Menace

by J. M. Darhower

  “Now proper protocol is you knock,” I tell him. “If the door is open, knock on the doorframe. It’s not that hard. Go ahead, try it.”

  He still seems confused, like he’s not grasping it, like maybe I assumed he had balls when the guy is just recklessly stupid. After a second, he raises his fist and taps on the wood beside him.

  “Good boy,” I say. “Now, what do you want?”

  “You, uh… you told me to come.”

  “Because I assumed you wanted something.”

  “I delivered your counter offer to my boss,” he says. “Figured you’d want to know.”

  “My counter offer? Refresh my memory…”

  “You said for him to suck your cock.”

  “Oh.” I laugh. I did, didn’t I? Huh. Didn’t expect him to actually relay that message. Amello still let him live after that? “And what did your boss have to say?”

  “He declined.”

  “Figures,” I say, spreading my legs out, slouching. “Pity, though. Bet he sucks good cock. Probably does it enough, you know, practice makes perfect and all that. Guess you’ll just have to do it in his place. You spend much time on your knees for him, Ricky? Or do you prefer to just bend over and let him fuck you for a bit?”

  Ricardo stands there, gaping at me, like he’s trying to figure out whether or not I’m being serious. He swallows thickly, Adam’s apple bobbing, and I cock at eyebrow, purposely being dramatic about it.

  “I don’t,” he starts, pausing before saying, “I mean, I’m not…”

  “Come on, spit it out.”

  “Or just swallow it,” Seven jokes.

  I laugh. “That’s probably a better idea. You should be grateful for every drop.”

  Ricardo takes a deep breath. “I’m not gay.”

  “Neither am I,” I say, “and neither is Seven, for that matter, but he’d suck it if I asked him. Wouldn’t you, Seven?”

  “Absolutely,” Seven says. “Anything you ask.”

  Lucky for Seven, I respect him enough not to ever ask that of him. I respect his personal boundaries, because he commands it. He doesn’t just demand it, like some whiny brat with a big mouth that needs something shoved in it. He carries himself like someone to respect. But still, he’d do it if I ever asked him to, because I command respect, too.

  This guy, though, he’s got balls, but they might be too big if instead of getting on his knees and saying ‘yes, please’ he’s hesitating like a little bitch.

  “Come in,” I tell the guy. “Leave us, Seven.”

  Seven nods before walking off. Ricardo carefully steps into the library, his approach cautious, his gaze flickering all around. He pauses, maybe two feet in front of me, unsure of what to do.

  “Tell me something,” I say, too exhausted to prolong this, as much as frazzling him amuses me. “Did you come because your boss has another grievance he wants to air? Or are you looking for a new job, considering what happened to your boss’s club, you know, since people went bang-bang-bang?”

  “I guess you could say that.”

  “You guess? Do you? Because I don’t. I don’t guess. Either you do or you don’t. Either you’re looking for a job or you’re not. If you don’t understand your own motivations enough to not have to take a fucking guess, then we’ve got a problem.”

  He stares at me. “I’m sure.”

  “Well, then.” I prop my feet up on the corner of the table, lacing my hands together at the back of my head. “Tell me about yourself, Ricky.”

  He starts babbling. I don’t know. I’m not paying the words any attention. I really don’t give a shit what the guy’s saying, don’t care how he’s framing himself, but his body language tells me everything. When you spend your life tiptoeing around psychopaths, you learn to listen to what’s going unspoken. He blinks too much, fidgeting, tinkering with the watch on his wrist, playing with the clasp. Not a Rolex, I notice, not that it makes a difference in this situation, but it means he’s either tasteless or broke as fuck, and either way, it sucks for him. Whatever he’s saying, he’s lying. Everything about him screams deception.

  Tapping echoes through the library just when I’m about to call him out on it. Seven stands there, yet again.

  “I thought I told you to leave us,” I say loudly, my voice cutting off Ricardo’s blubbering.

  “You did,” Seven says, “but somebody’s here.”

