by Matt Rogers
‘Permanently?’
‘I don’t know. Probably not. This is all too fresh.’
‘No shit. You met him yesterday.’
‘And these next few weeks are going to be volatile. He killed his own dad, for Chrissakes. Accidentally, but still… I’m not even going to think about putting him in foster care before I’ve made sure he’s okay.’
King scratched the stubble along his jaw. ‘He won’t be okay.’
Slater hummed a low note, like maybe he agreed but didn’t want to say it.
King said, ‘He’s changed forever.’
‘No doubt. That’s undebatable. But it’s these few weeks that determine whether it scars him permanently or makes him better.’
Slater expected King to say, Better?! but King said nothing. Anyone else would. How could patricide do you any good in the long run, what with all the trauma it carried?
But King knew as well as Slater.
It’s the most brutal things that ever happen to you that show you what you’re made of. They either make you crumble, or forge you into steel.
Everything Slater had seen of Tyrell showed the boy was already made of steel.
But he still had to be sure.
King said, ‘This is a new chapter, huh?’
Slater shrugged. ‘We’re the same old dogs.’
The Bluetooth system in the Porsche had auto-connected to King’s phone, and Violetta’s name appeared on the console screen as the ringtone sounded through the speakers.
King smirked. ‘Yes we are.’ He answered. ‘That was quick.’
Her voice was soft and measured through the car speakers, but determined. ‘Did you expect anything less?’
‘What did you get?’
‘One of Hoffman’s colleagues had his phone wide open. No security whatsoever. I got straight into it. He’s getting drinks with Jaxson at the Cobbler Taproom at seven tonight. And if it’s useful to you in any way, half their text messages are about cocaine.’
King said, ‘Leave it with us.’
‘When do you think you’ll be home?’
‘You said they’re doing drinks at seven?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Eight, then.’
‘You’re not expecting resistance?’
King said, ‘That never matters.’
88
Jaxson Hoffman had a buzz before he got to the bar.
The Cobbler Taproom was one of his favourites, a cosy low-lit hideaway close to the central business district but intimate enough to feel like it wasn’t. The cocktail alchemists working behind-the-scenes were flown in from all over the world due to the number of connoisseurs the Taproom attracted. It meant the prices were tripled but the staff knew precisely what they were doing. They understood the highly-strung, always-on world of corporate America required certain supplementation just to get through the day, and they were more than accommodating of their interests. He’d been caught snorting lines in the bathroom maybe five separate times, and not so much as a word of dissuasion had been uttered in his direction by the house.
He spent lavishly each time he went, and they put up with everything else because of that.
It was a strangely humid evening so he’d already shucked the suit jacket as he crossed the street. It seemed unbecoming to drape it over the crook of his arm considering it had cost him four grand, but money hadn’t been an issue for a long time. His job paid well, but not that well. What did pay well was using the leverage from his position as a state prosecutor to get into all sorts of backrooms, make all sorts of deals, promise to look everywhere but at the key evidence in certain cases.
And he wasn’t just paid in dirty money.
No, there were other ways for his undesirable friends to show their gratitude.
Now he finally took his eyes off his phone and noticed the Taproom had swapped bouncers since he’d last visited. It wasn’t anything to be alarmed about — the hospitality industry churns through staff by the boatload — but Hoffman always noticed too much. This new guy was much bigger, like a carved slab of rock under his broad winter coat. Six-three at least, with a face you could put on a Calvin Klein billboard. Green eyes, brown hair, a dusting of stubble on his razor jaw. Hoffman didn’t swing that way, but he’d been tempted a few times, and he was tempted now.
Didn’t matter what you did as long as no one found out, right?
Public reputation was really all that mattered.
The bouncer didn’t so much as glance in Hoffman’s direction as he approached, but as Hoffman stepped up onto the threshold he seemed to snap out of a trance and put a hand gently on the prosecutor’s shoulder. There was no animosity in the gesture, so Hoffman didn’t react.
