by Chuck Hogan
Maven opened up the phone; only one number was listed. He pressed SEND and waited, watching Glade open up a case of Olde English. The forty-ounce bottles were filled with tan pills stamped with the image of a smoking eyeball. Glade dumped the ecstasy pills into water streaming out of the basin.
Royce answered, “What is it?”
“Suarez is hit,” said Maven, adrenaline surging with those words.
“How bad?”
“How bad?” Maven asked Termino.
“A round ricocheted off stone,” said Termino, over Suarez’s groaning. “Sliced him deep, but through-and-through.”
“You hear that?” said Maven.
Royce said, “I heard. You get the product?”
Maven looked at Glade starting in on case number two. “We’re dumping it now. He’s hurting bad.”
“Stop. Get the powder.”
Glade had the bag of white in his hand. Maven told him to stop.
Royce said, “Sprinkle some over the wound.”
Maven looked at the cocaine. “You said what?”
“Cocaine started out as a topical anesthetic. Sprinkle it over the wound. And don’t make me fucking repeat myself again.”
Maven seized the bag from Glade and put down the phone. He went to Suarez, whose eyes were closed. Maven dusted Suarez’s bloody leg wound with cocaine the way good restaurants sprinkle sugar over dessert. The white mixed with the blood and adhered to the edges of the gash.
The other two looked at Maven as though he were insane.
Maven picked up the phone again. “Done.”
“Dump the rest, ditch the armor and weapons as planned, and get him back here pronto.”
Maven hung up. “We move,” he said, stripping off his armor.
By the time they got to Suarez, his tension had broken, and they were able to remove his gear. Suarez sat up, examining his wound, touching it gently around the edges.
“Did you coke up my leg?” he said.
* * *
THEY WRAPPED HIS LEG IN A CHAMOIS TOWEL FROM THE BOOT OF THE switch car and carried him in the rear-alley basement entrance of the Marlborough Street building. Royce was waiting inside their pad with an olive green medical kit full of field surgical tools, syringes, and vials of anesthetic. He had towels laid out and a pitcher of water. He washed the wound and the coke residue, then pumped Suarez’s thigh full of lidocaine before breaking out a suture kit and going to work.
“Who fucked up?” Royce said.
Glade said, “They started shooting—”
“Who fucked up!”
All three of them kneeling around Royce and Suarez, no one said anything. Maven still didn’t know what had happened, he wasn’t there. But even he felt the tension in the room turning toward Glade. And nobody rising to his defense.
Glade said, “Fuck you, guys. I’m going to let them draw on me?”
Royce said, “You haven’t learned anything this whole time?” The gash was so deep, Royce had to sew the inside of the leg first. “They’re bikers, professional psychos. You gave them what they want. You had control of the situation, and you fucked it up. And left some of your buddy’s DNA at the scene of the crime.” Royce tied off the inside and irrigated the wound again. “From now on, Maven, you’re inside with Termino. You handle the approach.”
Glade soured as if he’d been punched. He stood and walked away, and Royce kept working over Suarez as though he didn’t notice.
“How’s the pain now, ’Lito?”
Suarez said, “My leg wants to go to a disco.”
Maven felt cold. Part of it was the fading adrenaline, but mostly it was the realization that the untouchables had finally got touched. Their winning streak hadn’t ended, but it could have. The dynamics within the crew were changing.
Royce prepared another needle for sewing. “Always fucking fun until somebody gets hurt.”
Maven turned to stand, and then saw Danielle behind them, at the open door, looking down at Royce sewing up Suarez’s leg.
No disgust. No surprise. No expression at all.
She said nothing and backed out into the hallway, gone before anyone else saw her.
POISON SWEET
TIA’S WAS A SEASONAL BAR SET UNDER AN AWNING AGAINST THE high brick wall of the waterfront Marriott Long Wharf. It was that moment when the sun goes down and the city lights start to come up, and everything feels balanced and good. Young professionals crowded the rail, waiting for patio tables to open up. Guys wearing sandals with dress pants, girls in flip-flops and short skirts. All of them drinking candy-colored booze. Jolly Ranchers and Jager Bombs, Midori and Cointreau. Shots called Quick Fuck and Juicy Pussy. Red Bull and whatever. Kids like their poison sweet.
