Want You

by Frederick, Jen

  Her breath is hot on my neck, but I reach the floor first and sprint toward the backroom door. I’ve never touched that door. Hell, I’ve never so much as walked down these stairs, but somehow I know precisely where to go.

  “It’s Mary,” I shout as I whip open the door. “It’s Mary!”

  Everyone inside turns toward me. Two guards on either side of the door reach inside their jackets. Cesaro, two feet away from a table in the middle of the concrete box of a room, holds up a hand. The guards fall away, and I spot Leka sitting next to that table, his arm lying across it at a funny angle. My stomach churns.

  My gaze travels from his arm to his swollen face. Patches of skin near the sides of his mouth and high on his cheekbones are already turning a sickly purple and yellow.

  Two feet away from the table, Beefer’s holding something metallic and menacing in his hand. The contents of my stomach threaten to spew out of my mouth and coat the floor. I press a hand against my churning stomach and order my body to get itself under control.

  Like Leka who sits calmly, not an ounce of pain showing on his face.

  “Do you have something to say, young Elizabeth?” Cesaro quirks an eyebrow up. “Or have you arrived to provide us a show?”

  “I, um—” Get it together, Bit, I order myself, but it’s hard to keep calm at this moment. Everywhere I look something horrible appears, whether it’s the instruments on the table or the dull metallic glint of the black guns in everyone’s hands but Cesaro or Leka himself sitting in that metal chair with blood pooling on the table and bruises decorating his face.

  “She’s just a dumb bitch.” Mary appears over my shoulder. She sticks something sharp in my back. “I’ll get rid of her.”

  “No. Please. She should stay and watch.” Cesaro beckons me forward. “Your boy, Leka, didn’t want you to spend time with me, so we’re showing him what happens when people deny Cesaro of what’s rightfully his. How do you feel about that?”

  How do I feel, you sick fuck? I’d like to take the big knife on the table and stick it through your right eye! I dig my fingers into my palms. I turn toward the one man Cesaro brought that I recognize—scarecrow man. He was there the night that Arturo died. He was there when Arturo promised me the boon that I never cashed in.

  “Do you remember me?” I ask.

  He nods.

  “Arturo owed me a boon. I’m cashing it in. Mary poisoned Arturo and killed the chef to hide the truth. She was upstairs sprinkling Cesaro’s food with the same poison.”

  Sterno looks over my shoulder at the two men who were guarding the door at the top of the stairs. “What happened?”

  The young one, Mason—I think—answers. “Mary did put something on the cake, but I thought it was sugar.” He produces the plate. “I can’t tell by looking at it.”

  Sterno takes the plate and pinches off a piece that is liberally dusted with something white. He holds it to Mary’s mouth. “You first.”

  Mary’s eyes are wide. “I-I’m allergic to chocolate,” she stammers and backs away. She doesn’t get far. The two guards block her escape.

  “You need to address this first,” Sterno informs his boss. “These two can wait.”

  “I’m in the middle of something,” Cesaro complains. “I can’t just stop now. Besides, the minute we let these two out of our sight, they’ll run.”

  Sterno shakes his head. “Your uncle was a man of honor, but he died a disgraceful death. He still watches, waiting for his revenge. So that he can rest, you must attend to this matter.”

  “Wait. Hold on—” Cesaro says, but his man is out the door.

  Mary tries to dart away. The older man captures her easily and drags her back into the room.

  “Stop it. Let go of me. I didn’t do anything,” Mary cries. She tries to peel his fingers away, but it’s useless.

  “We’re done here.” Leka reaches down to his ankles and I notice for the first time that he was tied to the chair. He slices through the bindings with the knife he slid off the table. He rises slowly, holding his right arm close to his side.

  “Wait. I said, wait!” Cesaro nearly stamps his foot.

  “This woman killed Arturo,” Sterno replies. His face is stone. “She is more important than him.”

  The other men murmur their agreement and it is the threat of his men turning on him that pushes Cesaro to give in. He glowers and spits out one last threat. “Just remember. Death is the only way out, Leka Moore! You can’t run from me. We own you. Both of you.”

