by Teagan Kade
“Where is it, this ‘agency’?”
“Shithole Central, and by that I mean Newark. The Italians are one thing, but the Ukes run this establishment, which is why you are going to stay in the car and let me handle this. The last thing I need is more blood on my hands.”
I’m not about to argue. “You think they’ll tell us anything, these, uh, Ukes?”
“Ukrainians,” he fills. “They’re scary fucking characters, like our friend Viktor back there.”
I think back to those soulless eyes, the dread returning. “Are you going to kill me, once this is all over?”
He laughs. “Kill you? No. That’s not my MO.”
I pick at a broken thread in the seat’s leather. “What is your MO?”
“Get in, get the job done, get out—simple.”
“It doesn’t sound like anything about your job is simple.”
He laughs again. “Ain’t that the truth.”
Twenty minutes later we arrive in Newark. This is about as far from the glamor and prestige of the city as you can get. Housing projects blot the horizon like giant Lego blocks. Kids skulk around on the streets, on corner fronts, sneering and spitting as we drive by. The sound of sirens is ever-present. It’s hard to believe we’re only an half an hour from Manhattan.
It appears even more sinister under the cover of darkness, only the odd street light providing shape to the shadow.
The agency in question is actually a shop that sits in a row right by the train tracks, each store more decrepit and lackluster than the last. There are, however, people about, which means something must be drawing them here.
Max parks on the opposite side of the street and points at a non-descript butcher’s shop with a giant ‘Buy in Bulk!’ slogan on the window. The lights are on inside. No regular butcher I know of is open this late.
“The betting happens out back,” says Max. “But the only way in and out is through the store. It takes big balls to do a runner when you have to pass by three big Ukrainians with knives on the way out, you see.”
I don’t ‘see’ at all. This world is as foreign to me as Mars.
Max opens the door and steps out, swooping down to speak into the cabin. “Stay here, don’t move, and don’t speak to anyone. I’ll be out soon.”
I tilt my head towards the glovebox. “Don’t you want your gun?”
He shakes his head. “Like I said, simple is my MO, and you never get simple when you wave a gun around. You get dead.”
I nod in understanding.
The door closes. I watch him making his way across the street. He’s tall and extremely well built—definitely the body of a boxer. You could use those shoulders for bookshelves they’re so solid, and, as foolish as it is to be having such thoughts right now, his ass tucked tightly away in those jeans is what dreams are made of.
He kidnapped you and you’re checking out his ass?
“Got any change?”
I jolt in my seat, turning to find a homeless man at the passenger window. He’s smiling even though he has no teeth to show for it.
I shake my head, can’t even get the word ‘no’ out I’m so shaken.
I’d wind the window up if there was one.
The man mumbles something and moves on, sitting down by the fence dividing the road from the train line, bringing a bagged bottle to his mouth.
Worst case, I go for the gun.
Yeah, like you could pull the trigger…
I already have, haven’t I?
By accident. You’re lucky you didn’t blow his brains out.
But what do they say? People do exceptional things in extraordinary circumstances, right?
Whatever you say, Lara Croft.
I watch the front of the butcher’s, turning every so often to check on the man by the fence, scan the side mirrors for anyone else deciding to scare me into an early grave.
The first sign of trouble is shouting. I can hear it, voices raised, but I can’t see anything in the shop.
Crap.
There’s a gunshot, the front of the shop window shatters, a torrent of glass spilling to the pavement.
Three people come bursting out of the shop onto the sidewalk.
One of them is Max.
He’s wrestling with a large man in a butcher’s apron, trying to wrangle a shotgun off him.
People scatter as the third man, also in a butcher’s apron, skips around Max and the other butcher. I notice he has a large machete in his hand.
I sit up straight, my heart beating hard. Crappity crap crap.
My flight response kicks in. I’m about to swing into the driver’s seat and take off. He did leave the keys in the ignition, but I can’t do it. I can’t leave him here.
I keep my eyes trained on Max. He brings his elbow down onto the man’s arm and pulls the shotgun away from him, holding it high and firing twice into the sky before tossing the gun onto the road and raising his fists.
Maybe you don’t need to.
The butcher he took the gun from curses and begins to circle him, his right arm hanging loosely. The other lifts his machete higher, circling from the opposite side.
The butchers attack together.
Max ducks the first swing of the machete, spinning and driving his fist into the man’s stomach. The man buckles in two, but doesn’t drop the knife, slashing it downwards and just catching Max’s shoulder.
Max spins around, lightning fast, and takes the man’s wrist, holding him in position while he delivers a series of brutal body blows to the man’s chest, finishing with an uppercut that lifts the man off his feet, the machete clattering to the ground.
The other butcher cries out and lunges for the knife, but he’s too slow, Max steps on it and blocks his path, swinging down into his jaw with a hard right. I hear the sick crunch of it from the other side of the road, the butcher turning floppy and collapsing to the ground.
Max reaches for his shoulder, the back of his t-shirt blooming red. He’s yelling something, running for the car, but I can’t quite make it out.
