by AJ Elmore
Embrace the agony, all the realities I'd love to forget, all the ghosts that trail behind the man who was once like my father.
Embrace the irony, the cruel justice of being the guard, taking a lesson from that old story about the monkey's paw: be careful for what you wish.
And wait. Eventually the moment will come for me to take my retribution.
Chapter 13 Bless the Bullet
Maria
Smoke hangs heavy against the ceiling, so thick it seems to breathe itself into being, so animate I'm sure I can see the ripples of my heartbeat in it. I watch it curl around lazy ceiling fan blades in the current created by the door opening, then closing.
The smoke and the fans are the only things that move in the room. The voices have died around me. I'm drunk, but the speed balances my inebriation, so that the temper that might usually rise is content to slither coldly in my gut.
Charlie, if your spirit lingers, guide my hand and bless the bullet. If it flies, it does to honor you.
I make a slow sigh as I cross myself, a dramatic play, I admit, as my guests and my boys are frozen to their roots, as I make them all wait. I've never been much for my family's Catholic heritage, but if any prayer has ever mattered, it's this one.
Expectancy shuttles between me and my untimely interruption. My guests are to my left as I face the door, all of them seated in a line behind eclectic, retro tables. Joshua, Isaiah, and Jack are to my right, also seated. I had just taken the floor to speak when Noah crept inside. Now Noah has resumed his guard post, with his barrel trained on the driver outside, and Frederick stands rigid with his beautiful piece of a gun held steadily on his only mortal enemy. Oh, how quickly momentum can change.
Charlie, if you have moved on, from your place in heaven, please look away. My actions are only mine.
I drop my eyes to the door, to Derrik, the Jester as he's known in dirtier circles. There is sweat on my skin, but my gaze is cold. I hook my fingers on Charlie's gun without looking at it, and it drags on the table as I pick it up. The sound creates turbulence in the suspense. Its weight becomes more familiar every time I hold it. I wonder if I'd feel anything if I put a slug in the Jester's gut right now. I point the chrome .40 at him, just to see if my nerves stir. All eyes on me. Still nothing.
So I say, “You are not welcome here. You know that.”
My brother used to say that the secret to owning the moment was to find the right vibes and surf them. I don't know if “right” is a good adjective, but it feels like some higher power guides my movements just now. I take slow steps closer and Derrik's hands inch a little farther in the air. The automatic toothy smile on his lips falters as he finds himself staring down my barrel. I wonder if he recognizes Charlie's gun.
He says, “I heard there was some sort of bus'ness meetin'.”
I'm certain the confidence he means to portray doesn't come as strongly as he'd like.
His expression plays like a morbid comedy as he tries to maintain a cool and collected front, but I can see the wariness swimming in his eyes as I lift the steel just a little, so that it's trained on the middle of his face. Perhaps he thought he knew us, knew me, from past encounters. Perhaps he thought he had adequately gauged this situation from afar. And maybe, now, he's realizing that he was sorely wrong. He doesn't know this girl at all.
I can almost feel his desire to back away from me. He has to know that if I pull the trigger, even if this big ol' gun kicks, the space behind his eyes will be gone. All the muscles along my arm pull against one another, beg for me to do it without ever hearing another word from his vile lips, but it'd be wrong of me not to give Freddy first dibs.
I cock my head to the right the slightest bit and say, “I don't know what you're talking about, this is obviously just a gathering of friends.”
His eyes flick almost imperceptibly at Freddy, who hasn't moved since he came in, who also has his sleek silencer aimed at his former mentor. My beautiful and deadly Frederick. I know, just as the Jester must know that true rage manifests in Frederick like the slow tip of an icicle as water drips down, freezes. When he's aggravated, he'll fight anyone. But once he is past violence he is extremely dangerous. I wonder if he's even breathing. I can only imagine what filth has already spewed from Derrik's mouth.
I wait for the Jester's eyes to reconnect with mine, just so he knows I am absolutely serious and say, “So it seems you're being a party crasher, and nobody likes a party crasher.”
