That night, just as the clock of St. Timothy's Church in the distance tolled, I stood up from the roof of the convenience store I was crouched on in the Filmore Heights district. It's confusing to newbies to our city that there are two areas of town called Heights. On one hand there is The Heights, a very rich neighborhood that had been through gentrification about twenty years ago. With lots of big, expensive homes and a few McMansions, The Heights was bordered by Tabby's house, Mount Zion, although some would argue that Zion was actually included.
On the other hand, on the opposite side of town from The Heights both geographically and economically, was Filmore Heights. As dangerous as The Heights was safe, Filmore Heights was the sort of neighborhood you didn't walk after dark unless you were either armed, stupidly brave, or in a group of at least four. Preferably all of the above. The newspapers had more than once reported on poor schmucks who had mixed up a friend telling them The Heights and Filmore Heights, and had died because of it.
Standing on the roof of the low store, I could see a good chunk of Filmore Avenue, which was the namesake of Filmore Heights. The city bus that lumbered down the street was empty, the sides covered in graffiti.
Further down the block, I saw movement, which I expected. My targets for the evening were coming to their meeting spot. I was ready.
One of the things that makes Filmore Heights so dangerous is the gang activity. Filmore Avenue, at least the northeast quarter of it, was controlled by one of the most dangerous, the Eighty-Eights. So-called because of the Neo-Nazi symbolism involving the number, they weren't skinheads. They were however white supremacists, who had formed in the late nineties after a wave of other gangs, spearheaded by the Latin Kings and the Gangster Disciples, tore Filmore Heights apart in violent turf warfare with the already established Familias and Crips. The white kids of Filmore, caught between four ethnic gangs that didn't like them in the least, were slowly pushed until a charismatic leader, Bryan Sweeney, formed a gang of only white kids to fight back. Quickly adopting a white supremacist ideology, they countered the larger numbers of their rivals with a ferocity and bloodthirsty lack of restraint that stunned even the hardcore gangsters in the other sets. Soon, the 88's had not only secured their original neighborhood, but had expanded their territory, taking over most of the northeast side of Filmore Heights.
About ten years after their founding however, the 88s had become just as corrupting as the gangs they had fought against, running drugs, protection rackets, and every other form of gang bullshit you can think of. By this point, they were nothing more than racist punks, the type I despised more than any other for personal reasons.
Pulling my face mask down, I kept my eyes peeled as 88s began to assemble in the parking lot of the convenience store, which had the unfortunate luck of being at 8988 Filmore Avenue. Finally, at eleven fifteen or so, the group for that night was assembled. I listened as they talked normal gang bullshit, nothing important, but still keeping my ears peeled. Two of them went inside to help themselves to free beer, which the poor owner, a Korean immigrant who was barely tolerated by the 88s since his protection money was so high, let them take for free. Better to write off the six packs on his taxes than to get his entire store destroyed.
There were about six of them outside when I pulled my two sticks from their holders on my back. Similar to a escrima stick, they were actually made of aluminum, with a nasty surprise inside if I needed it, a seven inch long spring loaded spike I could deploy with the push of two buttons on the handle. So far in the few weeks I'd been doing this, I hadn't used the spikes yet.
Muttering a quick prayer, I jumped from the top of the building onto the nearest 88, using him to buffer my fall while at the same time taking him out of the fight. Rolling, I swung my left hand out and nailed another 88 in the kneecap, with wonderful results as I heard a bone crack and the man collapse in a howl of pain.
The rest of the fight was somewhat of a blur, mainly because someone did hit me in the back of the head pretty hard at one point. I could feel blood trickling down the back of my neck as I stood in the parking lot, sweat and a bit of blood dripping off my mask from another cut over my eyebrow that went all the way to the bone. Putting my sticks away, I looked inside, where the owner was picking up the phone to call the cops. Before he could finish dialing, I took off running to my car, parked three blocks away.
What can I say? Marcus Smiley wasn't the only person inspiring me to try and make a difference.
