Sadie
I looked up at the buildings that Chris had parked in between, feeling my heart beating faster in my chest. I’d picked one of the names at random from the list and put it into Chris’ GPS, and he’d pulled off into an alley off the main street when we arrived. It was in the seedy part of downtown—cheap, low-quality apartment flats above shops and restaurants, pawn and dry cleaning places.
“You’re sure this is the right place?”
I shrugged off my brother’s question, feeling almost irritable at him. This is all your fault, you stupid, self-centered jerk. I took a quick breath; it wasn’t entirely Chris’ fault—even if he had been stupid enough to get involved with a mafia operation, he hadn’t intentionally gotten himself robbed. He’d come to me because I was the only person that he could trust, and I was going to help him. I had to help him—he was my only brother, and I loved him.
“The list says it’s verified—one of Micah’s guys checked it out already,” I told Chris. “There are only a few on the list that say they’re not sure.” I’d figured out the system quickly enough: two check marks next to an address meant that one of Micah’s people had tracked the person down, and another had already visited him. One check meant that someone had tracked the person down at the address, but no one had gone there yet. A question mark meant that it was the address the person was known to live at—but they weren’t sure the person was still there. Chris’ name on the list had given me chills.
I’d spent the drive reading over the list, trying to piece together the notations. The guy in question I was about to confront was named Chester. According to the list, he owed Micah $800; I’d decided to go for him not just because I could be pretty sure to actually find him, but because it would—if I could get at least half the money—knock out a good chunk of Chris’ debt in the first night. If he has all of it, then even better. All Chris will owe then is 4200. I had no idea what Chester owed the money for, and I didn’t care.
“What are you going to do?” I looked at my brother and smiled a bit. I hadn’t planned anything; I knew it was probably stupid, but all I could think of was knocking on the door and winging it from there. Some criminal mastermind I am, I thought wryly. This is insane. Surely you can find some other way to get the money—get someone at work to rubber-stamp a loan or something.
I took a quick, deep breath; I’d already struck the deal with Micah. I had a gun—and even if the guy in the apartment I was about to confront had a weapon of his own, I doubted he’d be expecting me, or anyone like me.
“I’m going up there,” I said. I unbuckled the seatbelt. “Keep the car running—I have a feeling we’re going to need to get away fast.”
Chris looked at me from the driver’s seat, pale and worried. “Be careful,” he said. “I mean it, Say—you have no idea what this guy is going to try and pull. This isn’t your thing.”
“He has no idea what I’m going to do either,” I pointed out, more confidently than I felt. I kissed my brother on his cheek. “If you don’t see me in 15 minutes, come check on me. Okay?”
Chris nodded.
I made sure the gun was hidden under my blazer, tucked into my skirt, and got out of the car. The building was one of the old-school kind, with stairs outside leading up the back to the apartments as well as the stairs inside. I definitely thought it would be easier to go up that way: fewer people to see me, no risk of reaching a dead end. I climbed up to the guy’s floor, heart beating faster and faster in my chest.
I found his unit number on the door, and looked around the area. It was pretty quiet—of course, it was starting to get late, so I should have expected that—and whoever might have been in the adjoining units was either out still or asleep. I could see light coming through the blinds at the window for Chester’s apartment, and crouched down where I could see a broken panel. I peeked into his living room, and saw a tall, skinny guy, seated in a beat-up La-Z-Boy recliner with a tallboy; I thought it looked like it was a Steel Reserve. He was watching something on TV, and when I managed to contort myself so I could catch a glimpse of his face, he was wearing a half-drunk scowl. Okay, so he’s probably had like three of those already—he won’t be ready. But don’t count him out.
I stood and stepped back to the door as quietly as I could, pulling the baby Glock out of my waistband and getting it in my hand the right way before I hid it behind my back. I didn’t want the guy to see it right away—but at the same time, I wanted to be ready to use it in a heartbeat. I balled my other hand into a fist and pounded on the door as hard as I could. I felt it shudder in the frame—it obviously hadn’t been hung right—and then the muffled noise of the TV from the other side went silent. I waited a moment, and the door opened; it was just a crack, but enough for me to see a slice of Chester’s face.
“Excuse me,” I said, giving him my best, helpless, apologetic smile. “Are you Chester?”
I heard the guy on the other side of the door pull the chain and then the door opened wider. Chester—assuming it was him, as I strongly suspected—was dressed in a dirty, stained white shirt for a local band that had broken up maybe three years before, and a pair of dirty cargo shorts. “Who the hell are you? And what the fuck do you want?”
That was my cue. I pulled the gun from behind my back and steadied it with my other hand as I pointed it directly at Chester’s face. Chester’s eyes went wide and he stumbled backwards, hands up defensively. “What the fuck?”
I followed Chester into the apartment; for a moment I thought about closing the door behind me, but I needed to be able to get out fast. I pushed it to with my foot and advanced on Chester. “Micah Rintley wants his money,” I told the guy.
