Cadillac Payback

by AJ Elmore

  It ain't me. It ain't me! Dammit, C.C.R.

  My chest feels like a compactor. Pressure builds in my forehead until, bitterly, I lose the battle against my body and blow away my breath. Escape plan failed. Deliberately, I reach into her space to drop the roach into the bottle, watch her gaze travel along my forearm then retreat.

  “What now?” I ask, staring forward so hard I can't actually see anything. “Do we find out why they shot him?”

  “No,” she answers, a little too quickly, in the same unsettling tone she used upon finding Charlie dead.

  She exercises the ceded control, brings my eyes to hers with a single word. She establishes a firm connection and manly rise in my gut. She's too damn young to be so damn persuasive. I'd love to act like she's a naïve child, but I know she's a quick learner, a latent observer.

  She says, “I don't care why they did it. I'm going to destroy them, that's why I told you all that I understand if you want out.”

  I scoff at the ground. I can't keep my reaction in check like I told myself I should. She's playing such a dangerous game, toying with those closest to her.

  “You know none us wants out. You knew it before you ever said those words,” I answer, my frustration making my voice climb in volume, bringing her eyes to light on me like some blessing, sweltering and irresistible.

  Her lids are weighted, like maybe the thoughts that cross her mind are not of vengeance, but of sex. I know her well enough to know that it's a turn-on for her when men stand up to her, something Josh fails to do. Yet she still wants him.

  “How would I know what any of you wants?” she asks softly. Her words could be innocent if it were anyone else saying them. She has to know at least one thing we all want from her.

  I look away from her for anything that might be a distraction, and scoot just a little closer to the edge of the hood, in case I need to make a quick escape. I can't pretend the heat she lays on me doesn't make my testosterone surge. I let her see my rare reaction to her, something she recognizes and, I believe, relishes.

  I say, “Just be careful with the forces you're fucking around with, don't turn your allies against one another.”

  My tone is harder than she's used to from me. She's high. I can tell she is, because she lies back against the hood of the car she has inherited and takes a long breath. She props her arms behind her head, resting it in her palms, and I can almost see her mind wander away to a less tense moment. I wonder – inevitably – if she's thinking of me.

  “I like you better when you're baked,” she says with wistful tone. “It's the only time you're really honest.”

  For a hot second, I wish I were blitzed out of my mind. I wonder how many of my inhibitions I could send away, how much of my practical nature I could quell. I wonder how deeply her curiosity runs.

  I turn to look at her, to make sure she fully understands the distress she has imposed upon me. If she never had a clue of the way her presence is like the NOLA air to me—a thick, heady, dark magic. There is no mistaking it in the look I pin to her now.

  I say, “Don't betray the loyalties you have built, they don't repair well once they've been broken.”

  Her eyes fire and she props herself up on her elbows, outline backlighted by greasy streetlight.

  “I won't betray you,” she says like the breeze that suddenly finds us.

  I turn away and propel myself off the car to get away from her.

  “Don't worry about me,” I answer, looking up at the haze of the city. “Worry about you, Maria.”

  And I walk away.

  Chapter 8 The Deviance Blues

  Joshua

  I watch morosely as the last gaggle of regulars files out the glass door around 10:45 p.m., leaving some waves and an en round chorus of parting words in their wake. They've been here for a while, laughing and cutting up, reminding me that my emotional response system is dead.

  I barely raise my head as Noah emerges from behind the bar to lock the door. He's skinny, heavily tattooed, and wearing a black tank and jeans. He's also one of the owners of this fine establishment.

  “Hey! Don't lock the doors early!” his brother calls from the back.

  “Fuck off!” Noah answers with a roll of his light brown eyes, so similar in color to Maria's that it makes me look away.

  I still feel his bright smile as he saunters back behind his huge, black-lacquered bar. I pretend that I'm part of the scenery. I pretend not to notice that the cute blonde server with the impressive rack keeps checking me out as she cleans nearby.

