Steady Trouble (Steady Teddy Book 1)

by Mike McCrary

  I don’t have one.

  He opens the back hatch. “We packed up your stuff. You’re welcome, by the way. More people will be coming for you. Your shitty apartment isn’t safe.”

  I move around to the back and stand next to Gordo, looking into the back of the Yukon. There sit my two ratty suitcases, two boxes stuffed with books, my laptop and my box of pictures.

  “Got to admit, it was pretty easy. You travel light, kid.”

  Looking it over, it’s more than a little depressing that my whole life doesn’t even take up a quarter of a luxury SUV. I use my bat to tap the top of the green suitcase that looks like it’s been lit on fire and dragged through a field of razor wire.

  My green suitcase is very, very important to me.

  “Don’t worry. I didn’t touch your money. It’s all in there, every cent. Word to the wise. You might think about stashing your ill-gotten gains in a better place going forward. Those little locks aren’t that secure. Not to mention, using a green suitcase is a little on the nose. Would you like me to place your bat back here as well?”

  He sounds like a parent getting me ready for Yellowstone. Can’t help but feel like a child packing. Wish I could remember the trips I took as a child. I’ve seen some pictures of my parents and me on family vacations. The usual stuff. Pictures of places families go with smiles, and some with me pouting.

  Pictures that are in that box in the back of this Yukon. I pull them out from time to time when I hear a story from someone else’s childhood. Somebody from work or something on TV or in a book. I look over my pictures just to see if I did that or have been there. Did I go to Yellowstone? The Grand Canyon? Disney World? It’s become a game of sorts. Not a good one, mind you, but it’s the puzzle that is my head and it’s a work in progress.

  From the scraps of evidence I can pull together, I can make a strong case that my parents were good people. Good parents who cared for me a great deal. Their smiles in the pictures while snuggling with the little version of me. The way they look at me in the various snapshots in time. The way they hold me. I’ve studied all the pictures I have in that box, along with everything I’ve dug up at the house. Spent hours studying every detail. Every captured expression. After all this time researching my parents, sifting through what was left behind, I can say that yes, without a shadow of doubt, my parents were good, kind people who cared about me. And now they are gone. I miss people I don’t really remember.

  These are the facts and they are undisputed.

  I nod to Gordo. He slips the bat in the back along with my other things.

  “What now?” I ask.

  “Now? How about we go to New York?”

  “And the mess in the hotel? The bodies? Blood? Not to mention my guests and my people?”

  He points to the hotel. “I’ve got some people of my own going in right now. They’ll take care of that. They’re rock stars at handling the signs of death and struggle, as well as greasing the palms of the living.”

  I watch three people walk into hotel through the back entrance to the kitchen. One large man along with two women. All look rather mean. They wear plastic coats, covers on their shoes and carry various cleaning supplies, along with guns strapped to their shoulders. I can’t help but worry about Yates, Sandy and the others.

  Gordo can see it on my face. “They’ll be fine. Might not sleep that well tonight, but when they do sleep, they’ll wake up with hopefully a little more appreciation for life, and a little wealthier.”

  “And my stuff? We taking all that on the plane?”

  “It will be here when you get back tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Things are going to move pretty fast from here on out, Teddy,” he says to me with a warm smile. Wish it was a comforting smile, but it is not. I feel the tingle of fear.

  “Gordon, what is going on?”

  “The man we’re going to see? He’ll provide you with some clarity.” He places his hand on my shoulder and looks me in the eye. “Don’t worry, there’s booze on the plane.”

  Chapter 5

  I check the mag on the Berretta, then shove it back to its home, a shitty, barely leather holster strapped tight to my throbbing shoulder.

  The holster has this silver, smiling skull stuck on it. Thought about tearing it off, but its smirk is growing on me. Right nipple hurts like a bitch. Asshole caught a cheap feel before I ended him. Letting my fingers fumble away from Mom’s kitchen table, like a kid looking for the comfort of a blankie, I find the .38 tucked behind my back. You keep checking it, baby girl, if that’s what you need. It’s become a nervous habit of mine and I don’t care.

