by Rick Jones
“No,” he said. “I want to save my cousin. She needs my help and there’s no one else. I need to protect her because she can’t protect herself.”
The woman’s chin started to quiver and tears began to well at the rims of her eyes. She patted his hand. “I wished someone like you was around when I needed help. Not only from people like Cooch, but for myself. You care for your cousin deeply, don’t you?”
“She’s family.”
“And family is always worth the risk, yes?”
“All good people are worth the risk. It doesn’t have to be just family.”
She cocked her head. “If only . . .” Then she let her words falter, making Kimball wonder if she was about to say something magnanimous as ‘if only everyone was like you,’ or ‘if only someone like you were there to catch me when I was falling, then I’d be a different person today.’ But she left him hanging.
Then in a tone without the scratchiness to it, she whispered, “You bring her home, you hear? You go find your cousin who needs you. If you do this, you’ll save her in so many ways you could never understand.”
Kimball didn’t understand. He just wanted Becki out from under Cooch’s power. What the woman was talking about was long-term effects: Save her now. Don’t let her become like me. But Kimball, at seventeen, lacked the insight to read between the lines as to what she was saying.
“I don’t know where she is.”
She leaned closer. “Then I’ll tell you.”
She did, whispering the address into his ear. When she was done she eased back in her stool and drank from her glass, acting as if Kimball was non-existent. When he tried to thank her she ignored him.
Kimball Hayden was once again invisible.
But this time he liked it.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
The House on Ripley Street
“How’s the Laurent woman?”
“She’s doing better,” stated the Casually-Dressed Man.
“No more pink elephants?”
“Pink leprechauns,” he corrected.
“Same difference. The color pink is pink, ain’t it?”
“Yeah. But an elephant is different from a leprechaun . . . ain’t it?”
The man in the well-dressed suit flashed him a hard look before pointing to the cellar door. “I need to talk to her,” he said gruffly. “She able to hold a decent conversation?”
“I think you can get some answers from her.”
“Let’s do it.”
They took the stairs to the basement level and hunkered low to avoid hitting their heads on the pipes. When they reached the metal door, the Casually-Dressed Man inserted the key and gave it a twist, unlocking it. The smell of human waste and vomit hit the Well-Dressed Man like a crisp slap to the face, sharp and stinging.
“Never gets easier, does it?” the Casually-Dressed Man asked rhetorically.
Becki Laurent remained bound to the bed by wrist and ankle shackles. The mattress she was lying on was badly soiled. And if nothing else, despite her senses returning to the norm, she still appeared feral looking with her hair in a wild tangle and her skin filthy.
She struggled against her binds. “Please,” she implored, “I want to go home.”
“There is no home, missy,” stated the Casually-Dressed Man. “At least not for you.”
“Please!”
The Casually-Dressed Man gestured to the Well-Dressed Man by raising his hand toward Becki. She’s all yours.
The Well-Dressed Man gagged, even with a handkerchief covering his mouth and nose.
“Just breathe through your mouth,” suggested the Casually-Dressed Man. “You’ll be surprised how much you can tolerate when you have to.”
The Well-Dressed Man waved him off as if to say ‘shut up and go away.’ Then he stepped beside the woman, beside the bed. On a small table were empty bowls, presumably soup that the Casually-Dressed Man had forced upon Becki. Splashes of vomit pooled in places along the floor, the soup she wasn’t able to keep down. So the Well-Dressed Man was careful where he stepped, treating the area as if it was a landmine.
“You,” he said. “Woman.”
“I don’t want to be here,” she shouted. She continued to fight against her restraints.
“Someone’s looking for you. Someone you know. And someone who obviously knows you.”
She fought until she could fight no more, then fell back against the mattress laboring for breath.
“Talk to me,” said the Well-Dressed Man.
Becki remained quiet. Then she broke into a racking sob.
“A big guy. Real big. Called you by name and wanted to know where you were. Know the guy I’m talking about?”
She continued to cry.
“Hey! I’m talking to you!”
Becki seemed to recover somewhat. “I have no idea who you’re talking about.”
“Yeah, well, I think you’re lying. I think you do know this guy. And you know what?” He held an open hand out to the Casually-Dressed Man, who placed in the Well-Dressed Man’s palm a syringe filled with high-grade smack. The Well-Dressed Man pinched the needle between his thumb and forefinger, and toyed with it by seesawing it back and forth. “Tell me what I want to know, and I’ll give you a taste. Agreed?’
Becki licked her lips in anticipation. The Casually-Dressed Man had been weaning her with smaller doses, with the number of doses declining to one a day.
“Give me what I want,” said the Well-Dressed Man, “and you get a taste. If not---” He let his words hang for her to draw her own conclusion, which was that she would go without if she did not cooperate. “Give me his name.”
She licked her lips as her eyes locked onto the point of the needle.
“Give me his name,” he repeated.
Her craving was too great, her will too weak. “Kimball,” she whispered.
The Well-Dressed Man leaned closer. “What was that?”
“Kimball,” she said louder.
“Does Kimball have a last name?”
She nodded. “Hayden. His name is Kimball Hayden. He’s my cousin.”