“What?” I call, lifting my shoulders.
“Down!” he screams.
That I hear.
I see the homeless man stand from the fence and pull out a revolver.
I duck as the windscreen explodes, fragments of glass raining over my head. The driver door opens and Max dives in, turning the ignition and hitting the accelerator with his hand, the car burning off before he’s pulled himself fully inside.
There’s another shot. I hear more bullets slam into the trunk. Max steers, now upright, groaning, waiting until we’re down the street before seating himself properly and hitting the accelerator in full, wrangling the car down the road while he wipes glass from the dash.
I get up from the floorboard carefully, shaking off what only moments ago was the windshield. “I thought that was a homeless guy.”
“He was a lookout dressed like a bum. Fuck knows how I missed him.”
Max’s shirt is soaked in blood around the shoulder. “Jesus, are you okay?”
He glances at it. “It’s nothing.”
I use my dress to clean the seat of glass before sitting down, the engine revving hard. “I take it they weren’t too happy to see you?”
Max looks across at me, still breathing hard, his tawny eyes sharp. “They were not.”
“How you put them down… That was incredible.”
He shrugs. “I should have pumped the second round into that prick’s chest, cleared the world of one more lowlife.”
“But you didn’t.”
“I don’t need that kind of shit storm, and neither does Saul. He’ll be pissed about this as it is. There are lines you do not cross in the crime world.”
“And let me guess, you just crossed one?”
“That’s right.”
“Did you find anything out about Rick?”
Max makes a turn and eases off the speed. “I found the owner in the bathroom down back. He wasn’t going to talk, but a meat
hook pressed up against his beanbags soon changed his mind.”
“He told you where Rick is?” I ask, hopeful.
“Not quite. He said last he heard Rick had gone across to Vegas, started working for one of the big dogs over there—the biggest, actually. He was about to spill more, until one of his butchers decided to come in for a piss… and that’s when things got messy.
“So we’re going to Vegas?”
“First flight out tomorrow. But first, I need rest… and a drink. You hungry?”
I realize the last thing I ate was a cinnamon roll for lunch. “I could eat.”
Max nods. “I know a place.”
Chapter 5
Max
There’s a drop of mustard on her lower lip. I’m dying to swipe it off, to touch her. She’s so god damn beautiful. It’s a crying fucking shame we couldn’t have met under better circumstances.
She takes another bite of the hot dog, looking out the window of the railway car-turned-diner at the urban sprawl beyond. “You used to live out here, in the projects?”
I put my dog down and point to a building in the distance. “Right there, third floor.” I shift my finger to the left. “The gym I used to train at was over there.”
“Used to?” Dawn queries.
I pick up the dog again. “It’s a long story.”
An older gentleman with bushy sideburns claps me on the shoulder. “How is it, Maximus?”
I cringe inside at my full name. I hold the hot dog up. “You still make the best dogs in town, Marty.”
Marty winks at Dawn. “It’s all in the buns. Ain’t that right, honey?”
She smiles back. “It’s delicious, thanks.”
“Any time.”
Marty takes a seat beside me. “You been keeping yourself out of trouble, son?”
My nostrils flare. “I’m trying my best, but you know how it is.”
Marty nods with understanding and throws a dish cloth over his shoulder. “Yeah, I do.”
“How’s the gym?” I ask.
“The Block?” says Marty. “Shit show. It’s full of cashed-up MMA jerk-offs thinking that by training out here in the badlands they’ll somehow become harder. Throw them into the middle of Birch Street and see how they fare then, I say.”
“I need burgers, Marty!” comes a shout from the kitchen.
Marty directs his attention to Dawn again. “My better half. I’d introduce you, but she’s the jealous type.” He takes my shoulder. “Good to see you, son. Tell Saul I said hi.”
“Will do.”
I press the last of the dog into my mouth. This place is bringing back too many memories, memories I’ve tried hard to suppress only to go digging them back up now.
“Eat in the car,” I tell Dawn. “We’ve got to get back, rest up.”
“Where are we going?” she asks, her lips still begging to be licked clean. “A motel?”
“My place.”
The sun’s setting. This was Pop’s favorite time to train, ‘the magic hour,’ he used to call it.
Dawn attempts to make conversation again. “This is a nice car.”
I’ve heard Dad’s Lincoln called many things, but never nice. “It’s a shitbox,” I tell her.
“So why drive it around?”
I shrug. “Nostalgia, I guess. It was my father’s.”
“He raised you?”
I nod. “My birth mother wanted nothing to do with me, so Pops took over, just me and him.”
“That must have been hard.” If she thinks this Dr. Phil routine is going to work, she’s shit out of luck, but I answer her questions regardless.
“It was,” I say, hitting the turn signal to make a left. “There were no silver spoons where we grew up. What about you? You’re from Kansas, right?”
She nods, hands folded in her lap. “I think they stopped making silver spoons out there too.”
“Your family was poor?”
“It was just Mom and me, like you and your dad.”
“You never knew your father.”
“No, I did, but I kind of wish I never had.”
