Blowback

by Monica James

  Suits me just fine.

  The woman looks at me sheepishly, wiping her lipstick-smeared lips, before disappearing down the dark street.

  Stevie has a black duffel thrown over his shoulder. We walk toward the derelict brick building in front of us. Half the roof is missing, and all the windows are smashed out. As far as shady ass meetup points, this one ticks all the boxes.

  I scan my surroundings, ensuring we’re still alone. “Round back,” Stevie orders, as I hear him strike a match and light a cigar.

  There is no fence, so we continue strolling like we belong here and enter through the open door at the back of the building. Some light streams through, hinting whoever we’re meeting is already here.

  Stevie walks in front of me, casually smoking his cigar. He is clearly comfortable around his contact, which has me guessing that even if I were to give Jaws the name, the contact may not be willing to deal with him, if that’s what Jaws is proposing.

  This “business” is filled with paranoid psychopaths. Jaws should know that. And when we turn the corner and I see a row of six scary-looking dudes, this just confirms my claim.

  Unlike me, they’ve made no attempts to conceal their weapons, as they wear their holsters on top of their white T-shirts. They’re in baggy jeans and white sneakers, but I don’t let their plain attire fool me. These guys are hard core and would have no issues killing their grandmother if she stood in their way.

  The black Hummer parked behind the line of men has its headlights on, providing the light I need to see a man step from the car and walk toward us. The men part, but they flank him close. He’s the boss. He’s Stevie’s supplier.

  “Amigo, nice to see you.” The man appears to be in his early forties, dressed in a blue checkered shirt and navy cargos. He looks harmless enough, but looks are deceiving. The deep scar running from the top of his eyebrow down his cheek proves it.

  “You, too, José.” They shake hands while I stand behind, watching and learning.

  “How are the kids? Did your daughter get the birthday gift I sent her?”

  José nods with a smile. “She did. Tiffany for a nine-year-old? You’ve set the bar high for my wife and me.”

  They chuckle like old friends catching up and not like ones about to exchange a briefcase full of cash for a briefcase full of bricks.

  José’s men watch me closely, though we’re no threat. We’re outnumbered, which is the message Stevie wants to convey. We’re here for business, not trouble. But when one of them whispers to their friend as he eyes me, it seems it can’t be one or the other.

  José is mid-conversation but suddenly stops. The room falls dead quiet. “What’s so important you have to interrupt my conversation, Jesús?”

  The man in question and his friend lower their eyes guiltily. I can’t help but compare their response to a dog being reprimanded by its owner. I suppose it’s not any different.

  “I asked you a question,” José says calmly, but none of us are fooled. Jesús is about to get his ass nailed to the cross.

  He clears his throat before replying in Spanish. I stand firm with my arms folded and legs spread. But I know they’re speaking about me. Stevie doesn’t move an inch. Once Jesús finishes speaking, José glances over Stevie’s shoulder, looking at me.

  “Where’s your other man?”

  Kudos to Stevie for sounding so nonchalant when he replies, “He couldn’t handle the job. Split with his tail between his legs.”

  That’s not entirely a lie.

  “My boy tells me your new muscle is known to them. He’s famous,” he adds mockingly.

  He watches me closely, looking for any flaws in my design. There are none. I’m fucking watertight.

  “Are you famous?” José asks me, jutting out his chin.

  “That all depends on who you ask,” I reply flatly, never breaking eye contact with him.

  This is a test. Do I have the balls to stand up to the head honcho? Of course, I fucking do.

  José deadpans me, weighing up my response. The next few seconds determine the course of everything.

  Three.

  Two.

  One.

  His lips twitch before he breaks out into loud, uncontrollable laughter. His minions suddenly join him in nervous laughter, unsure what’s going on. Me. I stand solid, not interested in looking like a trained circus monkey.

  “You’re Colmillo, according to Jesús.” I have no idea what that means. “Fang,” José clarifies, still laughing. “The name is fitting. He says you tear any man apart under that mask you wear.”

