Race
“Did you touch anything?” I demand as she rolls down the window of her car. Delilah’s eyes are impossibly wide, like a doll come to life.
“No, no,” she mumbles, appearing lost in her thoughts. “I didn’t even go inside. I saw it from the crack in the door.”
“The crack in the door?” I can’t help but raise an eyebrow at this. I’ve had clingy girls pull this shit before. They make up some excuse, any excuse, to get me to come back to them. And when I give in to their pleas and stories, it all turns out to be weak lies or some call for attention. It’s hard to tell if Delilah would pull that sort of thing, but I don’t put it past any kind of woman to be cold and calculating after so many years with my ex, Miranda.
Delilah runs her hands over the leather steering wheel. They slightly shake, but she tries to cover it by placing them back on her knees. When she’s taken a breath, she responds, “Yeah. I saw that the door was open, but I don’t have anyone living with me. Only my mom’s got the key, and she would never… She wouldn’t come over and not tell me.”
“What did you see inside?” I ask, slightly more convinced.
“A damn mess. The light was on. That’s why I was worried someone might still be in there, but I didn’t hear anyone from the outside. My couch was turned over and the person or people, uh, they emptied out this dresser I had in my hallway.” She looks up to the second floor of her building. A row of blacked out windows and doors line the row, but in the center, nearest the open-air stairwell, is a set of two illuminated windows with the curtains drawn. The door does appear to be partially open, but it’s hard to see from below.
“Stay here,” I order her. I don’t need to tell her twice. With how shaken up she is, I doubt she wants to step foot in her place until I give the all-clear. She bites her lip slightly and goes back to holding tightly onto the steering wheel with her dark painted eyes focused in front of her.
As an enforcer with my old club, I have a lot of experience staking out a location and doing detective work. I’ve built up a pretty good portfolio of break-ins as well. No matter what side I am, I know that there are a few clues each home break-in leaves, especially when it’s a botched, rush job. For one, there’s the door. The fools always fucking forget to shut and re-lock the damn door. That, or they don’t have a lock picker, and the damn door’s been beaten to a pulp. How they entered the door tells a ton about who entered and their motivations.
Delilah’s looks professional. No marks on the edges of the wood. The hinges look like they’re original as well. No one used force to enter. The only evidence they’ve left behind are minuscule marks on the metal handle from someone’s tools. The person who came in knew what they were doing.
I stand by the door for a few moments, listening for any signs I’m not alone, or this is some kind of setup. Given that just several weeks ago, three MC riders were out following Delilah and her friend around town gave me pause. Did they come back? What did they expect to find in her apartment? I’m not getting answers tonight. The place is dead. The person who came left the way they went in and probably not in much hurry given there isn’t a sloppy trail.
I put on some leather riding gloves before entering and leave my shoes outside the door, careful not to leave any marks. Delilah’s place isn’t anything flashy. I wouldn’t expect it to be given she probably makes peanuts at her waitressing gig. It reeks of her perfume and some scented warmer that was left untouched by her door. A few pictures and signs hang on the wall, some tilted off to the side from being bumped into. But on further inspection, something seems off about the accent wall. Something seems missing. A row of four pictures is placed off-center as if…
“Delilah!” I call out through the door. “Get up here!” I stare at the spot till she makes her way cautiously inside.
“Why did you take your shoes off?” she asks in a trembling voice.
“No marks. I’m not about to get pinned for something I didn’t do.”
“I wouldn’t call—” she starts.
“Don’t worry about it. Tell me something – is there a picture missing on this side? Was it here before you left for work?”
Delilah takes a step back towards me, careful not to trip over the couch and the rest of the random living room pieces covering her hardwood floors. After a beat, she exclaims, “Yeah! There’s supposed to be a picture of my mom and me at the beach from a few years ago.” She walks to the wall and touches the blank space. “It was here. I know it was. Are you sure it didn’t fall?”