The name Hayden rang a bell with the Well-Dressed Man. He was the one who brought one of Cooch’s guys to his knees at the cemetery, so a sanctioned hit was put on his mother as a message. Now he was storming his way across the city as a show of opposition. “He’s your cousin?” he asked for confirmation.
She never took her eyes off the needle when she nodded.
The Well-Dressed Man handed the needle back to the Casually-Dressed Man.
“You promised,” she said.
“Yeah, well, promises were made to be broken, right?”
She started to cry. She had no willpower, no strength. All she had was the need. And it was the need of heroin that overpowered her loyalty to family. She had proffered Kimball right into the hands of Vinny Cuchinata.
And Becki Laurent never felt so low in her entire life.
#
Kimball stood within the shadows across the way from the house on Ripley Street when a top-of-the-line sedan drove up and parked along the curb. At first he wasn’t sure if the woman at the bar was being truthful. But then again, why would she lie? For the past three days he’d been searching for this location, only to hit one brick wall after another until he happened upon the barfly, Nomah the Bomah. His mother would have called it divine intervention. He just called it simple luck. But when the Well-Dressed Man stepped out of the vehicle, Kimball knew that she had directed him true and straight. This man was a ruffian who was thickly built and built for combat, an obvious soldier who served in the ranks of Cooch’s battalion of thugs.
When the man took the driveway to the rear of the house, Kimball followed.
When the man reached the backdoor, he rapped on it with a predesigned knock.
And when the door opened light spilled onto the concrete landing. A man in casual dress exchanged a few words before allowing the Well-Dressed Man in. Through the window, Kimball could see the men holding convers
ation a moment before they took the stairway down to the basement.
Becki.
The back door was left unlocked. Kimball entered the house as silently as a wild cat on the hunt. His footfalls were quiet, and his steps graceful as he crossed the floor to the basement door. He put his ear to it.
Silence.
He turned off the kitchen light, not wanting the illumination to pour down the stairway as soon as he opened the door and give him away, and descended the stairway. At the bottom he realized that the ceiling was low, so he crouched low and listened.
There were voices ahead.
One was female, a voice he recognized.
Kimball removed the knife he took from Benny-the-Blade from the pocket of his hoodie, and swung it to the open position with skilled perfection. He had practiced the maneuver over days, becoming a natural technician with the double-edged weapon.
“Give me his name,” he heard the Well-Dressed Man say.
Then he heard Becki relent. “Kimball,” she whispered.
“What was that?”
“Kimball.”
“Does Kimball have a last name?”
“Hayden. His name is Kimball Hayden. He’s my cousin.”
More words were said, but as Kimball moved through the basement they became less articulate. But when Kimball worked his way to the door he heard the last of the conversation.
“You promised,” Becki said.
“Yeah, well, promises were made to be broken, right?”
With that statement Kimball stepped inside the room.
#
It was like a black mass rising against the wall of the chamber, growing and expanding to an incredible height and wingspan. Its head was encased within a hood, rendering its face dark and featureless. And the eyes of the Casually-Dressed Man flared to the size of wafers as the mass flourished into something that was blacker than black.
The Well-Dressed Man saw the look on his partner’s face. “What?”
The Casually-Dressed Man didn’t have time to respond.
Kimball grabbed the Well-Dressed Man by the back of his neck and drove his face against the wall, smashing his nose, the sudden impact leaving a bloody star-point stain against the stone. The Well-Dressed Man wavered in his stance, so Kimball drove his face against the wall for a second time, this time crushing his left cheekbone. The crunch was definite and audible, the action quick as the man finally fell to the floor on boneless legs.
The Casually-Dressed Man picked up a fork, one of the utensils used when he had to force feed Becki, and squared off with Kimball.
In response Kimball showed him the butterfly knife. With refined sweeps and graceful maneuvering Kimball exhibited his skills as a master, the weapon opening and closing in blurs.
The Casually-Dressed Man jabbed the fork through the air. “You want a piece of me?”
Kimball came forward with the sound of the knife cutting the air.
But the Casually-Dressed Man was much quicker than Kimball anticipated. He juked to Kimball’s left, then moved to the right, then he thrusted the fork forward with the tines puncturing the hoodie and driving deep into Kimball’s left forearm.
As flashy as Kimball was with the butterfly knife, he been bested by a man with a fork. Suddenly his confidence started to wane. The man in front of him was no novice to street fighting.
“Come on, punk,” said the Casually-Dressed Man. Then he egged Kimball on by beckoning him to come forward and challenge him.
Kimball did not disappoint. He shook off the pain, ground his feet, bent his knees, and concentrated. He willed his pain away. In the background Becki’s cries faded until there was nothing but the space between Kimball and his quarry.
“Come on, punk,” the Casually-Dressed Man spurred. “You ain’t so tough.”
Kimball homed in on the target of the man and rehearsed his moves inside his head. He would be swift and precise, if not surgical. And he would react without mercy.
