I’d like to thank Lastman for the notes and recommendations. I like to work on smaller, episodic stories while I’m working on the larger Criminal Affair detective stories. These come out monthly and I try to release the detective stories quarterly.
The annual awards voting is ongoing right now, so if able, be sure to go to the forums and vote for your favorites.
—
Tuesday – April 5, 2021
A circle of people sit on fold out chairs in a room of the Grace United Methodist Church. They each take a turn, going on long diatribes about progress and relapses. The father who promised his kids a trip to a theme park but lost the money betting on sports. The second-grade teacher who resisted the urge to buy four hundred dollars of scratch offs. The lawyer who used his firm’s expense card at the casino. One by one we discuss victories and defeats.
We started the meeting like all the others. The organizer leads us in a prayer, and we recite the twelve steps. Any anonymous meeting goes the same way. Alcohol, narcotics, and gambling.
This week, I managed to not go to a poker game. Small victories. It was a small buy in, only fifty dollars. I probably could have made it. I should have gone. I could have gotten out if I lost and not bought back in. Are they having another game next week?
“Lisa, care to share this week?” Theo asks. He’s leading the group, a recovered addict himself. He gambled away his kid’s college fund. Forty-seven thousand on black.
My name isn’t Lisa, but this is anonymous after all.
“I passed on a game this week. Holdem. Fifty buy in. Said I needed to work, which I did, but that usually doesn’t stop me,” I say, and the room applauds. I give an uncomfortable smile and look at my toes. “All I want to do right now is call and ask if there’s a game next week.”
“Letting go of gambling is hard because it’s FOMO. Fear of missing out. One more hand. One more bet. All I needed to do was play one more time and I would have won. It’s always just one more hand, but it never is, is it?”
Some of my fellow gamblers stay behind for coffee and conversation, but I don’t. I leave the second we’re done and cross Avenue B to the gravel parking lot. When I reach the other side the parking lot I dig a pack of cigarettes out of my purse and pull one out by pinching the filter with my lips. Before I light, I see someone leaning against my car. I sigh and slide the cigarette back into the pack.
“You’re surveilling me now?” I ask the detective.
Detective Miles Deacon is one persistent sonofabitch. The moment you land on his radar, he bites down like a bulldog and doesn’t let go. He keeps it casual in jeans and a button up shirt beneath a black leather jacket. He’s off duty, otherwise his shield would be visible on a lanyard around his neck. A veteran officer who has likely been a cop longer than I’ve been alive. Salt and pepper hair, but more salt than pepper. Even his 70s pornstar stash has gone grey.
“Just in the neighborhood. Saw your car. Figured I’d say hi,” he says, adjusting himself to cross his arms. “You think about what I told you?”
“I’m sticking with I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say and try to step around him. He takes a step to the side, blocking my door. “Unless I’m under arrest, let me in my car.”
“You’re running out of time darling,” he says.
“I’m not your fucking darling.”
“Gambling debt I take it?” he asks.
“Move,” I demand.
“Four homes were broken into last month. Talented group doing it. They get in, they get out. You know what the properties all had in common?”
“Move.”
“They all patronaged the lock smithing services of Lady Smith Lock and Key. Curious coincidence.”
“If you had more than a coincidence, we wouldn’t be having this conversation in a parking lot,” I say. “Get the fuck out of my way.”
Miles takes a step away and opens the car door for me. I groan and sit in my car, him closing the door a second later. He knocks on the window, and I turn the crank to lower the window just an inch. My car is so old it still has a crank.
“You don’t need to wear a wire. Just tell me what they’re hitting and where, and I’ll hit them back,” he says, and I crank the window pack up.
I don’t wait for him to leave before I pull out of the spot and drive toward the exit. When I turn onto the road, I roll down the window and finally light my cigarette.
—
My shitty apartment is waiting for me. The kind you’d be excused for believing it was a shitty motel. Close to the underpass and immediately off the highway exit. The sweet sounds of traffic. When I step out of my car, I crush the butt under the heel of my foot. I look both ways before opening my trunk and removing the tools from my car. My pick set, key fob programmers, drills, bump hammer, the works. No way in hell I leave this stuff in my car overnight.