“What?” the guy stumbled backwards another step or two, staring at me wild-eyed. “I thought that shit was settled.” He shook his head, and by the look on his face I knew he was trying to decide whether he was more weirded out by being told I was collecting money for Micah, or the fact that it was someone like me doing the work, holding a gun on him. I felt weird: powerful, both in my own head and outside of myself, watching myself, at the same time. “I already took my lumps for that bullshit, man—Micah’s people came at me and beat the shit out of me last week.”
That explained the second check-mark. If I were him I’d probably have changed addresses after getting a beat down, I thought. But then, if he’d thought it was over and done with, why leave?
“Well plan’s changed. Micah wants his money.”
“Man—shit.” Chester let his hands fall to his sides. “It wasn’t even my fault anyway. I was out selling and someone jumped me for it—took the stash and the money.” The story sent a tingle through me—but I ignored it. No time to get distracted.
“Micah wants his money, and he wants it now,” I said. “Tonight.” I dropped the muzzle of the Glock a bit, pointing it dead center between his hips. My heart was pounding, my blood rushing in my ears; I didn’t know for sure whether I could make myself shoot the guy, but I had to make him believe that not only I could, but that I would, if he didn’t do what he was told.
“Hold on,” the man said, raising his hands again. “I’ve got some of it—not all of it, but I’ve got some.” He turned slowly toward a ratty, old-looking desk pushed up against the wall. “Don’t shoot, okay? I’m just going for the money.”
I nodded; I didn’t trust my voice. My hands felt slick on the gun’s grip, but at the same time I felt so powerful I almost wanted him to make a wrong move.
Chester moved to the desk slowly, no sudden movements, and I watched him open a drawer. He took out a jar, and I could see a wad of cash in it. “Man, I thought this shit was over and done with,” he muttered; I couldn’t tell if he was talking to me or to himself. He pulled the wad of cash out of the jar and started counting it out. He looked at me. “All I’ve got is three-fifty,” he told me.
“Hand it over,” I said. “It’s not enough, but whatever.”
Chester reached into the drawer again and I cocked the gun.
“Just—just hold on,” Chester said, hearing that gut-wrenching sound. He took out a baggie with what I thought was probably crystal meth, put it with the cash. He turned toward me, the money and drugs in one hand, the other down at his side, almost behind him. “Here. Tell Micah I’m definitely out of the biz.”
I shrugged; I didn’t think Micah would care. I took the money from him and stepped back, trying to think of how to make my exit.
All at once, Chester lunged at me, and in the dingy, dim light of his living room, I saw the gleam of the knife he’d taken out of the desk at some point while I wasn’t paying attention. I scuttled backwards, away from his slashing arm, and Chester stumbled. Acting on instinct, I brought my knee up, grabbing at the back of Chester’s head and pushing him down against the bony part of my knee. I heard a crunching sound and Chester screamed, falling to the floor.
I had the money, I had my gun still, and I was pretty sure Chester hadn’t somehow managed to slash me with the knife anywhere even in falling. My heart was racing. I turned on my heel and ran out of the apartment, thanking my own forethought at not closing the door completely. I stumbled on the stairs on the way down, but managed to keep from twisting my ankle or falling on my face before I got to the ground level.
Chris had the car running; I dashed to it, fumbled with the handle, and got the door on the passenger side open. “Drive!”
Chris took the car out of park and I heard the tires squeal on the pavement as he pulled through the alley faster than he should have—but at the moment all I cared about was getting the hell out of there before Chester could even think to come after us. Not that I was entirely certain he would; based on the noise his face had made, I wouldn’t have been surprised if I’d managed to break his nose when I knee-checked him.
My heart began to slow down as Chris turned the corner, headed in the direction of Vagabond. I took a slow, deep breath, closing my eyes and letting the adrenaline flow out of my system. The tingle that had gone through me when Chester told his sob-story came back to me as I calmed down; it occurred to me that his story was a lot like my brother’s. Well, that’s just too bad for him, I thought, putting it behind me. I didn’t know the value of the drugs Chester had given me, but I’d counted the money when he had—it was three hundred and fifty dollars. With that and the one thousand Micah had taken off already, I’d had a productive night.
“You actually got the money?”
I looked at Chris and grinned wryly. “Not all of it, but something,” I said. I crammed the baggie and the cash both into my purse, put the Glock away. I doubted I’d need it to meet with Micah. I thought about the bizarre confrontation, about the fact that I—who’d never in my life done anything worse than jaywalking—had just held a man at gunpoint and taken money from him. Maybe there’s something in our genes, I thought, looking at my brother. I snorted, shaking my head at my own whimsy. I wasn’t going to romanticize what I’d just done. I reminded myself that I was doing what was necessary. I wasn’t going to enjoy this; I was going to get it done so that I could get my brother off the hook, so I could keep him from getting killed.
I took another deep breath and tried to mentally prepare myself to meet with the big boss himself, to deliver the first payment of Chris’ debt to him. In spite of myself, I could feel a little tightening between my legs, a reminder of earlier in the evening.
Stop that.
I focused and put any thought of the tryst with Micah out of my mind.