He cocks a crooked half-grin, but there's still fear in his eyes. Could it be that even pure evil knows when it has the disadvantage? His measuring gaze does a quick sweep of the party patrons behind me, of the intense eyes and array of weaponry that lies under the surface. I know he can see the shadows of all the faceless armies that back these serious characters. I watch him carefully choose his answer, can practically see the grimy wheels turn in his thoughts.
“I'm here ta negotiate a cease-fire, o' sorts.”
My eyebrows lift themselves at his brazen supposition, and I can't quite stifle the sarcastic, bitter laugh that results. “That's a rich joke, Jester. You have no grounds on which to negotiate, and no validity on which to stand. Are you going to sing and dance for us next?”
He can't quite keep the leer from his lips, and I believe that somewhere in the most twisted part of his mind, he is enjoying the show even if he believes he might die. I can feel the tension ricochet among the boys behind me. They're just as unsure as the parasite before me of how I will react, almost as unsure as I am myself.
Derrik swallows thickly, says, “I'm here with terms from one Gram Marg -”
His voice chokes in his throat as the end of my gun presses against his lips. The laughter dies from the world as that name began to roll from his snake's tongue. My temper is nowhere nearly as sedate as Freddy's.
Derrik tries to play it cool, but I can see terror in the muddy brown of his eyes. Maybe he can see the muscles of my arm pull and harden under the weight of the gun. Maybe he can see the flash of red in my mind at the drop of that name, the name to which I wholly attribute the death of my brother. I find my finger pulling without thought. It takes every ounce of my resolve to stop myself, just before the mechanism explodes. My cheeks burn hot as molten lava.
“That's a very bad word in these parts,” I purr to keep the growl from surfacing.
He won't dare speak now. I'm fairly sure he isn't breathing either. I'd love to watch him suffocate on Charlie's gun barrel. The pressure I'm exerting against his lips must be making his teeth hurt.
I hope it really does.
Frederick is at the edge of my vision, weapon ready to lock onto anything that might make trouble. I can see his left arm stretched before him, as tense as mine. It's trained on Derrik, but his eyes come to me, calculating my collectivity. He too has seen the ways my anger flashes, and he knows that I'm almost across the line of caution. His attention is like heated Spanish whispers, like the night we got too drunk on dark beer and wrestled in the warm summer mud. It's my audacity, my madness that he loves in me.
I bridge the space that separates Derrik from me, push up close until I can smell the cloves on his breath, and look up into his eyes under the brim of his hat. I'm so close that his hands almost touch me, so that he draws them back as if a touch will burn him. Maybe he's right.
I say, “I think you should leave, and if you're smart, you will sink back into the swamp you crawled from and stay out of this.”
He takes a tiny step backward, just so he can speak around the barrel of my brother's Smith and Wesson. The smile is gone from his lips now.
“Without even hearin' me out? You kids are so green. You'd be a fool not to listen, little girl.”
“There can be no cease-fire. This is war, you piece of shit,” I snap.
“What would you know of war?” asks the Jester in a tone so acidic it leaves a nasty taste in my mouth.
Silence drops upon me. My fury is rampant, contagious. It sti
ngs my nose, makes my skin thrill. My finger begs to twitch as my thoughts pit into chaos. I hear a chair scrape the floor behind me, hear movement.
“Maria, wait!” says Joshua, a voice of reason calling from somewhere in outer space, somewhere far removed from the center of the storm. His plea is like a stab of doubt in my back. It stays my hand, but it misses its true mark.
He's right, how rude of me.
“Frederick,” I whisper to keep my voice from shaking.
My guard sidesteps to me, moving with strained grace to my side, asking what I need from him without a single spoken word. Our arms extend beside each other, our shoulders almost touching.
“Gram has sent us his right hand to do his dirty work. Let's send his messenger back without his, shall we?”
Dark eyes widen. Derrik takes another step back, snakeskin boots scuffing the floor. He wants to speak, to defend himself, but I've given him no room to think I'm afraid to act. Freddy doesn't answer, only snickers once, quietly. His arm barely moves as his target changes slightly from Derrik's face to his now-trembling, raised right hand. I can feel rather than see the grin tugging at the right side of Freddy's mouth.