We both look through the pile of blankets, hats, coats, and pillows the person or people tossed on the ground. Silently, we clean and sort through the mess, but there’s no sign of the picture or any hint of what happened to it. No glass shards mean they didn’t break it and clean it up. The nail in the wall probably showed they took it off by hand and didn’t just grab it and go. Nothing was adding up here. All I had was that the person or people knew what they were doing when they entered. They had the tools to break-in, and they left the place with little traces of who they were.
“Is anything else missing?” I ask as we finish clearing the living room.
“Let me go check,” Delilah replies as she sprints off towards the other rooms. Her footsteps echo through the small apartment. With each room, she shouts out the damage – a broken lamp shattered by her bed, a torn apart desk made it impossible to go through her spare room, her papers had been gone through but nothing important missing, her locked safe was gone (but there wasn’t anything in there to begin with). Everything was trivial and minor. Even her jewelry, which didn’t seem like much of anything, was left in its place in a storage box in her bathroom.
When she reappears, she’s changed out of her waitressing outfit. The hunter green sundress flows off of her, but it doesn’t fit with the rest of her look. It dawns on me for the first time that she’s not as put together as the last time I saw her. The smeared lines of makeup cloud her eyes and stain her face. Her lipstick is slightly smudged, and her cheeks are so pale that I barely notice her freckles. Even her hair could use a comb.
“You wanna tell me what’s up?” I finally ask her.
She looks taken aback, like the question has shocked her. It shouldn’t. She couldn’t think that I would believe her when she called me up out of the blue to do some phony investigation where the only thing missing of value is an old picture of her and her mom on vacation.
“Why didn’t you call the cops?” I press her. “Why was I your first call?”
She squirms slightly in the chair she has sat down in. Looking at her knotted up fingers, she replies, “I’m not sure, to be honest. I don’t trust the cops around here. I know they’re paid off by the Bad Devils. And I thought you might know who did this...”
“You think I did?”
“I – I don’t know. Really. I thought that maybe you were…”
“Don’t. If you think I am such a fucking amateur that I would order some goons over here to haphazardly go through your shit, you really don’t think much of me.”
“I don’t know you,” she shoots back.
My voice rises. “Then why call?” I have no idea why this question is heating me under the collar so much.
Her face goes whiter than a ghost as she exclaims, “Because I can trust you. Or, maybe I stupidly thought that. I don’t know. I just thought I could trust you.”
“Trust me? Why the fuck would you trust a guy like me?” I stand to my feet and walk towards her slowly. With my hands raised outward, I show her what I’m about, lifting up my shirt. “You see me? I mean, you really see me? This scar on my chest here – that’s from someone cutting me with a shank. This gash right here – rope burn from a guy dragging me behind his bike when I was only eighteen. These pockmarks are cigarette burns from my daddy. And I deserved each and every one of these marks.”
I put my clothing back into place and then lean down towards her. With hands placed on both arms of the chair, I mutter into her face, “I’m not a guy you run to when there’s trouble. I’m the guy you run away from.”
The wheels seem to turn in her head. Her eyes close for a second as she huffs deeply, but she doesn’t break contact with me. She doesn’t turn away or try to push me to the side. She sits stoically in her chair with her legs crossed between mine.
Finally, with a gritty voice, she replies, “I called you because you gave me your number and because this is your territory. I didn’t call you to be lectured on your past. If you’re not going to help me, you can get the hell out of my apartment.”
I gotta hand it to the chick for the grit and bite. It’s not every day a girl stands up to me like this, especially when I’m at peak assholeness. It’s almost a turn on to see her become so stern and cold. She’s got a fire in there as deep as warm as the color of her hair, and I hate to admit that I wouldn’t mind warming myself by the flames.
Just as I’m about to make my move, something white flashes out of the corner of my eye. Right above her TV, in nearly plain sight, a piece of paper hangs. My head turns directly towards it, and her glare follows me in curiosity.
“What the hell is that?” She mumbles.
