by Ws Greer
Nix and I sit down next to each other on the long white couch in the section closest to the entrance. The large speakers in the four corners of the Box boom with the bass of the music in the club as I cross my legs and look up at the half-naked women dancing on top of the see-through ceiling of my glass house. Some of them look down at me, marveling at my white slacks and white and black button-up. They notice the diamond encrusted face of my black watch and the shimmering platinum of my necklace, and it makes them excited in all the right places. They want a bad boy, but what they don’t know is that a bad boy is like a sobbing infant compared to me.
I exhale, stretching my fully tattooed arms across the back of the couch. “Talk to me, Nix. Put a smile on my face.”
“Four-seventy-five,” Nix replies with a small grin on his thick, bearded face. “That’s the take.”
“Four-seventy-five,” I repeat, just before a laugh explodes from my mouth. “Not too shabby for ninety seconds!”
“Nah, not shabby at all,” Nix agrees. He reaches up and wipes his mouth as he chuckles, then he takes off the black jacket to his all-black suit, exposing a black short-sleeved button-up and muscular tattooed arms of his own. Nix’s fascination with angels and demons are depicted in ink on his skin, while mine is covered in the things I love most: knives, guns, the grim reaper, crowns, crying clowns, grave yards, and fire. “I just need to know how you want to split it,” Nix says, reminding me that I’m supposed to pay the people who helped me steal four-hundred-seventy-five-thousand dollars from Philadelphia First National Bank.
I look at Nix and smile as I breathe in air, making a whooshing sound.
“We are still splitting it, aren’t we?” Nix asks. I guess he can see where I might go with this.
“Oh, you just know me too well, Nix,” I say with a chuckle. “Yeah, we’re still gonna split it. Let’s see, we had six total, didn’t we? Including you and me.”
“Yeah, but we only left with five of us. Remember?”
“Oh that’s right!” I chirp, laughing again. “One of our associates missed the bus. What a shame. Well, I guess we’ll just have to split it with five. Alright then, give twenty-five to the other three for a job well-done. You and me go one-seventy-five, two-fifteen, respectively.”
“And the last ten is for Mason?”
I hate the sound of his name, but it’s part of the business if you want to stay in business.
“Yeah. Ten for Mason.”
“He texted me, by the way. This morning. Asking for his cut already,” Nix says with his head tilted, cutting his eyes to look at me. I know that face. That’s the expression Nix gets when he’s annoyed by someone and he’s ready to put them out of their misery. I love Nix!
“Oh, did he now?” I reply with wide eyes. “Well, Detective Mason will have to wait longer than everybody else for being so impatient. He’ll get his money when I say so, and not a millisecond sooner. Make sure he understands that.”
“Of course,” Nix replies, just as we hear the intercom to the Box come on. It’s Lenny, and he’s speaking into the intercom with someone standing behind him.
“Someone’s here to see Mr. King,” Lenny says, and even through the thick black beard, I can see the nervousness on his face.
I don’t like being interrupted, especially unexpectedly, so when I see Lenny standing by the entrance of the Box with a skinny twig of a man next to him, I feel fire sparking up in my belly. Nix, knowing me the way he does, looks ready to send Lenny and the little guy scurrying off, but I stop him.
“Oh no, no, no,” I interject with a raised hand and smile. “Let him in, Nix. Let’s start a party in the Box! The more the merrier!”
Nix nods along and waves at Lenny, who responds by opening the door just enough for the little guy to come sauntering in wearing blue jeans and a large gray hoodie with the hood covering his head, casting most of his face in a shadow.
“He insisted on seeing Mr. King,” Lenny says. I eye him, but he does everything he can to avoid eye contact with me, and I feel the urge to chuckle teasing my throat. The fear I see in all of them makes me giddy.
Nix glares at Lenny for being stupid enough to knock on the door just because some little Poindexter “insisted”. He must’ve forgotten who he should fear more than anyone else. I’ll remind him later. For now, I watch as Nix pushes Lenny out of the room with a simple nod of his head, and the geek steps into the room and gives his hand for me to shake.