“Freddy, don't!” cries Joshua.
Frederick doesn't answer and he doesn't stop. His expression never changes as he pulls the trigger. The Desert Eagle whispers a curse, and Derrik's hand explodes into a mess of blood and bone. The man howls and the glass door behind him shatters beneath the shade that's drawn over it. Nobody else moves.
I can hear Noah curse outside, hear another voice doing the same. Derrik collapses to his knees in a screaming pile, the big bad wolf reduced to sniveling dog. My stomach lurches. There's blood on my face and tequila rebelling against my stomach. I let my disgust show, aim it down at the bleeding leech.
“That's how much I fucking care what Gram has to say,” I tell him, somehow defeating the sick feeling for the sake of the moment.
Tears are running down his cheeks. Noah appears in the doorway with gun at the ready, crunching on bits of glass and wearing an expression of muted shock. His mouth hinges open as he is quickly followed by Derrik's driver, who has his hands raised.
I don't have the attention for them, so I ignore them as I kneel down on my left knee, so that I'm eye level with Derrik.
“These streets are mine now, and as long as they are red with my brother's blood, I will continue to wash them clean with the blood of his killers.” Derrik's shaking, probably going into shock. I raise his wet chin with my gun barrel. “Traes muerte al reino del diablo. I have nothing to lose.”
Then I click the safety on the gun and stand, ignoring the blood and glass on my jeans. I turn to where Jack is sitting. He's astounded, staring with huge eyes and gripping the edge of the table as if he wants to move but can't. He feels my eyes, can't help but refocus to me. I'm numb. He must see it, my silent plea for him to take control, because he snaps out of his chair to come to my side.
“Get him out of here,” he says to the driver, who rushes to action to avoid dying. “And shut him up, he'll wake up everyone west of the Mississippi.”
Jack is like a rough and dirty dream, taut and bared arms, long face crunched in alarm and, maybe, surprise that I am that cold inside. I can't tell if he wants to slap me, or hug me, or ask me what the fuck I'm thinking, but he doesn't say a word.
I want to tell him it'll be ok, that I haven't lost my mind, that sometimes cruelty is necessary. But I don't speak. I can't even pretend to feel remorse when I still feel nothing.
I hear him telling our guests that we must regretfully suspend the meeting and that we'll be in touch very soon. With a steadying breath, I turn back to them, street-hardened gangsters, businessmen, scholars of the street. They hang on my every move.
Charlie never told me how easy it was to take control. Of course, he knew the power would go to my head. I give them a small smile and field their disbelief at what they have just witnessed, as I watch eyes roam the bloody bits of the front door. I receive a few nods as they rally to leave.
Then, as if I could keep it from him any longer, my attention slides back to Frederick, whose impish grin is set firmly. His gun hangs in one hand at his side and in the other he holds a dripping gold ring. I lay a gentle hand on his shoulder and squeeze ever-so-softly.
The contact brings him back to the present, and his grin fades as his eyes meet mine. There's blood on both of our faces, and a uniting hatred. We don't have to speak to know we're both checking each other's stability, that we're searching one another's eyes for regret. We won't find it and we know we won't. He assures me with a brisk nod. I grant him a more personal, tiny smirk.
Then I turn from him, unprepared in the heat of my performance to meet the faces of Joshua and Isaiah, both watching me in hushed astonishment. They're my ragged guardian angels, ever at my back to protect it. Why do I feel like I have sinned?
Izzy is holding a cigarette with ash an inch long, a sort of knowing sadness playing over his expression. He doesn't look all that different from the morning after Charlie died, after my pyrotechnic break and the escape mechanism I know he knows I chose. I wonder if he even hit the smoke in his hand before it burned away. The ash gives under the weight of my attention, a gray mess fluttering to the floor.
He sighs and stabs it into a nearby ashtray. He always withdraws his attention just before it gives him away. I can't know what he's thinking or remembering, because I've never been able to get him to put his guard down. Of course it makes me want to see what he's hiding.