* * *
Mark
That night, after dinner, Sophie and I were able to get some alone time. "Are you sure your hands are okay?" she asked me as we lay on our bed. It was a nice gesture from Tabby that Sophie and I kept the so-called master bedroom of the house, even though hers was still pretty large as well. We didn't invite people over often, so there wasn't a need for a elaborate deception as to who had what in the house. We just lived as we needed.
The bedroom wasn't super large, we didn't really feel the need for a huge space, but in a nod to Sophie's desire for a comfortable bed, we did have a very large custom made mattress with high thread count Egyptian cotton sheets and an organic merino wool bedspread, all custom made to fit the bed. I was rubbing massage oil between my hands before rubbing down Sophie's back, which glistened in the dim lights of the room.
"They feel fine, really," I said. "It looks a lot worse than it feels, that's for sure. Most of it is just where some of the blood scabbed under the skin, and that will take a few days to work its way out and fade. But I do have to remember to wear rubber gloves until they heal when I cook dinner. The lemon juice on my left hand wasn’t too fun.”
Sophie turned her head to the side and looked at me out of the corner of her one eye. "It was kind of funny to watch you hopping around and muttering curses as Tabby and I tried not to laugh."
"You still did anyway," I noted, working my thumbs in alternating circles down her spine. I was straddling Sophie's upper thighs, both of us wearing nothing as we rejoiced in each other's presence. My erection was already halfway up, nestled in between the soft swells of her butt. Still, I wasn't ready or needing sex just yet, I wanted to focus on Sophie first. She was, and is, the light of my life, and the reason I can do everything I do. "In fact, I think I saw a bit of milk dribble from the side of your mouth when I whacked my hand on the countertop as I was hopping around."
"It's just funny, that's all," Sophie said, before a sigh, groan and giggle all mixed together to interrupt her words. "I've seen you do what seems like superhuman things, fight multiple men like it's nothing, and you get reduced to cursing and even I think a tear or two from some lemon in a boo-boo."
"Careful there, my love. You keep making fun of me, and you'll find your backside still isn't too tender for a spanking."
Sophie wiggled her hips, which sent a course of electricity through my cock, causing it to harden some more. "I can tell. Then again, maybe your ass isn't too tender for a spanking either."
I leaned over and kissed her shoulder, nuzzling against her silky soft hair. "If you want, my love."
It was perhaps one of the best parts about being with Sophie. Being with her, we'd both blossomed in self confidence, which sounds weird considering that I had such a reputation as an Alpha Male type before meeting her. But being in her arms, knowing she both accepted me and depended on me, protected me as well as being protected by me, we could both let go of our inhibitions.
Sophie turned her head a little more and smiled. "Really?"
"Really. Just... one thing."
"What's that?"
"After last night, well, no more using Mistress, okay?"
* * *
Mark
The next morning, as I prepared breakfast for everyone, Tabby came in with a grin on her face. "Hey, guess what?"
"You won the lottery," Sophie quipped, wearing the yoga pants and t-shirt she preferred for indoor work. She didn't look like a normal housewife, that was for sure, but like some sort of fitness instructor who just
happened to be doing laundry or dusting the furniture before her day began.
Tabby, who was wearing one of her business suits, shook her head. While I know Sophie didn't miss wearing the overly constricting and sexualized suits, I had to admit part of me missed seeing her dressed up as the naughtiest of secretaries. "Nah, Tabby decided she wants to run off to Tibet and become the Dalai Lama's interior decorator."
Tabby stuck her tongue out at both of us, a familiar reply when we joked with her, and one that said she was in a good mood. "No, but turn on the TV. Seems we're inspiring people in more ways than one."
I reached over and flicked on the small television on the counter, a leftover from Tabby's old apartment that we just didn't want to throw out. It was too new for one, and fit perfectly underneath the cabinet in the kitchen as well. Jabbing the button, I turned the channel to the local NBC affiliate, which was Tabby's favorite recently due to their favorable coverage of MJT.
