January House Literary Journal

by Mary Kate Williams

As a novelist, with quite a robust imagination, I never expected the mob to be involved in the success or demise of my literary art piece novel. But here we are.

“Thanks again,” I trill, exiting the nail salon feeling truly pampered. Some women do this every week; how do they have the time? But for me, this is a treat: a mani-pedi after a decadent massage. Hours of time for myself. And, most importantly, no phone. 

Or well, it was tucked into my purse and unreachable. 

I stand just outside the salon and pull it from the interior pocket of my bag. I snap a quick, if not awkwardly posed, photo of my nails. For the few times in my life that I’d had my nails done I always went with the neutral French manicure. But today I was bold: fire engine red. Which is perhaps also not very creative, but my imagination is spent on my words. Not my nails. 

Should I send this photo to Todd? Eh, he’ll see it in twenty minutes when I get home. 

Should I send it to Rina, my agent? No, she is very busy today. 

Should I post it to my social media account for all forty of my followers to see? Post something vague and cryptic about forcing myself away from my phone today. People who know will know. All will be revealed soon.

I decide on the last option and fiddle with the settings, filters, and hashtags while I am still on the salon WiFi. I hit post and hear the kerfuffle. 

Across the parking lot, towards the back near the shuttered Boston Market, I see two men in a struggle. One is smaller, weaker, and ends up in the trunk after a fist to the crown of his head. He goes limp and the trunk closes without any objections. The other, self-satisfied, adjusts his clothes as if he can preen the violence off himself like lint. 

And here I am. With a fresh set three miles from my house staring straight into the eyes of the one who did the man-handling. 

This is not happening. Not today. 

Rina, my agent, the second one, saw promise in my book. I was spent from the emotional agony of the book left to wither and die on submission with the first agent. But this time, only two weeks on submission and we had interest calls. Then the offers came in. Today is auction day. 

The momentum and interest are building already. On Rina’s orders, I have spent as much of the day away from my phone as I can. We have a pre-scheduled time to connect in thirty minutes to review the latest round of offers.

I was zen. I was calm. I was fully detached from my phone and any and all notifications. The stock market is what? My prescription needs authorization? Who knows? Who cares? I am an author who is about to step into the reality I’ve been working towards for two decades. 

Twenty years of my life hunched over a computer. Or thoughtfully typing out critiques for my group. Or placating local literati in the hope they’ll select my short prose piece for their new literary magazine that pays nothing, but then I could at least add it to my bio and hope that yields some credibility.

And now, this display of barbarism in front of my very eyes.

I’m shocked, of course, to see such pedestrian violence.

I wasn’t even sure what I was witnessing until it was over and now the man staring at me, very much aware that I saw him, is only too familiar. 

A Mafioso who was tried and acquitted last year. All over the local papers. I’d have been delighted to be on the jury. A paid excuse to read (while waiting for the court proceedings to begin) and then a front-row seat to human drama. It would have been a juicy character study.

Nonetheless, the case was dismissed because the key witness went missing. The man before me, I’m sure of it, was freed to continue his life of indecency. How convenient for this ‘alleged’ criminal. And very inconvenient for the man in his trunk. And me! 

And now. What?

I should scream. I should call the cops. That’s what a good person would do. A rule-follower. 

That designation chafes.  For years, writing instructors, critique partners, and agents all said the same thing. My work was too polished. Too perfect. Not messy enough to reflect the human condition. That I lacked a killer instinct with my characters and plot.

Well, how about a silent bystander instinct? Because I’m so damn close to my dream I can smell the ink on the freshly printed contract. Or is that the fumes from the nail salon?

Look, regular everyday people not on the cusp of realizing a life dream would turn a blind eye too. I mean it’s not just pointing the finger at one guy and we’re done. (There would be paperwork, depositions, courtrooms, and on and on.) 

There would also be repercussions, revenge. This is organized crime after all. Many reasonable citizens who would otherwise call 9-1-1, jump in to make a citizen’s arrest, or ask for help, would stumble here. 

Wouldn’t they?

 At 5’1″ and 110 soaking wet I’m not about to think about citizen-arresting this behemoth in bespoke Italian wool. His glare is precise, exacting. Like some scene out of a western. A high noon stare-down. 

What if he charges towards me and I end up in the trunk?

Dammit. Today is my day. Tomorrow I’ll have a book deal and edits will begin in earnest. The pitch for book two between proofreading rounds. This is my day to enjoy and savor and celebrate and make a fucking deal. 

I don’t have time for this.

And even if I scurry away to notify the police, this man has seen me! I’ll have to go into witness protection to ensure my safety so that this thug can be put away. And what if he is acquitted again? I leave my entire life, my family, without a word on a chance at justice. 

But justice for who? The poor fellow in the back of the car, they aren’t protesting. I’m guessing Mr. Mafioso knocked them out. And he got himself mixed up with this group, perhaps he isn’t as innocent as it might appear at first glance.

No justice for me, the long-suffering artist. Nor my husband who has patiently championed me nor my children who barely tolerate my nerdy habit. I disappear.

And then… oh no! My book deal would evaporate too.

Unless it is published “posthumously” since everyone will assume I’m dead and then I have to watch from the sidelines as what should have been the beginning of a beautiful career is cut short by some infinitesimal chance at imprisoning a mob underling.

The man who has locked eyes with me for too long adjusts his tie. The rings on his thick fingers reminiscent of brass knuckles.

I don’t think. The thinking side of me is impertinent and demanding I be the good citizen I’ve always been. I return my library books on time even if they have canceled late fees. I pick up the litter when I go on walks. I donate to local women’s shelters. I like every other writer’s publisher’s marketplace announcement because I’m happy for them, even when it reminds me of my failures. Even when I’m seething with jealousy, I buy their books. I donate to my library. I give and I give and I give.

I’m a good person but I’m too close. I’m too in love with the version of my life that is unfolding. 

This isn’t some ethics class dilemma. This is the real world. Real life. People do shitty things all the time and they were rewarded for it, elevated for it, elected for it. So, what if I turn my head here? Mind my business? 

Am I supposed to be a compliant citizen? To sacrifice my life, my family, my neck, my hard-fought career for this? 

I know the right answer. And I know the answer that feels right.

So, I smirk. I waive a perfectly manicured middle finger, roll my eyes, and stalk away.

Mary Kate Williams' debut speculative cli-fi novel, Genisse, was the lead title for Hugo's new iMPACT imprint (FR) in 2025. Her YouTube channel dedicated to the writer's journey currently has 25K subscribers. She is originally from Philadelphia and now lives in St. Pete, Florida.

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