“Ain’t no handshaking,” Nix snips, and I love it. “Who the hell are you, and why are you going outta your way to get the door guard fired?”
Poindexter looks confused by the statement, so he just stands there, annoying my every nerve as he pulls the hood of his sweater off of his head, exposing his slick black hair and smooth baby face. He even has a tiny mole next to his mouth. How adorable. He takes a second to gather his composure before speaking.
“Umm, my name is Tim,” he begins, looking directly at me, but Nix nips that right in the bud.
“Hey, you’re talking to me,” he says, nearly snarling. “If you’re smart, you’ll get right to the point.”
“Umm, I was hoping I could speak to Mr. King about possibly working for him,” Poindexter says, making sure to keep his eyes on Nix now. He learns quick, because if looks could kill, my glare would have made his heart explode in his chest already.
“You wanna work for Mr. King?” Nix repeats the question. “You wanna work for Mr. King doing what?”
“Anything,” Poindexter answers. “Anything he needs me to do.”
I find myself feeling interested. What can I say? That’s a pretty good answer. So, I decide to speak for myself.
“Anything he needs me to do,” I repeat him, feeling like a million bucks. “Those are big words, Timmy. I’m just dying to know what possessed you to come to this club and say those words.”
Poindexter swallows hard as he manages to pull his brown eyes over to me. Once our eyes lock, I see instant regret in his, but it’s too late. He’s in here. He insisted on being in here, and there’s no backing out of anything with me.
“I, umm,” he stammers as I lean forward and place my tattooed elbows on the knees of my white slacks. “I’m down to my last bit of hope. My family wants nothing to do with me because I’ve always been involved in things they don’t agree with. So they kicked me out. I’ve been forced to steal just to eat for the past four days, and anybody involved in this kind of lifestyle knows about you, Mr. King. Everybody in this club, everybody on the streets, they all respect you. They all fear you.”
“And you want that fear and respect for yourself,” I state, just as I stand up.
I’m at least three inches taller than Tim, and he looks like he’s barely twenty years old with a clean-shaven face and that stupid mole. He doesn’t look like the type to be involved with anything illegal. Nah, he looks like someone I would never trust. He looks like a cop to me, or the son of a cop at the very least.
“Aww, that’s so sweet,” I continue, stepping towards him. Nix sits back on the couch and watches with pure amusement on his face. “What a wonderful sob story, Timmy! I can feel the tears making the long climb up to my eyes right this second. They’re big and strong and ready to slide down my beautiful face, Timmy! You wanna be feared and respected without having to do anything. What a dream that must be!”
“I’m willing to work for it, Mr. King,” Poindexter says, interrupting me.
My blood boils as I step within a foot of him and smile in his face, showing him all of my pearly whites.
“Is that right, Timmy? You’re willing to cut me off to tell me you’re willing to work for it?”
“Oh, wait, I’m sor . . .”
“Sshhhh,” I whisper in his ear as I place an arm over his shoulder and pull his head over to mine until we’re connected like Siamese twins. “Sshhhh, sshhhh, sshhhh. Tell me, Timmy, what do the nice people on the streets say about me?” He hesitates. “Be honest. Go on, what do they say?”
&n
bsp; “They’re afraid.”
“Ah, yes! But what do they say?”
“They say not to mess with you. They say you’re crazy. You’re a madman.”
A giant smile takes control of my mouth just as a laugh explodes from me.
“There it is! They call me crazy. I’m a psycho, a madman! They say I’m a lunatic . . . because I’m willing to do anything for the fear and respect, including dying! Their tiny minds can’t fathom a genius like me. What I am is too complex for them to understand, so they say I’m a madman. They’re just too small-minded to understand. I’d kill for the respect. What would you do, Timmy? Would you kill for it?”
I can see the wheels turning in his head as he tries to think of a way out of this box, but there’s no such thing, so he answers without thinking.
“I would,” he says in nearly a whisper. “I’d kill for it.”
“Careful, Timmy,” I snip, cutting him off with a raised finger. “Think about your answer, because words have consequences.”