  I don’t bother asking why I have a nickname. I have enough. My disinterest seems to charm José. “He fights for you, Stevie?”

  Stevie nods while the mystery of my name is solved. Jesús has seen me fight. I’ve been careful, but evidently, not careful enough.

  “Yes, he does. The best damn one I’ve seen in quite some time. No matter who wants to fight him, he never loses.” Which is why I still serve a purpose to Stevie. This isn’t a touchy-feely Oprah moment. I’m here because I’m of use to Stevie. And he’s of use to me—he just doesn’t know how.

  José nods, never taking his eyes off me. “What demons you got locked inside of you, amigo, for you to be so angry?”

  “Who says I’m angry?” I refute coolly. “Maybe I just like to make people bleed.”

  I’m not looking for approval, but I get it, nonetheless. “I like him, Stevie. Keep him around. Maybe I will come watch the infamous Colmillo?” he mocks, but he makes it clear I’ll be seeing him around.

  “Mi casa es su casa,” Stevie says graciously.

  “And this is why we do business. Luis.” José snaps his fingers, hinting playtime is over.

  Luis walks over to the Hummer and reaches inside. The air is thick because this part of the transaction is when everyone is paranoid and no one is friends. He rolls a large black suitcase toward José.

  “The usual,” he says, drumming his fingers against the handle of the suitcase. “You need anything else before we meet again, let me know. The holidays always bring out the best in people.”

  He’s sarcastically referring to Thanksgiving and Christmas, which are soon approaching.

  Stevie doesn’t drag out the inevitable and walks over to him, passing Luis the duffel full of cash. José passes him the suitcase, and just like that, thousands of lives are ruined. Stevie shakes José’s hand, and the deal is done.

  Luis is about to toss the duffel into the Hummer, but José stops him. He unzips the bag and digs inside for a stack of bills. Stevie appears surprised, but when he tosses the stack my way, and I catch it, that surprise turns to triumph.

  “For you, Colmillo.” I don’t question it. I simply nod and place the stack of hundreds into my pocket.

  José twirls his finger, indicating we’re done. The men climb into the Hummer, while José watches me with a smile I know all too well—I’m no longer invisible to him. That money wasn’t free. One day, he’ll come to collect.

  Let’s hope that day never comes.

  I lead the way with Stevie in hot pursuit. The cool air is exactly what I need to get my head around the fact Stevie’s supplier seems to be the Mexican drug cartel. It couldn’t be some deadbeat white supremacist asshole. No, it had to be the fucking cartel.

  This was supposed to be simple, but every corner I turn, I’m confronted with a fucking brick wall. I’m caught in a feud I wanted no part of. I suppose this is my karma for killing Kong.

  The driver opens our door as we make our way toward the limo. Stevie enters while I wait by the hood, ensuring we’re not being followed. After I verify it’s clear, I jump in, watching with interest as Stevie unlocks a compartment under the liquor shelf.

  He places the suitcase inside and arranges the shelving back into position. It’s that easy. Out of sight, out of mind.

  “José likes you,” Stevie says, leaning back against the leather seat and casually crossing an ankle over his knee. “He doesn’t like anyone.�
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  “Lucky me,” I reply, not interested in being anyone’s pet.

  Stevie reaches for the crystal decanter and pours two glasses of scotch. He passes me one. I accept. “He is someone you want in your corner. Trust me.”

  “I don’t need anyone in my corner,” I state, tossing back my drink.

  “I can see that,” he says with pride, running his finger over the rim of the glass. “If you didn’t have to work tonight, I would show you the books. Next time.”

  He’s comfortable enough to bring me into his inner circle. Shame on him.

  “The next fight is scheduled in Chicago. You’re up against Tiny.” His unoriginal name has me guessing he’s anything but.

  The fighting syndicate has helped me gain Stevie’s trust. It has also allowed me to make a lot of cash and fast. The money Lotus pays me is peanuts compared to what I earn fighting.

  I could find another place to crash, but Hudson’s has become my home. Venus minds her own business. She doesn’t question the hours I keep, or when I come back covered in blood.

