by Bera, Ilia
“Fuck you,” I mutter, gambling my life on an impulse.
Freddie takes a deep breath in through his nose. “Ah! That’s what I like to hear!”
Freddie returns to his punching bag. “If there ain’t nothin’ else, I’ll have Mert take ya back to your trailer.” My whole body shudders at the mention of the trailer, at the thought of the lightless prison.
“The coins are in Ilium,” I say. “Or territs, or whatever you called them.”
Freddie stops and then turns around to face me. He stares at me, the smirk suddenly missing from his face. “Where?” he asks after a long pause.
I open my mouth and nearly tell him, but I come to my senses before I do. “I’ll tell you when we’re in Ilium,” I say. If I’m going to tell him, I’m going to tell him somewhere with witnesses—somewhere he can’t slit my throat without risking life in prison. “When I tell you, you let me go.”
“I’ll let ya go when I have my territs.”
“No—that’s not the deal. I can’t help whether or not you get them back. All I can do is tell you where they are. The rest is up to you.”
Freddie’s smile is nowhere to be seen. “You get this straight in your head: you’re going nowhere ‘till I get my territs.” His fist is clenched at his side. Whether it’s reserved for the punching bag, or me is anyone’s guess—though my guess is me. After a long, silent moment of deliberation, Freddie grabs his shirt from the table and walks past me. “C’mon,” he says as he heads for the door.
I have to jog to keep up with his long, determined strides. He doesn’t even look at Mert as he passes through the trailer door.
“‘Ey Freddie. E’rythin’ good in ‘ere?”
“Everything’s fine, Mert. I’ll be back in the morning. Get Mel. Tell him to meet me at the car.”
“Sure thin’, Freddie. Ah’ll go ’n get Mel, right ‘way.” Mert moves surprisingly slow, considering he’d managed to catch me without much effort earlier.
Freddie doesn’t look back at me until he’s reached and opened the back door of the old Cadillac Coup DeVille. “Get in,” he says bluntly.
Freddie closes the car door on me so fast; he nearly takes my arm clean off. I look out the window at Freddie, who paces impatiently He perks up when he sees Mel running from the distance. “Let’s go!” he shouts, jogging around the car and hopping into the passenger seat.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
WELCOME TO ILIUM! ENJOY YOUR STAY!
It’s a long six-hour drive to Ilium through a maze of dirt roads. I spend the first hour carefully noting every bridge we cross and corner we turn. Left, straight for twenty minutes, right, straight for fifteen minutes, right, straight for ten minutes, left… By the second hour, I can’t even figure out which direction we’re headed, and I’m carsick from trying.
Mel watches me through the rear-view mirror. He laughs when our eyes meet. My face is green, and the constant bouncing up and down, up and down from the dirt roads isn’t helping any.
“Gonna give the police directions, lady?” Mel asks with a quick, condescending grin.
I smile dismissively. Go to the police? With all the stolen Gucci and Prada that was in my apartment? No thanks. I’m more concerned about finding my way to the highway, in case my plan backfires and I end up back in their little trailer village.
“She isn’t that dumb,” says Freddie. I can’t tell if he just complimented me or not. “Wouldn’t matter anyway,” Freddie says. “They’re not gonna believe her. No human will believe her.” No human? Freddie says it as if he isn’t human. The image of that long, snarling wolf snout flashes in my mind.
By the fourth hour in the car, the sun has set and the stars are out. I may not have been able to track every twist and turn of the road, but with the stars, I’m at least able to see that we are headed towards the Big Dipper, the only constellation I know. Two hours later, we reach the highway. Seemingly on cue is the pattering of raindrops and the squeaking of windshield wipers.
Familiar smokestacks rise up in the distance, spewing grey clouds back up, over the town, perpetuating the never-ending rainfall. The blanket of dark clouds is visible in the night sky thanks to Ilium’s polluted glow—the same glow I imagine lingers over Chernobyl. I swear I can taste Ilium before we even reach the sign.
Welcome to Ilium! Enjoy your stay!
We pass the line of apartment buildings—the modern-day equivalent of a city wall. Ilium’s wall is special, in that it’s not designed to keep people out, but instead it’s designed to keep them in. Ahead in the distance, flashing blue and red illuminate the slick streets. My heart skips a beat and a lump clogs my throat. The ensuing sirens are slow to grace my ears, as if sound travels slower through Ilium’s dense, polluted air.
“Okay, sweetheart, where’re we goin’?” Freddie asks without looking back at me.
On the street are men in long, black trench coats. I sink low into my seat. I’m paranoid. Every man in Ilium wears a trench coat—not just Carmine Pesconi’s men. “Just keep driving,” I say.
The streets are unusually quiet considering the restaurants are all still open for business. Even the prostitutes seem to be taking the night off.
“Well?” says Mel, looking at me in the rear view mirror. He keeps the car moving slowly. People don’t drive slowly in Ilium; it’s not exactly the kind of town where you take the car out for a casual drive. Only horny johns drive this slowly, and even they seem to be taking the night off tonight.