"Wait for it, they said they'd repeat it at the top of the hour," she said. I glanced up at the clock and saw it was five minutes to seven, and finished up breakfast. Plating the eggs with grilled mushrooms and eggplant, along with a kale smoothie for Sophie's Vitamin K needs. "Oh, here it is."
"Our top news this morning, it seems our city has gained another new public figure," Don Thompson, one half of the lead anchors, said. He had been on the air with NBC for nearly a decade, and had been one of the first anchors to break the color barrier in the city. I had met him once when I was Marcus Smiley, and thought he was a pretty good journalist. His trademark was his smooth voice, a bit more academic than Billy Dee Williams, but still silky smooth. I momentarily compared him to Gerald Traylor's voice, and thought that while they had some similarities, Don Thompson sounded much more calm and educated.
The screen shot changed as Thompson's voice narrated. "The Filmore Heights neighborhood is no stranger to gang fights and violence, especially from the notorious group known as the Eighty Eights. Here at one of their favorite hangouts, a group of Eighty Eights encountered something new, as a masked vigilante dropped out of seemingly nowhere. Security camera footage...."
I tuned out Don's voice as I watched the multiple angles of security video. The attacker had come off the roof, that was for sure, and attacked with a lot of ferocity. I was slightly impressed by what I saw, but there was a lot that worried me.
"This idiot's going to get himself killed," I said as I saw him stagger under a shot to the back of the head from one of the last 88's. "He's brave, I'll give him that, but he's going to get himself killed."
I reached over and switched off the TV when the story shifted to news in Washington, turning around. "I understand your enthusiasm Tabby, it's good to see that someone is trying to do something positive for their neighborhood, but taking on a mass of Eighty Eights while swinging around nothing but a couple of aluminum batons is stupid even when you're as good as I am. And in what I saw, he's not that good.”
"How would you have done it?" Tabby asked, curious. Sophie just hid her smile, knowing that while her best friend knew the results of my nighttime actions, she didn't know exactly the details, and for good reason.
"For one, I wouldn't have just dropped down with nothing but two sticks," I replied, twirling a bid of eggplant around on my plate. "I probably would have started with either a smoke grenade or a flash-bang if I didn't mind blowing out the windows on that Circle K. Anyone that was still up after that I might have taken out with the sticks, but honestly I wouldn't have dropped from the roof. There's too much of a chance of twisting your ankle or blowing out your knee, at which point you're pretty well screwed."
I didn't tell her the unabashed truth, which is that if I wanted to take down a gang like the 88's, I wouldn't have done it with non-lethal force either. I'd dealt with them when I worked for Sal Giordano, and they were one of the roughest gangs in Filmore. I probably would have gone in with both Glocks pulled if I had to, or maybe a old fashioned charge of a pickup truck through the herd. Better yet, an AK-47. As the saying goes, when you absolutely positively have to kill every last motherfucker in the room, accept no substitutions.
"In any case, I hope he doesn't get himself killed," Tabby said, scraping the last of her breakfast onto her spoon and swallowing quickly. "Now, hate to eat and run, but I have a lunch meeting with a City Councilman today, and I should probably get some work done beforehand. I'll call you guys if anything comes up."
"Oh, which councilman?" Sophie asked with a grin. "It wouldn't happen to be the cute Pat McCaffery you were telling us about last night?"
"Yeah," Tabby said sheepishly. "I know, I know, he's got Confederation tats, but you said yourself Mark, he wasn't active that you knew about any longer."
"Still, keep your eyes and ears open and your Spidey senses sharp," I warned her. "If you have any concerns, give me a call."
Like a whirlwind, Tabby was out the door, and we heard the rumble as her Mercedes started up and pulled out of the garage. Sophie looked at me with bemusement. "Okay, big brother, before you start, remember who you are. I married a former hitman, correct?"
Sometimes, I can't win.
Chapter 6
Tabby
The deliveryman got to the office with his steaming containers of Chinese food right at twelve twenty five, refusing the tip I offered him. As the steam rose out of the bag and made my stomach rumble, he grinned and waved his hands, backing away slowly while displaying almost unnaturally white and shiny teeth.