“I went to a peace rally once,” said Samara Bahaar, sipping a Bacardi and Diet through two cocktail straws. “On the Common.”
“Yeah?” he said.
She wore a top with two stringy shoulder straps over tanned, smooth skin. “Banners, chants, the whole thing. It was packed.”
Maven nodded. “Sounds like fun.”
“I mean, we knew it wasn’t the sixties anymore. But it was good. We got tapas after.” Her nose wrinkled a little as she played with the ice in her drink and thought. “All I hear about nowadays is soldiers returning and having problems.”
“You know what it’s like? Being over there, it was just like going on a trip. Picking up souvenirs and whatnot, weird stuff. But you’re so busy looking over your shoulder all the time, you just throw them in your suitcase. Then you get home. You’re tired, unpacking sucks. So the suitcase sits for a while. Easier to walk around it than open it. When you finally get to unpacking, you start pulling out all this crazy shit you forgot you put in there, and it’s, like—you’re home now, and there’s absolutely no place for it here. But it’s, like, yours, you can’t throw it out. So?”
“You’re stuck with it.”
“Got to find a place. I found a place. Maybe I’m just lucky.”
“So could you, like, kick anybody’s ass in this joint?”
Maven looked around. “Go ahead. Pick somebody out.”
“Can I sic you on some old boyfriends?”
“That’s already been taken care of. You won’t be running into those clowns anymore.”
She smiled, then tapped at the enamel of her front teeth with her fingernail. Probably feeling a little numb from the drinks.
“Here’s a question you’ll love,” said Maven. “What are you going to do now that you are out of school?”
“Ha.” She shook out her hair. “With my incredibly valuable double major in psychology and communications, you mean? The sky’s the limit. My parents want me to move back to Jersey. Which I’m not. I really want to stay here, but my lease is up September first, and … I guess basically I’m putting off what I need to do. Which is—decide.”
“You’re waiting for something to happen. Hoping that something will decide things for you.”
She pointed to him. “You’ve been there.”
“I have.” He downed a little more Ketel One. “I told you I work for a Realtor, right?”
“I was going to ask about that. So do you, like, have your pick of great apartments?”
“Something like that.”
“Where do you live now?”
“On Marlborough.”
“You live on Marlborough Street?”
“Right.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I think I do.”
“How do you afford that?”
He enjoyed her astonishment. “How about we give this table to some of these braying donkeys over here, and I’ll take you over. I live above the office, we can go down and check some listings, then get a bite to eat.”
She pulled out the two purple stirrers and finished off her drink. “Sounds great.”
“One more question. Have you ever been on the back of a motorcycle?”
It was a Harley Night Train, done out in sinister black and chrome, low a
nd lean, barely a week old. He handed her the extra helmet. She said, “Maybe I should have had another drink.”
He stood astride the seat, standing the bike off the kick. “You’ll be fine.”
“Okay.” She took a breath. She pulled the helmet down over her ringlets. “Killing my hair.” She climbed on behind him, putting her hands first on his shoulders, then around his waist.
He started it up, and she gripped him harder, pressing her front into his back as he eased away from the curb. Heads turned as they rode through the city, guys wanting the bike, girls wanting the ride. Once they got into the Back Bay, he could feel her starting to have fun. He turned into the brick alley between Marlborough and Beacon, pulling in at the carriage-house garage behind their building. He parked next to Suarez’s and Glade’s identical Harleys.
“Was there a special?” she asked, pulling off her helmet, trying to resuscitate her hair.
Inside, climbing the stairs to the second floor, Maven felt a tinge of concern. He had had plenty of girls back to the pad, of course, but always late at night, and rarely half-sober.