“Not yours?”
“No. Not mine. Do you think it’s from—”
I reach over towards the wall and tug down the simple sheet of white notebook paper from its hiding spot. The penciled words are faint and clearly scribbled in a hurry:
We’ll be back. Don’t call the cops or it will be sooner rather than later.
“‘We’ll be back’ – what the hell does that mean, Race?” she asks, her hand wrapped around my arm as I lean on the arm of her chair. “Does that mean tonight? Tomorrow? I don’t understand why they are warning me—”
“Who the hell did you mess with?” I ask, turning the paper over in my hand.
“What do you mean? I don’t mess with anyone.”
“I mean, who have you slept with outside of me? Any club or gang men that would be taking some shit out on you? Any angry exes out for a grudge? Did you do some shit to someone you’re not telling me about? Because the only reason why anyone would do this is if they wanted you to be ready for them.”
“No! I mean, yes. I’ve slept with some club guys in the past – all Bad Devils. And I’ve had exes that weren’t club-affiliated, but they were short-lived. I mean, we parted ways, and it wasn’t a big deal. I just wasn’t attracted to them. There was the guy at the restaurant tonight…”
“What happened tonight?” My interest spikes hearing her go through her past lovers.
“Some pushy Hollywood executive. He came onto me, and I threw a glass of water on him to get him to back off. My boss sent me home early. I wasn’t supposed to be home until midnight or one.”
“What time is it now?” I ask as I stand to my feet, nearly running straight into her.
She looks at the phone in her hand and reads, “11:45. Why?”
“Grab a bag of your things. We need to get the fuck out of here.” I run towards the door, this time taking my gun out with me.
As soon as she sees my urgency, Delilah goes into panic mode. “Why? What do you think is going on?”
“The morning you left my motel room, you remember that?” I can’t help but notice her instant blush as she nods with a deep swallow. “When you left, three men showed up outside. They were looking for you. The leader, this older man I didn’t recognize, said he was having you tracked. They know what time you get off work. They don’t want your shit or this apartment. They want you to be home so they can take you!”
“What? No. That can’t be! Race, I’ve got no grudges. No one hates me. I take care of my mom, I go to work, I come home. I don’t underst—”
“Grab a fucking bag of whatever the hell it is you need, and let’s go! If they’re coming, it’s gonna be soon.”
“But go where?!” she shouts as she runs into her bedroom. “Where do you think you’re going to take me where they are not going to find me? I mean, if they are tracking me, then they know where my mom lives and where my friends are. They know where I work. They apparently even know where you sleep. Where the hell else am I supposed to go?”
She quickly reemerges with a backpack in hand and a small plastic bag of papers and folders she stuffs in with the rest of her things. She’s changed into a black strappy dress and thrown on a pair of black leather boots and a matching jacket to complete the look.
I reach out my hand to her as I step out the door of her apartment. “There’s only one place that’s going to keep you safe at a time like this, Delilah.”
The realization appears to hit her hard, and the fear that’s somewhat dwindled comes back with a total vengeance. “No. No, Race. I’m not going there. Anywhere but there. I don’t belong there, and they are not going to want me. Plus, I’ve got a life here – people who need me. What about my work? My mom!”
“Delilah!” I shout as I pull her towards my chest. Grabbing her by her leather-clad arms, I shake her slightly, so she’s forced to look straight up at me. The glittering eyes nearly spill out with tears, but there’s something else there… something that I can’t pinpoint exactly.
My voice rattles in my throat as I order her, “You need to come with me. No questions. No fighting. The only place I can take you where I know you will be protected is the Bad Devils’ headquarters. You understand me? I swear to you I am going to keep you safe as long as you listen to everything I tell you, and you don’t run your smartass mouth like you tend to do.”
We both turn towards the parking lot as the sound of a motorcycle driving down the street brings us both back to reality.
She takes hold of my arm, and replies with as much certainty as she can muster, “Let’s get the hell out of here.”