We pass the No Hold Gold. Thick metal bars cover the big glass window. A heavy iron door covers the little wooden door. The street is desolate. The little metal chair—the one bolted down next to the front door of the No Hold Gold, where the tired little twenty-four hour security guard sits—is empty. Even the streetlight above is dead, as if the place went out of business since yesterday.
“Lady?” Mel says.
I take a breath. “Keep driving.”
I need to buy some time. I need to find a crowd that I can slip into once I tell them I pawned their stupid territs. Crazy Dave’s giant face materializes through the haze of rain, along with the pulsing glow of the Holiday Inn.
“Turn in here,” I tell Mel.
“The territs are here?” Freddie looks over his shoulder at me for the first time since we left the caravan.
“No.”
“So why are we here?” Freddie, obviously, tries to disguise his frustration with a clenched smile. It doesn’t work.
“You won’t be able to get your coins until tomorrow.”
Freddie closes his eyes. He takes a long, deep breath before responding. “What are you on about, now?” He says it slowly and deliberately.
“I’d tell you now, but there’s nothing you can do about it ‘till tomorrow. You said I’m going nowhere ‘till you get your territs, so what difference does it make.”
Freddie’s eyes are still closed. “It makes a difference. Tell us where they are.” He finally opens his eyes and stares at me with a narrowed brow. His clenched smile is sideways as he bites down on his tongue to further suppress his rage.
“No.”
“Goddammit!” Freddie shouts, turning and slamming the dashboard with his tightly clenched fist, more than a couple of times.
Mel is surprisingly patient while Freddie gets his frustrations out. “What do you wanna do, Freddie?” he asks.
Freddie takes a moment to gather him thoughts. He watches as a group of men pass and head towards the rear-entrance of the Holiday Inn. “I don’t know what you’re tryin’ to do,” he says to me, “but if this is you tryin’ to get away, it won’t work. I will find you and I will throw you to Pesconi.”
My gut turns. How does Freddie know about Carmine Pesconi? Did I say something when I was drugged, in the trailer?
“You better not be lyin’ to me. If we’re gonna wait, we’re at least gonna make some money.” Freddie looks at me and smirks, his eyes lighting up as if he’s just been struck by a brilliant idea. “And you’re gonna help.�
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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
FIGHT NIGHT, ROUND TWO
Freddie flips his hood up before passing through the Holiday Inn’s back door. The secret club’s bouncer at the bottom of the stairs recognizes me and opens the second door, giving us a sample of the night’s energy.
He underground club is packed, over-capacity, the volume of the place is damn-near deafening. Inside, conversation is impossible without pressing your lips up to your target’s ear and shouting. I’ve never seen the club so busy; I guess this is where Ilium’s been hiding tonight.
A dozen prostitutes buzz through the bar, soliciting whatever business they can find—and most of them find exactly what they’re looking for, slipping into private back rooms with clients for a quick, hot date. I can’t locate Terri in the crowd, but I recognize her friend, Erica. Her arm is in a fresh, white cast, slung over her shoulder. The large bruise around her eye compliments the scrapes and cuts that cover the rest of her face. She either faced one violent john, or one of Pesconi’s men—maybe even Carmine Pesconi himself.
Whatever the reason, I’m not willing to find out. I duck my head and turn away, staying close to the ostensible safety of Freddie and his tall, ginger friend.
Freddie scans the faces of the crowd carefully. His big grin emerges as he spots a particularly tall and brawny man with a thick moustache that curls up towards his eyes. The man’s shoulders are exponentially broader than his waist, which is exponentially broader than his calves. If his skin were made from vanilla wafer, he would be the spitting image of an ice-cream cone—a chocolate-chip ice-cream cone, given the many tattoos he has speckled throughout his face.
“Wait here,” Freddie says, shrugging his shoulders and hiding his grin as he gets into character.
Mel steps in close to me, ready to snatch my arm at any moment. This would be a great place to run, and he knows it.
Freddie keeps his chin tucked into his chest and his shoulders up near his ears as he manoeuvres the crowds. Seemingly headed for the bar, Freddie bumps into the moustachioed man, jolting him forward and spilling his fresh beer. The man spins around, not sparing a second before grabbing Freddie by the neck and pulling him in tight.
Freddie pushes the man off. “Watch it, fella!” he yells.
The man puffs out his chest and squares his shoulders; the same way gorillas flaunt their dominance at the Ilium zoo. “I’m going to kick your fucking ass,” the man says.
“Can ya kick with those chicken legs of yours?” Freddie asks with a big, shit-eating grin.
The man’s vanilla face becomes cherry, and his throbbing veins are suddenly visible from across the bar.
“You think you’re some fucking wise guy?”
Mel notices me shaking my head and rolling my eyes “What?” he asks, bending his tall body over and turning his ear to face my lips.
I laugh. Freddie is picking a fight with a born loser. One punch, and the moustachioed man would face a similar fate to that of a turtle, flipped onto its back. I’m not the only one who notices, either. There’s a burly man sitting alone at the bar, with more body hair than visible skin. Like me, he’s shaking his head dismissively at the scuffle.
