Hawk

by Abigail Graham

  The landing is gentle, at least. I want off this fucking thing. Best thing about private planes is no waiting around for all the nonsense. I’m down the steps and walking across tarmac in less than ten minutes after landing.

  I stumble to a stop when I spot my jet. Well, the Amsel holding company’s jet. Eve is there. I can’t see her. I don’t have to. I can feel her.

  Time to go, before I do something stupid like throw myself at her feet and tell her everything.

  Usually, when one flies on a private jet, one does not take the bus. Yet I walk through the terminal and catch the bus out to the short term parking lot. The Firebird is parked way off on its own, a long walk from where the bus lets me off. I’ve seen some shit, but the way the high pressure sodium lamps that illuminate the parking lot leech all the color out of the world is fucking eerie, especially on a moonless, cloudy night. It’s going to rain again, or maybe snow. It’s colder now than it was this morning. I feel like I’ve been awake for three days. I slip into the car and lean on the steering wheel, resting my forehead on the cold metal. I give the key a twist and she starts right up. I need to find the time to get under the hood and check her out, sometime. She probably needs an oil change. Dad would flip out if he knew I just drove her off after sitting for years without a thorough going over.

  When I sit up and lean back in the seat the last thing I want to do is drive. Fortunately I don’t have far to go. It’s a short hop into the city, off the highway and back to the parking lot. The bleary-eyed attendant eyes the Firebird warily as I take my ticket and park it. I should probably buy a monthly pass but I’m not putting a sticker on my car. I stick it in my pocket and walk across the street without bothering to look and see if a car is coming, then head up the stairs. I stumble into the dingy little room, slam the door and twist the lock. I don’t bother with the stupid little chain. I kick my shoes into the corner, slough off my clothes like dead skin and flop onto the mattress, then paw around until I come up with about a third of a bottle of Jack. I drink it like it’s water, feel the heat spread through me and hope it’ll dull my senses a little, but it doesn’t.

  I drink the rest, too fast. Toss the bottle and it thunks in the corner, clinks against another one. There’s a pile of them over there I haven’t bothered to clean up.

  I roll over on my side, and try to sleep.

  The mattress is too damned soft. I end up shimmying off of it, onto the floor, grab my bare pillow and tuck it under my head. The hard floor is better, easier to sleep on. My back will be killing me in the morning, but at least I can sleep.

  Somebody flips a switch and suddenly there’s sunlight pouring through the windows and it feels like my head is stuffed with pencil erasers. I roll away from the bed onto my hands, get my feet under me and start push-ups. It only makes my head throb more, but I do a hundred in quick succession. If I wasn’t so fatigued last night I’d be clapping with every rep. Get up, grab the pull up bar I’ve bolted to the wall, and start counting, stop counting when I get bored with it and go until my arms and back are on fire. If my head hurt any worse I’d be dead. I look in the small, grimy mirror in the tiny bathroom to make sure there’s no blood squirting out my nose, limp over to the fridge and pull out the bottle of milk inside. I down a cocktail of sinus pills, aspirin, Excedrin, and ibuprofen, wash it down with gulps of milk, eat some cold Pop Tarts and fall back down on the bed.

  I sit there for a couple hours, clutching my head. When the pain has faded to merely excruciating, I’m ready to get up and get to work. Clean clothes first, and then the office.

  My phone buzzes. I rifle through my shed suit to find it and press it to my ear.

  “What?” I snap, yawning.

  “Victor. Is that any way to greet your old friend?”

  Fuck. It’s Vitali.

  Vitali the Hammer.

  “Sorry, Vitali. What is it?”

  “Early day, yes? How did meeting go yesterday?”

  He slips into a Russian accent now and then. It’s weird, jarring when he does it. He does it when he’s upset. He likes asking people questions he already knows the answer to, to test them. I don’t like being tested.

  “As expected.”

  “How did the girl take it?”

  “That’s not your problem. Thorpe is squarely on my side. It’s coming down to a proxy fight. She’ll lose.”