  I've been nursing a Killian's for a long stretch and shooting the shit with Noah, who has been forcing me to respond to him as he doles out liquid courage. The cool blue lighting above the bar is soothing, but everything still comes in dull waves. I can act like I'm alive, but I can't feel anything.

  He deals out two rocks glasses like a pit boss, pouring two healthy shots of Pyrat Rum before coming back around, bar drawer in one hand and a beer in the other. He pushes one glass toward me and takes the adjacent stool.

  “To old friends,” he says as he swipes up his shot.

  I groan towards the rum. My nerves have always been enough to destroy my stomach's fortitude. It's been a rough day. The look on his face is somewhere between a goading challenge and disbelief as he demands my attention. He flicks the glass under my nose a couple times with a mischievous grin.

  “C'mon. Pussy.”

  I know he's only joking. This is an old ritual of cock measuring, which is why I don't deck him in the jaw. He knows what his suppliers have been through lately. More importantly, he knows what it's like to lose big to the game and that this is the first time I've seen someone close to me die so violently. That's why he's been passing out beers and liquor to me all night. That's why we didn't pay to eat here. I retrieve the shot.

  “To friends,” I answer, dragging up a small smile I hadn't realized I could present. Noah's like that, always makes you laugh at something. He's the most easy-going twenty-seven-year-old in the Big Easy.

  We throw back our spirits like old deck hands. The stuff is so smooth I just let the spices burn in my throat, no chaser. I realize my eyes have drifted closed on the soothing wave of oak barrel rum, and that Noah is staring at me when I open them. He seems concerned, his boyish face too serious, flat mouth framed by a few days' stubble.

  “You look like shit, man,” he says, turning away to his drawer. He picks one of the three pens protruding from his long, twisted-up, chestnut hair, somehow avoiding the one that's holding the knot in place.

  I sniff my indignation at the rocks glass. I'm vaguely comforted by the familiar warmth of liquor as he scribbles some figures on a piece of register tape, even as my thoughts mull over how I've been hearing how rough I look a lot lately. Never fucking mind how I feel.

  Noah always knows the right drink for the situation. Aged liquor feels like a blanket of years, a buffer between reality and now. He's the best bartender I've ever met.

  “Thanks,” I say sarcastically, watching him pull a wad of crumpled money from his tip jar and start to straighten it.

  “What are you guys gonna do now?”

  The back of his left hand is covered by a tattoo of the muscle structure of the hand. The reds and pinks catch my wavering attention. It's hard not to stare at his arms, full sleeves done in a myriad of images so intricate they're like puzzles, colors blurring a little as he moves. It would be so much easier to just get lost in the inky art, to feign drunkenness.

  “I don't know,” I answer with a sigh and a shrug.

  He shakes his head as if this is sad news as he unfolds a fifty. “You know,” he says without looking over at me, “if you guys stay in town, our weight could double.”

  I almost choke on my beer. Double their current rate of distribution would be huge.

  “You act like you don't want to make money!” calls the executive chef, older brother Jack, slicing into the conversation as he wanders out of
the kitchen. He has a white towel slung over his shoulder, and a once-white apron hanging dangerously low over black-and-white-striped chef pants. I stare into the empty glass, hoping that it's big enough to hold my surprise so that Jack doesn't call me out.

  “I know!” says Noah sharply. “I hate to turn the mob away.”

  He motions past me, toward the door and the dark sidewalk beyond, still without looking away from bank-facing his cash. He and I are like little boys, holding out stubbornly under the weight of parental accusation.

  “Well, maybe if we looked open, someone would come,” Jack answers pointedly.

  I chance a look up as he pulls the black crocheted hat off his head, letting a sweaty tangle of curling hair loose, only to gather it up and wrap a large elastic around it. He's a taller and thinner version of Noah, slightly darker hair and, instead of tattoos, scars run along his arms from years spent in the kitchen. He'll make a Cajun burger that will knock you on your ass, then leave you begging for more. He grabs a Budweiser from behind the bar and turns the same fretful expression on me that Noah just did. Fuck, I'm caught.

