by Mike Nappa
Bliss’s head hung low, dripping moisture on her comfortable old nightgown. Her shoulders trembled, and her hands lay flat in her lap. She hadn’t told that story, even to herself, in a long, long time.
My baby, she kept repeating to herself. My Davis, my big man. I’m sorry, baby, I’m so sorry.
She didn’t hear The Raven get up from his chair, nor did she notice him walk across the room and kneel down beside her. She jumped when he took her hands in his, gently at first, then with the firmness of someone who knew her pain, who remembered it almost the way she did. She looked at him and saw mourning in his eyes too, and that made her weep even harder. She clung to his hands, and he didn’t let go.
There was no need for words then, just the whisper of tears and the cleansing of sorrow. Finally she’d had enough of crying. She patted his hand, felt the blank space where his pinky finger had been, and then felt him pull away from her.
“You a strange boy,” she said, laughing through sniffles. “I think I’m going to like you.”
“Well, I’m still scared to death of you.” He smiled and stood. “So the names on the picture?” he asked.
She nodded and reached over to pick up her list. “All the people responsible for the end of my grandson.” She put a finger beside each name as she read it aloud. “Jameis Jackson. Kipo gang member. He led the little jewelry robbery at the Perimeter Mall. Walter Evans. Another Kipo boy, part of the trio at the mall. Mark Jenson, security guard who called the police. Ashland Forney, the trigger-happy cop who shot Davis in the head.”
“All four of those names are lined through,” The Raven said.
“Justice done,” Bliss said. She squared her jaw.
“And the other names?”
“Maksym Romanenko. The greedy, power-hungry man who used my grandson as a tool and then threw him away like he was nothing.”
“And that last name?” he asked.
She looked The Raven dead in the eye. “Justice for all,” she said.
Bliss watched his gaze travel from her face down to the list on the back of her picture. He reread the six names there and then paused at the notation scribbled at the bottom of the list. He nodded and read that aloud.
“Nevermore.”
29
Raven
Atlanta, GA
Old Fourth Ward
Friday, March 31, 11:45 a.m.
14 days to Nevermore
I thought I’d sleep until noon after the night I had. After the week I’ve had. But here I am at 11:45 in the morning, sitting in my kitchen, sipping on a Mountain Dew and hoping those tasteless frozen waffles I ate an hour ago aren’t going to cause me problems later.
I can’t stop thinking about Mama Bliss. About Nevermore. About how my next meeting with Max Roman’s goons is going to go.
I stayed with Mama Bliss until close to two o’clock in the morning. She told me her story, I told her mine. Then we talked about my new job.
“I think,” Mama Bliss said, “after your training in the warehouse, I’m going to use you as my personal security instead of as just a security guard for the store. That means you’ll work wherever I am, or wherever I need you to be.”
“I don’t know if you noticed,” I said to her, “but I’m not really built for hand-to-hand combat. And to be honest, even though I grew up in the redneck wilds of Oklahoma City, I’ve never even held a gun.”
“I’m not looking for a bodyguard,” she snapped. “Mama Bliss knows how to take care of herself. Didn’t you figure that out already?” I remembered that whole gun aimed at your testicles speech and had to agree. “I just need you to take that title so Darrent doesn’t cause me grief over adding a new salary to the payroll.”
“Darrent?”
“My store manager. Right-hand man. You’re going to need to get along with him. Darrent runs anything I don’t want to run, which nowadays is most everything. He makes sure there’s money in the bank to pay all my new-hire thieves and petty criminals.”
I knew she was just teasing me then, but that time I heard her words coming from Trudi Coffey’s mouth. Criminal. Petty thief. For the first time, I didn’t like hearing those words, because I thought maybe they were true. Maybe I’d been calling myself a deception specialist just because I didn’t want to think of myself as what I really am. A petty thief.
“Sometimes you’ll do errands for me. Deliver important things. Take me to meetings, that kind of stuff.”
“It’s never too soon for a second chance,” my daddy used to say. I wonder if that’s really true, and if it is, how it might work. Is Mama Bliss giving me a second chance?