Glade was in the kitchen, standing at the counter in his underwear, eating Thai food out of a carton with chopsticks and a fork. After the requisite introductions, Glade said, “This is nice, Maven, you dating girls for a change.”
Maven shed his motorcycle jacket. “You putting on weight, Glades?”
Glade smiled a Fuck you, shoveling more rad na into his mouth.
Samara was bemused by Glade’s showmanship, but more impressed with the pad. “Wow, that’s a lot of phones.”
Their work phones lay in the corner next to the refrigerator, twelve units charging, a thicket of wires feeding into the bank of outlets in the tile backsplash.
“Yeah, well, Realtors, you know,” said Maven, ignoring Glade’s taunting stare.
Suarez came hobbling in on crutches, wearing shorts underneath an open bathrobe, his thigh wrapped in tape and gauze.
“Motorcycle accident?” Samara guessed.
Maven said, “Cut himself shaving.”
Suarez said, “Maven ever offers to show you his knife-throwing trick—say hell no.”
Maven felt a little looser. “Fixing to go out?”
The front door opened then, Termino walking inside. “You fucking dinks not dressed yet?”
Royce entered behind him. He immediately zoned in on Samara’s presence, putting her together with Maven.
“Milkshake here had to eat,” said Suarez. “And we have a guest.”
Maven rushed the introductions. Royce smiled and took her hand. “A pleasure.”
Maven found a key labeled OFFICE on the peg rack by the wall phone. He regretted bringing her up now, his words coming fast. “We were on our way downstairs. Samara’s lease is up at the end of August, and I said I’d show her some listings.”
Royce said, still with a careful look behind his eyes, “College student?”
“Just graduated,” said Samara.
“Congratulations. Don’t let us hold you up.” He looked at Maven with nothing hard in his eyes, leaving it to Maven to read his displeasure. “Perhaps you can even talk Maven into giving up his finder’s fee.”
Still gracious, still smooth. Maven felt that he was getting away easy as he steered Samara to the door—and walked right into Danielle.
Danielle wore a smoking-hot dress, black and dangerous, topped by a perfect groove of cleavage.
Danielle took in Samara at a glance, then turned a funny little smile on Maven, seeing right through him. Knowing that this was why he had brought Samara around. He had wanted Danielle to see him with someone else.
Royce said, “Danny, this is Maven’s friend. Samara, isn’t it?”
Danielle smiled at Samara with too much levity, her dagger heels giving her a few extra inches of condescension. “How perfectly strange to meet you,” Danielle said, and Maven closed his eyes a moment, swallowing his defeat.
MAVEN WENT FROM DESK TO DESK SEARCHING FOR A PRINTOUT OF recent market listings, trying to head off any discussion of what had just occurred upstairs.
Samara watched him, still bothered, pretending not to be. “Which desk is yours?”
“Me?” said Maven, finding what he thought he was looking for, then realizing it wasn’t. “Oh, I just float around.”
Samara became quiet again as footsteps descended the main stairs, past the wall behind them. Glade’s voice was loudest, telling jokes no one laughed at, the talk fading as they exited through the back basement to the garage.
“Who was she?” said Samara.
“Who?”
“There was only one ‘she’ up there.”
“You mean Danielle?”
Samara didn’t respond.
“She’s with Royce.”
“Royce is your boss.”
“Right.”
“She’s his wife? Girlfriend?”
“Girlfriend.” Maven looked up, confronting it rather than doing a dance. “Why?”
Samara backed off, shaking her head, looking out the window to the street. “Just curious.”
GETTING BY
MAVEN WASN’T GETTING FULL VALUE OUT OF HIS NEW BIKE, RIDING stop-and-go around the city. So he took off one afternoon on his own, heading west on Route 2, losing the helmet for a while, putting his face in the wind. He returned to the city that evening and was idling near Charles Street, thinking about dinner, when he saw a woman who looked a lot like Danielle exit a restaurant. She had her back to him, her head down—Maven was across the traffic lane, two cars in back of the light—but the more he looked, the more he became convinced it was her. Strolling under the gas lamps, arm in arm with some other guy. Maven knew her form anywhere, her gait, her calves. He also knew that the guy wasn’t Royce, though Maven barely looked at him, he was so tunneled in on the mystery that was Danielle.