  “Go,” Sterno orders.

  We don’t have to be told twice.

  * * *

  I tuck an arm around Leka’s back, helping him as much as I can. He walks out slow, with each breath a labored, harsh effort.

  “We can’t go to a doctor, can we?”

  He shakes his head. “No, but you can pick up a couple of things for me at the drugstore. We’ll stop on our way home. You’ll need to listen to me, carefully, okay? And do as I ask. No questions."

  “Yes. I promise.” I want to sob with relief and terror and guilt, but I know that would hurt Leka as much as anything, so I keep a lid on my emotions as we walk to the end of the alley. Each step is slower than the last, and I worry that he won't make it.

  "Why don't you tell me what hurts so I can get the right stuff."

  "What doesn’t?" he jokes and then groans. "Shit. I can't laugh. Okay, so cracked ribs, some damage to my fingers. Maybe a broken femur."

  I die a little inside. Some damage to his fingers? I caught a glimpse of them on the table and the last two on his right hand were mangled. "What about the stuff we can't see? Do you have any bleeding inside?"

  "No."

  "How do you know?"

  He stops walking and spits on the ground. "See?" He gingerly toes the wet spot on the ground. "No blood. It's all good. You came down just in time."

  "Right. That’s me with the perfect timing,” I say sarcastically. I should've started a fire earlier or called the police. Anything to have gotten him out sooner. Guilt and shame mix together to make a sickly cocktail in my stomach.

  When we arrive at his car, I hold my hand out. "I'm driving."

  He gives up the keys without an argument and slides into the passenger side, wincing with all the pain.

  "The city roads are shit," I curse as I avoid yet another pothole.

  Leka's trying to keep his pain complaints to a minimum. Sweat breaks across his forehead and his breathing is even more forced. I wish he'd just pass out.

  "I'm going to stop at the Duane Reade near our apartment," I tell him.

  He nods weakly and closes his eyes. The drive home is as smooth as I can make it, but I know from the occasional clenching of his jaw that this is terrible for him.

  When I pull up to the grocery store, he rouses. "Get a brace for my fingers. Some antiseptic and a couple of bottles of vodka."

  “I’m underage,” I remind him.

  He taps his elbow against the middle console. Inside, I find a wad of cash and two passports fastened with a rubber band. I pull off the rubber band and two plastic ID cards fall on my lap. The driver's licenses are from Arizona, a state I've never visited, and the last name is Reed not Moore. Mine says that I'm twenty-two. I pocket the fake ID, and despite the new fear these forms of identification stir, I manage a light-hearted quip. “I could’ve used this years ago. I would’ve been the most popular girl at Boone.”

  A faint smile ghosts across his face. “Popularity that you buy is fake. I had to protect you from that.”

  I want to scream for him to stop protecting me because if he doesn't he'll die, but this is what I begged and pleaded for, so I have no one to blame but myself. I stuff my fear and anxiety and guilt down deep. Those emotions aren't going to help me here. Leka needs a clear head and a steady hand, not angst-driven emo self-pity parties.

  "So you're going to do this with one hand tied behind your back and drunk to boot. Very boss." I grab my purse.

  "The liquor's for after,”
he says grimly.

  “Got it.” I’m thrilled he’s thinking that far ahead and terrified that he’s going out alone against Cesaro with a broken arm, cracked ribs, two mangled fingers and who knows what else.

  I run out and get the stuff. It takes only a few more minutes to get to the apartment. I fish out a hundred-dollar bill from Leka's emergency stash.

  "Take four more," he suggests.

  "That much?"

  "To be safe. Money isn't our problem."

  "Right." Our problem is lack of manpower and Leka's injuries. I fold the five bills in half. I hand the stack to the parking attendant.

  "We aren't here," I tell him as he raises the gate.

  "Never saw you," he says after a quick count of the cash.

  Leka gives a nod of approval and falls back onto his seat. I don't know how much time that buys us. A couple of days? A week? Certainly not enough for Leka to heal.

  I ease him out of the car and help him over to the elevator. We take it up to our floor.