  Nervous and alive.

  Cool.

  My face is beginning to swell from the beating the little fucker laid on me earlier. He was part of this pack of men that just paid me a visit at my parents’ place. Mixed sizes. The big ones I put down like dogs fast before they got a paw on me. I had to pick quick. Went big. Men came at me raging like motherfucking animals sprung from motherfucking cages. Crazy, sick bastards, all coming at me so damn fast. Last one was little but packed a hammer of a fist and a mouth like a cunt.

  All dead now.

  Big and little alike.

  There will be more.

  On Mom’s table is my laptop, where I’ve started to get all of this down. Wanted to get this thing documented before it all escapes me. Didn’t want the story to slip out into nothing.

  The story? It’s a good one. A great story for somebody else to enjoy, not me. For me it sucks. Somebody else will rip through the pages. Shovel the words in like handfuls of candy-coated cocaine. I am, however, not really loving living it. It’s all for the fans, I suppose.

  Writing soothes me. Always has, even though I suck at it. I have no illusions of throwing out the great American novel. I only write to get it all down, just in case my brain goes shithouse again. In case I can’t remember again. I’ve started to keep a journal. Want to document the events. How I got to here. Got to today. Tits-deep in this messy life. Wish I’d started doing this when I was five. Never know when you need a record of the past, I guess.

  I’m tired. Always tired, but almost always wide-awake.

  Need to plug in my laptop. Charge is running low. Should probably reheat my coffee. Should probably grab a rag, take care of that bloody meat cleaver next to my daddy’s Keep Austin Weird mug.

  More will come.

  I know it.

  They know it.

  More people looking to kill me.

  Chapter 6

  The life insurance company valued my parents at five thousand four hundred and thirty-six dollars and twenty-eight cents.

  A bargain for the folks who gave you life, don’t you think? If you could only head down to Wal-Mart and pick up a set of loved ones on aisle ten next to the neon yarn and lip balm for less than three grand apiece.

  I’d do it in a heartbeat.

  Over and over again.

  Yeah, that would be a great thing. If only I could.

  After my parents’ death and my head injury—sorry, brain trauma—my life changed dramatically. Sure that didn’t need to be said. Anyone who has gone through any of that mess would be changed. Pretty unavoidable. How could they not?

  I’m lucky in a way. Been able to live a relatively normal life. The brain works for the most part and I can go about my day like most people. Most days, I guess I should say. Aside from the fact I piss myself when a microwave turns on.

  Kidding about the microwave.

  Not the rest of it.

  My childhood memories of my parents’ house are sketchy at best. Most of my childhood memories prior to the incident have been erased. That’s what the police called it, the incident.

  Gordo touched on that earlier at the bar.

  Memories removed from my head as if they were knocked loose, disappearing into the couch cushions, never to be found again. My past slapped away from me, wiping my head almost clean. I remember flashes of things here and ther
e. A stray memory will fly by. But everything prior to the incident is not altogether there. Fragments of a conversation long ago, spoken in whispers by people with fat tongues all talking about fog and clouds. None of which I can define with much confidence. I’ve heard people spend hundreds, thousands of dollars to achieve this level of mental lapse. Hours upon hours at a therapist’s office to more or less forget their childhoods, and their parents for that matter.

  My therapy was cost-efficient.

  Fast.

  Free.

  Violent.

  And not requested.

  Most days my slight mental handicap isn’t anything at all. No big deal. Most people in my life don’t even know anything about it. The majority of the time I don’t show any signs of anything being wrong. Sure as hell don’t bring it up to people. Why would I? I guess my reasons are similar to people living with STDs or ED. Why bring it up unless absolutely necessary? It’s just that every so often I’m reminded I’m not like everyone else.

  Usually in a big way.

  Also, I don’t sleep unless I’m blackout drunk.

