Jax
I wake up a hundred times and fall back asleep a hundred more. Each time, hovering in half-wakefulness, I see her: raven hair draped over me like a blanket, crimson lips curled in a secret half-smile. My last night. The woman whose name I still don’t know.
Each time, I drift back off… Until one time I extend my arm into nothingness.
Cold. The spot on the mattress where she lay is cold. She’s gone.
I stretch, sit up, listen… For the sound of the faucet, footsteps, anything. But the motel room is as silent as a tomb. The bathroom door is closed. No light is coming out the bottom. I get up and open it, staring into the dingy, untouched-looking box. There’s no sign of her. Not a trace. It’s as if she never existed at all.
Back in the room, everything else is similarly untouched: the leaning hulk of the cabinet, the somber sunset painting that looks more like an ode to pollution than anything. Even the front doormat is parallel to the door, not askew in the slightest.
No, there’s no denying it. She’s gone, and I may never see her again.
I fling open the door and storm outside. A woman further down the balcony takes another drag of her cigarette, while her open robe trembles in the breeze. Shit, I love my life, but sometimes….
I get out my phone and remember. I can’t text Sarah. She’s not going to be answering me anytime soon. Still, my fingers dial her number before my brain can think better of it.
The hopeless rings echo down the balcony hallway. It’s just been a week. A week since that horrible omen of a text and no sign of her.
I jam my phone to silent, shove it in my back pocket. I can’t take any more of it, any more of those mocking rings. Leaning on the balcony railing, I stare out into the highway wasteland before me, everything in a gray, molasses-like motion. A waft of smoke from the woman further down the balcony throws a tempting finger in my face.
I shake my head to get rid of the smell. No. No way. I quit smoking a year ago for Sarah, and I’m not about to start up again now.
I go back inside. On the bed, staring at the wall, I inhale, then exhale. There. I’m fine now. I won’t go back there, to my twenties, all of it a haze of girls, money, and drugs. After Mom died, I almost went over the edge.
No, there’s no going back.
I get out my phone, then put it away again. Sarah was the one who got me out of those dark days, the only reason I’m still here today. I see her at the edge of the bed now, her eyes wide with the solemnity of her words, “You can’t keep doing this, Jax. You’ll die, and I don’t know what I’ll do without you.”
“I don’t know what to do without you, Sarah,” I murmur to myself.
I get out my phone again, but this time, I call Trip.
“Hey, boss,” he says in that strange high-pitched shrill I can never believe belongs to the bulky beast of a man.
Most people look at me like I’m on crack when I tell them he’s the tech guy and Whitey is the hit guy.
“Hey, Trip. Can you run another scan on Sarah’s phone?”
“Sure thing. Just a sec.”
His “sec” is actually a few minutes of heart-pounding waiting before he says, “Sorry.”
While the last of my hope works its way out of me, burrowing out my toes into the orange shag I’m standing on, Trip continues, “Same as before, boss. Her phone’s still off. I can’t get any sort of trace on it.”
“Yeah, yeah, it’s fine,” I say, my hand lifting the phone away from my ear, my thumb reaching to the screen, ready to hang up.
But I don’t, and neither does he. For some reason, I can’t bear the thought of hanging up and facing this dismal room and this Sarah-less world alone.
“Hey, boss?” Trip says after a minute.
“Yeah?”
“What about her friends, her boyfriend, her neighbors?”
I stare into the gloom. I don’t want to admit it – that I’ve avoided asking around, checking in, because then it means the crisis is real.
“I can help,” Trip continues, “but today you have a meeting with Whitey.”
“Right, thanks, Trip. I almost forgot. Tell him I’ll be at the usual place in thirty minutes.”
“Ok,” he says, and I hang up.
It doesn’t take long for me to pack up my things. Coming in last night, I barely had time to put my bag down, let alone put my stuff anywhere. I brush my teeth, sweeping the vibrating bristles over my top teeth for a hundred seconds, then my bottom for a hundred more. Just like Momma taught me.
Momma.
My reflection in the mirror sags. It’s been almost four years and still, most times, it returns to me like a hit to the gut.
Now it’s even worse.
“Always take care of your sister, Jax my boy. Protect her.” Those were her last words to me. Not “I love you,” because I knew that already, not even “Be careful” because she knew me too well. No, my mom used her last words for what was most important: family.
What would she say now that Sarah is all but confirmed missing?
When I lean over the bedside table to pick up my wallet, I see it. Tucked behind my wallet. A note. A phone number.
416-747-1111.
My hand grasps it, and a smile slinks onto my face. No fucking way. But there’s no other explanation. It has to be hers.
I tuck both in my back pocket. Maybe it’s just me, but the room looks a little lighter now.
###
As soon as I walk in, I see him, Whitey, waiting in our usual spot with his usual mountain of Rainbow Sherbet. While I head for the end of the long cash line, Whitey gives me a glinting grin.
In the line ahead of me, two ponytailed girls’ stares slide from my incongruous friend to equally incongruous me.
I smirk. Being damn near albino, due to my white-blonde hair, blue eyes, and fair complexion, I got used to people’s stares around the age of five. But as far as Whitey is concerned, I always forget how striking a figure the crazy bastard is, especially in a pinky family-friendly establishment like Baskin Robbins of all places.
Toothpick-skinny with glued-on looking muscles, Whitey is basically a cross between an action figure and a crack addict. The forest of gelled spikes on his head probably doesn’t help. All this, with sea green eyes, virtually no lips and a mouthful of braces, makes for an interesting time with any potential clients.
