Demonic Double Cross

by B Branin

  * * * * *

  It took me only fifteen minutes to catch a cab, get to the Bin and give a big enough tip to the cabbie to ensure that he hadn’t seen anyone matching my description. There was another cab in the nearly empty parking lot of the Bin and I could already spy Fiona waiting in the backseat.

  Before I go on any further, I must describe the Bin out of customer pride. Officially called the Booze Bin, you’d be hard pressed to find any watering hole as neglected and gritty without a condemned sign across the door. The squat, one story building was almost as pathetic as its service. The Bin provided watered down drinks, shitty food and as a result had hardly any clientele to speak of.

  How then, you might ask, does this dive stay open? Well that’s simple. For every major sporting, gambling and racing event, the Booze Bin would open up its basement and let hundreds of punters claw their way inside. The bar’s owner, known only as Frankie even to regulars like me, kept tabs and odds on every major score going. In a city as small as this, Frankie was a godsend for compulsive gamblers and a fairly nice guy…as far as bookies go.

  Anyway, I got out of my cab and stepped across the parking lot to the idle taxi, tapping on the back window and startling Fiona.

  “What do you want?!” She demanded through the window, tensing up as she stared at me.

  “Fiona, it’s me!” I said after a pause, realizing that she didn’t recognize me in my disguise (or completely sober).

  “…Mr. Broker?” Fiona replied, relaxing but also unable to keep the awe from her face, “You look…um…different.”

  “Yeah, that’s what happens when you don’t wanna be recognized.” I couldn’t help but smirk, once again pondering how such a nice and naïve young woman was caught up in such trouble, “Anyway, we need to talk. Like, now.”

  After paying the cabbie, Fiona followed me into the wreck that was the Booze Bin. Not only was the Booze Bin a low key, off-the-radar hideaway which I needed at the moment but I also considered the Bin one of the safest places in the world. Why was this crumbling hole-in-the-wall a safe house in my opinion? Well, because of the Twins.

  “Broker!” Two voices called out the moment I set foot in the Bin.

  The Twins sat in their usual spot at the end of the bar, looking completely at home in the rundown dive. Despite being known as the Twins, Kurt Noland and West Cross were as different in appearance as you could get. Kurt looked as if he were attempting to be the poster child for a biker gang. Standing at six feet even, he was more wiry than muscular and had most of his skin tattooed with whatever design sprang to mind. Even his head sported a classic Mohawk which furthered his bad-ass biker look. While his tattoos, piercings and hairstyle were strange, they still weren’t Kurt’s most unsettling feature. That honor belonged to his unnatural stillness. Not once have I seen the biker so much as cough, twitch or blink. Every move he made seemed precise and calculated a trait that was completely at odds with his appearance.

  Completing the duo was West and he could be summed up in a few words: Big, massive, huge, giant, enormous, gargantuan. Take your pick. Standing seven feet tall and tipping the scales at nearly four hundred pounds of mostly muscle, I swear that blind folks could see this juggernaut coming. Unlike his counterpart, West kept his black hair neatly trimmed and his leather-brown skin free of any tattoos. While being able to rip a car door right off its hinges (a feat I’ve witnessed several times), West didn’t give off an aura of brutality like many men of his stature. At all times the giant kept an amused smile on his lips and let his booming laughter ring out at the slightest provocation.

  So why are they known as the Twins? Well they might not look alike, but Kurt and West’s rap sheets were almost photo copies of each other. Each of them had a talent for destruction, a thirst for lawlessness and more than enough brass and skill to take what they want, when they wanted it. The Twins’ reputation for being reckless, dangerous and uncontrollable was so widely known that even Zotkin and his army of thugs gave them a wide berth.

  For the Twins, there is neither rhyme nor reason to their methods. Just madness and a trail of destruction that spanned fourteen states. Even hardcore outlaws and devious gangsters would never try anything that might incur the Twins nearly psychotic wrath. Over the years I’ve grown to appreciate and respect the Twins and their reputation, which is why I consider their stomping grounds a safe zone from anyone who might be looking to do me harm.