  This is why I’m a woman of multiple vocational interests. The incident dictates that my jobs stay odd and random. I’m a gambler, bartender, manager of the night, and a princess. I’ve taken some college, which is to say I got through a couple of English classes and one History course before I was asked to leave. No real jobs, like salaried office jobs, to speak of. However, recently it seems I’ve been forced into the exciting, challenging field of death and violence.

  The last true growth industry.

  I’ve known death for a while, but the violence thing, meaning violence by my hand, is relatively new. Not sure how I feel about it. Haven’t had a ton of time to think about it. So far there’s been no need to dissect my emotions. The bat. The guns. The beatings. It’s all been a necessary evil.

  Damn necessary.

  Watching the tiny world pass below us while blazing through the sky at sunrise is pretty amazing. Gordo is out cold a few seats over, along with Bear Boy snoring like a motherfucker. They gave me a drink, but I didn’t drink it. I’d rather be sharp for whatever is waiting for me in New York.

  For the second time in my life people have shown up out of the blue with the intention of doing me harm. When I was eighteen, and a few hours ago. Different reasons, different times, but the cruel intentions remain the same. Running through the list of criminal luminaries in the Austin area I can think of a few who might want me to stop my operations. Maybe I got too big. Earning too much green.

  It’s clear, at the very least, I got big enough to show up on their radars and capture their attention. If they are the ones I’m thinking of, they are very old-school Texas and cling to their Texas ideals of right, wrong and punishment. Perhaps their old-school sensibilities couldn’t deal with a woman earning a living outside of their boys’ club and wanted to make an example of me. Squash it before any more uppity vagina holders get any ideas.

  We could have talked about it.

  I wouldn’t be above kicking some money upstairs in order to keep the peace, but they didn’t even present that as an option. They just wanted me to hurt. Hate to break it to them, but I’ve been hurt. Hurt so bad I don’t remember the good times, but at the same time, hurt so bad I can’t sleep and have nightmares about the bad times.

  Glass half full, they say.

  Who’s waiting for me in New York?

  Clarity, Gordo said.

  What is this clarity? This chance? This opportunity?

  Sounds like a big ol’ bowl of bullshit, I say.

  Chapter 7

  We touch down at JFK.

  Complete zoo.

  Gordo has kept the conversation as light as possible. It’s pretty obvious. He’s deflecting most questions and flat-out refusing to discuss anything resembling anything real. I made the massive mistake of telling him I’ve never been to New York before, which has given him the green light to go full-on tour guide and stay clear of talking about what the hell is actually going on.

  We’re in a Lincoln Town Car with Bear Boy at the wheel, carving in and out of midtown traffic. Through the tinted glass the world looks like a noir, gloomy version of things. An alternate reality, because before we got in this car it looked like a really nice day.

  Gordo tells me about bridges, tunnels and tall buildings. I haven’t said a word in hours. Not sure how to play this. Chatty-nice? Cool-as-ice bitch? Somewhere in the middle? The rules here are fuzzy, so I go with silence.

  I’ll never give him the satisfaction, but this city is pretty damn cool. Maybe I’ll relocate here. Who knows? Until this moment I haven’t really thought about where I’ll go if I can’t go home. If he’s right about Austin’s goon squad and I can’t go back to my place because of, you know, people wanting to kill me, I could do worse than NYC. This looks like a city I could easily get lost in. All the people flowing through the streets, in and out of monuments of concrete and steel, faces streaming by at such a clip I can’t read one from the next. So many different races of people and different kinds of folks I didn’t even know existed. Probably from countries I couldn’t find on a map if you spotted me the continent and the first letter.

  We’ve stopped.

  “Okay, here we are,” Gordo says.

  “Where?”

  “This is where he lives.”

  “Here?”

  I’m looking out the window at the most massive tower I’ve ever seen. It’s staring down at me. Almost mocking me. Beautiful, wealthy-looking people go in and out its doors as if I were flipping through a glossy fashion magazine. Some talking on phones. Some ladies holding tiny dogs. Some older men hold much younger women. I can almost hear them laughing at me. Little hillbilly girl, you know nothing, you are nothing. Can’t help but feel like I’m the joke that everybody else is in on.