The huge man said, ‘Are you Jaxson?’
He kept his voice low, aware of the importance of privacy. Hoffman liked him already.
Hoffman peered up at him, suddenly self-conscious about his never-ending procrastination in the realm of fitness. He was still as skinny as when he was a teenager, maybe a hundred and forty pounds, but he made up for it with his power trips behind closed doors.
He said, ‘Yeah.’
‘Here to meet Ethan?’
‘Yeah.’
‘He’s running late but he told me to give you something to pass the time.’
‘He told you?’
‘I’m his contact. He landed me the gig here in the first place.’
‘His contact for what?’
The bouncer reached up and in a surreptitious gesture brushed one nostril with the tip of his finger. He looked over the top of Hoffman’s head as he did so, like he was only scratching his nose.
Hoffman nodded, hiding his enthusiasm.
The bouncer glanced around at the bustling sidewalk, masked a wince, and then cocked his head over his shoulder, where a narrow laneway cut down the side of the Taproom, separating it from the Korean fried chicken joint next door.
Hoffman shrugged, like, Yeah, whatever, then the shrug became a nod when he realised, Yeah, good idea.
The bouncer was slow to get moving, though, one of those infinitesimal pauses that makes the other party go first. Hoffman didn’t think anything of it. He went down the two steps and shuffled into the mouth of the alleyway. He caught a glimpse through a side window of the low granite tables in the Taproom, inebriated patrons laughing and murmuring amongst themselves, and…
And past the tables, he saw the real bouncer inside, ambling for the front door.
Returning to his shift.
Hoffman spun and ended up catching the big guy’s open palm square in the forehead for his troubles.
It smashed his head back and knocked him out cold.
89
He resurfaced from consciousness in the mouth of a sewer pipe.
That was about all he could make out. He was way out of Boston. The pipe protruded from a dark hillside, surrounded by mud and rubbish and shit, and the city skyline sparkled way in the distance. Most of the buildings were cut off, though, by the two looming silhouettes blocking him from leaving the pipe. They towered over him. He was still semi-conscious, and it took him a beat to realise he was lying on his back, still wearing the suit he’d left work in.
The pristine white of his dress shirt was creased and stained, reds and browns and blacks swirling like a fourth-grader’s art project.
Hoffman was groggy as hell, but still had the prescience to realise he’d been drugged. You don’t knock someone out for more than a minute or so without giving them irreversible brain damage. With how far they were from Boston, he would have been a vegetable if it had taken him this long to resurface from getting smacked out cold. So the big bouncer — one of the silhouettes looming over him — must have smashed him into oblivion and then drowned him in Chloroform.
‘Ugh,’ he mumbled, low and pathetic. He tasted blood. Cleared his throat, which hurt, and tried to think, which also hurt. ‘Listen to me…’
‘Listen to what?’ the big guy said. ‘You haven’t said anythi
ng.’
‘I’m—I’m about to…’
The other silhouette said, ‘Better be good.’
Hoffman scrutinised the new guy, but it was so dark he could barely make out anything. The man was dark-skinned, just as built as the bouncer — well, the fake bouncer — and had eyes like thunder.
That was about all Hoffman could deduce. None of it would help him. Maybe he didn’t need the help. He was a successful prosecutor for a reason. He could persuade.
‘Listen,’ he murmured again. His head swam like his vision was being pulled in four directions at once.
The dark-skinned man said, ‘We’re listening.’
‘Is—Is—Is this about Randolph? The money?’
‘No.’
‘Oh. Ah…’
The bouncer said, ‘Sounds like you’re on a few naughty lists, Jaxson.’
‘I’ve got money, boys. A lot. You’re smart, yeah? You know an opportunity, uh, when you see one. You…’ He could barely hold it together. ‘How much you want? That’s what this is? Please—Fuck, please tell me that’s what this is.’
‘We don’t want money.’
