by Naomi West
“Hey, Ivy?” Josh asked, just as I started gathering up my stuff from dinner to go back to my motel room.
“Yes, Josh?”
The kid clutched the covers to his chin, his little face a screwed up. “Will you stay until I fall asleep?”
“Of course I will, kiddo,” I whispered, trying to swallow the tears that pricked the corners of my eyes. He’d sounded so lost and brittle. “I’ll sit here and watch TV until you’re sleeping. Deal?”
The little dark-haired boy nodded, a smile on his face. “Thanks, Ivy.”
“No problem, Josh.”
So I sat down on the edge of the bed and stayed until he could no longer keep his dark eyes open anymore.
Chapter Ten
Creed
Trouble was brewing.
I could feel it more than see it; there was something in the way the dealers were talking circles, the way they wouldn’t quite look me in the eye. They were hiding something, and I didn’t like it.
“So, are you going to tell me what I want to hear, Donovin, or are we going to have start over from the beginning?” I asked, pointing to the black eye that was already darkening on his ugly mug. Donovin looked like a bulldog decided to stand up and wear clothes that didn’t fit. He even had the jowls for it.
“Sorry, man, s-sorry. I- I- I--” Donovin stuttered over his sentence, his mouth moving faster than his drug-addled brain could keep up. He was a shining example why you weren’t supposed to play with your own product; there was a chance you could end up on the other end of the transactions. “There’s just talk. Talk that Devil’s Edge is making- make- ma-ma--” he said, then swallowed hard. His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat like a bouncy ball. “Making! Bad deals. Real bad ones. Cartels and heroin with a capital H. Bad- bad- bad new- news.”
I stared down at Donovin as he wiped the dribble of blood that had slipped out between his lips. “What are people saying about it, Donovin?” I asked, my patience with his wandering eyes and stuttering growing thin. I needed answers and this guy needed rehab. Badly.
“They are thinking of hitting b-b-back real hard. Hard. The word on the street is there’s an unwritten agreement. You know, no big men. No big deals. N-n-no, you know,” Donovin said, scratching the skin off of his arm without noticing. Long, red marks appeared on his arm, filling slowly with blood.
“Hitting back,” I repeated, my stomach dropping down into my feet. We’ve always all agreed to keep the cartels out. Keep them out of our territory to keep things safer around here. The gangs in this part of town have always had tentative peace of sorts. If our goal was to have the others getting together to fight against us, then Kelly has succeeded.
I pushed Donovin back against the brick wall behind him. “You need to get cleaned up, man. Find yourself a hospital or something and get cleaned up, before it’s too late.”
I turned and walked away, every step as though I was walking across broken glass. This deal and Kelly’s pride were going to get us all killed. The cartel would be here before I could do anything to stop it. There would be contracts signed in blood, and I, recently demoted to street sweeper from security, would be able to do nothing to stop its destructive momentum.
And it’s Ivy’s fault I got demoted. If I was being completely honest with myself, Ivy had nothing to do with the fight in the diner that got me into so much trouble. Not a single thing. But I didn’t want to be honest with myself; it would bring up too many questions I didn’t have answers to. Questions about why I’d risked my position and being caught by the cops for her.
I put my hands in my pockets as I walked away from the alley where I’d left Donovin. The air was getting progressively colder, running from autumn into winter faster than I could deal with. I hated the cold. My fingertips felt frozen as I started down Fifth Avenue, huddling under my black leather jacket. The skies were thick with gray clouds, the rainwater that still sat in the streets slowly turning to ice. I headed back to the corner where I’d parked my bike. Fifth was the place where all of the riffraff gathered; when one wanted to find a hooker or some drugs, they came here. It was where I came for information.
And the information I’d found today wasn’t good news.
Revving up my bike, I mounted up, glancing around to take note of all of the cars around me without thinking. Then I was off, cruising down the street at exactly the speed limit. I had too much to do today to risk a run-in with the cops; even a simple speeding ticket could be a disaster. This cartel deal needs to stop. Kelly needs to be stopped.
It was a mutinous thought, but it was the only course of action that would save the Devil’s Edge. It was either stop the Boss or be crushed between the wall of Kelly’s pride and the grinding stone that was the clans that surrounded us.
I hurried back to the Devil’s Edge, taking a long, meandering route. Once I was sure no one was following me, I sped up a little, my bike pointed like a beacon toward the Edge’s hideout.
The old warehouse looked smaller on the outside than it actually was inside; it was a sort of optical illusion the Boss’s previous Boss had worked hard to achieve. It needed to look as little like a hideout as possible. It was a short, metal structure with few windows and even fewer doors (that could be seen from the outside, at least). It was a safe structure; there was nothing to set fire to on the outside that would burn, which I liked, and the walls were filled with steel beams. The building was nearly impenetrable to everything but explosions.
I slid up to the hidden door along the eastern wall and knocked, walking my bike with me into the darkness of the inside.
“What’s up, Creed,” someone in the dark said as a greeting. “The Boss is out, but Patrick is in; he’s taking reports if you’ve got anything.”