  I’m getting angry. Uptight. I know I need to dial it down if I’m going to get through whatever is waiting for me. Remove emotion and go with what I know and do not add fuel to the fire raging in my broken brain.

  This is rational Teddy. Steady Teddy.

  Crazy, unstable Teddy really wants to come out and play, however.

  A man in a red uniform opens the door for me. I’ve seen this type of shit in movies and TV, but I’ve never seen a doorman in real life anywhere other than at the hotel in Austin, and he isn’t what I’d call a doorman. Ronald is a nineteen-year-old Chem major at the University of Texas. I sneak him and his buddies booze, for a price of course. Friendly price, mind you, but not for free. That would be dumb. What I’m getting at is that he might have a penis and hold the door, but doorman is a stretch.

  I’m trying very hard not to be that wide-eyed girl in the rom-com with an open mouth who is simply amazed by everything in the big city, but right now I am that girl. It’s just the way it is. I am truly stunned by this place. Just need to cover all that shit up. Be cool. Act like this is nothing new to me and I don’t give a shit.

  Take a breath.

  I’m a badass.

  Fuck you, NYC.

  I step out of the car and directly into a puddle of city sludge.

  Chapter 8

  The elevator doors open up into a living room.

  I’ll be damned if the elevator didn’t land us directly into his dude’s place. That’s a new one for me, too. It’s cool as hell but I keep telling myself, Don’t show it on your face.

  Perhaps calling it a living room is misleading.

  This is no room like I’ve ever lived in.

  This place doesn’t make me feel any more comfortable or relaxed. I’ve got no idea what this stuff costs. It just looks really damn expensive. There’s a clever mix of new and old styles of furniture. Woods and metals. Walls covered with warm color choices and splashes of bright and bold sprinkled around the open floor plan. A thing made of steel on a table. Another thing made of glass hanging over there. Clean doesn’t cover it. Dust is only a rumor this place has heard about when its small-town cousins come
to visit over the holidays. I feel like I’m the cousin and my face is smothered with brown country dirt.

  There’s an amazing view of Central Park, along with art hanging on the walls, which I could stare at for days. Have to get the name of this guy’s decorator. Bet he could do wonders with the six hundred square feet of shithole I live in.

  Sorry, used to live in.

  Wonder if this guy will adopt me. Go out with me. At least take me to dinner? Okay, fine, marry me. I can gloss over any personal differences and the age gap. I can learn to love.

  “It’s a nice place, right?” Gordo says.

  I almost forgot he was even here with me.

  “Slight understatement,” I say, touching that perfect pillow placed perfectly on the couch while I’m eyeballing a wall of a bookshelf that stretches from floor to Mars. This guy has some good taste in books, I’ll give’m that. I have a lot these books in my boxes back home and I’ve at least read most of these authors at the library.

  Cormac McCarthy, Hunter S. Thompson, Eugene O’Neil, Elmore Leonard, Palahniuk, Chandler, Hammett, Mamet, Carver, James Ellroy, Capote, Dickinson, Christa Faust, Charles Willeford, Gillian Flynn, John D. MacDonald, Don Winslow, Megan Abbot, Joe Lansdale, Bukowski, Swierczynski, Gischler, Ken Kesey, Larry McMurtry, and an oddly out of place Elizabeth Gilbert. Along with those there’s a couple of you can do it style self-help slash better-business-management type books mixed with a few on religion, philosophy, history, war, art, and an even more out of place Dummy’s Guide to Knitting.

  “This way,” Gordo says to me, motioning an open palm toward a hallway.

  My heartbeat rises a beat or two and my breathing quickens against all my best wishes. I try not to show it on my face, but my mind is buzzing. Whoever sent Gordo to find me is down that hallway. Whoever knew about those assholes coming to bust up my game. Whoever has access to bear-sized men, a group of people on call that can clean up a dead-people mess and, not to mention, a private jet and this crib overlooking the park, is down the hall. Waiting for me. That way, just past the extended fingertips of Gordo’s hand, as if he’s showing me the way to free meat samples at the local deli.