Menace (Scarlet Scars #1)

by J. M. Darhower

“Comfortable and warm,” she mumbles, scouring through the closet and dresser for what feels like forever before picking out an outfit. “Ha!”

  Black fleece-lined leggings and a red slouchy sweater. Nice. I take it from her. “Thanks.”

  “Oh, wait!” she says. “You can’t go barefoot!”

  I scowl at my bare feet just as she steers toward a terribly familiar pair of red heels. “Oh, Jesus, no. Anything but those. I’ve had a rough enough week, I don’t need to invite that negativity into my life.”

  Melody laughs, like that’s funny, but I’m serious. Every time I wore those shoes, I ended up running. And that wouldn’t be a problem, but like I’ve said, I only ever run when being chased by somebody, and that’s not any fun.

  Melody tosses me a pair of black boots. “How about those?”

  “They’ll work,” I say. “Thanks again.”

  I turn to leave but come to an abrupt stop, damn near running into Lorenzo lurking in the hallway. He scans me, making a face. “You’re not dressed yet? Why do you women take so long to get ready?”

  I roll my eyes, pushing past him. “Why are you men such assholes?”

  I hear his laughter as I go into his room, followed by his answer: “Probably because you’re so fucking slow.”

  An old warehouse in the Greenpoint neighborhood of Brooklyn, just across the border from the borough of Queens. It looks like the kind of abandoned building that you’d see as the setting of some low-budget horror movie, broken glass and crumbling bricks, a faded sign barely clinging to the structure, covered in graffiti. People probably cross the street to avoid even walking near it, whereas it looks a lot like the places I slept in after running away so many years ago.

  Hell, I might’ve slept here. Who knows?

  Trucks idle in the alley beside the place. Three of them, to be exact, identical white box trucks, each backed right up to rusted metal dock doors along the side.

  I walk slightly behind Lorenzo and Seven, letting them take the lead since I have no idea what any of this is. The closer we get, the more peculiar it all appears. Metal bars cover the shattered windows, heavy chains and locks on all the entrances, making it damn hard to get inside. It’s eerie. A few guys are already here, gathered in the alley, looking haggard, one of the men even propping himself up against the building, dry-heaving.

  “Long night, fellas?” Lorenzo asks. “You look like shit.”

  They try to perk up, reacting to his presence, like soldiers being called to attention, but they do a crap job of it. Instead, they end up just grumbling in response, grunting and groaning, as if that’s answer enough. Longest night ever.

  Lorenzo shakes his head, walking through the group, his expression hard as he says, “Somebody’s missing.”

  “Yeah, uh, De—, uh, Three,” one of the guys says. Four. “Must’ve slept in.”

  “Or he hasn’t even gone to bed yet,” Seven says, skirting past everyone as he pulls a set of keys from his pocket and starts unlocking the warehouse.

  Three. The blond. Declan.

  “Have you tried to get ahold of him?” Lorenzo asks.

  “Yeah, got his voicemail,” Four says. “Didn’t even ring. Phone must be dead.”

  Four. Jimmy? Johnny? Joey? I don’t know.

  “Well, then, he better be dead along with it,” Lorenzo says, “because no longer breathing is the only justification for blowing me off this morning. I don’t care how long your night was, don’t care how drunk you got, don’t care how much pussy you fucked... I say be here, you show up.”

  He doesn’t even raise his voice, but there’s a subtle rage there, in the quiet evenness of his tone, that makes everyone stiffen with alarm.

  “Why are the rest of you just standing here?” Lorenzo asks. “Think because Three is off, doing God knows what, that it gives you all a pass to just hang around with your thumbs up your asses? Get to work. Now.”

  They scatter, not needing anymore incentive, heading into the warehouse and shoving the dock doors up. The churning screech of metal makes me cringe. Lorenzo approaches the back of the trucks one-by-one, greeting each driver before handing over envelopes he pulls from inside his coat in exchange for paperwork. His men start to unload the trucks. Seven takes on more of a supervising role, while I linger in the alley, pretty damn confused.