I stand up on my tiptoes and float my lips next to Mel’s ears. “No one’s going to fall for this gimmick,” I yell.
“What do you mean?”
“The people here haven’t forgotten the fight with Hugo. You think they’re going to bet on that carnival freak? Not a chance.” Mel looks back at Freddie and his chosen victim, and then around the rest of the bar. His reluctance to respond is agreement enough.
“Freddie knows what he’s doing,” Mel says finally, looking away from me.
I can’t help but laugh at the statement. Even he doesn’t believe himself.
The moustachioed man is pulled away by a friend before the confrontation escalates. With the seed planted, Freddie returns, and leads us to the last open table, in the far corner of the dark bar. A heavily vandalized cement pillar blocks sight of the cage that the mob of drunken criminals already begins to crowd.
Mel asks Freddie what he wants to drink and surprisingly, he asks me the same question before disappearing into the crowd. While Mel is gone, Freddie briefs me on the plan, and reminds me that my life depends on sticking to it.
“Your job is simple. There are three men takin’ bets in the bar. Once they announce the fight, go to each of them and bet against me,” Freddie says. “I’ll give ya twelve-hundred territs. That’s four hundred with each. Make sure plenty of people hear you bettin’.” Freddie pulls a small bag out from his pocket, filled with familiar golden coins.
“Bet against you? You’re throwing the fight?” I ask. I already know the answer to my question, seeing as Freddie was far too big of a coward to ever throw a fight.
“No, but that’s what we want ‘em to think,” Freddie continues. “When people hear ya bettin’, they’ll think it’s a fix, and they’ll bet too. Mel’s goin’ to put the jackpot on me, and get those twelve-hundred territs back—and hopefully a lot more, too.”
“Is that what you did with Hugo?” I ask.
Freddie laughs. “You’re finally catchin’ on, huh?”
Wait. So Freddie actually fought Hugo? Fought and beat the Hannibal Hugo?
I look down at the heavy sac of territs that now rests in my hand. The plan makes little sense, and I’m not shy in telling Freddie.
“It’ll work. It always does. Don’t worry,” he assures me.
“Why will people care who I bet on?”
“‘Cause they’ll think we’re together,” he says.
Almost no one saw us walking in. No one can see us sitting at this table. No one will think Freddie and I are an item. “And why would they think that?” I ask.
Freddie’s grin is accompanied by silence, at least as far as his mouth is concerned. He’s saved the worst part of the plan for the end. He doesn’t even need to speak before a cold chill begins to creep up my spine. “I’m not lookin’ forward to it either, darlin’,” he says. “But, I’ll tell ya what—you can keep all the cash we win.”
That chill has now overtaken my whole body, accompanied by a lump that bobs up and down in my gut, like some hopeless ship on a violent sea. I’ve lost track of the number of times I’ve been cast as the role of prostitute in the past week.
Mel returns with our drinks. In one hand, his long fingers easily grip two pints of beer. Only my martini, extra dirty, occupies the other. I’m going to need a few more of these.
“Cheers,” Freddie says, passing me my drink before grabbing his own—his first act of chivalry since we’ve met.
Freddie downs his beer before I ever realize there’s even a martini in my hand.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
PUBLIC ACTS OF INFECTION
Once we finish our drinks, we waste no time. As Mel slips into the crowd to locate the deepest pockets, Freddie motions me to follow him to the bar. I step up next to Freddie. His hand slips onto my lower back and then slithers down, onto my ass.
In case I’m not uncomfortable enough, he gives my ass a solid squeeze. That added touch was just to get my blood boiling. “Relax,” he says into my ear. Apparently, he can feel my tension through my butt cheek. It takes all of my discipline not to slap his hand away.
It takes all of my discipline to slide my hand around his back, and to hide my nausea from the bar patrons. I grab onto his side. His body runs hot.
Freddie begins to lead me towards the same bartender from the other night—the bartender that served him the hot coffee. “Not him—let’s go to the other side,” I whisper to Freddie. You idiot, my brain screams as soon as the words escape my lips. That bartender could have been my out.
With his hand still firmly on my ass, Freddie guides me to the other end of the bar. He waves down the bartender and orders six shots—three each. The mere thought of pounding down three shots makes me tipsy.
“I’m a lightweight,” I say into Freddie’s ear.
He looks me up and down with his grinning face. “Arguable.” Prick. He’s certainly got a knack for picking fights. Hopefully, the ice-cream cone-shaped man has more fight in him than his questionable proportions let on.
The first shot burns everything it touches—my lips, my tongue, my cheeks, my throat, and my stomach. The second shot goes further, burning every part of my body, mostly my pride. The third shot numbs everything, including my sensibilities.
The club becomes a blur. The volume in the bar rises and falls in seemingly random waves. Moments of clarity are spread thin between long periods of increasingly autonomic subconscious. As the alcohol seeps deeper into my body, my moments clarity become shorter and fewer.