  “Make sure you write that shit down!” Noah cuts across the tension. “You'll fuck up my counts.”

  “Why don't you write it down,” spits Jack without letting me out of his visual grasp. “They're your counts.”

  Noah slams down his pen to give Jack a nasty look, but his insult dies at its root when he sees his brother's expression. I can see his large eyes turn on me, too.

  “Is she going to do a funeral?” Jack asks, twisting the top off the beer with his hand, and finally letting me look away as he leans down onto the register with his elbows.

  “Too risky,” I grunt.

  I was unprepared for that question. Maybe he can tell I'm not ready to put words to all my misery. I can't sort out why he thinks I would know what she wants to do. He takes a long, chilled drink from the brown bottle, then gives Noah a meaningful look that makes my stomach flip.

  “We'll throw a little something here,” says Jack. They both nail me with heavy eyes so that I cannot even speak to argue. I bet they can stop their own mother in her tracks with those eyes. He continues, “After hours, of course.”

  On the surface, the offer is generous, very touching. Jack and Noah have been with my network longer than I have. Underneath, it's an honor and a huge opportunity to organize a quick alliance. Apparently, the implications of the attack on the house in Biloxi are already spreading. A time might soon come when choosing a side is necessary. It seems the guys are expecting a large influx of business. They have already chosen a side.

  Finally, I find my voice. “It's not up to me.”

  Again, the guys share a closed-connection glance. If their age difference were not apparent, I would swear they were twins. It's the same thing Charlie and Maria used to do. It always pissed me off, mostly because it's not a bond an only child like me can understand. I glare at my glass as if it has become the center of all my problems.

  “But it affects you,” Jack answers, straightening up and gently slapping me on the shoulder. For just a flash, I believe his touch will shatter me I'm so tense. Yet, somehow, the contact reminds me that I am still alive despite all my misery.

  “Just think about it,” he adds. “I'm not asking anything from you, just letting you know what's up.”

  He turns back toward the kitchen. As he pushes through the swinging door, someone cranks up the house system. Stevie Ray's guitar cries from the speakers and with it, my bleeding heart. Dark clouds are rolling in.

  Chapter 9 Ghosts and Secret Wars

  Joshua

  “Let's walk,” Isaiah says upon eye contact.

  His tone is gruff, gaze glassy, and it's almost like he was waiting for me to walk in the apartment door. He grabs me with a look the color of faded jeans, expression one of tolerance, tone not quite a question. He's got a cigarette in one hand that he sucks on so he doesn't have to look me in the eye anymore.

  His distaste toward me is never something he's made any pains to hide. My curiosity flicks toward the kitchen where I can hear Maria's voice cracking. I've barely made it inside the door and he is blocking my way. If it weren't peaceable Isaiah, I'd think he was challenging me, instigating at least.

  Frederick shoots us a guarded look from the chair. One dark eyebrow rises. I know he's assessing my intoxication and the possibility of an altercation between Izzy and me. I answer with a challenging look. Go ahead, say something. But he won't.

  He shrugs openly, standing and ambling into the kitchen to rummage in the fridge, seemingly oblivious to the serious conversation that comes to me in pieces. I feel something cold in my stomach for him right now, at the way he can so readily dismiss what he feels is not his business, or of his concern.

  Isaiah pushes past me to open the door. For a moment, I consider ignoring him. I want to scream, “Fuck off!” to anyone who can hear me, but the rum has lulled me to a dull roar. This apartment is too small for this many people, and the air is thick, barely moving. I think it's hotter in here than it is outside. So I find myself turning back out the way from which I came.

  I trudge down the stairs into a cloud of Camel smoke and I feel sick. It's not the alcohol, it's the nerves. Part of me hopes he wants to fight. I need to let off some steam. At the bottom of the stairs, he takes off down the sidewalk. My feet drag me to a stop, staring after him. Surely he doesn't really mean to take a fucking stroll now?