  I feel like my teacher just announced a pop quiz when I don’t know the material. Shit.

  Totally bombing this.

  They’re halfway through the first truck, pulling out big wooden crates and hauling them into the warehouse, when I approach Lorenzo, who is flipping through paperwork, squinting, like he’s struggling to read it.

  “Forgot your glasses?” I guess.

  His gaze flickers to meet mine. “I only wear them when I need them.”

  I’m almost inclined to point out that he’s looking like he might need them now, but his expression keeps me from verbalizing that. I touched a nerve.

  “So, what should I do?” I ask.

  “Do whatever you want, Scarlet.”

  “I need to make money,” I say, because what I want is sort of irrelevant. “So am I getting paid for this?”

  “Depends.”

  “Depends on what?”

  “On if you do any work,” he says, scanning me slowly. “You’re not really built for manual labor.”

  “I’m stronger than I look.”

  “I know,” he says, looking back away. “Didn’t say you couldn’t do it, just that you weren’t built for it.”

  Before I can tell him how full of shit he sounds, he shoves his paperwork at me, forcing it in my hands, letting go so fast half of it clatters to the ground.

  “Inventory,” he says. “Three usually does it, but he’s not here, so congratulations... the job is now yours. Go through the crates and make sure it’s all accounted for. Seven can help you.”

  “I, uh, okay.”

  That wasn’t what I expected.

  “When you’re finished, you get paid. Don’t fuck it up.”

  “Yes, sir,” I mumble, mock saluting him, before gathering the papers I dropped and heading for the crates. The paperwork is sort of a mess, just a jumble of words that make little sense. The crates, though, have random letters stamped into them, like the wood has been branded, corresponding with letters on the top of the papers, followed simply by numbers.

  GCD: 1205

  HMX: 78

  QPY: 9

  Two dozen crates total. No mention of what’s inside.

  I look around for Lorenzo, hoping for some clarification, but he’s nowhere to be found.

  After the trucks are emptied, they drive away, the dock doors again lowered before the men disappear, leaving only Seven.

  “Is this some kind of code?” I ask him, waving the papers. “Like some made up language or something? Ullshitbay.”

  Seven laughs. “Afraidyay otnay.”

  Afraid not.

  “You know Pig Latin?” I ask, surprised. What are the odds?

  He shrugs a shoulder. “I’ve got kids who used to think they were sneaky.”

  Kids.

  The man has kids?

  “You’re kidding,” I say. “You’re a dad?”

  “Twice over,” he says. “Two boys.”

  Huh. “How old?”

  “About your age,” he says, grinning. “One’s eighteen, just started at NYU... the other’s twenty-one, finishing up at Columbia.”

  I gape at him. The man not only has a wife that packs him healthy snacks, but he has kids that attend prestigious universities. “Wow, that’s…” Wow. “Can I ask you something? Without offending you?”

  “Sure,” he says.

  “Why the hell do you work for Lorenzo?”

  His eyes widen.

  “Nothing against Lorenzo, of course,” I say. “You just don’t seem like the kind of guy who would ever even cross paths with him.”

  “Ah, well, you see, I made a career out of crossing paths with men like him when I worked for
the department.”

  “You were a police officer?”

  “Yes.”

  “What happened?”

  “Money happened,” he says. “You don’t make much with the force, and the mob offered me one hell of a deal that came with quite a few zeros attached to it. All I had to do was look the other way a few times and slip them a bit of information, you know, so they could stay one step ahead. I had a family to take care of, a mortgage, private school to pay for, and I thought, hell, wouldn’t it be nice to be able to afford a vacation? So I did it. And then I did it again. And the next thing I knew, I was so deep in their payroll there was no separating me from them.”

  “So you quit the force?”

  “More like they fired me.” He laughs dryly. “Got locked up six years for bribery. Came out, had nowhere to go, but I needed money, so I had to do something. My wife was working herself half to death trying to stay afloat, and with college tuition, well... there never seems to be enough money. Life is expensive.”

  “That it is,” I mumble, turning back to the paperwork, feeling bad for the guy. He’s just doing whatever he has to so he can take care of his family. “So, inventory...”

