Cadillac Payback

by AJ Elmore

  “Get out of here,” he all but whispers. “We can handle the clean-up.”

  The tears nearly break as I push past them for my escape.

  Dear Charlie, the best and most frustrating brother of all time, this weight is already so heavy. I never knew the true strength of your character until I started picking up the pieces of your world, the pieces of our world that you held so damn steady for me. I don't want to lay low without you, that's far too much time to think about how you're not here. You'd be so pissed at me right now, but if you were the one left, you'd understand.

  Chapter 14 Den of Phantoms

  Frederick

  The sound of glass scraping against itself and the floor makes the hairs on my skin stand on end. It's nearly five in the morning. The blues playing on the house system grate against my nerves. The guitar scales drag along my anxiety, a slow climb, a hard fall.

  My hands are white against a broom handle. Otherwise they'd be visibly shaking in the wake of my fury. I should feel better for just having shot the biggest regret of my life at close range, but I don't. I know that only revenge can follow revenge, that it doesn't have any definable end.

  “You know this is a biohazard, right?” asks Noah as he situates the metal dustpan in front of the last bit of blood, glass, and bone.

  His voice breaks the silence that had taken us, the absence of a brother we'll never bury. I grudgingly push the broom forward. I want to fling the thing, to break something else.

  “Shut up,” answers Jack as he surveys the shade that hangs precariously, splattered red and punctuated by a rather large blast hole.

  It's not as if any of us can say we didn't expect some level of drama to erupt tonight, yet somehow none of us expected anything quite like Derrik. Jack sighs his frustration as he rips the shade from the door.

  Noah makes a small tsk and he eyes the bloody swirls on their gray tile floor. For once, he coaxes a small laugh from me that I have to stifle at the last minute, tension trying to escape. Then he tosses the whole pan into a trashcan, followed by the latex gloves that he peels off of his hands.

  My composure is waning. My stomach turns and threatens to offer back the trauma I have inflicted upon it. It's not booze, I don't really drink much. It's a solid knot in my gut that used to be my organs. It's all the scars I've accumulated over the years that feel like they've reopened.

  Dried blood is starting to make me itch.

  I make a shady check of the scene. Joshua is haplessly scooting tables away from the epicenter of destruction to be cleaned and sanitized. Every few minutes, his eyes drag toward the kitchen doors, the same doors behind which Maria disappeared half an hour ago. Still, after everything he's seen, he wants to go to her and be her white knight. He’s the only one who doesn’t realize that any knight by her side would never be dressed in white. We all know it, but Jack didn't leave much room for argument when he handed out directives.

  Isaiah hasn't spoken since I pulled the trigger. He's pushing a mop by the bar, lost in his own thoughts, smoking.

  I throw a sharp look toward Noah, who's noticed my surveillance. The clown in him has exhausted its stamina. Now he's merely another guard, like me. He gives me a small shrug as he pushes the can out of his way. I feel an off-putting flash of camaraderie. For once, I forget my highly guarded distrust of kindness, and I flick him a nod in return then split for the back. I even manage to pretend that no one notices my silent retreat, except Josh. I can feel his eyes burning into my back as I go.

  My bravado melts completely as I slip through the swinging kitchen doors. My frame shakes and I find myself creeping into the silence. I fight the urge to draw a weapon, a cold habit, and well-formed. I have lived this game for too long. My steps are always haunted.

  I pause to let my eyes adjust to the dim kitchen area. It looks like some metal-tinted dreamland in the one light in the corner. The equipment is still and cool, just waiting to rise and wake with the next day's work, not so long from now. It looks like a gleaming den of phantoms. The permanent smell of the guys' Cajun-influenced childhoods wraps me like a nap in the afternoon. I hear the sound of tears deeper inside.

  I find her huddled behind a stainless steel table, sitting on a non-slip mat, head in hands. Her knees are drawn against her and she too is shaking. Honestly, I'm impressed at the composure she has maintained tonight.