I throw another look back at Whitey, who’s now entirely immersed in ice cream ecstasy. From here, the bulk of the gun in his jean pocket is still visible. Yeah, he may look like a Dragon Ball Z character, but Whitey is the best there is.
By the time I make it back there with my cone of Very Berry Strawberry, Whitey is all finished his Rainbow Sherbet and ready to talk business.
“So,” he says, smoothing out his rainbow-smeared napkin on the table, “the Russos.”
I nod, and through a strawberry spoonful, repeat, “The Russos.”
He picks up the napkin and speaks to it, “So they stole another shipment, right up under our noses. Turns out they bought out Mike a few months back.”
I take an extra big bite, glaring at the napkin myself.
“That bastard.”
Whitey shrugs and throws the napkin into a sweeping gesture of dismissal.
“That’ll be water under the bridge when you hear what I’ve got planned.”
I lean in. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah, we want to completely put them down, right?”
I shrug, avoiding his eager gaze. His excitement is contagious. And dangerous. “I don’t know man. I think we should just hit the Russos back harder. Steal their next shipment. Maybe take out a few of them while we’re at it. So they get that we’re not ones to be trifled with. So they back off.”
I shake my head, then continue, “I’m not sure I want a full-out war. Not yet.”
Whitey nods, then shakes his head.
“I don’t know, boss. You remember how they responded to trying to talk it out.” He self-consciously scratches at his neck, at the angry gash from the last of those talks.
I stab my spoon into the soft body of strawberry with an added vigor. Ah yes, I remember all too well. How we’d finally gotten them to agree to a sit-down. How we were going to divvy up areas, girls, stop the feud, figure out a win-win solution. How they tricked us, decided they’d use all of us as target practice instead.
They’d apparently changed their minds last minute; decided they’d rather use Whitey and his men as target practice instead.
I inhale, then exhale. Letting my temper get the best of me could be fatal. An all-out war would be bloody, and I don’t want to put my family and friends in any more danger than I have to.
Whitey folds his napkin slowly, studiously. Once it’s as small as it can get, he says, “Just hear me out, ok?” I nod, and he continues, “So I’m thinking – I’m thinking we won’t get many chances when they’re caught unawares, surprised. I’m thinking we throw them for a complete loop, you got me?”
I nod.
“Problem is the whole clan sticks to that big old house like it’s their jail. Not to mention we don’t even know what kind of fish we’re dealing with as far as the new head of the Russos goes.”
I frown.
“Still no word on who he is?”
Whitey shakes his head. “Nope. He’s as good as a ghost, and our sources can’t get shit on him.” I shrug, and he continues, “So we need a time when they’re separated – when we can hit them where it hurts. So hard that they won’t be able to get back up again, yeah?”
I take a big spoonful to hide my smile. I like where this is going, but I’m not about to change my mind.
“So, I’m thinking – big old Papa Russo’s getting pretty long in the tooth. There have been more doctors in and out of there than girls in your bed.”
I punch his arm. “I’ve been slowing down, you know.”
Whitey gives another glinty grin and waves the napkin again. “Be that as it may, main thing is – the evil old bastard is dying. It’s only a matter of time before he croaks entirely.”
“So? And then the new head steps up as the official head of the family – the guy who could be anyone for as much as we know about how he looks. How does the old guy dying help us?”
Whitey is unfolding the napkin. “So, I’m thinking, when the whole sad Russo family is at the very sad funeral boohooing over Papa Russo, that’s when we do it. That’s when we strike.”
I grin, but Whitey is focused on the napkin, unfolding parts and refolding others.
“We blow up their house. Then we wait nearby and shoot a few coming home in the chaos. Maybe even take out the new head himself if we’re lucky.” Whitey lifts the napkin, which he has somehow folded into the shape of a person. His gaze flicks to mine, his smirk spreading across his face, before in one rapid motion he rips it in half.
As the severed halves fall to the table, I punch Whitey on the arm again. “Fuck you’re good.”
His grin is still wide as he rises. “This calls for another Rainbow Sherbet.”
He goes to the now lineless front counter and returns a minute later with what looks like four scoops.
“I’m hungry,” he tells my stupefied look. Then, taking a big bite, he adds, “You know they have Baskin Robbins PJ shorts for chicks now, yeah?”
I take a final bite of my own, shake my head. “No way.”
He nods. “Yeah way. They have ones for Cherries Jubilee, Orange Cheesecake. I’m gonna get Alexa to wear the Rainbow Sherbet ones for my birthday.”
“Jesus, Whitey,” I say, laughing.
I’m not sure if I’m amused or weirded out by the image of his larger-sized girlfriend decked out in Rainbow Sherbet boxers. But, then again, bigger women can be beautiful and sexy too. I just like my girls somewhere in-between; slim but with serious curves.
After a particularly big bite, Whitey shoots me a significant sidelong look.
I shake my head. “I don’t know, man. I’m still not sold on this plan of yours. I want to send the Russos a message they won’t soon forget, but I feel like that might be going too far. They have allies of their own too.”
But Whitey can see the excitement on my face even as I deny him. He grins with orangey-pink teeth, not missing a beat. “Well, boss, you still have some time to decide. I give the old man three weeks, tops. Three weeks and, if we go with the plan, we’re gonna have a monopoly on the trafficking business. Three weeks and we’re gonna be as good as gods.”