  “It's a nice night,” he says over his shoulder, flicking some ash into the air.

  I huff through my nose. I'm not in the mood to take any shit, yet something compels me to keep following. The rich and pleasant cool of late night in the city is refreshing after barely five minutes inside the apartment above the restaurant. Not that I would ever admit to him that this was a good idea. Somehow I know Jack's question has already been presented.

  I can't get a sense of the group dynamic now that Charlie's gone. He was a central post for all of us. Now the atmosphere is shifting. I can't read the signs and it's frustrating. I feel like a blind child.

  “It feels like a funeral in there,” I say bitingly, catching up to Isaiah's easy stride.

  His curiosity hits me sidelong, glinting the tiniest bit in the streetlights above. He looks tired and stoned, which must explain his civility now. Isaiah is one of the hardest people to provoke. He is almost always at a distance. I'm the only person I know who can bring him to violence in less than an hour.

  “Did you have something to say?”

  He sighs then takes another drag, seemingly in no hurry to make sense. Although cigarettes are never something I've had any use for, I consider asking him for one just to have somewhere to direct some energy. I speed my steps just a little so that he has to adjust his leisurely pace. His slow-draw-deadly-aim attitude is making me angry in a way I can't explain. How can he be so calm when our lives' foundation is shaking so much?

  “Shit's changing, Josh,” he says thoughtfully.

  We pass a dark café with some tables chained to the cement. I watch his face tint red for just a moment in the neon from a sign. Tiny shadows accentuate the beginnings of crows' feet at the corners of his eyes and gentle creases around his mouth. In this light, he almost looks friendly, but we pass it by soon enough. I won't make pretenses, so I let my skepticism run cold and unchecked. I stop.

  “What the fuck does that mean?”

  Here it is, my defense system, my guilt that I wasn't there to do something. The fight rises in me like flames against a Mississippi night, like the Molotov cocktail. My body burns against the breeze so that it almost feels cold around me.

  He turns toward me with eyebrows raised. The violence he breeds in me is apparent in my tone and it rises damn near instantly. I don't know what it is about him that never fails to make me so fuckin' mad. Maybe it's that look he always wears, like he knows something no one else does, and if he'd just fucking say it everyone would laugh and see the light, like
maybe if he'd speak up someone would agree.

  But he never just says anything.

  “It means that she's not satisfied with a few of them dead in a house fire,” he answers, his voice even, unwilling to rise to my challenge. “She's aiming high. She wants to wipe the Reaps from the earth, and those damn boys have found a way to make her vendetta profitable. I heard them talking about distribution, about staying here and making it bigger. When Charlie died, this stopped being a game. And when we follow her into whatever is to come, it will be to protect her life, not to make money and get high.”

  The rage subsides. My thoughts drown in the irony. Isaiah never says anything straight, except the words he just spoke to me. I'm taken back to another conversation a long time ago. Don't play games with my sister's emotions, Charlie had said. Like the ocean, like the moon, my indignation rolls back to the surface.

  “This has never been a game!” I snap. “Not to me! There's never been a minute I wouldn't have followed either of them to hell if that meant I could watch their backs! What do you know? You don't fucking feel anything, right? Aren't you so hard?”

  “If you wanna fight, get it out of your system,” he answers, again dodging a direct assault on the glass casing around his emotions.

  His gentle manner is like insult to the injury of the fact that I'm screaming at him. At that moment, I really do want to fight it out. I really want to throw inhibitions on the sidewalk and scrap like men until one of us goes under.

  Then he says, “You need to get it off your back, because after tonight, it won't matter how we feel.”

  His expression is annoyingly passive. His body is at ease in his button-up linen shirt that my generation was never taught to wear. I know, though, that if I made a move toward him, instinct would kick in and he would react. Part of me is considering pressing the issue if only to break his composure.