  “There are quite a few people here,” I say. “Me, you, Ricky… Pretty Boy is upstairs with Firecracker… and the rest of the guys, you know, Two through Six and Nine, they’re all around, but that doesn’t mean you should interrupt me when I’m in the middle of something.”

  “I mean somebody else.”

  “Who?”

  “A woman,” Seven says. “Young, brunette… I think it might be the one you were looking for.”

  “She’s here?”

  Seven nods. “She’s outside.”

  “Why haven’t you let her in?”

  “Because she hasn’t knocked,” he says. “She’s kind of just lurking, you know, looking around.”

  “Huh.” Dropping my feet down again, I stand up, strolling toward the doorway. I slap Ricardo on the shoulder, squeezing, before pushing him toward my chair. “Have a seat, I’ll be back.”

  Seven eyes the guy warily before following me into the hall. “I don’t trust that guy, boss.”

  “You probably shouldn’t,” I say, turning to him. “Where’d you last see her?”

  “She was out front,” he says. “Saw her lingering near the gate.”

  “Good.” I motion toward the library. “Keep an eye on him, will you? I’m going to go check on our other guest.”

  “Yes, boss.”

  Seven goes to the library as I make my way to the back of the house, opting to go out that way and make my way around. The air is frigid, dusk growing close. Sunset. My footsteps are silent, my combat boots squishing into the damp earth, the snow finally melting. I creep along the side of the house, pausing when I hit the front corner. I zero in on her, catching subtle movement in the bushes. She’s squatting down beneath the living room window, completely cloaked in black—sweats, hoodie, and sneakers.

  She’s watching through the window, watching my men as they do what they do, so consumed by whatever she sees inside that she doesn’t sense me approaching. I pause behind her, watching her as she watches them.

  It’s like the Inception of fucking spying here.

  I try to wait her out, but she proves to be patient. Minutes tick away. Tick. Tick. Tick. As much as I’d love to stand here forever, it’s getting dark, and it’s too damn cold for this nonsense.

  “Are you going to come inside or what?”

  As soon as my voice rings out, she tries to turn, caught off guard, but she loses her balance, planting right into the bushes on her ass. “Shit.”

  I laugh as she scrambles to get to her feet. She quickly moves away from the window, away from the house, keeping some distance between us. The woman is sly, without a doubt... so sly Seven’s the only one who noticed her, the rest of my men oblivious, but still, she’s a bit wet behind the ears.

  Eyeing me warily, she shoves her hands in her hoodie pocket and says nothing, not answering my question, like maybe she doesn’t have a response for it.

  “Well?”

  Still no answer.

  Just a blank stare.

  “Fine.” I turn to leave. “Stay out here.”

  I only make it a few steps before her quiet voice says, “You’ve got a white picket fence.”

  That stalls me. I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s the words. Maybe it’s her tone. Something about it makes me turn back around. She’s still just standing there, eyes past me, gaze trailing the fence along the property.

  “What did you expect, barbed wire?”

  “I don’t know,” she admits, looking at me again. “Just not a picket fence.”

  She seems almost in awe about it, but it’s a fence. Just a fucking fence. I get the feeli
ng, at the moment, that it means something more to her. But it’s too cold for me to riddle that out, too cold to be metaphorical.

  “Come on.” I don’t ask this time. “Come inside with me.”

  I head for the front door. She hesitates, eyes trailing me, before she finally follows without argument. The moment I open the door, the noise inside grows quiet, the little party in the living room coming to an abrupt halt as my men are on guard. Intruders.

  “Put your dicks away, fellas,” I say when guns are drawn, aimed my way in alarm. The ‘no bullets’ rule doesn’t apply to them, either, but times like this I think it ought to.

  They lower them so fast it’s damn near comical, eyes bugging out like it’s the fucking Looney Tunes.

  A haze of smoke lingers in the room, the woodsy, musky scent strong in the air. Half-empty bottles of liquor are scattered over the coffee table. Strolling over, I snatch up a bottle of rum, taking a swig straight from it before pointing to Scarlet.

  “Fellas, this is Scarlet. Scarlet, this is Two through Six, and Nine.”

  She blinks a few times but says nothing as the men mumble awkward greetings, like the motherfuckers have never met a woman before.

