by Evelyn Glass
Still, with all those guys around me constantly and the chicks piling up from the boxing, I still could never get over that desperate, hollow feeling of needing to never be alone. Maybe this girl Alana was a symptom of that. It has been a few days since I’ve gotten laid. Club politics has interrupted that mood and my nerves over robbing the mafia owner has put me on some kind of edge. Girls don’t particularly respond to that, even the masochistic ones.
I’m going to blame that mood and my desperation for some kind of human affection as to why I kissed this strange girl in the back of an ice cream truck I hijacked. It made sense in my mind -- even if it didn’t explain that, although she pulled away, I’m still holding her close to my chest, my fingers rubbing up and down the side of her love handles.
Her blue diamond eyes, staring almost humorously up at me, are a reminder that I actually have a job to do. There are guys back at The Emerald Pub waiting for me to get back. And my face has been everywhere now -- enough in that I have witnesses to prove that I’ve been at the Beat Box to not have done the robbery. I was in the clear. I could let go of her. I slowly remove my hands and arms from her and take a small step back so that my spine rests up against the ice-cold stainless steel freezer.
“I need you to drive,” I say firmly, remembering that I am Liam Murphy -- boxer, motorcycle club president, and ice cream truck kidnapper. I don’t have to ask her for anything. That gun tucked between my workout shorts and boxers could do all the asking for me if I wanted. “Let’s get going.”
I brush past her, pushing my shoulders up against her. She spins and looks at me, totally wordless. I seem to have that effect on most women I touch. But to my surprise, she crumples up the money in her hands and places it on the table and whispers the word that no other girl has ever said to me before, “No.”
“What?” I walk back towards her in complete shock. Either she’s dumber than she looks or she has something up her sleeve. Either way, I don’t like to be tested. What I say goes.
Her hands flex a bit until they ball up into small fists near the sides of her jeans. Her chest turns a rosy red, an obvious sign she was working herself up to something. She leans back as she says a bit louder, “No. I -- I don’t want to drive. If you’re going to use my truck for whatever plan you have in mind, you can drive.” She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a ring of four or five keys that glitter in the overhead light. “It’s a stick shift. Are you going to be okay with that, or do I need to teach you?”
Who the hell was this girl? I go from kissing her to wanting to ring her long, sleek neck. She really knows how to test my patience. “I know how to drive stick. Get in the passenger seat and don’t talk anymore.”
“Or else what?” she murmurs as she pushes past me this time, not caring if she runs into my shoulder.
I hate to admit it, but another smile creeps up over my face. Maybe it’s unchecked anger boiling over or maybe it’s because her fake bravery is cracking me up -- either way, she’s got some heat packing in that tight little body of hers. She sits down, buckles her seatbelt, and waits for me to join her in the driver’s seat.
For a good ten minutes of the drive, she manages to stay silent. From my few glances in her direction, I can tell she’s got something on her mind. At almost every stoplight she sighs heavily, and her fingers twist into knots on her lap. Finally, she bursts out, “Where are you taking me, Mr. Henry Murphy? And why do you insist on driving thirty miles over the speed limit? Are you trying to get us caught?”
“Us caught?” I shoot back, “You’re my prisoner, remember? I was the one who kidnapped you. But with all your fucking nagging, I’m pretty sure I’m ready to jump ship.”
“Thank God,” she spits out, quieter.
“Look,” I say defensively, “I know the streets. I know them better than any ice cream bitch could. And I especially know the cops and their routes. It’s seven o’clock, dinnertime. There are no coppers out on this road who aren’t more concerned with getting a hot sandwich than they are with pulling over ice cream trucks.”
“And you would know this how…?” I can tell she’s trying to pry out some information from me, but I’m just that much smarter than she is.
“I know this because I run the streets in this town. I know every cop, detective, bum, street vendor, and streetwalker. It’s my job to know this stuff, and it’s your job as an employee I’ve contracted out to just sit back and trust me.”
“Trust you? How can I trust you when I don’t even know your real name.” She sits up a bit in her chair, eager for my answer.
I look over at her and give her a long, dramatic wink. “You know part of my name. Murphy is real. The ‘mister’ part isn’t, but it’s a good boxing name.”
“So, you’re a fugitive boxer named Murphy?” Her face twists as she says that out loud.
“Yeah. I guess you could say that. But I would add that I’m a pretty damn good boxer. At least the agents think so.”
“Agents? So aren’t you afraid that you’ll get caught, put into jail, and lose out on boxing?” She actually sounds a bit concerned. This total stranger seems to care about something to do with me. That’s a bit of a change.
I think about what she’s said in silence for a brief moment. It’s not like I haven’t thought this through, but boxing is an expensive sport. If I want the best trainers, personal time in the gym, the right workout gear and equipment, I have to pay to play. Some guys do get big league, high-paying sponsorships, but that comes after an agent does that kind of ground work. It was a massive circle with money being in the center -- money which I didn’t have without Steel Saints and the jewels in the back of the truck unless I forced my grandma into retirement and sold the pub from underneath her. That wasn’t an option I would give myself.