“You’ll be on-call anytime, all hours of the day and night. I take it from your activities tonight that you don’t mind night work?”
If I’m going to have to be a slave, I thought, better to be one for this woman than Max Roman. I think she must’ve heard my thoughts then.
“Four weeks,” she said. “After four weeks, your obligation to me is paid and you can fly off to wherever you want. And Max Roman will no longer own you. I promise. But you need to trust me and do whatever I tell you to do for the next four weeks.” She held out her hand.
“Okay,” I said, reaching out to shake hands and finalize the deal. What else was there to do?
After that, she told me to sit quiet while she wrote a letter. She sealed it, wrote a name on the envelope, and handed it to me. “Give that to Max’s people when you see them next.”
“What is it?”
“If it was your business, I would’ve read it to you. Just consider it the first errand of your new job as my personal security. Now go home and get some rest. You’ll have to go through Darrent’s guard training at first, so come in at eight o’clock Monday morning to start your new job in earnest.”
I must’ve looked shocked, because she laughed and said, “Fine. You can start at nine o’clock. Now go home and let me get some sleep before Darrent comes singing down the hall to announce the new day.”
When I got home, I put the letter and the two stacks of cash on my coffee table. Just because I was curious, I tore open the binding papers and counted out every bill, laying them flat side by side on my table. When I ran out of room on the table, I moved to the floor. There were one hundred one-hundred-dollar bills. Ten thousand dollars. More money than I’d ever seen, let alone held in my own hands. I pulled them all together in a wad and wrapped a rubber band around it, then left it all next to the letter on the coffee table.
I went to bed. And couldn’t sleep. Well, I started to sleep and woke up in a cold sweat, wondering what the nightmare was that made my heart pound the way it did. I spent the whole night this way, dreaming awful things, waking up, trying to go back to sleep, where I’d dream awful things once more. Finally, around eight-thirty, I gave up and went into the kitchen, but I wasn’t hungry. Instead, I took half a dozen eggs out of the refrigerator, hard-boiled them, and started practicing some of my basic sleight-of-hand tricks. Eggs Up Your Sleeve. Eggs in Your Pockets. Eggscellent Disappearing Eggs. Those kinds of things.
When I finally tired of that, two hours had gone by. It had been frustrating at first, trying to adjust to having one less finger for sleight-of-hand tricks, but muscle memory helped, and by the time I was done, I felt fairly comfortable again. It felt good.
So I ate a few waffles and tried to decide what to do with the rest of my day. When it got to be almost noon, I was finally feeling tired again.
Now I yawn, take another sip of the sweet nectar of the gods, and check the clock. It’s 11:46 when I decide to take a nap. On the couch this time, I think. Just something to take the edge off.
In the living room, I see Mama Bliss’s letter next to the rubber-banded stack of money. It’s addressed to Viktor Kostiuk, which worries me a little bit. I’m tempted to steam it open and read it, but I also have a healthy fear of both Mama Bliss and Viktor Kostiuk. In the end, I leave it alone, dropping on the couch and counting backward from one hundred until I fall asleep.
Best
I can tell, I make it to eighty-nine before unicorns start dancing in my head.
In my dreams, I think I hear heavy footsteps approaching. Then I feel a jarring thud next to my head and come abruptly awake. Pavlo has kicked the arm of the couch nearest to my head, causing tremors to rumble through me. I’m totally disoriented now, trying to make sense of that world that happens when you think you’re still asleep but are really awake.
Am I dreaming? How did they get in? What time is it?
The curtains are closed now and no lights are on, making my apartment a shadowy cave. Around the rim of my windows, I see light peeking through. Still daytime outside, I think. I’m so confused.
I feel lightheaded and dizzy from lack of sleep, but I sit up anyway. Pavlo is grinning at me hungrily.
“You not going to run?”
“No, I’m not going to run.”
My stomach turns somersaults inside me. Just Pavlo this time? I wonder. Or are there others? As if on cue, Scholarship walks in the open door to my apartment. I’m still confused. I know I locked the new deadbolt on the front door my super repaired after their previous visit. How did they get in?