Some of the tension in my shoulders loosened. If I could bring it up to the second-in-command instead of right to the Boss, I might get a bit of a better reaction than if I went through an intermediary. Patrick would know how to bring this to Kelly. I don’t think the Boss wants to hear anything I have to say right now anyway; he’s still mad about that fight in the diner…
Patrick was in his “office.” It was towards the back of the giant warehouse structure, a little partitioned-off section of the hideout that was filled to the brim with welding tools and large pieces of steel. Patrick was a very interesting man; he was old enough to be my father and then some. Patrick had seen some things in his long life. He was one of the few guys who could pull off the clean-shaven look and still as look grizzled and tough as a cheap steak.
He stood up from his crouch near a particularly tricky-looking piece of art he was constructing. Patrick’s job around this place was mostly to make replacement parts for the bike on top of his second-in-command duties; however, in his spare time, he would make sculptures of metal and glass melded together to look like animals and people. A statue of a wolf stood in front of him, the paws and head still separate from the body. It was beautiful, more beautiful than anything I had ever seen, and I stared at the pieces in awe for a few silent moments.
“You look like someone spit in your cereal, boy,” Patrick said after a minute without even looking behind him. His voice was muffled by his welding helmet, but it still sounded rough like sandpaper and severe as heart disease.
“I think someone has,” I answered, sitting down on one of the benches nearby. Patrick pulled off his helmet, his salt-and-pepper hair tumbling in sweat-stained curls down to his shoulders. His tanned face was wrinkled and rough, interrupted with hard-looking white lines of cuts and fights long past. I started to tell him about the news I’d found on the streets around Fifth Avenue, giving him names and specifics. The news wasn’t good. A grim sort of picture built up in my mind as I continued, giving Patrick all of the information I’d dredged out of the cesspool that was Fifth. “Overall, the news isn’t good. There’s a lot of whisperings of a hit here; the other clans aren’t looking kindly at the Boss breaking faith with them. Our oath is our bond, and they have a notion that Kelly’s dea
ls with the devil are breaking that oath.” I shrugged, trying not to sound too opinionated on the subject. “I don’t know about all that, but I do know trouble is coming; the Boss is stirring up a hurricane with his deals, and I’m not sure we’re quite equipped to handle whatever is coming.”
Patrick sighed. There was no one in the immediate area to hear us talk, but he lowered his smoker’s voice anyway, his black eyes narrowing. “Do you think this deal with the Cartel is a good idea, Creed?” he asked, his gaze staring into my eyes, unblinking. I fidgeted a little under that gaze.
“I’m not sure I have the authority to have an opinion about it, Patrick,” I answered carefully. I’d already been demoted once today; another reprimand would draw all sorts of unwanted attention my way.
He chuckled darkly, crossing his big arms over his chest as he leaned back on the heavy work table in his office. “So eloquently spoken; you spend too much time trying to avoid trouble.”
“I have my family name to thank for that,” I snapped back, my eyes blazing. “My father being a troublemaker got him murdered. The apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree, and I’m being watched all the time.”
Patrick pursed his lips as he nodded. “You’re probably right. Hello, Poppy.” Patrick’s gaze slid from mine, coming to rest on something behind me. Everything in him softened for a second, his eyes warming.
Glancing back, I saw the object that had drawn his attention. Pearl. Pearl had been with the gang since I could remember. She was pretty in a way most women that ran with the pack couldn’t look after so many years. The strain and stresses of being with a gang hadn’t left a mark on her pretty, clear-skinned face. Her tattoos were freshly re-inked, making sure the ink didn’t bleed and fade. Even her white-blonde hair was still as white as snow instead of tinting yellow around the edges. I had no idea how old Pearl was, but she was older than me and much younger than Patrick. But that didn’t stop them from partnering up for life.
Pearl stepped past me with a wink and a grin, going to wrap her thin body around Patrick’s like a snake. “With expressions like those, you must be speaking of this cartel nonsense,” Pearl whispered, her expression full of contempt. “It’s a fool’s contract, for sure. This is not going to end well for any of us.”
Patrick sighed, wrapping his right arm around her waist. “I don’t know, Poppy; the revenue will significantly increase the legitimate front of the Devil’s Edge. It might just be the last financial push we need to get us making enough money to go straight. If we survive all of the dust-ups with the rest of the clans, as soon as Kelly’s out of the picture.”
I snorted. “That old man will never die, Patrick. Not unless we get fed up with his bullshit and put two into his brain.”
“Not a bad thought,” Pearl said, her face a little serene considering she was talking about murder.
We were all silent for a second, all of us trapped inside of our own thoughts. But then Patrick seemed to shake himself out of it, returning his grave attention to me. “So what is this I hear about you getting demoted for starting a bar fight for some waitress’s honor?”
“Is that the story they are spreading around?” I rolled my eyes. “What a joke.”
“Well, you did get demoted, Creed. And it was a fight, wasn’t it? What happened?” Pearl’s sky-blue eyes watched him curiously. “Who is the waitress?”
“She’s my babysitter for the brat; my next door neighbor,” I answered reluctantly, not wanting to get into this particular conversation. “She worked at the diner we trashed.”
