Xander

 

“All right, kid.”

 

Christopher is the first person I see when I wake up. He has that concerned look on his face but right now I can’t say that it annoys me any. In fact, it’s quite reassuring to see it, to know that he knows what I’m going through.

 

“Old man,” I say, sitting up. I nod down at my body. “Look at this shit. It crinkles when I move.” They changed me into a papery robe when they brought me in here.

 

“You were fucking blasted, kid. I used the fake IDs to trick ’em into thinking I was your granddaddy and they told me how much alcohol was in your system. At them meetings we have some real drunk motherfuckers, but goddamn … were you going for a world record or something?”

 

“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “I just … All I remember is I had a bad dream, and then I wanted a drink. And now I’m here.” I nod to the window, pale morning sunlight shining against the curtains. “Open them up, will you?”

 

He does like I ask, sunlight spilling into the room. “I need to get out of here,” I tell him. “Right now. I have a lady waiting for me at my apartment.” I hope, is what I don’t say, ’cause showing other men how much you care for a lady ain’t never a good idea, even if you trust them. “Did you handle the police?”

 

“Yeah, that’s all sorted,” Ranger says, twisting his red beard around his forefinger as he walks into the room. “Yours truly made some moves, danced a dance, and lo and behold, everything was A-Okay. You don’t need to worry about the pigs. What you need to worry about, my good friend, is getting some self-control. Now, I know what you’re thinking.” He pats his belly. “How is a man with an impressive waistline like mine going to lecture you on self-control? But let me tell you something. I’ve never eaten so many cakes that I rode my bike into a streetlamp. That’s a fact, Xander. That’s a campaign promise.”

 

“I know, I know. Goddamn. I get it. I’m an asshole. Can you get me out of here now, please? Get me some clothes.”

 

“Here they are.” Maxwell walks into the room holding camo pants and an army-green shirt. When he notices everybody staring askance at him, he shrugs. “You said bring clothes so I brought clothes. What did you expect, the latest in fashionwear? Either take these or leave the hospital dressed in printing paper. It’s your choice.”

 

“Give them here.”

 

They turn around as I get dressed. Once I’m fully dressed, they gather around me. Christopher has a serious look on his face, but the other two are smiling slightly, even Maxwell. “I heard about what happened,” he says. “I have to say, Xander, that you are probably the most idiotic drunk person I’ve ever met in my life. They said you had—what was it—around one and a half thousand milliliters of alcohol in your system, and you decided to go for a ride? They had to pump your stomach.”

 

“It wasn’t pretty,” Ranger says. “They let us watch.”

 

“Stop it with this nonsense,” Christopher says. “He’s hit bottom now. Haven’t you?”

 

I nod.

 

“Wanna stop on the way back to yours and grab a whisky?” Ranger says, winking. “How does that sound?”

 

“I’ll throttle you,” I mutter, “if you say that again.”

 

“Whoa, man.” Ranger holds up his hands, a sadistic smile on his face, eyes twinkling like they did when we were kids and he’d just played some prank on either me or Arsen. “I’m just trying to be nice. I know there’s nothing better after a stint in the hospital than a refreshing beverage. You don’t have to be so goddamn aggressive about it.”

 

“Go fuck yourself,” I mutter, although I can’t help but smile a little. In a different life I’d be doing the same to him.

 

We all go out to Christopher’s four-door jeep and I climb into the passenger seat. Maxwell and Ranger sit in the back and soon we’re on our way to my apartment building. I try’n keep a calm exterior as he drives me back, try and not squeeze down on my leg or anything like that that’ll give away just how nervous I am. Her phone call couldn’t have been more ambiguous. I have no idea if she’s going to be there. I have no idea what’s going on with her, except that it might’ve been the biggest mistake of my life to get drunk on that particular night.

 

Christopher stops the car and offers me a supportive smile. “All right, kid, this is it. Do you want me to come up and get rid of any whisky bottles you’ve got left, or has this wakeup call been enough?”

 

“I’d like to say it’s been enough,” I reply. “But I reckon you ought to wait down here a while.”

 

He nods. “We’ll be here.”

 

“Aren’t you goin’ to invite us up for a drink, Xander?”

 

I turn around and thump him in the leg as hard as I can.

 

“Motherfucker!” he snarls, swiping at me, but I’m already out of the car, walking toward the apartment. I take the stairs two at a time, hoping beyond hope that I’ll hear the sound of Cormac crying or Kayla laughing, something to let me know that they’re waiting for me. Instead all I hear is somebody a few apartments over playing pop music.

 

I walk into my empty apartment, which looks like somebody had one hell of a night here. The armchair is completely decimated against one wall, the couch is pressed up against another wall, and all across the floor, whisky bottles lie scattered. I search the rooms, just in case they’re here but quiet. Nothing, just my mess, just the knowledge that she’s out there somewhere with Connor after her and no support from me. I grab a trash bag and collect all the whisky bottles, full and empty, and tie the bag before I can let myself think about how good a drink’d be right about now. I can’t let myself think that anymore. Just the thought is enough to send me down that dark road, that stupid road, a road where I make foolish decisions like drinking when I’ve already almost killed myself by drinking.

 

“You can go fuck yourself,” I say to the bag, and if it’s strange to talk to a bag, I don’t see how it’s any less strange to drink more’n a single bottle of whisky in a night.