“That bad, huh?”
“That bad. He took off when I was eight, left Mom with a pile of debt.”
I stretch in the seat. “Seems to be a recurring them with men in your life.” I know I’ve taken it too far when she doesn’t reply, instead staring aimlessly out the window. “I’m sorry.”
She turns back. “No, you’re right. It’s my own stupid fault for getting involved with a guy like Rick in the first place.”
“We’ll put it right. Don’t worry.”
“A gangster just laid down an ultimatum, people have guns, and they’re fighting, and you’re telling me not to worry?”
She has a point. “It’s business,” I say, reverting back to my go-to line.
“Pure and simple, right?” she finishes.
“That’s right.”
She points to the scar above my eye. “How did you get that scar?”
I finger it. “This? Junkie with a switchblade cut me when I tried to steal his stash.”
“Really?”
“No. I ran into a tree when I was seven.”
“You’re joking?”
“I am.”
She laughs. “Wow, you really need to work on your delivery.”
“I’ll keep that in mind when I decide to become a comedian.”
“If I were you,” she says. “I’d stick to your day job.”
But she’s smiling. I’m glad for it. I want to see that smile over and over again, her beneath me, her hands clawing at the sheets.
Dream on.
“What brought you to New York,” I ask. “It’s a long way from Kansas.”
“Oh, that’s easy. I headed down to the local mall, picked up these really cute red shoes...”
“I’m being serious.”
“Are you? Because a second ago there it looked like there might be a funny bone buried under all that…” she pauses. “Tough stuff.”
“Tough stuff? If that’s a compliment, I’ll take it.”
“Take whatever you want,” she quips, realizing what she’s said. “I didn’t mean… you know… with the… you and me.”
It’s dark, but I can see she’s blushing like a priest at a pegging convention. “I understand completely.”
I can’t help but smile as I drive on.
“What about you?” she says. “What brought you to New York?”
“Stupidity,” I reply, leaving it at that.
“Fair enough. You really don’t like to talk, do you?”
“I prefer to work alone. This is… unusual.”
She crosses her arms, her cleavage bunching between them. “You can say that again.”
I make another turn, the last slice of the sun dipping away, the world suddenly colder for it.
Dawn nods at my shoulder. “Are you going to let me look at that when we get to your place?”
“Why, are you a nurse?”
“Cape Cod, I’m just trying to help.”
Cape Cod? There’s something oddly endearing about someone who swears using potato chip brands.
I pull into a parking space and cut the ignition. “We’re here.”
Chapter 6
Dawn
Max closes the door and motions to the sofa. “Make yourself at home.”
I’ve been to my share of bachelor pads, but this one’s barer than most. The beer bottles and girly posters are absent. What remains is for utility only—the TV, the sofa, the kitchen counter clean save for a juicer and toaster. The only personal touch I can see is a giant boxing bag hanging in the corner that looks like it’s seen its fair share of blows, duct-taped back to life countless times over.
Sucks to be you, Mr. Punching Bag.
Max disappears down the hall, returning with a first-aid kit, placing it down before me before he pulls away his shirt. I do my best to disguise the sharp intake of breath from my mouth as I take in his body. He’s the finest
male specimen I’ve ever seen.
He turns, showing me his shoulder. “Well, Doctor?”
I sit and pat the couch beside me. “Take a seat.”
The cut’s not deep at all and most of the bleeding stopped on the way here. I clean it and apply an adhesive dressing.
Max doesn’t move, not even when I apply the alcohol.
When I’m done, he stands. “Drink?”
I rarely drink, which is why I find it curious I reply in the affirmative. He hasn’t put a shirt on and it’s taking a hell of a lot of willpower to cast my eyes in a different direction. I need a distraction.
Max busies himself making drinks while I stand and walk around. “Have you been here long?” I ask.
“Five years,” he replies.
Five years and not a single photo, potted plant, or porno? “It’s very…” I’m struggling to find the appropriate adjective. “Clean.”
He walks over with two tumblers filled with amber, the same striking color as his eyes. “I told you. I don’t like things messy.”
My mind wanders as I take the tumbler, warmth blooming across my chest. I bet you like one thing messy…
He points through a doorway. “The bathroom’s down the end of the hall there. The pressure’s terrible, but I make do. Towels are in the cupboard. You can sleep in my room. I’ll take the couch.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
He laughs, taking a swig, tongue moving in his mouth. “Trust me, I’ve slept on worse.”
Was he homeless at some point? I wonder, trying to piece together his backstory—the down-and-out kid picked up by the boxing coach, the father figure. Rocky come to life.
I look at the glass.
“Whiskey,” he fills. “You do like whiskey, don’t you?”
“Sure,” I lie, taking a sip. My alcoholic beverages are limited to fruity cocktails most school kids would scoff at. The instant burn of the whiskey sends me into an instant sputter-cough.
Max can’t help but snigger. He’s actually got a great smile—real billboard material. “Easy now. The idea’s to sip it slowly, not treat it like a Spring Break shot.”