“I would,” he says again, this time with more confidence.
“Would you die for it?”
He doesn’t hesitate this time, because he thinks he’s saying what I want to hear.
“Yes, I would.”
“Ah,” I say in an exhale.
Turning my back to Tim, I walk back over to the couch and step on a silver button on the floor. In an instant, the glass windows of the Box shift and suddenly are tinted and opaque, the many drunken club-goers outside are now blurry, formless blobs with no distinct features whatsoever. Privacy Smart Glass—a little feature I made sure the Box had when I had it installed two years ago. No one can see in, and we can’t see out, save for the six security monitors mounted on the wall in front of where Nix is still sitting. What a toy to have! Poindexter looks like he’s seen a ghost as I reach into my waistband and reveal my beautiful, chrome nine millimeter. I chamber a round, rush over to Tim and shove the barrel into his neck, slamming his back up against the door he just insisted on coming through.
“Tell me again, Timmy! You’re ready to die for the fear and respect. Is that right? Say it again, and we’ll take those words out for a field test. Let’s have some fun. Come on, Timmy. Say it again!”
For some strange reason, Tim doesn’t speak again, and I don’t fight the laugh that falls out of my mouth. He stares up at the ceiling, where just a second ago he could see girls dancing, as tears start to fill his eyes. There’s nothing but darkness now, and he knows this darkness could be the last thing he sees. Ah, how I love the darkness!
“What’s your last name, Timmy?” I ask, still pushing the gun into his throat.
“S . . . Sandusky,” he stutters.
“Timmy S . . . S . . . Sandusky?” I shout. “Sounds like a cop’s name to me. You a cop, Timmy?”
“No! No, I swear to god!”
“You swear to god? Well, that’s exactly what a cop would say!”
“Please! Please don’t. I swear I’m not a cop. I swear.”
“You swear you’re not a cop, you’re willing to do anything I need you to do, and you’re willing to kill and die for fear and respect. Yet here you are with this terrified look on your baby face. It all sounds like a gigantic ball of horse shit to me, Timmy S . . . S . . . Sandusky. But I guess only time will tell. We’re done here. I insist you get the fuck out of my club!”
I lower my gun and take a step back, and before I can complete the step, Timmy Poindexter S . . . S . . . Sandusky turns on his heel and runs out of the Box. I can’t see him, thanks to the Smart Glass, but I imagine he runs all the way to the end of the street. Once the door is closed, I turn to Nix and laugh hysterically. Nix, ever the stone-cold killer, only smirks in response.
“I guess my reputation precedes me,” I say, still chuckling as I walk back over to the couch, step on the silver button to switch the glass back to normal, and take my seat next to Nix. “I wanna know everything about Tim Sandusky; who his parents are, what he does for a living, his criminal record. Everything.”
“Got it,” Nix replies.
“Now, what do you say we celebrate our big take? I want Cristal in my hand and pussy in my face!”
“Couldn’t have said it better myself.”
Nix uses the intercom to tell Lenny to have three bottles of Cristal brought to the Box, and he hand-picks six girls to come in and party with us. Once everything is brought to us, we turn the music up and crack open the bottles. I fixate on a redhead who dances like she’s dying to ride me all night long. As she moves her hips, she looks me in the eye, telling me she wants me to give her something she’s never had before. Like the rest of them, she wants a bad boy. She wants a criminal, a gangster to screw her brains out—to make her come harder than any of the usual dorks she meets. She looks at me like she came to Club Asylum just for me. She came to meet the king, and it’d just be the saddest thing in the whole world if I let her leave disappointed—if I didn’t give her everything she came for. As she approaches me, an image of a face flashes in my mind—blonde hair, blue eyes—but like I’ve been doing for the past seven years, I push it away just as the redhead sits on my lap.
“What’s your name, beautiful?” I ask her as she gives me the sexiest lap dance I’ve had since my last one.
“Cynthia,” she answers, doing her best to speak in her sexiest voice. She pulls it off well, and I’m dying to find out what else she can pull off well.