It’s heavy, and every night I struggle to bring it up to my apartment on the second floor. I place the bag on the ground, use my key to open my door, and walk inside. I’m across the threshold when my phone rings. I’m advertised to work until nine, and it’s nine thirty. It’s a number that isn’t in my contacts.
“Lady Smith Lock and Key,” I say after putting the phone on speaker so I can use my other hand to drag the bag past the door.
“I’m locked out. Broke the key in the door. Could use a good drill,” a male voice says. His voice is shaky, like he’s not sure if he has the right number or is asking for the right thing.
“Single cylinder is a hundred. Double cylinder is two,” I say.
“It’s a double.”
The man gives me the address over the phone, and I write it down on a sticky note I place on my mirror as I change and freshen up. I find my best cocktail dress I can wear without a bra, slide off my normal panties and drag up a black thong. Deodorant and a spray of perfume. I look at myself in the mirror, and practice making a sexy face.
My cheeks are so red, I always look like I’m blushing. Pale skin doesn’t help. My light brown hair is held together with a ponytail, but I let it loose and brush it straight. In the right light, I’m almost a blonde. When free it completely covers my breasts. Not big, not small, but a healthy handful of perfect symmetry. A jealous friend once said they remained perky in defiance of gravity.
I take the sticky note off the mirror and exit my apartment, locking it behind me. The GPS tells me it’s a hotel, and I start driving. Twenty minutes later I pull into the parking lot and look at myself in the visor mirror. I apply lipstick and pucker to make sure it’s even. I walk through the lobby of the hotel and straight to the elevator. Third floor. Room 317. I knock on the door and wait.
A man opens the door and looks down the hall both ways before letting me in. Is he looking for a cop or his wife? His gold ring shines against the overhead lights of the room. There is a single bed in the room and a computer open on the desk. Excel spreadsheets with what looks like accounting information. His suit jacket is hung up on the back of the shower door. Overall, he has a traveling businessman look, wanting that away from home fling.
“Ground rules. Money up front. No anal. No kissing. You wear a condom, no negotiation,” I say, and he nods. He goes to his jacket and removes his wallet. He hands me ten crisp and freshly withdrawn twenty-dollar bills. I count it and put it in my purse.
“How do you want me?” I ask.
“I don’t know. Not sure how this works,” he says nervously. He’s never done this before. He’s probably in a rough patch with his wife and this is something he thinks she’ll never find out.
“What does your wife not do?” I ask and think for a moment. “Besides anal.”
“I can’t remember the last time I got head. She doesn’t do doggy,” he stammers.
“You can have all that and more. The hour is all yours. You come, if you get it back up in that time frame you just go again,” I say, and turn my back to him. “Help a lady out.” He undoes my zipper, and I let the dress fall to the floor. He’s on the clock now. He kisses my shoulder, and I turn around, and softly push his head back. “No kissing.”
“I figured you only met lips,” he says.
“I could make an exception for the other pair,” I tease and grab his belt. He jumps a little, bumping my purse off the table. The contents spill out, but I ignore for the time being. “You sure you want to do this?”
“I do.”
“I’m getting mixed signals,” I say.
“My wife and I, it’s…” he starts, but I place my index finger to his lips to shut him up.
“Stop thinking,” I say. I walk to the bed and position myself on all fours. I reach under my body and between my legs. The thong is moved, giving him an inviting view of my pussy. I peel myself open to make it more enticing. “All yours.”
The man just stares at me for several seconds, and I roll to my back to look back at him more comfortably. The thong is still tucked to the side, so he’s still getting that perfect view.
“I hate to sound like your supervisor, but your hour has started.”
“I just found out my wife was cheating on me. Part of me wants, payback, I guess,” he says. He sits down on the desk chair and puts his head in his hands. Normally my Johns don’t talk this much. This is weird, and even I’m uncomfortable for this man. “Can we just talk?”
“Your hour,” I say. Great, now I’m a therapist.