  "Why'd we get the apartment at the end of the hall?" Leka huffs as we stare at the long hallway. It looks as impossible as spinning hay into gold. Leka forces one foot in front of the other while I hover behind. If he collapses, there's no way I'm getting his big, two-hundred-pound frame into the apartment myself. I silently send him waves of energy and he manages to drag himself all the way to the end.

  Inside the apartment, he staggers to the living room and collapses on the sofa, leaving streaks of blood and dirt all over the gray cushions.

  "There's a bottle of hydrocodone in my bathroom. Get that for me, will you?"

  I'm down the hall before he finishes his request. I find quite a few prescription bottles in his cabinet: sleeping pills, anti-inflammatories, and narcotic painkillers. I scoop them all into my shirt and carry them out to the living room, dumping them on the table.

  It's then I notice two black duffels on the floor. One is full of cash and the other is guns. And magazines. And bullets.

  "I'll need you to splint the ring finger and bandage the pinkie, but make the bandage thin so it doesn't interfere with my grip," he orders.

  I raise my eyes from the floor to his face, which is so hard it could be carved from stone. His eyes are set on the magazine he's filling. Something inside of me cracks open. "You're going back tonight? You could barely walk down the hall and you're going back tonight?"

  "They won't expect it. Cesaro will go to some club and get wasted. His men will be tired. It's nighttime, so there will be fewer people who will notice me."

  "Leka, please. Give yourself a night to recover. Maybe two. We'll think of something. You said money is not a problem, so let's hire some people. You can't go in there alone."

  "I thought you said you could use a gun."

  "I did, but to shoot pigeons and turkeys and, I don't know, the occasional deer!" My voice grows high and tinny. I can feel hysteria sweeping up and taking hold of me.

  "All you have to do tonight is drive the car."

  "Leka. Please." I sink to my knees. "This is madness. You are going to get yourself killed. Let's run away. Let's leave the guns, take the money and our new IDs and find some small town in the middle of nowhere. Cesaro won't find us. We'll start new lives."

  He shakes his head. "No. Cesaro won't let this go. I'm known to be his man, and if I run off and Cesaro lets me go, it sets a bad precedent. He's got to kill me, and right now is the perfect time for him to strike, too, because I'm weak and injured. You said you would always listen to me, without question, if we’re in danger. You going back on that?"

  I bury my face in my hands as my own words come back to haunt me. I did say those things and I meant them, at the time, but like so many promises, you don't realize the consequences until you come face to face with them. "I'm not going back on my promise, but you pledged to love me forever. This is not forever. It's been barely a month."

  "I'm not going to die tonight."

  "How can you say that?"

  "Because I have too much to live for. Now bandage me up."

  It's the calmness in his voice, the utter surety of his words that gets me to battle back the abyss-eating panic. I pick up the antiseptic and the bandages and get to work, keeping all my tears and fright and anger inside. I don't even show an ounce of surprise or sadness at discovering that half of Leka's pinky is missing. That's Beefer, the Butcher's, work. Maybe I can shoot a human. If that hog was in front of me, I'd aim right for his balls.

  Leka sits stoically while I tend to his wounds. I try to be careful, but every movement has to be agonizing. Finally, I’m done.

  “Go get anything you want to keep. We’re not coming back.”

  I run to the bedroom. In a backpack, I throw together some clothes and toiletries. In the corner of my bed, I spot the first bunny Leka ever gave me. It was the one he bought me that very first time we were in Macy’s. I’m going to give that to our kid. I take out a shirt to make room for the stuffed animal and run outside.

  He's waiting in the foyer.

  “That’s all you’re taking?” he asks.

  I shift the backpack on my shoulders. "I don't need anything but you."

  He gives me a crooked smile, hefts the two bags up over his shoulders and heads out. I know better than to ask to help him.

  As we drive over to Cesaro's hotel, Leka reels off the instructions. "Stay in the car. Don’t come up. No matter how long I take. Promise me so I can focus all my attention on Cesaro. If I don’t come out in thirty minutes, leave."

  I balk at that order.

  "If you don’t agree, you can’t come with," he says.