  All of this almost “fell” into my lap. One may say it was fate. But I still don’t know what I’m fated for.

  “You need me for anything else this week?” I ask, as I don’t like surprises.

  “Not at the moment. Dudley and Vincent are bending over backward for me after their fuckup.”

  Their fuckup was my gain because I gained an ally. The reason I knew Tiger was at The Pink Oyster was because Paul gave me the heads-up. He’s proven to be very good at his job. He watches her and tells me of her comings and goings. He also has been keeping an eye on Scrooge.

  And for his troubles, I’ve put him up at Hudson’s. He has a roof over his head and doesn’t have to worry about doing disgusting things to sick fucks for a hot meal.

  But Stevie doesn’t know this. He thinks Paul is just another unfortunate fool who crossed him and paid with this life.

  “Got time for a drink?” Stevie asks, interrupting my thoughts.

  I’d rather drink gasoline and then set myself on fire. “No. I have to feed my cat.”

  When Stevie breaks into laughter, I think he believes it’s code for something.

  It’s not.

  Once Stevie dropped me off at the bogus location that’s supposed to be my house, I called Paul to come pick me up. Tiger was at Avery’s before heading to Cleveland to teach. He mentioned she appeared occupied because she ran some red lights and stop signs.

  When we got to Hudson’s, he grabbed something to eat before heading to Blue Bloods. The fact she was still dancing there pissed me off beyond words. Her asshole brother watches her night after night, seeing the way she works her ass off to help better the lives of others.

  He has the money to help her out so she doesn’t have to dance, but he chooses not to give her any. Surely, she can see something’s wrong with that picture. She’s stripping at the club her brother owns; the same brother who watches her.

  Paul was able to get in with his fake ID, so he’s recounted the disgusting details. From the whispers among the dancers, Jaws never showed his face until Tiger started dancing. He is one sick asshole who needs to be put down.

  But until that happens, Tiger is trapped. Her guilty conscience won’t let her leave. She thinks she owes her brother something for hurting him by sleeping with his best friend. If she only knew the real story, a story that I can’t tell her, but I can help her in another way.

  José threw two thousand dollars my way like it was nothing but pocket change. And to him, it is. But to Tiger, it’s her ticket out of hell. I’ve given that money to Paul with strict instructions—no lap dances and no touching. When Tiger dances, he’s to ensure she gets it all.

  She won’t accept money from me, but if it’s “earned,” then she’s none the wiser where it came from.

  Parking my truck at The Pink Oyster, I notice a flashy car that sticks out like a sore thumb. Keeping my poker face in check, I casually walk through the parking lot. Peering inside, I find it spotless but have no clue who it belongs to. When I enter the club, however, the mystery is solved.

  I knew sooner or later she’d come knocking. I was just hoping it would be later.

  Franca Brown sits at the bar, watching one of the newest recruits work her magic on stage. She sips a beer, appearing to like what she sees. That changes, however, when I pull up a stool next to her. Lotus is pouring drinks, but the concerned look on her face gives her thoughts away.

  “‘Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, she walks into mine,’” I say, reciting Casablanca.

  Franca doesn’t appreciate my sarcasm.

  She turns over her shoulder. “I thought you worked here?”

  “I do,” I reply, swiveling on the stool and leaning my back against the bar.

  “You’re late.” She makes a point to look down at her watch. “Being tardy will get you fired, and that won’t look good on your report.”

  With a cocky smirk, I shrug. “Lucky for me, you’re not my boss.” On cue, Lotus leans over my shoulder and passes me a bottle of water. “Thanks, boss,” I sarcastically quip.

  Franca’s eyes narrow. It’s good to know I get under her skin.

  “Have you got anything to tell me?” she shouts, in order to be heard over the music.

  Taking a sip of water, I pretend to mull over her question. “I got a new pair of kicks. And I finally caught up on Gossip Girl. Can you believe Dan was the culprit that whole time?” Placing the bottle between my thighs, I slap my hands to my cheeks, with my mouth open wide, faking shock.

