by Ian Hiatt
I nudge the door with the barrel of my gun, the hinges creaking as it swings open.
The disarray that just about bursts from Malcolm’s once pristine apartment is all too apparent. Being a master―former master―of bringing about “accidental” deaths, I see every detail that lead to the scene before me.
The kitchen was torn apart, marble countertops broken out of anger rather than need. Drawers thrown off their tracks, silver―real silver―utensils thrown. The ones that weren’t used for other purposes.
Thomas steps in behind me, without my signal―something he’ll have to learn to watch for.
“Shit,” he mutters.
The fridge has been opened, frozen food scattered about the room. Pricey gelato that Malcolm likely had specially shipped from whatever country makes the best kind. I’m not a dessert connoisseur. When the intruder didn’t find what they were looking for, they pulled the fridge away from the wall.
A quick scan of the apartment tells me we’re alone, and I wander into the living room, still clutching my gun in case I’m wrong. The furniture, elegant leather, has been torn apart, thrown aside. The bookshelf that held tomes of questionable content based on the covers I see lying scattered over the floor has been pushed away from the wall and broken into pieces. The bedroom beyond has been likewise searched, mattress flipped and slashed, drawers torn open, and clothes tossed aside. I move to the closet. The safe that I knew was hidden behind his shelves has been opened. The money inside has been torn into, but left.
“I think he’s…” Thomas says behind me. “I think it was the same person.”
I finally lower my gun and walk back to the living room to the crime that likely occurred first. Duct-taped to a beautiful wood carved kitchen chair is my broker, Malcolm. He’s naked, his body covered in slashes so deep they must have carved bone once or twice. The floor encircling him is sticky with blood, and from what I can tell, each of his fingers has been broken―individually.
“They came here looking for me,” I say to Thomas.
Thomas looks over my broker. Former broker. “I don’t think your apartment is going to be safe anymore. Can’t blame the guy for giving you up.”
“He didn’t.” I find myself smiling at my poor broker’s loyalty. “But you’re still right.”
“They tortured him, Layla. He probably gave you up.”
I gesture around the apartment. “Then why search the apartment? If they got my location from him, they wouldn’t have had to do this.”
Thomas glances around and hangs his head. “Right. But if he didn’t give you up…?”
“They must have found something. Otherwise they’d be waiting here for me.” I struggle to pull Malcolm’s eyelids down. His eyes, much like the countless Donahue lackeys and the Old Man himself, are black with tar-like blood.
The siren’s kiss.
“Don’t ever kiss anyone other than your mother…”
“Why?”
My mother held my hand. The full extent of her affection toward her only child. Even the six-year-old Layla could tell she was undecided about speaking.
“Remember how I told you it’s most important that your playtime be accidents? How no one can tell it was you who killed someone?”
I nod, gleeful at being able to answer. “So I don’t get caught!”
My mother smiles. “That’s right, Layla. You need to escape every time. But if you kiss someone…”
Like a dutiful student and eager daughter, I tug on my mother’s hand, wanting more.
“You’ll kill them, but it will be very obvious that it was you. Humans cannot take a siren’s kiss. It’s a poison, sweetie.”
I try to understand, but the only kisses I’ve ever seen have been on television that I sneak when my mother is out working.
She’s frustrated with my naivety, but tries to go on. “Your lips will infect a normal human. They will be a poison, and it will mean you will get caught. They’ll be able to hunt you down. Promise Mommy you’ll never kiss anyone.”
I do. I’m happy to please her.
“That’s a good girl.” My mother hugs me, and I feel so warm at this.
“Layla.” Thomas shakes me, snapping me back to the moment. “Layla, we should get out of here.”
“Right.” I grab a dish towel and wipe Malcolm’s blood from my fingers. “Sorry, Mal. Rest in peace.”
Thomas attempts to close the door behind us, but gives up quickly. “So where should we go?”
“The only place we can at a time like this.”
When we get there, I order my bourbon. Thomas orders a soda. He was bound to disappoint me eventually.