“How did you get in?” I ask. Pavlo drops a key on the coffee table, next to all the money and the letter.
“Had key made when you were passed out last time.” He jerks his head toward Scholarship. “He got tired of kicking door in.”
Scholarship sees me, but his attention is focused on the coffee table.
“What time is it?” I ask. “I thought you guys weren’t coming until five o’clock.”
“Early bird gets the worm,” Scholarship says. He doesn’t look happy.
I finally find the clock in my living room and see they’re actually five hours early, as it’s just now twelve o’clock in the afternoon. High noon, I think. Am I in a western movie?
Scholarship turns to me now, ignoring the cash on the table. “How’s your hand, kid?” he asks. “No infections? Pain managed?” He motions to Pavlo. “Look at his hand.”
“It’s fine,” the Ukrainian says, dismissing the order. “I did good job. You saw. Very pretty.”
“Look at his hand, Pav. And be gentle. Remember, I like this kid more than I like you.”
Pavlo grumbles a bit, but he obeys, taking up my left hand with his meaty fingers, peeling away the bandage to inspect the scar tissue. He re-tapes the gauze and lets my hand drop.
“Fine. Looks good. No problems.”
Scholarship nods, a short single head bob that stops quickly and silences his partner. Pavlo jams his hands in his pockets and steps back toward the balcony door. The football player crosses his arms over his chest, and I see him adding the money in his head.
“You hungry?” I say. I can’t resist. “I boiled a couple of eggs for you. They’re in the fridge.”
His face relaxes at that. I’m beginning to think this big, mean monster really does like me. He turns and takes a seat in the lawn chair I’ve set up next to the couch. Pavlo remains standing.
“Looks like you’ve been busy, kid,” Scholarship says, nodding toward the coffee table.
“Idle hands are the devil’s workshop,” I say. “That’s what my daddy used to say.”
“Mine too,” he says. “Right before he beat the devil out of me with a belt.”
I think he’s making a joke, but his eyes aren’t laughing, so I don’t laugh either.
“We sent you to retrieve a logbook,” he says. “I don’t see it here. You want to explain?”
My palms feel trembly all of a sudden, and honest to goodness, I think my elbows are sweating. “I, uh, I got the money,” I say. “Here, it’s all here. Ten thousand dollars.” My voice cracks on the word here, which is embarrassing, but at least Scholarship is polite enough to ignore that. I gather up the cash and hold it out to him.
He doesn’t take it. Pavlo fidgets by the balcony window.
“What about the logbook?” Scholarship says. “You were supposed to bring me a logbook.”
There’s a quiet fury in his manner now that I’ve never seen before, not even when he was hitting me during the “This Is You, Lying” game on our first night. Is he mad about the money? I wonder. Doesn’t he want ten thousand dollars?
“I—” I’m not sure how much I should reveal about Mama Bliss’s office, about the new deal I’ve struck with her. I shrug, and I realize I’m pleading with him now. “I got the money instead. You said Mr. Roman wanted ten thousand dollars, so I got ten thousand dollars. Did I do something wrong?”
I watch his head tilt down a notch, studying me. I try again to hand him the wad of cash, but he still doesn’t take it, and I’m left hanging stupidly, arm outstretched, waiting for him to respond. He doesn’t take his eyes off me, but he does speak to Pavlo.
“Count it.”
The dumpy Ukrainian grabs the cash eagerly. Apparently he likes money more than his partner. I watch his lips move as he silently paws through the bills, tallying them in his head.
“Ten thousand dollars,” he announces at last. At least he’s happy about it.
Scholarship holds out a football-sized hand and receives the money from his partner. He quickly counts ten one-hundred-dollar bills off the top and tosses them back onto the coffee table toward me. “Credit for your deposit,” he says. He folds the rest and hides them away in a coat pocket. “Now,” he says, nodding toward the letter from Mama Bliss, “what’s that?”
“It’s for Viktor. Uh, Mr. Kostiuk.”
“I can see that, kid. What is it?”