I answer her a little less light-heartedly this time. “You gotta do what you got to do,” I say, doing my best not to snarl. “I didn’t grow up like you did with money around.”
“I didn’t grow up like that either. You think my dad made big money in this truck? You probably saw my business in the park, and I know you know how far I’ve been willing to go for a few extra hundreds. Money isn’t easy for me either. I’ve had to make hard choices too.”
“Like what?” I ask, unsure why I’m keeping this awkward, way too personal conversation alive.
“Like trying to decide if I should help out my dad by dropping out of school and running this thing full time. I was getting my master’s degree before...”
“Before what?” I ask, noticing the long pause between her words. Like me, she’s afraid of telling too much.
She faces the road before us, not daring to look back at me. Her bottom lip trembles a bit before she says quietly, “Before his accident. It was a car accident. No one knows what really happened -- just that he ended up crushed under a truck with a whole bunch of broken bones. They put him in an induced coma so he could recover, but they’re not sure when he’ll wake up.”
I pause, unsure how to respond to this. She seems absolutely heartbroken. I wouldn’t blame her either. My mom dying on me was one of the worst moments of my life. I remember visiting her in the hospital. Even though I hadn’t seen her in months, she looked so different than before when she was covered in wires and tubing. It was hard to let go of that memory.
Even though I relate to her, I still don’t know what to say. We sit in silence the rest of the way to The Emerald Pub. The only sound that passes is the old truck vibrating over the black pavement and the few items in the back rustling around.
When I park the truck in the back of the restaurant, I spot my boys almost immediately. No doubt they’ve been waiting for me for at least an hour. They look even more pissed off than I left them - when I said I was going to do the heist on my own. Part of me thinks they didn’t exactly trust that I would manage it. The other part of me thinks they didn’t trust I would come back with their cut of the diamonds.
Before getting out, I turn to Alana and say, “Just fol
low my lead, keep your head down, and look like you’re scared of me. You do right, and I let you go home tonight.” She doesn’t even register my warning. She’s too busy staring at the massive monster-like men walking quickly towards the truck.
Theo storms to her side, and flings open the door. His dark skin seems to glow eerily under the one streetlight. He barks towards me as he asks, “Who the fuck is this skinny little bitch? You picking up strays now, Murphy?”
I slip out of the truck and around the front, pulling him out of earshot of her. “She’s getaway baggage,” I say lightly. “Came with the jewels. I’ll figure out what to do with her later. Right now, unload.” I point towards the back of the truck where the other four men have begun to gather. “They’re in a fake bottom compartment of a yellow container full of chocolate insects. Do me a favor and don’t mess anything up. This girl did us a favor, and I don’t want to see that place trashed or her money gone.”
I unlock the back door and flip on the light. A few of the boys jump in and begin to search for the yellow container, carefully opening everything. As I watch, I feel someone tap lightly on my shoulder. I spin around to see the person I least hoped it would be. “What the hell are they doing to my truck? You didn’t tell me that they would be…”
“Don’t worry about it. They’re not going to do a thing to your truck,” I say as I lead her away, directing her towards the open door of the kitchen of the restaurant. She keeps her head directly aimed in the guys’ directions, monitoring their every move. Her feet and body seem to be in stone. “What did I say about having to trust me, here?”
If I was going to make Alana feel better about being an unwilling participant in a high-stakes jewel heist, I had to show her some courtesy. She had somehow managed to open up to me. Now it was my turn. I lead her through the kitchen, past a few of my guys working the lines, and back towards the office. I pull her in quickly, shutting and locking the door behind me as quietly as I can.
Without a free chair to sit in, she sits on the wooden desk, her feet dangling off the side. But as I push the passcode into the metal safe and remove the stack of hundreds, she jumps right back off. Her eyes glow wide as I hand her the stack -- probably a thousand bucks worth. “I told you there was more money.”
CHAPTER 5
“I’m not taking that money unless you tell me your real name.” I just blurt it out. I have no idea why. His name shouldn’t be the question that I am asking. The more appropriate, productive question was, “Where the hell am I?” or “What are your vicious henchmen doing in the back of my father’s ice cream truck?”
Still, I ask it anyways, not even daring to touch the money in his outstretched hands until I get a real answer from him. To my surprise, he laughs, pushing the green and white bills towards my chest. “You already know my name, Alana.”
“Mr. Murphy is not your name. And Henry isn’t either. I want to know what it is. If you’re asking me to trust you, I think we can start with the basics.”
“You know what, you’re absolutely right. How rude of me to not introduce myself while I was hijacking your ice cream truck.” He puts down the cash next to me on the desk and grabs my hand to shake it. He’s too rough -- the motion rattles my body as he says jovially, “I am Liam. Liam Murphy. When I fight, all the ladies call me Mr. Murphy. No idea why, but it’s catchy, and it’s fun, so it sticks. I’ve even considered coming into the ring with a little top hat and bowtie.”