’m nursing my drink at the farthest corner of the bar, far from the door, hood pulled down. The Old Haunt is a favorite watering hole of mine. The barkeep, apart from being a burly Scot of two hundred or so pounds, is gay. He doesn’t seem to know it, but the first time I made a kill on my own, I stumbled in to take some of the edge off. Being so green to the job, I left myself in the same getup that I had to use to make my first hit. Some wise guy was running drugs on the Westside and someone―probably Pete Dawson himself―wanted that to end. The punk, fresh off the boat from across the big pond, was into the ditzy co-ed look.
A handful of college guys, stumbling in from a study session for Saint Roch University’s legendary finals weeks, came at me. The barkeep, Bran, handled them quite deftly and threw them out. Literally. Out of sight, out of mind, they wandered off bruised and cowed. Bran gave me a drink on the house to ease my nerves and recommended I not go out wearing such skimpy clothing on this side of town. Ever since then my first drink has been free, and the small talk between us has been warm.
“You sure this guy ain’t givin’ ya trouble, Layla?” Bran asks, wiping down the bar in front of Thomas even though the wood is spotless. He makes sure to inconvenience the poor boy as much as possible, and Thomas lifts his glass of soda so the man can continue his pointless wiping.
I nod beneath my hood. “He’s okay. I promise, Bran.”
Face covered by a thick red beard that’s more tangled than a spider’s nest, Bran nods and makes a gruff noise in Thomas’s direction. He stalks off, taking a few orders from regulars who know far better than to even glance in my direction. Bran’s broken knuckles for less.
“Friendly guy,” Thomas says.
“I think he used to have a daughter. Only way I can figure he likes me.” I take a swig from my glass, the cool whiskey burning all the way down.
Thomas nods. “So what do we do?” He takes a similar sip of his soda. I think he ordered a Sprite to the mutterings of “pussy” from Bran. It’s not like he’s trying to look more intense than he is, but I’m sure most of the other guys in the bar are willing to glance at him and think that.
I lean over the bar and grab a cocktail napkin and pen and slide them over to Thomas.
He holds the pen and napkin and looks at me. “Are we supposed to come up with our master plan with this?”
“Nope. We’re supposed to write our epitaphs. Make sure you only take up one side. I’ve got a lot I want to say on the back.” I take a drink and dump the lonely ice cubes in the nearby sink, then tap the glass on the bar for Bran, who smirks and comes by to fill it up without the rocks.
“So we’re back to just giving up? We might as well go back to your apartment so you can finish drowning yourself.” He chugs his soda and taps it on the bar. Bran sees it, rolls his eyes, and grabs a bottle from beneath the bar and sets it beside Thomas. He nods a vague thank-you, accepting that he’s not a badass.
“Might as well. Mom tried to do it years ago. Maybe she had it right.” I drink more.
In between his sips, Thomas sputters soda out onto the bar. “Are you serious?” The pitying look he gives me makes me want to vomit.
“Yep. Repressed memories are a bitch.” I finish my drink and tap the glass on the bar again. Bran trudges over and fixes me in the same pitying stare as Thomas.
“Hittin’ it hard tonight
, ain’t ya?”
“Been a rough day, Bran.” I peer up at him and try to smile. Despite my poor attempt, he gives a genuine grin back.
“You’ll get through it. Pretty girl like you can take o’er the world if she wants.” He pats my hand. “In spite of the company you keep.”
“Nonsense, Bran! This is Thomas.” I put an arm around the boy whose very life is the reason for my death.
Bran looks down at Thomas, who smiles sheepishly. “Hi, Bran.” He holds out his hand, and Bran looks at it like he’s being handed a raw fish.
“You get yourself into some trouble?” Bran asks me, ignoring the boy.
I stare down into my glass, only the barest stain of brown liquor sticking to the bottom. I slide it across the bar to him. “You could say that.”
His eyes pierce me; I know without looking up to meet them. He hesitates before tilting the bottle to my glass and filling it. It takes a great deal of alcohol to really hit me, and I’m desperate to hit that level tonight. Bran pushes the bottle aside toward Thomas, certain it’ll be safe there. He leans over and brings his face close to me.