  “Self-explanatory. Number beside it is the quantity of whatever’s inside.”

  “What is inside?”

  He grabs a crowbar, waving it. “Open them and find out.”

  One at a time, Seven pops open the crates, exposing layers of straw with all sorts of stuff tucked between. Guns, ammunition, liquor... a lot of damn liquor. A hundred and seven bottles of Cuban rum.

  Not to mention the crate full of cigars.

  Cuban, too, I’m guessing.

  We make it through most of the crates in about two hours before he pops the second to last one open and pauses. “You’ll want to be careful with this one.”

  “Why? What is it? Bombs?”

  I laugh as I walk over to it, while Seven sort of just shrugs, not laughing. What the hell? The list says there are fifty of whatever it is, but all that’s in the crate are two more small wooden crates with metal latches on them.

  Carefully, I brush some of the straw away before picking up the first crate, damn near dropping it when I catch sight of what’s stamped into the side.

  “Grenades?” I hiss. “Seriously?”

  Fucking grenades.

  Seven shrugs again as a loud ring cuts through the air, startling me. I jump, jarring the box, but I keep a tight grip on it. Seven pulls out a cell phone, glancing at the screen with a sigh before shoving it back away.

  “Just flip the lid and make sure there are twenty-five tubes in each,” he says.

  I set the crate down, opening it to count. I check the other crate before putting them away, grateful to be done with those.

  “So, okay, the guns I understand,” I say. “But what the hell does he need with grenades?”

  “He says it’s because he’s got terrible aim, but truthfully? He likes to be dramatic.”

  “Well, then,” I mumble, waving toward the last crate. “What’s next?”

  “Probably the most valuable thing of all.”

  I can’t even imagine what that might be.

  Grenade launchers?

  Seven pops the lid, and I laugh. No straw in this one. Nope, nothing but oranges. A lot of oranges.

  “You’re kidding me, right?” I pick one up, eyeing it. “What, are they filled with cyanide or something?”

  “No, they’re one-hundred percent authentic Florida oranges, straight off the Gambini groves.”

  “What does he do with all of them?”

  “Eat them, squeeze them and drink them… most get sent out to market, but the rest he keeps.”

  I glance at the paperwork. 953.

  “Get to counting,” Seven says. “The sooner you finish, the sooner we can leave.”

  Counting oranges, it turns out, is harder than you’d think. I pull them all out, a few at a time, trying to divide them into smaller piles to count, but the sons of bitches want to roll all over the place. I try three times, losing track and miscounting, ending up so far off the mark I have to start over. Ugh.

  It takes me two hours.

  Two hours to count nine-hundred and fifty-three oranges, clutching the last one in my palm as I motion toward Seven, who opted more so to take the supervising role than help with me, also. “All there.”

  I tear at the orange peel, piercing it with my thumb and pulling it apart. Seven watches me warily. “What are you doing?”

  “Eating a damn orange,” I mutter. “I think I’ve earned it.”

  Seven doesn’t look like he agrees with me on that, but he says nothing as he shoves the lid back onto the crate. I stroll out of the warehouse and down the alley as Seven locks everything back up. He joins me on the corner, hands shoved in his pockets.

  Again, he says nothing.

  I follow Seven down the street, to where the car is parked, and tear the orange apart, tossing the scraps on the sidewalk.

  I look up as we approach, seeing Lorenzo perched on the hood of the car, waiting.

  “Boss,” Seven says, nodding in greeting.

  “Took you long enough,” Lorenzo says, pulling an envelope from his coat and handing it to him.

  “She’s not the fastest,” Seven says. “Felt like I was dealing with the Count from Sesame Street.”

  I scowl. “Fuck you, Snuffleupagus.”

  Lorenzo waves toward us. “Go home, Seven.”

  Seven hesitates. “You sure you don’t need me to drive you, boss?”

  “I’m sure,” Lorenzo says, his eyes fixed on me, watching as I pull a piece of orange off and pop it in my mouth. “I’ve got it covered.”