  She snaps into an upright position when she hears my approach. It's only then that I realize she still has that big fucking gun in her hand, and that in seconds it will be aimed at me, the same fight-or-flight instinct that had risen in me.

  She calms when she recognizes me. For a long moment, we just stare at each other. For the first time tonight, I don't feel like some tolerated outsider for all the death and deceit I've already seen. I assess her state, considering that it might be better if I leave her alone. But she doesn't tell me to go away, and there's blood on her skin, too. She looks to the floor.

  My movements are mechanical as I free a bar cloth from a bag on the table. It's not easy for me to show any emotion but cold, especially compassion. I'd rather let people believe I don't feel anything so they don't get close.

  She's never been one of the majority. How many conversations have we had that lasted well into morning hours? How many times has she seen through my façades? She may be staring at nothing, but I know she feels me stealing to the sink to dampen the cloth. It's stark white in the half-light. Like all things, it will soon be tainted.

  Then I hit the deck beside her to wrap an arm around her trembling shoulders. She shudders violently at first, like maybe contact reminds her that she is human, but the pressure calms her quickly. She goes almost slack in my keep. Who else could understand that what she needs at this moment is someone who doesn't need anything from her? She's always known that I'm not the type to need anyone.

  Maybe I have an unfair advantage. I'm the least emotionally entwined in this sudden war. I've seen this sort of shit before. I've been her, in a sense, and I have been in Joshua's stead. I've had my heart torn out brutally and passed among the hands that steered my actions. I stitched up that hole a long time ago, and never tried to find what became of the heart.

  “Don't cry, chica,” I hum in Spanish, and her breath evens almost immediately.

  Sometimes I think my emotions are broken. I don't react like most people would. I don't feel anything for long stretches. Then, she can always make me feel something. It was a fact I tried to dodge when I first met her, but she was intrigued by me, the epitome of a bad boy raised on a hard life. Someone like her.

  Of course, she conquered my entire defense system, drew me to her. Who could resist her? I followed her here and now there’s no other direction than the one she's going. She sniffs, swipes at her eyes. I can see the blood smeared across her face in the pale and surreal lighting. She's tragic and beautiful. I kiss the top of her head. I can smell booze and smoke and sweat.

  “You're so hot when you're a mean bitch,” I whisper so that she can barely feel my lips move against her hair.

  She makes a soggy laugh. I can't see her tiny smile, but I've seen it before. I know it's there. Josh could never find it in a moment like this. I squeeze her shoulder, press the warm rag to her cheek, rub gently.

  “I'm sorry you had to see him,” she says, voice cracking and hoarse.

  I stiffen involuntarily. The truth makes a pang in my chest. I can't pretend that the encounter didn't shake my core. I learned a long time ago that you can't run from your past, but I've been so careful to distance myself from the few things that can switch on the emotional tirade. It almost fell apart so easily.

  “It's not any fault of yours.” I answer. “Besides, it got better at the end.”

  I resume the massaging motion.

  She laughs but there's no humor in it. I dab at the tip of her slender nose. Her beautiful eyes are swollen and tired, tinged red in a softness created by the steel surrounding us. Eyeliner is smudged beneath them. Sh
e's watching me out of the corners of her eyes.

  I'm only fooling myself when I say I'm the least entwined. I'm just as imbedded in the game as everyone else. I just came by it from a much different road.

  “It'll only get better, Frederick,” she says, voice so serious it hurts in my gut.

  There's always a manly stir in me when she calls me by my given name, and not the shortened nickname everyone else uses. I ignore it as I've gotten so used to doing, always. Maybe by denying my human traits I can defeat them.

  How does she banish her pain so quickly? It's an art that I've worked at for a long time. It comes to her naturally. I pull the cloth away to confront my reaction.

  “I don't have much if I don't trust you,” I admit, looking away. I've never been much of a liar either, but when it comes to the truth, I'd rather keep it to myself.