  I walk back out, still clutching the bottle, and Scarlet follows me into the hallway. “You numbered them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I imagine the same reason the Cat in the Hat called his little friends Thing One and Thing Two.”

  “Which is why?”

  I shrug. “Who knows? It sounded good.”

  “Oh-kay.” She doesn’t sound convinced. “But what happened to One? Or, like, Seven?”

  I stall in front of Seven, who lurks in front of the library, perking up at the sound of his name.

  “Seven,” I tell her, pointing at Seven with my liquor bottle. “One is gone, as are Eight and Ten, but Seven here is worth a dozen men alone, so I haven’t felt the need to replace them.”

  Scarlet gives me a peculiar look, like none of this is making sense to her.

  “Is this some memory thing, like your brain is wired wrong?” she asks. “Or are you just that much of an asshole?”

  That makes me laugh.

  Seven, on the other hand, tenses.

  Afraid I’m going to kill her, probably.

  Mormon, remember?

  He’s still got a few morals left.

  “Probably a bit of both,” I admit, slapping Seven on the back, wordlessly telling him to relax. If I were going to kill her, I would’ve done it when she robbed me, or when she pulled a knife on me… twice. Sticks and stones. Words from her sleek lips, no matter how bitter, are definitely going to go down smoother.

  Moving past him, I step into the library doorway, seeing Ricardo still sitting there, exactly where I left him.

  “Up,” I say, snapping my finger, motioning for him to vacate my chair. He springs to his feet, his gaze finding Scarlet.

  She walks into the room right behind me, cursing under her breath. “Shit.”

  She regards the guy like a deer caught in headlights and he looks at her like... well, like something he wants to eat. Uh-oh. I admit it, yeah, the woman is delectable, but I’m the big bad wolf in these woods, and he’s going to leave my Red Riding Hood alone.

  I motion between them as I drop back down in my chair. “I assume you two know each other.”

  “I’ve seen her around,” Ricardo says. “One of Amello’s whores.”

  Scarlet makes a face but says nothing, skirting around the guy, giving him a wide berth as she makes her way to where I’m sitting. She’s uncomfortable around him, which means she’s got decent intuition.

  “You drink, Ricky?” I ask, motioning toward him with my liquor bottle. “Smoke a little bit, maybe?”

  “A bit,” he says.

  “Go fix yourself a drink,” I say. “Hang out a while, get to know my guys. They’ll make you feel at home. I have some business to take care of here. I’ll come for you when I’m done.”

  He nods in acknowledgment, casting Scarlet a look before disappearing into the hallway. He seems to want to gut her. Huh. Seven trails our visitor right away to the living room.

  Scarlet watches them before turning to me. “What, Slick Rick doesn’t get a number?”

  “Slick Rick?” I laugh. “I’ll have to remember that one.”

  “You know he works for George Amello, right?”

  “Yep.”

  “He’s the one George ordered to kill you,” she says. “He’s supposed to send a message by eliminating you.”

  “Yeah, I figured that much,” I say, kicking my feet up on the table as I lounge back in the chair. She looks concerned, like she’s worried for my well-being. It’s cute. Real cute. “So tell me, Scarlet, you come here to kill me, too? Because if so, you might want to come back later, since he beat you to it tonight. You’ll have to wait your turn.”

  She blinks at me like I’ve lost my mind. Hell, maybe I have. “Are you insane?”

  “Potentially,” I say. “You?”

  “Am I insane?”

  I nod.

  “I’m starting to feel like it,” she mutters, running her hands down her face. “The fact that I thought it was a good idea to come here tells me I probably am.”

  “You come to take me up on my offer?”

  Hesitating, she approaches the table, glancing down at the puzzle. Her eyes meticulously scan the beginnings of the art, but she doesn’t touch any of the pieces, keeping her hands to herself.

  “Did you know Michelangelo never wanted to paint this?” she asks after a moment. “The pope didn’t give him much of a choice. He spent so many hours on his back, struggling, suffering, the conditions so toxic it made him sick. He spent the rest of his life walking with a limp because of it.”