  Seven surrenders the car keys as well as a cell phone, turning it over to Lorenzo before walking down the block, casting a worried glance back at us.

  The concern on his face makes my skin prickle.

  Lorenzo sits there, clutching both objects in his grasp, his eyes fixed to me so intently I can feel his gaze burrowing through me, crawling under my flushed skin.

  “You’re making him walk?” I ask.

  “He lives nearby. It’s not an inconvenience.”

  “Oh.”

  That’s all I say. Oh.

  This is starting to feel awkward.

  He’s still staring at me.

  “What? You look like there’s something you want to say.”

  “There’s a lot I want to say. Just debating how much to keep to myself.”

  “Oh.”

  Again, that’s all I say. Oh.

  Wow, he sure brings out the eloquence in me, doesn’t he?

  I just stand there, eating the orange, not sure what else to do. It’s sweet, really juicy, and I can tell it’s fresh.

  Lorenzo waits until I finish before shoving off of the car and approaching me on the sidewalk. I stand still, sucking the juice off of my fingers, as he pauses in front of me, standing toe-to-toe.

  “Did you enjoy that?” he asks, his voice low.

  “The orange?”

  “Stealing from me again,” he clarifies. “Did it give you a thrill taking what wasn’t yours?”

  His question makes my heart pick up pace. “Well, the orange was delicious.”

  He doesn’t react to that. After a moment, he pulls an envelope from his coat. “Your payment.”

  My fingertips barely graze the thing before he yanks it back away.

  “A thousand dollars,” he says.

  “You’re paying me a thousand dollars?”

  “No,” he says, handing the envelope to me, this time letting me grab it. “That’s how much you’re paying me for that orange you just ate.”

  “Wait, seriously? An orange costs like a dollar at the store.”

  “Well, then, you should’ve gotten one from the store instead of helping yourself to mine, huh?” He takes a step back, tossing his keys at me. “You’re driving.”

  I try to catch them but miss, the keys clattering to the sidewalk. As I pic
k them up, Lorenzo climbs into the passenger seat to wait for me.

  This is a terrible idea.

  The worst, really.

  “In the interest of full disclosure,” I say as I climb behind the wheel. “I don’t have a driver’s license.”

  “Have you ever driven before?”

  “Yes, but…”

  Lorenzo waves me off, silencing me with the flick of his wrist, before saying, “I’m sure you can handle it.”

  Sighing, I start the car, hesitating again. “Out of curiosity, on a scale of one-to-ten, how much are you going to want to kill me if I hit something?”

  “Just drive the damn car, Scarlet.”

  Putting it in gear, I pull away from the curb. It’s not far, from Greenpoint to Lorenzo’s house, but it’s a long enough drive to have me on edge, wound tight by the time I’m parked safely in his driveway.

  “For the record, I wouldn’t kill you for crashing my car,” he says, leaning closer to whisper, “I’d just bill you instead.”

  Lorenzo goes inside, leaving his phone lying there, not bothering to take the car key back. I sit there for a moment, staring at the steering wheel, before grabbing my envelope, tearing it open.

  A stack of cash. I count it, stunned that he’s paying me three thousand dollars. I count back through it again, shoving most of it in my pocket, leaving the last thousand in the envelope. I go inside then, the house silent, no sign of Leo or Melody.

  Lorenzo is in his library. I almost walk right in but hesitate. He’s standing beside the table, staring down at the puzzle spread out along it. After a moment, he picks up a piece, trying it a few places before it snaps right in.

  I tap on the doorframe.

  His eyes flicker my way, but he says nothing, so I don’t move, not going any closer.

  Lorenzo tries a few more puzzles pieces in silence, finally getting one into place before saying, “I inherited the orange grove from my father.”

  “Oh,” I say, for the third time in an hour.

  “I was young, around four, when he died. My mother hired a hitman. I don’t remember much, but I was there when it happened. My mother wanted him dead so she’d inherit everything, not knowing he left it all to me instead.”

  “Ouch.”

  “She managed to get control of the property while I was still a minor, but I was growing up too fast, and she knew they were running out of time.”