I’m suddenly glad that I didn’t steam open Mama’s letter. Now I can speak without trying to cover a lie. “I honestly don’t know. I was just told to give it to Mr. Kostiuk.”
“Here,” Pavlo says, “I’ll see what it—”
Scholarship’s sudden movement is surprising, but the crushing fierceness of the blow to the side of his partner’s head is what takes my breath away.
Pavlo was leaning down to pick up the letter, so the hammer-fist to his right ear had downward force added to the football player’s strength when it connected with the Ukrainian’s skull. Pavlo is not a small man, but he’s rattled by the big man’s punch, stumbling like a drunken prizefighter, his left cheek smacking against the coffee table as he tumbles down onto his backside. There’s a little blood mark left on my table, but I can’t tell exactly where it came from. Then I see that Pavlo actually bit his own lip when he got hit and that he’s now licking that lip like a dog trying to stop the flow of blood.
One punch from Scholarship can take out a meaty guy like Pavlo?
I feel stunned, as well. I realize for the first time that back when we first met, when we played our sadistic punching game, Scholarship was holding back, taking it easy when he whacked me. If he’d hit me like he just hit Pavlo, I might still be in a coma.
I’m suddenly grateful for small blessings.
Breath bursts through Scholarship’s nostrils like a bull snorting in a ring. “You never, never, take something that belongs to Viktor Kostiuk,” he says.
Both Pavlo and I nod our heads in understanding. That’s a lesson learned for both of us.
The Ukrainian struggles to his feet. His eyes are glassy, and I can tell he’s still a little dazed. If this were a boxing match, the referee would stop the fight.
Scholarship is towering over his partner now. “You have something to say to me?” he says.
Pavlo nods, eyes watering and avoiding direct contact. “Thank you for correcting me,” he says carefully. His speech is slightly slurred, and I wonder if he might have a concussion. Scholarship nods and settles back into my lawn chair. Pavlo stumbles back to a spot by the balcony door, clearly disoriented, hand holding the right side of his face.
Scholarship turns his attention to me again. “You are just full of surprises,” he says to me, and he smiles. “Like I told Max Roman myself, you’re a man of unique talent.”
“So,” I say after a moment more under his scrutiny, “what do we do now?” I’m
honestly afraid to reach down and pick up that letter, even to hand it to him. He’s made no move to take it, either. I hear the Ukrainian muttering under his breath, but I can’t make out what he’s saying. His face has gone unpleasantly pale, and his body is swaying just a bit, like he might pass out after all. I hope he doesn’t spew all over my carpet. This place is dirty enough as it is.
“Pavlo,” Scholarship orders, “call Viktor. Ask him if he might be willing to join us at our deception specialist’s apartment.” He looks over at his partner and wrinkles his nose at the sight. “And go vomit in the bathroom already. Don’t make a mess out here, or you’ll be sorry.”
Pavlo nods and heads down the short hallway in my apartment. A moment later, we hear his porcelain chorus.
“Shut the door!” Scholarship yells.
Pavlo interrupts his symphony long enough to obey, and finally we’re alone.
The football player stands and glances around the living room. “That was for you as much as it was for him,” Scholarship says to the room.
“What?” I ask.
“I didn’t like the way he knocked you around last time we were here. Seemed unnecessary. Violence should always be necessary.”
“Oh.”
Now he ambles toward the kitchen as though nothing has happened, like we’re old roommates just spending the day hanging out, taking it easy. “You say there’s hard-boiled eggs in here? What about toast? You got bread and butter too?”
“Uh, yeah. Help yourself.”
30
Trudi
Atlanta, GA
West Midtown
Friday, March 31, 12:11 p.m.
14 days to Nevermore
“Ms. Coffey,” Eulalie’s voice said through the intercom, “Detective Hill is here offering to buy us both lunch at CozyFloyd’s BBQ in Douglasville.”
“It’s worth the twenty-minute drive,” Samuel’s voice hollered from the reception area.
Trudi pushed aside the keyboard on her computer and leaned toward the com. “Why can’t we go to the one just down the street?” she said.
“Closed three months ago,” Eulalie said. “Remember?”