With everything beginning to move along with a surreal slowness in Kimball’s mind, the Casually-Dressed Man attacked. Kimball lashed out with his hand, snatched the man’s wrist, torqued it violently back, the fork falling to the floor with a metallic sound, and forced the man to his knees. Kimball was so poetic in his movement, so coordinated in the design of his defense, he was surprised at how natural it came to him.
The Casually-Dressed Man subtly reached down to a sheath attached to his ankle, lifted the hem of his pants, and grabbed a small blade. As he removed it and was about to drive the knife across Kimball’s abdomen for a clean gutting, Kimball brought the point of the butterfly knife straight down through the crown of the man’s skull, killing him. When he extracted the knife it sounded like he was withdrawing the blade from a juicy melon. Once he was clear, the Casually-Dressed Man fell forward with the face-first approach.
To the side of the chamber the Well-Dressed Man was beginning to stir. Blood had pooled and congealed beneath the small slices of his ruined face. As soon as he rolled over, he saw his partner laying on the floor with a wide-eyed stare that seemed to look right through him. Above him stood Kimball, a behemoth looking down at him. His face remained cloaked beneath the hood ---no eyes, no features, nothing that told the Well-Dressed Man that Kimball Hayden was nothing more than a black mass hidden beneath his garments.
The Well-Dressed Man pointed to him. “Kimball . . . Hayden.”
Raising a size fourteen shoe with the sole looming quite large to the Well-Dressed Man, Kimball brought it down and smashed it dead center of the man’s face.
Lights out.
#
Becki Laurent laid in terror as she screamed at the top of her lungs. She knew the unique size and shape of the man as Kimball Hayden, but her mind didn’t register the situation at all. She saw the violence, the fencing of weapons between two men, and the killing of one. She saw the large man drive another into a world of darkness with a heavy foot. Whether it be permanent or temporary, she didn’t know.
The large man stepped toward her, his face hidden beneath the hood of his coat. His left arm was bleeding, the material soaking up the blood. And he reached for her.
Becki cried out and struggled against her binds. But the hands that touched her were not harsh or abrasive. They were kind and gentle, his touch calming as he steadily caressed her matted hair. She began to calm down, the touching hands magic.
When she fell into a manner of soft weeping, only then did he pull back the hood.
A wonderful warmth spread through her heart, the feeling of hope. She was staring up into a face that was strong and angular with a firm jawline. And the prettiest cerulean blue eyes she had ever seen, even within the dim lighting inside the chamber.
“It’s all right, Becki,” he said, his voice just as soothing. “I’m here to take you home.”
She wept.
Hope had finally found her.
CHAPTER FIFTY
Cooch’s man was over an hour late. All he had to do was ask the Laurent girl a few simple questions. The main one being: who’s the guy trying to muscle his way into his territory? A two minute job. Three if he wanted to take his time.
Worse, his man was never late. Never. Which raised a red flag.
The drive over to the house on Ripley Street was about a ten-minute journey with all the red lights and stop signs. When they drove up to the house, the high-end model sedan was still parked along the side of the curb.
“This ain’t looking too good, Cooch.” Beef-Neck pulled the vehicle over. A second vehicle pulled in behind them.
“I think maybe you’re right,” he answered from the back seat.
Everyone got out of their vehicles, four in all. The night was chilly and brisk, causing them to hike the collars of their jackets around their necks. Whenever they exhaled, breath vapors could be seen forming in the air as smoky white puffs.
They walked to the back and entered the house.
The rooms were quiet.
They were quiet.
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Then Cooch tapped his shoulder, a gesture for his men to draw their suppressed weapons. Which they did.
Then Cooch pointed to the basement door and brought a forefinger to his lips. Check it out. But be quiet.
Beef-Neck nodded and led the way with the point of his weapon directed in front of him. When they hit the basement floor they fanned out, moving along the walls, down the center aisle, until they reached the metal door.
It was unlocked.
When Beef-Neck swung the door wide they were greeted by the distinct smell of human feces and vomit. Two of the men gagged, including Beef-Neck. But Cooch walked into the dimly lit chamber showing no effects at all.
The bed was empty. The girl was gone. And the Casually-Dressed Man lay stretched out on the floor with his eyes beginning to film over.
Cooch had to choke back his rage.
Against the wall the Well-Dressed Man began to move. His groans were more like grunts of pain.
When Cooch stood over him he looked down at the man with disgust. “What happened?” he asked.
The Well-Dressed Man looked at the empty mattress, and at the dead man on the floor. “The girl . . . she’s gone.”
“I know she’s gone, you idiot.” He leaned over the injured man. “What I want to know is where she’s gone to.”
The Well-Dressed Man tried to get to his feet but failed, his concussion causing his world to spin with dizzying madness. “Her cousin,” he mustered.
“Her what?”
“Her cousin. He came here. Big guy. I’m pretty sure he’s the one who took out Jesse and Billy-the-Blade.”
“How do you know it was her cousin?”
“She told me . . . Just before he came in and did this.” He pointed to the dead man.
Cooch referred to the corpse. “He did that? Her cousin?”
The Well-Dressed Man managed a nod.
“Did this cousin have a name?”
“You ain’t gonna believe it, Cooch.”
“Try me.”
“Kimball . . . Hayden.”