  “No, I didn’t know that,” I say, “but I did notice you’re avoiding my question.”

  She smiles softly, still gazing at the puzzle. “I know how that feels, having someone powerful controlling you, dictating what you do. But Michelangelo, he got his revenge. The whole thing is filled with blasphemy.”

  “I bet,” I say. “Now answer my question.”

  “Yes.”

  That’s all she says. Yes.

  “You’re taking me up on my offer?”

  “Pretty sure that’s what yes means.”

  I grin. “So, what I’m hearing here is that you want revenge on the asshole who controlled you… although, I’m guessing the Aristotle prick didn’t make you paint a church. What did he do?”

  “He stole from me.”

  “Stole what?”

  “Everything,” she whispers, “but mostly my innocence. He took away everything good in my world, he stole it from me, everything I loved, and he tried so hard to snuff out every bit of light in my life, to make sure I never felt the sunshine again, and he did it, he said, for my own good, like that was what it meant to love somebody.”

  She turns to me, her expression passive, as those words run through my mind. For my own good. Yeah, I’ve heard that before.

  “That’s what makes him so cruel,” she continues. “I used to read all these fairy tales, and I just think about how fucked up it is to realize that heroes are make-believe but monsters are real. That’s the world we live in. There’s no knight in shining armor out there. It’s just me, trapped in a world filled with fire-breathing dragons, and that man is determined to burn me to a crisp.”

  “I knew a man like that once.”

  “What happened?”

  I drop my feet to the floor and stand up, studying her for a moment before saying, “My face happened.”

  I stroll over to the wall of bookshelves along the back of the room, mostly bare except a few scraggly books and some lock boxes. I pull out a set of keys from my pocket, wordlessly unlocking a small metal box, and grab the black silencer from inside. Pulling my gun from my waistband, I turn around.

  Scarlet is leaning back against the table, her hands shoved in her hoodie pocke
t again. Her gaze trails me, on guard, as I screw the silencer onto the Colt M1911.

  I check the gun, making sure it’s loaded. “So you like fairy tales, huh? You ever hear the story of The Juniper Tree?”

  “No.”

  “Stepmother doesn’t like her stepson, because he’s set to inherit the family fortune, so she beheads him and feeds him to his father before burying his bones beneath a juniper tree.”

  She stares at me. “And then what?”

  “That’s it.”

  “That can’t be it.”

  “Sometimes the stories are horrific, Scarlet. Just because you haven’t found some bullshit Prince Charming doesn’t mean fairy tales aren’t real. They’re just not always pretty pictures.”

  I walk out of the library, making my way to the living room. Seven lingers in the doorway, keeping an eye on our guest like I knew he would. The others lurk inside the room, laughing, joking. Ricky sits dead center of the couch, drinking straight from a bottle, hazy smoke surrounding him.

  Clearing my throat, I step into the room, drawing his attention. His smile quickly fades, something sparking in his eyes when he sees the gun in my hand.

  BANG.

  I don’t give him the chance to acknowledge what’s happening, don’t give him time to plead for his life, to try to shovel some bullshit, thinking I’m going to buy it.

  BANG.

  BANG.

  BANG.

  Back to back, I unload the bullets into him, suppressed but still loud enough for the noise to echo, merging with the sharp sound of his gurgling scream. Bullets hit his chest, his stomach, and the couch beside him, nearly hitting one of my men before the final one slams the fucker right in the head.

  BANG.

  Blood splatters the white wall around the couch. Ricky slumps over onto Three, his body still twitching, heart no longer pumping. Three shoves him off, cursing, as he stands up, flailing his hands like a hysterical little bitch, his reaction making the others laugh.

  They laugh.

  Bunch of sick fucks, finding it funny that their friend is splattered with brain matter.

  I shake my head, shoving the gun at Seven, who takes it without question. White smoke surrounds us from the lube I use in the tube of the suppressor.

  I know there’s one hell of a sex joke in there somewhere, just begging to be made, but I don’t have time for it right now, because the air’s so thick the damn smoke detector starts screeching in the hallway, as if I’m not drawing enough attention.