  “Yes, you said it would. Give me the names of the holdouts.”

  I swallow. “Let me call them first.”

  “As you wish. Call me this afternoon and tell me you have succeeded, or give me the names of the holdouts.”

  He hangs up. Vitali is only a man for niceties when it suits him, which is mostly when he thinks it’s funny.

  They call him the hammer for a reason. He once told me a man’s toes look like grapes after you take a masonry hammer to them.

  What have I gotten myself into?

  Worse, what have I gotten Eve into?

  Before I agreed to any of this I extracted a promise from Vitali that Eve would not be hurt.

  Then again, it wasn’t much of a promise, and I didn’t extract it, exactly. When somebody like Vitali promises somebody won’t be hurt, it’s like when they come around and promise your shop won’t burn down if you pay in the insurance money. That kind of a promise.

  I’ll keep her safe, I swear.

  I start by calling a dozen old men and begging, pleading, arguing, joking my way through to thwarting Eve’s attempts to bring the biscuit company under the Amsel umbrella, and when that doesn’t work, lay down a few veiled threats.

  When I call Vitali to tell him it’s a go, I make the conversation as brief as possible. He hangs up on me again.

  Dick.

  I guess I should be proud of myself. I saved Jim Thorpe’s company from Eve’s claws. I sold them to the Russian Mafia instead. Russian Mafia biscuits. I hope they don’t start putting ground up witnesses in the batter or something. With that done I flop back on the bed.

  Air. I need air. It stinks in here. Opening the windows won’t help, it just makes the smell worse. I dress quickly and duck out of the apartment, walk down the street with my hands shoved in my pockets. Two stores down the block there’s a bar. Bad idea. Me plus booze plus crowd equals fight, equals parole violation, equals back to the cell. I walk to the corner and just stand there, ignoring the walk/don’t walk signal. If I stand too long some cop will roll up and ask what I’m doing, so I keep moving. Across Market Street and up 4th. I’m heading in a bad direction. I turn around, start back. The air out here isn’t any better. It’s cold today, colder than yesterday and there’s a breeze off the river, with all the lovely smells you’d expect. I make sure to wait for the signals before I cross, stay in the crosswalk, keep my head down. Last thing I need is to eyefuck some stranger into a fistfight.

  As I start up the rickety cast iron stairs to my so-called apartment, I hear shouting, some in English, some in Korean, and a thump, and a scream.

  It’s coming from my downstairs neighbors.

  A louder scream.

  Oh God damn it.

  I’ve never been in one of these places before. The only signage is a red paper lantern hanging by the door, a pretty universal signal. It’s a red light. Yeah.

  Inside the first door there’s another, locked. I hear more commotion and ring the doorbell.

  No answer.

  Turn around, Victor. It’s not your problem. Leave it be.

  There’s a deadbolt. It gives under one blow from my shoulder, rips the strike plate out of the wall with a shower of splinters. I hear the sound of a fist on flesh and rush towards it.

  Inside is chaos. I’ve never been in here before, never had any interest. It’s a maze, a bunch of rooms off a twisting hallway. A half-naked masseuse wearing nothing but a bright blue thong and one high heeled shoe runs past me, away from the noise.

  Then a short Korean woman with a shocked expression comes tumbling through a door, wide-eyed. She lands on her ass and grunts in Kore
an, then starts shouting. I walk down the hall towards her, and out comes a pretty good sized, middle aged man, dragging a tiny slip of a girl by the arm. She’s completely buck-ass nude, and in other circumstances I’d been getting quite a show, but her nakedness is just shameful. There’s a bruise on her cheek.

  Bad move, big man.

  “Finish!” the girl screams, in broken English. “Hour done! Hour done!”

  She pulls at his fingers and pounds his arm with her fist, and I realize he’s dragging her back into the room.

  Oh Jesus.

  “Hey,” I bark out, so loud it rattles the ceiling. “Party’s over, handsome. Get your fucking hand off the girl.”

  The woman looks at me. The girl looks at me.

  The big guy looks at me.