They walked to the curb and ducked into an SUV with livery tags before he could see her face. The SUV pulled away, and Maven jumped the small median, rolling after it, remaining a safe couple of car lengths back, his heart pounding more than it did during a takedown.
The black SUV pulled over outside the Omni Parker House across from One Beacon. The driver got out and opened the door for the woman, and Maven made Danielle’s profile as he rolled on past. He nearly swerved into the oncoming lane, correcting and then turning around as soon as he could, but by the time he did, the SUV was gone.
MAVEN HADN’T BEEN RIGHT SINCE. HE HADN’T CROSSED PATHS WITH her again—she’d been scarce the past few days—but now he saw her coming toward him from the restrooms. Precipice again, late on a Sunday night, Maven’s least favorite crowd. Only the idle rich could afford to party into early Monday morning, but Maven was running out of excuses not to come.
Danielle looked phenomenal in a midriff-baring halter top, but he didn’t respond to it the way he used to. It was the betrayal—the assumed betrayal—of Royce, and of him. She and Maven had had their own little thing going for some time now—low voltage, never to be consummated, but always there. Or—had they? Maybe she was that way with everybody. Maybe nothing at all was special about her relationship with Maven, and she was completely off on her own.
“No girlie-friend tonight?” she said, stopping before him, looking up.
Her usual condescension-slash-playfulness only soured him. “Not here.”
“Trouble in paradise?”
“She’s home for the weekend.”
“She’s young.”
“I guess.”
“I didn’t know you went for the exotic type.”
“You mean, girls from Jersey?”
“Come on.” Danielle squeezed his hand. “Dance with me.”
“No, I think I’m good.”
“Pouting now?” She squinted up at him, getting a new perspective on a faraway object. “New look for you.”
In his mind, he was punishing her. “I’m good.”
“Fine.” She dropped his hand. “Fuck you. Bunch of wallflowers.
”
She went out to the dance floor alone, and Maven didn’t feel any better.
Before long, Danielle found a partner. The guy’s shirt matched his tie exactly, cut from the same shimmery fabric, and this pissed off Maven for some reason. Danielle shimmied with him, but locked eyes with Maven, letting him know she was dancing for and without him. He finished his beer and made a point of looking away.
Everything was going to piss. Danielle, the crew. This place. Maven missed Samara.
But did he really miss her, or was he just looking to fill this void that was Danielle?
It was more than that. Samara Bahaar was the one clean, uncomplicated thing he had going.
He brought out his phone, texting her, Thinking of you, what’s up?
When he looked back out on the dance floor, the guy had Danielle by the arm. She tried to walk away, but he wanted more. Maven watched Danielle smile, trying to charm her way out of his grip, but all the guy saw was the smile. He pulled her closer, wrapping his arm across her bare waist, lights running all over them. He spoke into Danielle’s ear, his nose and mouth up in her hair. Danielle smiled in response, reaching up to his neck, then pinching a hunk of skin and twisting. The guy reared back, Danielle almost getting free, but he caught her arm again and shook her.
Then he looked up. Maven was standing in front of him.
“Fuck you want?” the guy yelled over the music.
Dance-floor lights spun between them. Maven said, “Just waiting for you to let her go.”
The guy pushed Danielle away, but stood his ground.
Danielle came up next to Maven. “Kick his fucking ass, Gridley.”
The guy reached out to shove him, and Maven hooked his right arm, driving a punch into his ribs, his kidney, then holding back on the knockout blow, laying him out without breaking his face.
The guy had friends, who came jumping out of the flashing lights and dance-floor screams, descending on Maven.
Fights are never about what they are about. It’s always some guy who got his heart stomped on earlier in the day, or who got shit on at work last week, who decides he doesn’t care about his face anymore. The incident that ignites the fight is just an excuse to start swinging.