  "I'm never leaving you," I declare fiercely, fisting my fingers around the steering wheel as if it's his life line. I'm never leaving him and I'm not letting him go. We're going to make it out together or not at all.

  41

  Leka

  The hotel is packed. Cesaro likes this place because there’s always some young woman who is willing to trade a night with him for a boat load of cash and some lines of coke. Sterno would’ve never let Arturo spend a single night here because there’s no way to adequately protect his boss. There are too many entrances and exits. Too many non-residents flowing in and out of the doors. Too much of everything.

  Loud music is pulsating from the basement club, and pretty young things of both genders are streaming in and out of the lobby and nearby bar. There are two security guards at the front, but neither one notice me as I enter. They’re too busy gawking at all the eye candy.

  I bypass the elevator and head for the stairs. If I was in charge and forced to protect a body here, I’d put at least two guards in the stairwell, two outside the elevator bank and two in front of the door. Inside, there should be at least four. As far as I know, Cesaro’s only brought eight men with him, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t borrowing some of Beefer’s crew. Or that Beefer himself isn’t here.

  I creep up the stairs, back to the wall, gun pointed up and at the ready. When I reach the fifth-floor landing, I spy a flash of black above me. To draw out the guards, I throw a coin against the railing and duck back out of sight, pressing a hand against my aching ribs. Before I left the apartment, I was tempted to swallow half the bottle of codeine, but if I had, I wouldn’t be worth shit on this job. No task has ever been so important. I’m not fighting for the crew or for money or even for my misplaced loyalty to Beefer. I’m fighting for Bitsy’s life and mine. I’m fighting for our future. That’s as effective a painkiller as any pill created.

  One man leans over from two floors up, dressed in black and wearing an earpiece. Bingo. Targets one and two are in sight. I take the next two flights faster. The guard who peeked over the railing is the first to go with a bullet between his eyes. The second one is dispatched a heartbeat later. I prop one up and shove him out the door.

  Bullets spray his body from the guards in front of the hotel door. I drop those two and duck down to wait for the elevator crew to round the corner. It doesn’t take them long.
I use the last of my bullets on those two.

  Adrenaline’s powering me forward. I can barely feel the pain in my ribs or the throbbing in my hand. I trigger the release on the magazine. The empty cartridge falls on top of the body at my feet. I slam another in place, knock on the door, and step back. A familiar face sticks his jowls out.

  Our eyes meet. His widen and his mouth forms a circle. I don’t know what he would’ve said. Maybe he would’ve apologized. More likely he would’ve called a warning. I don’t care.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell him and shoot him twice—once between the eyes and the next in the heart.

  Beefer falls. A flood of gunshots follows. I plaster myself to the floor, using the bodies of the guards as shields. When the bullets stop, I hop to my feet and run inside. A burning sensation flares on my right outer thigh. Something whistles past my ear. I keep running. I keep shooting. I keep moving forward until there’s no sound in the room but my labored breaths, Cesaro’s mewls of fear, and the cries of two partygoers.

  I straighten and blink the sweat and bloodlust out of my eyes. There were more than four people inside. Beefer was here along with Swan, his friend, and another of our crew. Sterno lies on the floor along with one of Cesaro’s main guards.

  “Go on,” I tell the girls. “Leave and forget this ever happened or you won’t wake up from your sleep tonight.”

  The two nod and stumble out, wailing like professional mourners at a funeral of a rich man. I only have a few minutes before they send security up. I don’t need more than one. I switch out the now empty magazine for a new one.

  “Wait. Wait. We can make a deal here. I have a lot of money. Beefer’s dead. You can have his territory. Don’t want to share your girl? No problem. It was just a test anyway. Just a loyalty test. I never wanted her,” he babbles.

  I shoot him between the legs. Tears pour out of his eyes. He wails, louder than the sirens on a fire truck. “Fuck. Motherfucker,” he screams. His cups the blood pouring out between his legs. “I swear to you that I’ll let you go. Call me a fucking ambulance and I’ll forget this ever happened. Jesus Christ. You shot my balls off. You sick fuck. I hate you.”