  A sense of relief flooded through me when I heard their voices. Being prone to wanderlust, you could never keep the Twins pinned down in one spot too long. However the police were giving the Twins extra attention because several gangbangers in the Docks had been hospitalized recently. With no apparent motive for the attack, the Twins were the usual (and only) suspects and weren’t allowed to leave town. Playing it as safe as they ever got, the Twins were now staying off the radar by limiting their activities to grand theft auto, loan sharking and the occasional firefight. Low key stuff considering they had once broke into prison on a drunken dare.

  Smiling, I guided Fiona across the bar to the back to make introductions.

  “Fiona Ambrose, allow me to present the Twins.” I announced once we arrived at their table, “Kurt and West. Guys, this is Miss Ambrose.”

  “Hello.” Fiona offered with a polite smile but couldn’t help asking the obvious question when meeting the not-in-anyway related Twins, “Why do they call you the Twins?”

  “Ask the ugly one.” I laughed, sitting down at the table.

  “Oh.” Fiona smiled awkwardly at my joke as she took a seat next to me.

  “He’s the ugly one.” Kurt and West replied at once, pointing at each other.

  I chuckled at Fiona’s apparent discomfort as she offered a polite laugh.

  “Haven’t seen you in a long time, Broker.” West pointed out, his voice like thunder rumbling in his barrel chest, “Thought Zotkin might finally have grown some balls and put you six feet under.”

  Fiona gave me a worried look that demanded an explanation.

  “An old friend of mine who thinks I owe him money,” I explained casually before giving the Twins a sharp look, “Gents, Miss Fiona here is a client. You know, the Paranormal Investigation services?”

  I had worked with the Twins enough that we’d cover for one another. If I said I had a client, it didn’t matter what business, the Twins would back me knowing a con was in the works. In return, if the Twins swung by my place unannounced at 3am, claiming they had been with me all night I would agree. I’d even have an airtight alibi ready for the cops when they eventually knocked on my door.

  That’s what friends were for, right?

  “Guys, I need to ask you a few quick questions,” I said, the unusually serious tone in my voice making them perk up, “Have you heard of any new players in the weight game? Someone who is moving or buying some serious product?”

  Though she shot me a worried look, Fiona was apparently getting a grip on the situation…and realized she did not want to be apart of this particular line of questioning. Instead, she busied herself by taking in the less-then-welcoming surroundings of the Bin. To her credit she didn’t shudder once which several other ladies of even less class might have done.

  “Naw,” West replied, leaning on the table which tilted towards him as it struggled to support his weight, “Just the usual pushers and takers. In fact, from the rumors I’d say that the game is a little slow. Every drug mule in the docks is bitching about bein’ broke.”

  The Twins weren’t drug users or drug peddlers in any way shape or form. They just happened to be in the know and occasionally were paid by rival pushers to go down and raise havoc at a warehouse or shipping yard. Some drugs ended up in the bay and the Twins got paid while sating their wanton lust for destruction. A win-win situation for everyone.

  I cursed in frustration, still not about to doubt my hunch about the crazy Daughters of All and my suspicions concerning their drug ties, “Keep your ears open okay?”

  “Man, what
have you got yourself into?” Kurt asked between sips of his beer, “Last time you looked this sick was when I had to dig that bullet outta yer back with my pocket knife.”

  That had been an experience I had desperately tried to forget and one Kurt always delighted in bringing up. Of course you couldn’t really tell when the biker was delighted or angry…few veteran poker players could rival Kurt’s placid features.

  “I’m not sure yet but I think it’s bad. Very bad.” I grumbled and sank back into my chair as the gravity of the situation sank in, “I’m praying it’s just my paranoia.”