  “You think you’re a big man, don’t you? You want to go? Let’s go.”

  It all happens at once. He shoves the girl. She’s still got her fucking heels on. Time slows, that way it does, like in a car accident. You learn to keep your head on a swivel where I’ve been. When I see the girl’s ankle fold under her as she goes down, it’s like something cracks in my chest and scalding, molten fury burns in my lungs.

  The big man’s fist hits my chin. He’s fast. He’s good.

  I fight dirty. I roll with the blow, turn, pivot, and lash out with my foot. I take him in the side of his leg, the knee. It knocks him off balance, and I bring my shin up between his legs, a savage kick that crushes his balls and sends him back, howling. He’s forgotten about me.

  I’m not done.

  My fist hammers into his nose. I feel it fold under my hand, feel the snap and the spray of blood. I get him by the hair, grabbing a handful right above his forehead, turn, and pull. He claws at my hand, but I’m not pulling his hair. I let go and he goes face first into the wall. This an old building. Plaster walls as hard as stone. A lot harder than his face. He bounces back, flails, and starts to grapple with me, but there’s blood in his eyes. I feel something pop in my hand as I hit him right in the cheekbone, but something in his head pops from the blow, too. He slams against the other wall and goes down, grabbing at my legs. His arms wrap around my legs and I go down with him, hit the floor hard. The world flashes when the back of my head hits the hardwood floor. Then a first hits my jaw, and the world starts spinning.

  Hands yank me up by the collar of my shirt. It rips, but not enough. Then a white flash as my head hits the floor. A fist raises over my head, ready to come down.

  When your head is braced against something rigid, that’s a bad way to get hit. I jerk out of the way at the last second, and he howls as his fist hits the hardwood. Then I knee him in the stomach, grab his throat, and kick him in the balls again. His howl comes out choked, and he claws at my wrists, but I’m stronger. I feel his grip weakening.

  A shadow falls over me and there is a tremendous clang.

  Big man rolls off of me onto the floor, a bloody gash on his head. The woman hit him with a fucking frying pan.

  “Police come,” she says, offering me a hand. “You go. Out the back.”

  I’m not arguing. I limp along with her past a half dozen girls in states of dress varying from “string covering clit” to pajamas and one wearing a goddamn chef toque (am I dreaming this?) and out the back. Christ, if somebody sees me I’m fucked. I run back around to the side and lurch up the stairs, through my door and fall to my knees on the floor.

  My fucking head. Figures I’m out of booze.

  Half an hour later I get up. It’s daylight outside but it’s overcast now, enough for the red and blues to flash in my window. Quickly I discard my clothes. My t-shirt is bloody, and I’m not sure if it’s mine or not. I get all my clothes off, shove them in a trash bag and frantically dart around the room, naked. If the cops come banging on my door asking questions and see something incriminating they’ll bust in and I’ll be on a bus back to prison by dark. Once I’m reasonably certain there’s nothing poking out that would catch their attention, I get under scalding hot water in the shower.

  “Fuck,” I grunt.

  A fight just makes me feel more alive. Feeling more alive makes me want Eve that much more. I rest my head on the grimy tiles and run the water until it goes cold.

  Chapter Six

  Evelyn

  My assistant finds me at my desk, slumped and leaning on my hand. She stops in the door and flinches when she lays eyes on me.

  I know why. At this point I’m using my computer screen for a mirror more than anything else. My hair is a tousled mess, my eyes are bloodshot, there is an ugly bruise on my face and I look like I haven’t slept, because I didn’t. I laid awake all night staring at the ceiling, and my eyes are red from crying, livid lines running down my cheeks like claw marks. Even my unbruised cheek is puffy, and there’s a fine crust of blood around the nostril on the side where he hit me. A cup of cold coffee sits next to me on the desk, glued to the wood by a drying brown ring. An untouched bagel rests beside it, the cream cheese still sealed in the little cup. I take one look at Alicia and look back down at the desk.

  “Go home,” I murmur. “I can’t work like this.”