Patrick and Pearl exchanged looks, then turned back to me. I got an uneasy feeling my gut as they studied me closer. “This girl, is she pretty?”
“What’s that got to do with anything?” I answered, irritated. All of those questions I’d been trying to avoid asking myself were coming back again, circling the edges of my thoughts, waiting to be recognized. I really didn't like where this was going.
The smile on Pearl’s face made my shoulders tense. “Shit, Creed, she must be very pretty then.”
“She is pretty, but that’s not the point. The dicks were pushing it like the owned the place, screaming while Ivy was trying to take our orders and all. We took exception to their attitudes and we let them know how we felt about it.” My teeth were grinding together as I told them. The retelling was just reminding me of how fucking pissed I’d been at those guys; it had been a pleasure to knock the shit out of that bearded prick with the attitude. “Ivy just happened to be in the middle of it. We trashed the place and ended up getting her fired. It was bad luck, a bad move. I was just so goddamn pissed.”
Pearl made a face, her eyebrows lifting up into her hairline. “This Ivy, she something special?” I knew she was teasing me, but I still hated it. Hated the implication that I had somehow attached myself to that weak woman.
I shook my head. I didn’t want to think about this. I didn’t want to think about Ivy at all.
My mind, however, had other ideas.
Chapter Eleven
Ivy
So this is what insanity feels like. I frowned at Josh, wondering how such a small set of lungs can make so much noise. I should have bought a toddler leash to keep this kid contained.
“Look, Josh. You refused to go to school, so now you have to come with me to the grocery store.” I glanced down at him, where the kid had collapsed onto the floor, throwing a Texas-sized tantrum.
“I hate grocery shopping,” he retorted, his eyebrows knitted together as he crossed his arms over his chest. He looked like he was trying to imitate his dad, but he was too cute and small to intimidate anyone that way. You don’t want to be your dad anyway, kiddo.
I shrugged. “That’s not my problem. I gave you two choices and you refused to go to school, so now you’re stuck with me. I’m just doing my job. And if you don’t get to your feet, not only will we not make dinner together, but we’ll also never leave here.” I took a deep breath, trying not to show my irritation. “I’ll stand right on this spot until the damn store closes at midnight if I have to.”
Josh made some long, groaning noises in the back of his throat, which I very pointedly ignored. So he made them louder, and I still ignored him, much to his chagrin. I started down the aisle, holding a grocery basket over my arm. It was an old-fashioned, handmade thing. I’d forgotten the story about it, but I knew it was something my mother had cherished deeply as something passed down from her mother. It was one of the few things that survived the purging of all of my stuff when I was forced to move out of my apartment. I’d lost nearly everything with the exception of some clothing, a few photos, and this basket that I carried all of those things away in.
I started down the aisle, eyeing some boxes of pasta noodles and cans of beans. Everything should be as preserved as possible; canned and dried when possible. I can’t afford to take us down to the grocery store more than once every two weeks at these bus fare prices.
Creed had handed me a twenty for groceries, and I knew that wouldn’t last long. I hunted the clearance aisles for the best deals, picking up a few essentials for me and the kid. After a few moments of me ignoring him, Josh decided to pick himself up off of the floor and follow in sullen silence. He kicked at imaginary dust on the floor, his little, torn sneakers leaving little scuffs of black across the dirty white tiles of the grocery store. I glanced back at him, watching as he stared at the floor, stubborn and sulky.
“So, why do you hate grocery stores so much?” I asked, my curiosity getting the better of me. Asking Josh questions wasn’t really a good idea; the poor kid seemed as unwilling to chat about himself as I was to talk about my own past. But I couldn’t help it. I wanted to know everything about Creed, about him, about his life. What was it that made these two so fascinating?
Josh cleared his throat, and I was pretty sure he wasn’t going to answer. We walked down the cookies and crackers aisle, and I eyed all of the things I used to eat. My mouth watered a little as I passed by some incredibly delicious looking
boxes of cookies, but they were out of my price range. For the cost of that box, I could get flour, sugar, butter, eggs, and everything else I would need to make seven boxes of those cookies.
Too bad I didn’t have the money.
I had almost forgotten that I’d asked Josh a question by the time he finally answered. “I don’t like them because my mom used to drag me to them when I was little,” he answered, his voice cracking with unhappiness. My heart twisted hard in my chest at the sound of his pain. “I don’t remember it real well; I don’t remember her much either. But I remember her being drunk and drugged and crazy. She would- Well, I guess it doesn’t matter anymore. She’s dead anyway.”
I glanced back over my shoulder at the little boy, forced to grow up too soon. He looked so young in his torn cargo shorts and shirts. I wanted to comfort him, but I didn’t even know where to start. And Josh didn’t really seem like the hugging type.
So I did the only thing I knew how to do. Turning, I knelt down to put my face level with his. Josh’s face twisted like he wasn’t sure what to make of this new development. “I’m sorry, Josh. I won’t bring up the subject of your mom again if you don’t want me to. But if you want to talk about her or anything else, I will always listen. Okay?”