Josh's gaze is so much more open, holds much more pain and, perhaps, disappointment. He's never been as cynical as the rest of us. Someday he'll do better things than this. I can't help but feel I've done him wrong by bringing him here. I can't help but think that he wants to take me with him on his way up the ladder, out of the gutter and the illegal life. He's such a good dealer, but his optimism doesn't fit.
The gathering had gone so smoothly it was unreal, until Derrik rose from the underworld to ruin the night. Josh had performed well, had drawn from some well-hidden and well-trained stores of experience, the likes of which I never knew existed. Maybe it's good for him to see this in me.
I feel like the blackest kind of witch for thinking it. How long have I seen his affection? How long did I ignore it before I broke? Love, he said. Love, he thinks, but he can't love a monster like me. No, my actions are not the cause of the anguish I see in those earnest eyes. I know him better.
The words 'nothing to lose' have broken his heart.
He told me he wouldn't go until I told him to go. I should have said the words already, but I can't honestly say I want him to leave my side for good. Now, after everything tonight, hesitation rises in my stomach.
I have to look away from his puppy eyes and bleeding heart. He needs to know what lies along the path he has so eagerly followed. Figure out what I want from him, he said. I could ask the same from him, to make the same decision. What does he want? He wants a romance, a fairy tale maybe, and a lady I was never raised to be. He doesn't want the grimy details my father bestowed upon me from his teen years in the barrio. He doesn't want my alcoholic mother. He has no idea.
My poor city boy, delinquent of an upper-middle class father who embezzled money at his hometown bank for some city officials, a white collar criminal. Joshua's time with us has been peaceful to say the least. He saw a few tense moments, had a few guns pulled on him, but he came at a time when we were withdrawn from the fire. We'd been taking the time to heal the burns from spending so much time in the heat. We were also at the end of a massive debt from a bust that nearly shut everything down, which he still doesn't know to this moment. Of course, to him it was huge. It was the fast life.
I can tell him what I want from him. I want his long lines wrapping me, hard from moderate weightlifting. I want his mess of hair tickling my back as he holds on so tightly, and I want his confident hands on my body. I don't want love. I realize that my train of though
t has left me idly staring at him. His expression is all wide, like a deer in some cosmic headlight.
I slide my gaze to the left to Isaiah, my portrait of worry. He makes the connection, calculates my gaze. I glance to his cigarettes, Camels – god, they make me think of my brother. I'm usually not a fan of Izzy's Wides. Hell, I usually don't smoke, but he knows I'm not above it in a moment such as this. I bummed my first one from him, after all, the night Charlie beat the shit out of my first lay. It feels like forever ago.
Isaiah offers the stick he's about to light, always the gentleman. He leans in with his flame, catching my eye as he sets the tiny fire between us. I inhale and give him a quick wink, a quiet sign that he doesn't need to freak out just yet. If I know him, my gesture will only make him freak out more.
His eyes narrow. I know he's sizing me up. Am I bluffing? He wants to predict my movements, but he has no point of reference and he hates it. He makes the tiniest sigh as the fire dies. He doesn't believe my bravado, but as always, he won't say it.
I have studied his art of breathing in a cigarette, slowly, introspectively, like it's a personal joke, as if there is some great secret being relayed from hidden caves atop the tallest mountains. He must see himself as I take a deep hit and exhale through a deadpan expression. Tar and nicotine drag along my taste buds, giving me some small comfort in this heavy situation.
Not even ten people had the balls to stay and listen to me. Fewer than ten, yet the ones who did are the biggest distributers in the city's network. It seems the right people understand that I'm not fucking around. And Izzy hates it, all of it.
I can no longer speak. Some strange knot has lodged itself against my vocal cords. It's all I can do to keep my breathing under control. Half a cigarette is all I can stomach, so I hand the rest back to him.
He accepts, his actions are steady, but his eyes are hesitant – not quite disappointed, but knowing and heartbroken. He can sense my restlessness. Whether I like it or not, he knows me much better than I know him. He knows the dam on my reaction is about to break.