‘What do you want, then? You want … uh, connections. Yes. That’s it. Right? You want me to make a few calls?’ He snapped his fingers together like he was onto some brilliant clue, but he was too groggy and he missed the snap and ended up looking pathetic, wiggling his fingers about. ‘Come on, boys, talk to me…’
‘We’re talking.’
‘Give me something, huh? Something to, uh, work with.’
The bouncer looked at the other man. ‘You done?’
‘Not yet,’ the other guy said.
Those thunderous eyes bored into Hoffman. They hadn’t left him for a second. He felt naked, exposed, like all his secrets were laid bare.
Done with what? he thought.
He switched gears. Tried to summon up some sort of courage. It was nearly impossible, but he managed. ‘You don’t know who you’re fucking with.’
The bouncer crouched down to get closer to Hoffman, lowering his voice. ‘Who are we fucking with, Jaxson?’
‘Whatever this is, uh, I have failsafes. Contingencies. Guy like me has to. Anything happens, it comes back to you two. Comes back real fast. Real bad people looking for you, and they’ll find you. Trust me. They’ll find you.’
Now the other guy crouched down. Stared his thunderous stare. ‘Who’ll find us, Jaxson?’
The continuous use of his name threw him off harder than he thought, but he tried to save face. ‘Some of the worst vermin you could ever imagine. They got my back. And I got theirs.’
‘Oh yeah?’ the man said, and drew a folded sheet of A4 paper from his pocket. He opened it to reveal a printed photograph, what looked like a surveillance shot. It was of Hoffman. He couldn’t make out details. It was dark in the sewer pipe, and it had been dark in the room at the time. But he knew what it was, and he felt more shame than he thought humanly possible.
Just the fact that someone had known he’d done that…
The man holding the photo said, ‘Those guys help you with this?’
‘I—I don’t know what that is,’ Hoffman said. His voice cracked. ‘It’s doctored. Photoshopped.’
‘Sure it is.’
Hoffman had an epiphany. Maybe, just maybe, these two had been waiting for him to walk himself into a hole. Which he’d thoughtlessly done because clearly they were bad people. Only evil men would take him off the street, drive him out here, shake him down for—
For what? They hadn’t shaken him down for anything. They’d just listened.
Maybe they were trying to do good. Maybe that’s what the photo was for.
Hoffman could handle almost anything, but he couldn’t handle that. The judgment, the scorn, the disgust. It emanated off the two silhouettes. He choked back tears and whispered, ‘Oh, no…’
The guy with the photo stood up. ‘Okay. I’m done.’
The bouncer took out a sleek black pistol, outlined against the faraway Boston skyline.
He aimed it at Hoffman, who closed his eyes and thought, Yeah. This is deserved.
90
Later that night King slipped into the master bedroom without a sound.
Violetta didn’t so much as stir. Nor did Junior. When he wanted to be quiet, he was quiet. He was used to sneaking up on the enemy. Trying not to disturb those he loved was a relatively fresh concept in his life.
He pulled his shirt over his head, let out a silent exhale, and gently lowered his weight to his side of the mattress. Propped up on the opposite side by a small army of pillows, Violetta opened her eyes and smiled. ‘Knew you’d be back.’
‘Of course,’ King whispered.
‘How’d it go?’
‘Smoothly.’
‘What’d he do? Hoffman. What was his crime?’
‘I didn’t ask.’
Violetta raised an eyebrow. ‘You didn’t ask?’
‘Slater saw photos. Surveillance shots, used for blackmail. He kept one of them, the worst of them all. I didn’t ask him what was on it. And I didn’t look at it.’
‘He said it was bad?’
‘Worse than that.’
Violetta breathed out. ‘Good riddance, then.’
A soft noise emanated from the bassinet. It stirred something deep in King, something primal. He rounded the bed and peered down into the cot. Junior lay on his belly, head to the side, arms and legs splayed. His tiny fists were curled, fingers tucked into his palms. Below the little beanie his eyes were closed, and King swore there was a half-smile on the boy’s face.