“Cynthia? That’s a beautiful name,” I answer. “I like that. Do your friends call you Sin for short?”
She flashes a million-watt smile. “No, none of my friends have ever called me that.”
“Well Sin,” I reply, “you and me just became friends, and tonight, we’re gonna pay respect to your new name.”
“MMM. GOOD MORNING.”
I hear her voice as I stare at the blackness behind my eyelids, and I swear it’s nails on a chalk board—nothing like the soft, seductive, low tone I remember from last night. I suppose consuming a gallon of alcohol would make anyone sound as sexy as I remember Cynthia sounding behind the bulletproof walls of the Box, but last night is over. Good morning? She must be insane. Any morning I wake up next to a woman who isn’t the woman I wish for, is not a good morning.
I let my eyes slowly creak open just as I feel Cynthia’s soft skin rub against my chest, drawing a line around my pecks as if she’s amused by the muscle and tattoos there. She does it for a while, over and over again with the damn circles, mainly because I’m not paying attention to her at all. I feel her tiny finger, but my mind is everywhere but here as I peer up at the ceiling, focusing on the image of the two of us that stares back at me in the large mirror above my California king-sized bed. I see the red sheets, red comforter, and red and white pillow cases that make it look like Cynthia and I are swimming in a sea of blood, our limbs entangled in a pool of death, but it’s her dyed-red hair that my eyes lock onto. As she continues tracing my chest with her index finger, the image in the mirror sends a familiar shooting pain through my heart, and I can barely stand the image any longer.
“Stop that,” I snip, swatting her hand off of me. I hear her let out a tiny gasp as I sit up without giving her the slightest glance.
“Are you okay?” she asks, as if she knows me. She asks if I’m okay as if it matters to her, as if she can tell from just from looking at me that something is wrong, when we both know neither of those things is true. She doesn’t care if something is the matter, and if she really did know me, she’d know better than to even act as though she cared about me.
“Get dressed,” I tell her, looking at her over my shoulder, “and get out.” I see her pale, round face shift into an expression of shock, and it doesn’t faze me. Through the smeared makeup, plump pink lips, and soft red lines on her throat reminding me of how I choked her while I wore her out last night, there’s no longer anything there that I’m interested in.
“Excuse me?” she dares to ask, propping herself up on her elbow and glaring at me from b
ehind.
“You heard me.”
She pauses, thinking about what I just said and wondering if it’s for real.
“Seriously?” When I don’t answer, she continues, frustration dripping from her words. “What’s the matter? I thought we had a good time last night, and this is how you treat me the morning after you screw my brains out?”
“Do you know who I am?” I ask, not caring enough to look over my shoulder at her anymore. Instead, I stare straight ahead, looking over the red railing of my two-story loft and gazing out the gigantic window overlooking downtown Philadelphia in all its glory. The sky is a perfect baby blue with just enough clouds to make it look surreal, and the skyscrapers spike up into the sky and stare back at me. I’ve come a long way since Whitney’s basement in Strawberry Mansion.
“Everyone who goes to Club Asylum knows who you are,” she replies, still trying to flirt through her oncoming anger.
“Is that so?” I reply as I extend my arms to each side of my body, stretching out my exhausted, tatted muscles. “I would think that if you really know who I am, then you know not to catch feelings for me after one night of sex. Just because I made you come more times than you could count, doesn’t mean we’re soulmates. This isn’t a fantasy fairytale come true. This is real life, Cynthia, and in real life, after you get fucked by the villain, you get as far away from him as you can, before he realizes he doesn’t like you very much and acts on it.”
She doesn’t reply, and after a second too long of silence, I turn around and glare at her. I lock my blue eyes onto hers and tell her without saying a word that she better move her ass, and it’s that silent communication that forces Cynthia off of the bed, and sends her speed-walking to one of the two red chairs next to the railing where her clothes await her. She quickly slips on her white, skin-tight dress and runs down the stairs carrying her black high heels and purse in hand. I smile to myself as I hear the front door open and quickly close behind her.