"Any delivery here is a pleasure," he said, referring to the investment MJT had made in his family's restaurant. In fact, the deliveryman, a nice nineteen year old kid named James, had been able to start taking night classes at community college because of it, since it allowed his family to hire another delivery person for night shift as well as expand their services. "If it wasn't that my Dad knew it would be a waste of time, he'd not even charge you guys."
"Still James, you came all the way down here in less than twenty minutes," I said. "Come on, at least a few bucks?"
"Nope," James replied, stepping back and towards the door. I knew better than to follow him, one time he'd actually ran down the stairs to avoid the tip. I wouldn't give up though, I'm kind of hard-headed like that. "But if you really want, next time I'll send my sister. Lin's the sort who'd pocket a five without telling Dad."
James disappeared out the door while Vanessa sat at her desk, amused. "You do that at least once a week," she said when the door closed. "I thought you'd have learned by now."
"Come on Vanessa. I'm getting paid an obscene amount of money to run this place, the least I can do is help out the kid," I replied. "Gratitude or not, he deserves an extra little bit for risking the lunchtime traffic to get the shrimp here while it's still hot and crispy. He's on a fifty cc scooter for God's sake."
"You never know how people will react to generosity," Vanessa replied. "You remember the story about the CEO who raised all his employees pay to at least seventy thousand a year as a gesture of income equality or something? It made the national news a while back, a software company I think."
I turned away from the door after closing it behind me. "Yeah, I remember something about it. Why?"
"Did you know the average amount of happiness and worker satisfaction in his company actually went down after that? Seemed a lot of people started worrying about if they were really earning their keep, and then there was jealousy and a lot of other issues cropping up. He actually had to rent out a room in his house to make ends meet for a while, because he had so much turnover and problems that he couldn't get work done and was losing money. I guess what I'm saying is, I know you feel bad about the money you're making. But it doesn't help to spread it around so much. That is, unless of course, you want to buy a very expensive gift for Secretary's Day. I hear that gold is nice, but platinum is all the rage this season for the well-respected executive assistant."
I turned and looked at Vanessa with a smirk. "Okay, okay, point taken, joke noted, and comment fil
ed away for April. Just don't be surprised when you get something that is platinum coated. Now all I'm missing is a City Councilman to share this food with."
"Just remember the General Tso's chicken set is mine," Vanessa said as I heard footsteps on the stairs leading up to the third floor. I was slightly surprised, I'd expected him to use the freight elevator. It was very old school, and you had to pull the security gate down, but it had that sort of retro feel that I personally loved using, especially when my legs were tired. "Your cute date is here."
Rolling my eyes, I took a moment to admit to myself that yes, Patrick McCaffery was cute, and yes, I'd had much worse-looking lunch meetings. I went over to Vanessa's desk and pretended to be at least not looking like I was waiting for the door to open when he came in. "Sorry, I know I'm a minute or two late, I didn't realize that you had a gym downstairs. I got caught up in watching someone do some pretty impressive stuff with the kettlebells. Well, that and I ran into the delivery kid coming down the stairs."
"Then you're right on time it seems," I replied. I opened the bag and took out Vanessa's lunch. "Vanessa, while I set up the table in the other room, can you give Councilman McCaffery those hints on how to find someone like you to help him out? I'm afraid if you don't, we're going to be failing in our civic duty."
"Of course," Vanessa replied, taking out a three page document from her desk drawer. "Councilman, I typed this up for you this morning actually."
"First off, it's Patrick. The only time someone calls me Councilman is when I'm usually not looking forward to the rest of the conversation. As for the document....." I heard, before going into my office and setting up the table. It was the same table, I noted that Bishop Traylor and I had our meeting at. I considered shifting to the conference table, but decided against it. The chairs there were too uncomfortable for anything other than straight business meetings, and I didn't want that.
Ambition: A Dark Billionaire Romance (Driven Book 1) Page 5