  “Stop being such a smart-ass,” she snarls, slapping my wrist. I remove my hands, unable to hide my grin. “I know you’re caught up in something.”

  “Prove it,” I counter smartly.

  “Oh, I intend to. This fighting syndicate is bound to make a mistake, and when they do, I’ll be there, waiting.”

  “Why do you have a hard-on for this?” I ask, genuinely interested.

  “Because there is a lot more going on than just fighting.” Franca is close because she’s a good cop. She clearly has pieces of the puzzle but doesn’t know the full picture. Yet.

  I respect her, and I think deep down, the feeling is mutual. She’s smart, and it won’t be long until she figures it out. And when she does, I cannot afford any blowback.

  “If you hear anything, you know where to find me. Until then, you can bet your ass I will be paying very close attention to every single thing you do.” She leans in close. It’s a threat. Who knows, maybe she already has what she needs and is just biding her time.

  This just means I need to move things along.

  Sunny finishes her set, and I dig into my pocket for a hundred. Placing it into the top pocket of Franca’s shirt, I wink while she doesn’t waver. “Sunny will be in the VIP rooms. It’s on me.”

  Her cheeks pale before they burn a blistering red. It seems Franca has secrets of her own. But like I care. She could identify as a unicorn, and it wouldn’t interest me in the slightest. I have enough issues of my own to deal with.

  She digs the bill out of her pocket and slams it onto the bar, before pushing through the crowd. I wave goodbye to her back. I really shouldn’t push her, but I’m done being everyone’s snitch.

  “I take it that was your PO?” Lotus asks, slipping a real drink over my shoulder.

  Accepting the beer, I raise it in thanks. “The one and only.”

  “What did she want?”

  “To make sure I’m being a good boy,” I reply, tossing back the Budweiser.

  “And are you?”

  The suspicion in her voice has me pausing. Is she onto me? However, when I see who just entered the bar, I realize why she’d ask me that.

  Finishing my beer, I spin on my stool and give her a strained smile. “Thanks for the beer. Keep the change,” I say, leaving the hundred-dollar bill on the bar.

  “Bull—”

  But I don’t stick around for her to tell me what a bad
idea this is. I already know because a few feet away stand José, Jesús, and Luis.

  With a casual stride, I walk toward them and instantly extend my hand to José. “Nice to see you again.” We shake firmly.

  “I hope you don’t mind us dropping by like this.” Even if I did mind, it’s not like I have a choice in the matter.

  “It’s filled with women and booze; how can you stay away?” I quip, refusing to show my curiosity as to why they’re here.

  “Can we talk someplace a little more…private?”

  I gesture with my head for them to follow me.

  The crowd parts when they see us coming. They must be able to read the shitstorm brewing. No one is manning the VIP rooms, seeing as that’s my job, and having all these fucking visitors drop in to see me means I won’t be getting to my job anytime soon.

  The door to the room Cherry usually dances in swings open, and out strolls a jock, happier than a pig in shit. Cherry follows, but when she sees me, she pauses, eyes wide, and like the predator that José is, he smells her fear.

  “Hello, hermosa. Where’re you going?” The jock’s high soon fades, and he’s doing a brisk sprint for the exit.

  Without thought, I grip the crease of Cherry’s elbow and draw her into my side. I promised to protect her from assholes like José, and I keep my promises.

  “She’s up on stage next. Go get ready.” I shoo her away, not giving her a chance to get a word in edgewise.

  She scurries off, even though her set isn’t until later.

  Standing by the door, I gesture for José and his lapdogs to enter. They do, appearing saddened there isn’t any eye candy to feast on. Once I close the door, I stand in front of it, arms folded, waiting for José to shed some light on why he’s here.

  “You’re a man of few words. I like that. So I will cut to the chase. I want you to throw your next fight.”

  Well, I did not see that coming.

  “Why would I do that?” I ask, arching a brow.

  “Stevie bets a lot of money on you winning. You lose…that money is mine,” José calmly explains. “It’s just business. Nothing personal.”