  She lays her head on my shoulder and says, “Tomorrow we go to see Abuela.”

  My breath hitches and I try to hide it, even though I know she heard it. She hasn't been to see her grandmother in months, has barely climbed back into the lowest rungs of the woman's good graces since the fiasco that originally sent the siblings out of New Orleans. Even then, it was Charlie who kept them shielded from Abuela's wrath. He's the one who kept them from death by her command.

  It won't make any difference, but I have to ask, “Are you sure that's a good idea?”

  She sighs, audible frustration, and I'm not entirely sure if it's because I'm doubting her, or because she doesn't quite know the answer to my question. Finally she relinquishes the gun, lays it at her feet and pulls away from me to shift into a cross-legged, upright position. At least she's not folded in on herself. Progress.

  She stares at the pistol as if it's some kind of oracle until at last she says, “I honestly don't know. But I owe her the respect in her mourning, and I have to try to earn her forgiveness. I'll beg if I have to. We can't have enemies on two fronts.”

  I realize that I'm wringing the towel in my hands and that, as I do, it's cleaning blood off of them. Perhaps rebirth isn't just a farce. Maybe the forgiveness in which I've never believed is possible, and maybe all Maria really needs is a little faith from us – from Josh, the white knight; from me, the black knight; and from Izzy, the closest thing to a teacher she has left.

  “And if we fail to earn that place back?”

  Her eyes are wide, dazed as she wades through her own head. She lets the silence dance around us for a long stretch, during which I catch bits of blues guitar solos and an occasional muffled voice from the dining room.

  She lets it go on long enough that I have time to hope that Josh is squirming in his own shoes, wondering what could be happening here. Then my skin chills and I know she's about to drop a bomb and shatter the stillness.

  She says, “Then we may never leave the swamp, and all of this will no longer matter.”

  Chapter 15 Uncertainty and Blood

  Frederick

  The road is dirt and gravel this far out, barely raised above murky green, eerily still water. We're surrounded by exotic creepers so lush they're surely the result of ancient voodoo. The Caddy eases along at a respectful speed, slowly enough for Maria to let the swamp accept her back into its sweltering heart, enough for her to garner the courage she will need to face the coming visit.

  The air conditioner is cranking on overdrive, but relief barely makes it to me in the back seat. I'm slung against the door and stretched out as much as the leather beneath me will allow. My skin burns despite my khaki shorts and lightweight cotton button-up.

  Izzy is in front of me in the passenger seat, and if it weren't for his systematic smoking, I'd have already forgotten he's there. He's barely spoken the whole trip. Really, we've all been uncharacteristically quiet.

  Josh is across the seat from me, which only works because the car is so big. He had been tentatively humming along with the music on the stereo, but he fell silent, too, when we turned down this spellbinding road. Now he's sweating quietly in his t-shirt, staring out the window like a child. The innocence in his gaze is accentuated by the way his hair curls eagerly in the humidity.

  He's never been to see Abuela. He has no idea what to expect. He knows only that he best be on extremely good behavior, that he should not speak unless spoken to, and finally that even his manners might not save him.

  It's late afternoon, but the dense canopy that seems to merge above the road has plunged us into early dusk. The song that wails from the stereo is a concoction of hot electric guitar and haunting horns that feel just like the day around us. The vocals flow like a river after rain, like uncertainty and blood; this is the sound of soul-borne music. I prefer something rougher, dirtier, angrier, but my preferences mean little from the back seat of a car that's not mine.

  The engine's hum comforts me, like a mix of dream and memory. Keeping the Caddy in top shape was the only thing that had ever brought me and Charlie together. I never even meant to get involved, and only accidentally divulged the versatility of my experience – my time spent under a hood – when he asked me one night to hold a light for him. He hadn't been able to see the problem from his angle, but I could see it from mine. That's when we both ended up under the car while Izzy held the light, the three of us drinking beers and making guy jokes. That evening had turned into late night, and though some would say we bonded, we never admitted it ourselves.