 

I carry the bag outside, where Christopher is waiting for me. “The lady you mentioned. She’s not there.” He takes it from me.

 

“No,” I admit; the other two are still in the car, out of our hearing.

 

“And you care about her.”

 

“Might be I do, old man.”

 

He claps me on the shoulder. “Then you need to get after her, start working the streets, and to do that properly you need to be stone-cold sober. You can’t take a single goddamn drink if you wanna be any use to that girl. Is that enough motivation for you?”

 

“I get it.” I nod, resisting the urge to snap at him. This crash has made me realize something—something apart from how badly my body is aching, ’cause I’m used to that; I’ve been in enough scraps—something fundamental about myself. There’s a demon inside of me that don’t care a whit about what happens to my life. All this demon cares about is getting its liquor, and it’ll do anything it takes to keep that liquor coming. I have to fight it. I can’t let it rule me. Arsen—but Arsen isn’t the problem right now. Kayla and the kid, they’re the problem, and the last thing Arsen’d want for me to do in this situation is succumb to drink.

 

“Kid.” The old man grits his teeth. “Looks like you’ve finally got some fight in you.”

 

“Yeah.” I nod again, this time fiercer, gritting my teeth as well. “Might be I do.” He claps me on the shoulder and walks away. “Oh, I forgot to mention.” He half-turns. “You got a Harley waiting at the end of the street.” He reaches into his pocket and tosses me a set of keys. “Ride safe.”

 

I catch the keys and then go upstairs, get changed into my spare leather and some jeans and boots, and then I go back outside and sit on the bike. In the storage compartment of the bike there’s a helmet and a cellphone. It seems like the old man knows more than he’s letting on, since Kayla’s number is programmed into the cell. I call her damn-near ten times, but there’s no answer.

 

I need to find Connor, get him to back off, so then at least I know she’s safe from that threat. I ride away from my apartment, through the sunlit streets toward a gang hangout on the other side of town. I’ve heard whispers that this hangout has some connection to Connor, but nobody’s ever seen him there. Maybe I can get some information, though. I realize I should’ve done this months ago, but whisky’ll do that: make a man complacent.

 

I stop on the way at one of our safehouses, the front a Chinese restaurant. Mr. Xing smiles at me. He has a long gray beard and a silver-braided mustache. “Hello, Mr. Xander.”

 

“Hello, sir.” I tip a hat, which always makes him laugh.

 

“Always the cowboy.” He grins. “You can go into the back.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

I go to the fake freezer right at the back, lift off the lid, lift off the false bottom, type in the combination to the safe, and then take out two pistols with a chest-harness. I fix myself up and then put my jacket back on, checking in the murky mirror in the corner that the weapons don’t show. Then I go back outside, tip my hat to Mr. Xing’s daughter, who giggles—she’s around ten and loves the cowboy routine even more than her old man—and then get on my bike and ride to this gang hangout.

 

From the outside it looks like a laundromat, which is about the biggest cliché going in the criminal world; I’m surprised Connor went for it. I stop down the street and approach slowly, waiting for security to come jumping out on me. Connor ain’t picky about who he employs. He’ll employ racists and black gangsters and have ’em work side by side. To him it’s all about the bottom line, getting shit done. So I have to watch everybody, even the little old lady who hobbles past me. Finally, I get to the door. The fella behind the desk is laughably out of place: as wide as a vending machine with a short army-style haircut. He has tattoos on his face, so poorly done I can’t even make out what they are.

 

“Hello,” I say, locking the door and turning the sign around so that the place is closed.

 

“The fuck you doing?”

 

I listen: nobody else, unless they’re being mouse-quiet.

 

“You alone in here?”

 

“The fuck’s it matter to you for?” He stands up. The prick must be over seven feet. “Turn around so I can see what patch you’re wearing.”

 

“Sure. And while I’m at it why don’t I give you my guns and offer up my neck?”

 

He grins, not a pretty sight. Half of his teeth are pitch-black with rot. “What do you want, you biker fuck? You’re an Angel, I’m guessing.”

 

“If I’m an Angel, what does that make your boss?”

 

“The boss.” His hand inches toward the desk, where I know for a fact he’s got a gun duct-taped, ’cause it’s what I’d do. “That’s what I call him.”

 

I draw quickly, both weapons, aiming one at his head and the other at his hand. “Go on,” I say, smiling. “Don’t be shy.”

 

He grits his teeth, but takes a step back. “What do you want?”

 

“Information. Where the fuck is Connor?”

 

He laughs, a soft laugh at first, but it swiftly becomes loud and booming. He grips his sides and shakes his belly, looking up at the ceiling. “You think I’d tell you where the boss is? I like living, Angel.”

 

“All right, then.”

 

I shoot him in the arm, a flesh wound. He collapses onto his swivel stool and bites down. “Motherfucker.”

 

“Yeah.” I nod. “I reckon that’s about right.”

 

The next hour goes much the same, going in on this fella to try’n get some information, but he won’t break no matter what I do. He’s loyal to Connor, so loyal that he takes four bullets, four flesh wounds, and doesn’t say a word.

 

I leave with no idea where Connor or Kayla are, feeling hopeless, wishing she’d answer one of my goddamn calls.