Violetta whispered, ‘Is he dreaming?’
King nodded, noting the clenched fists and the slight grin. ‘I like to think he’s fighting. I like to think he’s happy about that.’
‘Come to bed. Save your wishful thinking for later.’
King silenced a laugh and went to her, nestled her against his chest. He didn’t apologise for leaving. He knew she’d dismiss them as the empty words they were. Rebecca would’ve likely been hunted down and butchered if he hadn’t helped, and that outweighed Violetta’s postpartum discomfort.
Violetta was one of the strongest people he knew. She didn’t need his comforting, and he didn’t need hers. It was only a bonus that they had each other.
She asked, ‘How’s Will?’
A searing image hung in King’s head — Slater kicking Hoffman’s corpse, ignoring his own broken ribs, channeling the rage out of his own being, into this dead vessel.
King said, ‘The same.’
91
When Slater let himself in he found Tyrell curled up on the sofa, watching a movie on Alexis’ iPad.
He was tucked so deep into the cushions that the huge couch almost swallowed him, but Slater figured the boy needed the feeling of protection. He limped badly around the end and slumped down beside Tyrell. Everything hurt, but at the end of the day he was here, home with his loved ones, so nothing really hurt.
Tyrell glanced surreptitiously over. ‘You need the hospital, man.’
‘Later,’ Slater mumbled. ‘Need a drink, that’s what I need.’
‘I can get you a beer from the fridge.’
Slater smiled through half-closed eyes. ‘I haven’t had a drink in over a year.’
Tyrell paused. ‘Why?’
‘I wasn’t good when I drank.’
‘You start swingin’? Hurt everyone around you? That’s what Dad was like.’
‘No,’ Slater said. ‘I was high-functioning. Which somehow made it worse, ’cause I could justify it.’
‘I don’t get it.’
Slater looked over and saw Tyrell furrowing his brow. ‘What don’t you get?’
‘You know drinkin’ is bad for you, so you don’t do it.’
‘Yeah.’
‘I ain’t never been around people who think like that.’
‘Now you are.’
‘Yeah. It’s real weird. You’re like a robot.’
Slater
laughed, and his ribs seared in pain. He cut himself off, the smile contorting to a wince.
Tyrell said, ‘Go to bed, man. You ain’t need to be out here.’
‘Thought I’d ... check you were alright.’
‘I’ll be aight.’
‘You need anything, you knock.’
Tyrell smiled, still staring at the iPad. ‘Man, you trying too hard. You gotta ease me into this shit. Maybe tell me I’m worthless every now and then.’
Slater said, ‘Never,’ and the uneasy smile vanished off Tyrell’s face.
He eased to his feet with a groan, reached out and put a hand on the boy’s rail-thin shoulder. ‘I’ll teach you how people should treat you. Doesn’t matter how long you stay. One week, one month. I’ll teach you all I know.’
‘I’d like that, man.’
‘Remember what I said about knocking. There’ll be nightmares tonight.’
‘There’s nightmares every night. Ain’t anything special. You get some rest, Da—’
He cut himself off like a gun had been stuck in his face.
Slater hobbled away. The boy needed to think things over, didn’t need Slater intruding. But in the hallway he turned and looked over his shoulder. ‘You call me whatever you want to call me, kid. No way I’d ever judge you for it.’
Then he limped to bed.
92
Alexis helped Slater shower, then lowered him to his side of the bed.
She spent twenty minutes prying every detail out of him.
He shared everything. Almost overshared, in the end. Her stomach turned at a couple of details. When he purposely withheld what the photograph of Jaxson Hoffman contained, she knew better than to press him for it. If he deemed it better left unsaid, then it was beyond her worst nightmares.
When he ended with the prosecutor’s body in a sewer pipe, she asked, ‘Are you okay?’
‘Yeah,’ Slater said. ‘It’s just my ribs that are bad. I’ll get our regular doc out for a private house call tomorrow and—’
‘I’m not talking about your ribs.’
