be an independent woman – not like me.

You did fine.

No, you did, Larry.

All right, so I’ll talk to the principal. Larry started toward the school.

Not now, Ann said and her husband stopped. It would look too suspicious. Let’s wait a day.

"Fine. By the way, thanks so much, dear, for not asking for a divorce."

My pleasure, because I think you’re going to be worth a lot more money down the road if I wait.

Baby, you’re the greatest.

Larry the Devil Devlin was raised in one of the toughest neighborhoods in the South Bronx – Hunts Point, New York. After a number of arrests, the Irish-American teenager – a six-foot, high school drop-out – found himself in Spofford Juvenile Facility, also in the Bronx. Were it not for an employee at the adolescent jail, young Larry’s criminal pursuits would have continued.

It was counselor, Frank Guido who told Larry how it was. Frank was short but muscular, and though he was balding on top, he had a pony-tail. He was an Italian leg-breaker, spending his time in some of the toughest New York State detention facilities. It was when he was sentenced to five years in Sing-Sing that he realized showering with a gang of men was not something that suited him. The stay did, however, encourage him to get his GED.

After he was released, he entered college with his focus on social work; Frank received his degree four years later. After a couple of months, he landed a job at Spofford; he’d been there for twenty years.

Frank saw potential in Larry Devlin. He suggested that, like himself, it appeared the teenager was not a good criminal. Another piece of wisdom was if the going straight thing didn’t work out, there was always time to be a bad man.

The former thug had friends in the construction business. It was thought that good hard, constructive work was what the young man needed. And Devlin started on the ground floor as a laborer.

During a job pouring concrete, he got his future wife’s attention by first asking her name. Ann, very attractive while wearing jeans, high heels, and a pink sweater, was hesitant but she told him. Flashing a grin, the hard hat picked up a small, jagged piece of wood, and wrote in the wet cement, Larry loves Ann! The rest, as they say, was history. And after years of hard work, he opened a demolition company named, Devco Demolition, Inc.

CHAPTER 4

The next day, a patient Larry Devlin waited across from the school in his black Dodge pick-up. It was 3:00 P.M., and the neatly dressed students were exiting the front gate. When he saw his daughter, in a clandestine fashion, he slid down in his seat.

As the individual groups of children