“Funny,” I say deadpan, but I have to admit that I do feel much better knowing something about this mystery man. Liam wasn’t the name I pegged down for him. He was more like a Rufus or a Chet by looks. All muscles, firm waist, towering height -- he is some Irish giant with bruised knuckles and bright pink lips.
“Now you,” he says, tearing me away from my long glances at the plethora of tattoos lining his pale skin. “I told you my real name, and now it is time to tell me yours. You know… for trust reasons.”
“What are you talking about? You know my name. It’s Alana. Like ‘Miss Alana’ on the ice cream truck. My dad used to call me ‘Little Miss’ and then when he bought the truck, he had that painted on the side. We used to be known as Bloom Ice Cream, but my dad likes Miss Alana’s Ice Cream better.”
“I agree. It adds a bit of sex appeal to it.” Liam winks at me again. This guy has no idea how NOT to charm a woman. “Now that you’re Alana Bloom and I’m Liam Murphy, can you please take this money from me before I take it back. I’m not a generous man, nor a kind one. I don’t do charity.”
That I could sense. He didn’t exactly look or act like a guy who volunteered at the Boys and Girls Club on his afternoons off. He was more like the kind of guy who drove his bike past a church playground at the highest speed and noise level possible. That little boy in the parking lot of the Beat Box gym had to be some kind of fluke of personality.
I ask cautiously, “So then why are you giving it to me? You told me that you’d pay me with what was left in your wallet. This has to be more than what you carry.” The image of a wad of cash held up to the dash light practically makes my mouth water.
“First of all, I have no clue how much money I have in my pocket. I don’t count it out, and in my line of business, I do a lot of cash-only transactions... if you know what I mean.” My stomach rolls as I think of the implication. Drugs, prostitutes, guns, black markets. I wouldn’t put it past a guy like him to do it all. That flight or fight instinct was kicking in again, and I am just about ready to bust out of here.
Liam continues, “Secondly, you earned your money for tonight, so here you go.” He reaches into his back pocket and fishes out the money. I take it willingly and shove it into the pockets of my jeans. I already feel about twenty pounds heavier knowing that I am packing that much cash. I am so distracted that I can barely register the second part of Liam’s explanation, “But, I want to also just throw something out there for you --”
“Liam! Boss!” We are interrupted by a knock on the door. Liam spins quickly, grabbing the money on the desk and shoving it down the back of his pant pocket. He uses his foot to shove the door of the safe closed. Whoever is on the other side, he doesn’t want to know what business he has going on in here.
Liam opens the door slowly and a man just about as tall as Liam, and dressed in the same black outfit as the rest of his employees, barges in. He glances at me for only a second before he starts, “Liam, man. We got a problem. There’s something wrong with the burners. They’re flicking again, and you know how bad a time it is for something to break like that.”
Burners? What the hell was that? Was it some nickname for a deranged serial arsonist? Maybe it’s a drug thing. I only get more heated when Liam slams his fist angrily into the wooden desk and then storms off, following the employee step by step. A little hesitant to get any more involved in this, I reluctantly stick my head out of the open office door just in time to see Liam leaning over a long black and white stove while the man frustratedly points to the flameless stovetop.
“Who the fuck messed this up this time?” Liam roars wildly, turning towards the group of chefs all paused in place. No one dares to look at him as he throws a towel to the ground and kicks it dramatically away from him. “What the fuck did we talk about last night? Do not turn off the burner until I get the repair guy in! You turn it off, and it doesn’t come on for dinner service! Jesus. What fucking idiots did I get stuck with in this kitchen?!”
“We’re sorry boss,” the same man offers meekly. “We just forgot in the rush. We’ll get it fixed. Tony did it last night. I bet he can get it up and running if we give him a call.”
“You better fucking hope he can or all those lost checks out there are coming out of your pay.” Liam raises his hands and walks back towards the office. I scurry inside, afraid he may see me acting interested in his drama. I sit back up on the desk just in time for him to slam the door behind him and take a seat on the one rickety desk chair.
“So... “ I say, trying to break the ice, “
What the hell was going on out there?”
“Hacks! Fucking hacks!” Liam rages on, clearly not caring about me knowing. “I hire these inexperienced little punks to run my kitchen, and they fuck it up each and every single night. It’s no wonder why turnout is down.”
“Wait. Your kitchen? This is your restaurant?” He’s really not made that clear to me. Sure, he walked us in like he’s the owner and the guys around him have basically bowed down at his feet, but I thought this was like a mafia thing where he knows the owner, and in exchange for protection or from some blackmail, he gets a meeting space in return.
“No. It’s not mine. It’s my grandma’s. I just run it for her since she’s not up to doing it herself anymore. It’s been in my family for three generations now.” He looks a bit calmer now as he gestures with his eyes towards a picture of an older couple leaned up against an open sign. This man was way more complex than I could even give him credit for.