  She closes the door and sits in the chair in front of my desk.

  “Miss Ross,” she starts.

  “Eve,” I correct. “Call me Eve. My name is Eve.”

  “Eve,” she says, rolling the syllable around her mouth like an unfamiliar taste. “Eve, I was talking to my husband last night. We think you should call the police.”

  I sigh softly. “About what?”

  She touches her cheek.

  “What are the police going to do for me?” I say.

  “Honey, you can’t let him hurt you like this.”

  I blink a few times. She sounds like a mother.

  Makes me wonder what my mother sounded like. I stifle a little noise that’s almost a sob, fold my arms on the desk and plunge my face into them. Then the sobbing starts. I’m still in my pajamas, plain powder blue terrycloth. Victor bought them for me. The blue brings out my eyes, he said.

  The longer I sit there the harder I sob. I don’t care if Alicia sees me crying anymore.

  Gingerly, she rests her hand on my back, behind my neck, and rubs.

  “Hey. Hey. Here.”

  I sit up and she hands me a box of tissues. I snatch a handful of them and scrub at my face, and wince when I touch the bruise. It still hurts. I need to cover it, but I don’t much experience with makeup. I could drape some hair over that side of my face, I suppose. I used to wear it that way when I was younger, when I first started school. I was so afraid of my tutors.

  I continue to stare dully at nothing as Alicia drags her chair around to my side of the desk, and sits next to me. I can’t bring myself to look at her. I just sniff, whimper and stare at my desk. She takes the uneaten food and sticky coffee cup, wipes the desk and carries it all away. A few minutes later she returns with a yogurt cup and a can of Coke. I look at them with disdain, and she simply ignores me, pops the top of the can and peels back the yogurt lid, and sticks a spoon in it.

  Then she sets it before me like she expects me to eat it.

  Grudgingly, I pick it up and cradle it in my hand, and take a small bit from the tip of the spoon. I choke down a half-chewed, half-frozen blueberry and feel like I’m going to puke.

  “You need to eat,” she says, firmly.

  Every bite is an effort. I hate yogurt anyway, but something about her folded arms and unyielding stare makes me eat it, then sip at the soda. I have no idea why she thinks this garbage is healthy, but it works. I feel just a bit better when I’m finished.

  She sinks into the chair next to me. I sit back in my chair and look up at the ceiling.

  “Tell me, whatever it is.”

  “You’ve lost Thorpe,” she says, her voice flat. “They signed on with… with Victor.”

  I nod slowly.

  “I see.”

  “I haven’t heard from your father.”

  I flinch when she says it.

&
nbsp; “Eve,” she says.

  I shake my head, slowly.

  “There’s nowhere I can go. Nowhere I can run. I can’t get away from him. Only one person could ever protect me from him and he…” I suck in a breath, and go rigid.

  “Yesterday,” Alicia says, slowly. “When you were alone in that room with him.”

  “With Victor.”

  “Did he… did he force,” she swallows, hard. “Did he do something to you?”

  The sides of my mouth curl in a small, secret smile. “Nothing I didn’t want him to do. He never would.”

  “You’re in love with him.”

  She has a way of stating questions so they come out as statements, this woman does. It hurts, to be seen through so clearly. I can’t look at her.

  “He didn’t seem so terrible. What did he do?”

  I clutch my hand over my mouth, press my eyes shut and suppress a full body shudder.

  “I gave him everything,” I choke out, “and he threw me away like I was trash.”

  She blinks a few times, and cocks her head to the side. “I thought… I was under the impression he was your stepbrother.”

  “He was. Is. Is he still my stepbrother if his mother is dead? I don’t even know. It wasn’t like that. We first met when I was eighteen. I’d just finished high school.”

  “How did you meet?”

  “My father was dating his mother. When it got serious he brought me to meet her. He was here, of course. It’s his house.”

  Not was. Is.

  This is not my place. I wish I knew where my place was.

  “That sounds like a cute way to meet.”

  “Our parents got married.”

  “So? It’s not as if you grew up together.”