  I should have known better. As soon as those words tumbled from my lips I got the tingling sensation crawling up my spine that always preceded trouble. I scratched at the back of my scalp and the Twins shared a knowing look. They had worked with me enough to know when I got a “vibe” as they put it. Hell my sixth sense for danger had saved their own asses plenty of times.

  “Oi! Broker!” Frankie called from behind the bar, waving the old corded phone in the air, “Someone wanting to chat at ya.”

  Frowning, I stood up and began to head for the counter. There were plenty of people who knew I frequented the Bin but none would have called the place looking for me. Despite Fiona’s frantic glance that seemed to beg me not to leave her alone with the Twins, I headed for the phone.

  “Hello?” I spoke into the phone, waving a thank you to Frankie who was cleaning a particularly filthy looking cup.

  “Mr. Broker?” Came a wheezing voice on the other line, “This is Mort Dawson, I saw that this number was listed on your emergency contacts so I called. I’ve been trying to reach you for the last half-hour.”

  It took a few minutes for the name to ring a bell. Mort was the old security guard at the office building. I vaguely remember giving him a list of contact information when I first got my office set up; one contact number was my apartment and the other was this bar…yeah, pathetic I know.

  “What’s the problem Mort?” I asked, feigning interest. I had a lot more pressing things to deal with than some old security guard who probably just now watched the tape of me beating down the two skinheads in the business parking lot last night.

  “We’ve had a break in sir,” Mort coughed, trying to sound as professional as he could without wheezing too much, “The thieves only hit your office and trashed the place. I was going to call the cops but wanted to call you first…”

  An icy hand wrapped around my heart, squeezing it and wringing out droplets of fear. No way would those two skinheads from the other day be in any condition to break into my office. Like I said, Zotkin had a way of punishing incompetent street trash. I glanced at my watch. It had been over an hour since I had entered Hell Scratch and about thirty minutes since my run in with that unhinged junkie. I had made sure no one had spotted me…save for that damn girl with the psychotic smile. I hadn’t left a name, a number or anything else that anyone could have traced back to me. Not even a FBI forensic team could have tracked me down this fast!

  First attacked in the alley and now my office was trashed? I had an enemy list a mile long but I wasn’t going start believing in coincidences. Not tonight. This had something to do with that club, that junkie and this damned cult. It had to!

  “Did you see who did it?” I asked, hoping the security cameras were worth half a damn.

  “It’s the strangest thing sir,” Mort coughed into the phone, “The tapes don’t show anyone entering or exiting the building. When I was doing the rounds I noticed your door was wide open…it wasn’t pretty. They even went so far as break your desk in two.”

  If I hadn’t known any better, I would have suspected that the old security guard was being paid off. It was ridiculous to think that someone could slip into my office unnoticed and destroy the place! But a wrecked office was quickly becoming the least of my worries. I thanked Mort and told him no police involvement was necessary, claiming it was probably the work of some religious nut who didn’t feel Paranormal Investigation was something God appreciated. He swallowed the lie because he didn’t want to explain to his boss how someone had managed to slip in completely undetected on his watch.

  I handed the phone back to Frankie and went to rejoin my client in a near stupor. This was getting out of hand faster than anything else I had ever been apart of! Not even the members of the Tong (A Chinatown gang who I had stolen from back in my teen years) had tracked me down in less than twenty-four hours and they had much more to go on!

  There was no doubt in my mind who the culprits. Crazy cult or not, the Daughters of All worked much faster than any bounty hunter or detective I’ve heard of. Worse of all, I was completely in the dark about…well, everything! The trashing of my office was the official marking of the point of no return. Somehow they had my name, meaning I had just unwittingly and unintentionally been thrown head first into whatever mess Fiona and her supposedly long dead sister had stirred up.

  When returning to the table, I placed a hand on Fiona’s shoulder. Looking up at me, she could tell that I wasn’t the bearer of any good news.

  “We’re in trouble.” I informed her and wasn’t sure whether I should be relieved or worried that she didn’t seemed all that surprised.

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