  Either way, we became fated as the group's mechanics, and we'd see countless other nights working on this antiquated hunk of metal. Our interactions while working always depended on the dynamic of our moods. Most of the time, we didn't talk about much other than the task at hand. Sometimes we didn't talk at all. Our conversations generally stayed on safer topics, almost small talk, but there were a precarious few times when it got deeper. Usually when we were really high, or on the even rarer occasion, when we drank whiskey.

  I think he wanted to like me, he just could never force it. He couldn't trust any protégé of Derrik's with former ties to Gram. I could never blame him. And now, just now, I realize that the responsibility of the Caddy has fallen to me.

  I watch Maria from the safety of my shades. It's too dark for them now, but I won't give myself away. She looks small in that giant seat. If she's nervous, it doesn't show. Abuela is her biological kin, yet she is also the mysterious head of a discreet empire of Southern weed distribution, an intricate part of a dangerous network that brings the contraband across the border.

  Cartel shit.

  I've seen Abuela construct a huge, traditional Mexican dinner, then dole out expensive tequila to her guests. Those are the same wrinkled hands that started at the very bottom rungs of the game, and that have since orchestrated the flow of pounds upon pounds of product. They're the same hands that control the strings that supply a large stretch of the Midwest and East Coast.

  No wonder Maria is such a brazen firecracker. I weaken to the way her skin glows with sweat. She was born into this life, has been cultured for it since childhood. She learned from her dad, who learned from his mom.

  Her breaths are steady, too steady, as she guides us closer to the jaws of a beast with which none of us can contend, from whom none of us can protect her. I wonder if she fears anything, or is she just still numb from the events that have played out so quickly and dramatically over the past several days. If she's only desensitized, when will she wake up? And what will she do when she realizes what she's set into motion?

  I escape to the view outside the window, away from everyone else and the tension that's mounting among us. She said she had nothing left to lose. I can't believe that's entirely true, because she laid her head on my shoulder. I don't believe that the souls in the car mean nothing to her, that we're simply bodyguards and grunts. She's usually not one for bluffs, but she threw that one out like nothing.

  Maybe she was trying to push us away. Or maybe she believes she doesn't care, even as she has sought comfort from each of us in turn.

  I was
drifting when she found me, barely a year out of a botched operation that killed most of the people I considered friends, and broke the ties of loyalty I had for Derrik. As many times as he had gotten fucked up and taken the wrath of his demons out on me, the personal betrayal had never been quite enough to turn me away. I had always only been a child with no love at home, so it never seemed strange to be abused. But knowing the whole crew died because of his incompetence, and that I should have died with them, was enough to set me out into the street. Being alone was better than venturing into any relationships that were inevitably doomed to end painfully.

  When I met her, I was slinging blow and low-market weaponry, working as something of a mercenary. I had managed to chill my emotional response system to the point where it was almost dead, until she walked into that damn bar on the fringe of Rue Decatur, my favorite selling spot.

  She had locked eyes on me as soon as she approached the bar. How could I ignore such a gorgeous creature? I had tried so hard. How could I have known, as I sold my soul a piece at a time, that the moment she found me would someday lead me down this remote swamp road? To an even more remote fortress ruled by a soft-spoken sixty-two-year-old woman, no taller than five-foot-three, who could end my life with the snap of her fingers.

  I've got a good eye and a good gut, but nothing could have readied me for the madness that follows this family.

  I've been down this road twice before. When I say Charlie never trusted me, he at least trusted that I knew if I talked about this to anyone, I'd die. It was personal, his issues with me. In business, he knew I knew my shit.

  The first trip made me so nervous I had to vomit into the swamp on the way there, and again on the way back. It was just me and him, so he spared me the jeers he might have made if others had been present. He knew that I hardly got nervous about anything. I knew what it was to meet a kingpin, and I had at one point been the enemy. He had waited patiently, drumming on the steering wheel to a Led Zeppelin song.