“Is there anythin’ I can do?” It’s a whisper, and even through his husky voice and snarled beard, I can tell that he means it. I wrap my hand around the glass, grateful that it doesn’t carry the condensation cocktails and beers pick up. Instead, it only offers warmth when drunk.
I lift my stare to find his olive eyes peering out beneath cliffs of red brows. For a grizzled keep, he manages to look caring and protective of his favorite barfly. I let a smirk escape me for his benefit alone.
“Nah, Bran. I’m fine. Just a rough time of late.” I take a sip from my drink, woefully reserved.
Bran slips a hand over mine and pats. “You’ll come out on top.”
“Just the way I like it.” I wink and he bellows laughter, waving me off before snatching the whiskey from in front of Thomas who was busying himself reading the label. Attempting to look more traveled than he can hope to, Thomas grips his glass and follows my eyes, watching Bran attending to the other folks with no other respite from the world than a dive bar on the fringe of the Westside.
“Nice guy,” Thomas says, low. I only nod. “Could he have helped us?”
I shrug. Maybe. “He’s friends with Pete Dawson, I think.”
“The guy who owns that obnoxious house out in the Hills?” He audibly disapproves.
With a grin, I take another sip from my drink, deepening it when Bran turns away. “Figures you’d have a problem with him. Don’t even know the guy, do you?”
His turn to shrug indifferently. “Dad had him over once. I think he was pretty drunk by the end of the night.”
“Yeah, your dad owned some of the buildings around this side of town, right?”
“Probably,” Thomas admits. “Dad owned half the city. Mom used to joke he played Monopoly so much when he was a kid that he never stopped.”
“Well, I guess the business falls to you now, then.”
Thomas snickers. “Yeah, Dad would’ve loved that. The kid who wanted to study sea snails running his empire?” Thomas takes a chug of his drink like it’ll get him wasted like I’m attempting to do.
“Sea snails?”
“No. Probably not sea snails. I don’t know. Otters. Or whales, I guess.”
I snap my fingers toward Bran. He ignores a guy called One-Ball Wally―don’t ask―who is going on about the Yankees losing to the Drakes in the next game. He comes over and sets down a bottle of rum next to me. “What can I do for ya, beautiful?”
I smile. “You can hook my friend here up with a drink more befitting a man.”
Bran glances down at Thomas like he might be a flea plucked from his own beard.
Thomas, who looks to be clenching so he doesn’t empty his bladder at the gaze Bran gives him, stutters out a, “No. I’m fine, Layla. Really.”
Bran leans on one elbow toward me, looking Thomas over. “Hmmm. You know, Layla. I don’t believe your boy has been in this bar before.” His eyes roll up when he mentions Thomas as my boy.
I nod, knowing the direction this road trip is taking. “I’m pretty certain my boy hasn’t been in a bar, ever.”
Bran grins and grabs a stein from beneath the bar and slides a bottle of stout out from a fridge. He pops the cap off with his thumb and pours it into the glass. Thomas eyes him like a man kneeling over the block, watching the hooded man shine his beheading axe.
Bran sets the glass down, gathers a few bottles of liqueur from behind the bar, and adds them to a stunted shot glass.
“You ever drink an Irish Car Bomb?” I ask, surprised at how amused I am by the turn of events.
“I… um… I’ve had wine at my parents’ parties.” He’s watching Bran work his magic too closely to really pay attention to me.
“Well, Bran doesn’t much care for the original drink. The recipe or the name. So he likes to make a special drink for the college guys and newbies that come in the bar.”
Thomas nods, not hearing me.
I know the drink burns like hell on the way down, and the aftertaste leaves your tongue searing for quite a while after. Apart from the burning, the drink tastes phenomenal. But only if you can finish it all at once. I have no idea how Bran manages it, but he found the perfect drink to test a man.
Being one of the few women to grace the Old Haunt, I can attest to the wonderful brew. Finished it on my first try.
Bran comes back to Thomas, setting the stein down in front of him, murky and discolored. In his brutish hand, he holds a shot glass, separated at varying levels with the liqueur. “Now listen, boy. You’re gunna drop this here drink”—he puts the shot glass down next to Thomas, then clinks it into the stein—“into this here drink. And then you got to chug the whole lot down. You do that, and maybe I’ll let you buy the lady a drink.”
Bran takes a step back and watches Thomas stare between the two glasses, and his gaze darts to me. I can’t see myself in the mirror behind the bar, but I try to keep my face placid and unreadable to the poor boy as I grip my own glass.
“So if I stop drinking this”—Thomas holds up his soda—“and finish off these two, you’ll stop busting my balls?”
The look of vague shock and even vaguer approval flickers over the barkeep. “Well apparently the lamb’s got a bit of wolf in ‘im.” Bran nods to the drinks. “Ya drop the little in the big and drink it in one helpin’, boy. You do that, and we’ll see how busted your little balls will be, yeah?”
The poor boy looks to me, and all I do is watch him, genuinely curious if he’ll walk on the wild side. What with death searching the city for us.
That in itself seems to be enough for him to grab the shot glass and hold it over the stein, while his other hand, unsteady though it is, slips around the hefty mug. He takes a deep breath, and part of me―or maybe even all of me―hopes it’s for the oxygen more than the courage. The rest of the bar falls silent as they all turn to see what’s going on with Bran and She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Touched. Only the TV, playing highlights of the recent baseball game, makes noise, and even the announcers seem to have broken the fourth wall to watch.
Clink.
The shot glass drops before I realize it, and Thomas has lifted the drink as the liqueur mixes with the brew, chemistry classes I never attended making Bran’s concoction of amazing flavor or vile illness. It all depends on how many seconds you hesitate, letting the drink mix and turn sour as liquor gets too friendly with beer.
Thomas, the champ that he wants to be, is chugging for all he’s worth, tilting the mug higher and higher. Despite his efforts, a few trickles of the drink escape and slip over his lips to the floor. Even I had the same result. But he drinks. And drinks. And drinks. The barflies’ dull gazes follow the mug to the ceiling. Bran’s impress is mounting, but I can only tell this through my periphery. Because I can’t help but watch Thomas guzzle the drink with earnest I’ve never seen, certainly not in myself.
There’s no paycheck at the bottom of t
hat drink. No job to complete. Nothing really.
Except he can buy a drink for the girl.
He slams a hand to the bar top as he tilts the stein farther back, bringing it almost vertical as the last few gulps of booze fall into his mouth. With a hearty gasp, he brings the stein back down, nothing but froth clinging to the glass. Thomas stands up, sliding the barstool back as he breathes heavy. His eyes are wide as he takes a deep inhalation and stifles a burp as the drink mixes even further in his stomach.
He shakes his head, and I remember chasing the same high he’s riding now. Flavors of insane spectrum ends swirling to taste horrid and wonderful at the same instant. The alcohol is the secondary cause of intoxication when it comes to Bran’s drink-making abilities.
Bran lets out a deep chuckle and shakes his head. “Ya may be a pup of a boy, but I don’t think I could put a dent in them brass ones you got knocking down there.”
Thomas nods as he regains some composure and circles his hand. In a raspy voice he says, “A round for the house.”
One-Ball Wally cheers at this. A few of the other frequent fliers tip their mugs and bottles to Thomas or nod in appreciation and just a touch of disbelief. The rest ignore him and simply slide their empties forward.
Thomas stumbles back to his chair and slides it forward before climbing aboard. Bran, somewhat more subdued now, holds his hand out to Thomas. The handshake is weak on “my boy’s” part. In his defense, it’s likely more out of delirium than an actual lack of strength. His voice clearer and eyes only hinting at watering―the slight bit of chili powder in the drink finally hitting him―he speaks a little louder now.
“Bring her the bottle.” He glances at me, and I can’t tell whether his eyes are showing me admiration or pity. “She needs it.”
Bran sighs and nods. “Ya got me there, boy. Never said how many drinks after the first you could buy the girl.”
I smirk and look up to the Scot as my face slides down my hand and I give him puppy dog eyes. He picks up my favorite bottle and sets it in front of me.