His name is Matt, and he’s been married for fifteen years. He recently found out his wife had several affairs. One of these affairs overlaps with the conception of their second child. He wants a paternity test, but he doesn’t. He loves his daughter and has been nothing but her father for seven years. It’s hard to question something that he used to be so certain of. What if Rosemary isn’t his biological daughter? Does he just stop being her father? Does it erase all those memories?
I took the bathrobe while he talked, figuring modesty made this conversation a little less unusual. Nothing like vetting your fears and frustrations to your escort. A half hour passes and Matt offers me a drink.
“I have to drive after this, and I also don’t take drinks from clients. Nothing against you, but if you’re going to do something stupid, be smart about it,” I say, and he understands. He makes himself a Jack and Coke from the minifridge. He retakes his seat and drinks a hearty gulp.
“Half hour left,” I say, and he looks up at me. “Just saying.”
“I have to be the saddest fucker you’ve ever seen,” Matt says between sips.
“You’re not the first guy I’ve had change his mind when I get there. You’re the first who talked for the first half hour. Everyone has something.”
“What’s your name?” he asks, and I shake my head and giggle. “No names either?”
“Lady Smith is the most anyone gets.”
“You can keep the full price. I don’t know what I was thinking,” he says. Matt picks up my dress from the floor and extends it out to me. I shimmy off the bed and take it from him. He turns around as I drop the robe and redress.
“Help a lady out again,” I request. He looks over his shoulder cautiously, and sees I’m asking to be zipped up. He hands me my purse I dropped earlier, and I take a quick peek inside to get idea if he got everything. “Can I just say something?” He nods. “Who taught Rose how to ride a bike? Tucked her in? Held her as she cried? Scared away the boogiemen in the closet? You did. If that’s not a father, I don’t know what is.”
I say nothing more and leave the room. When I get back to my car, I lean against the seat and laugh. What the fuck just happened?
—
Wednesday – April 6, 2021
My phone rings and scares me awake. I catch my breath, and squint from the light coming through my blinds. Groaning, I rub my hands down my face and roll on my shoulder to the night stand. Number, not a name.
“Lady Smith Lock and Key,” I answer, trying to hide the grogginess of my voice.
“Do you do lock installs?” a male voice asks.
“If you have the locks, I can. I have a small inventory of locks if not. What kind you looking to install?”
“Medeco M4,” he says, and I nearly curse over the phone.
“Dang, that’s some serious security there.”
“Seriously expensive things need serious security,” he replies with a jovialness to his voice. “Take it you’re familiar with it?”
“Yes sir, I am,” I say, and start getting dressed. Expensive locks mean big pay. “How many you looking to install?”
“Four exterior doors. Interior doors I’m just installing some cypher locks.”
“Simplex, Schlage, Trilogy?” I ask, name dropping brands. Helps my credibility.
“Schlage,” he says. “Box says FE575.”
“Didn’t want to jump for the 595?”
“Didn’t like the curved handle,” he humorously says. “You passed.”
“What?” I ask.
“You passed. I went down the line of locksmiths when I searched on Google. You’re the first one to actually sound like they know what they’re talking about.”
“Thanks. I think,” I say, and laugh as well. “Address and time?”
The man gives me his information and I ask for his name. Lucas Justin. Something about people with two first names make me laugh. He asks I show up at two in the afternoon, which gives me plenty of time to take other calls throughout the day. Not long after we end our call, they start coming in.
A woman locked her keys in her car in a grocery store parking lot. I ask the make and model of the car and research it while I make the trip. It lets me know which tools I’ll need before I even get there. All I need is a small prying tool, a blood pressure sleeve, and my extender. When I arrive, I pry the door open just enough to slip in the sleeve. I pump air into the pressure sleeve, increasing the gap large enough to push my extender through. I flip the manual lock and open the door. The alarm goes crazy until the woman can get her keys.
She pays with a card I swipe on my Square, and she signs with her finger on my cellphone screen. I send her an email with the receipt and get another call ten minutes later. Man locked out of his home.
I ask the man to read the brand of the lock if visible. Kwikset. Easy lock, single cylinder. Just the pick set should do. I can crack that in ten seconds.
When I pull up he starts giving me the story of how it happened. A lot of people do this. Trying to create the reason they were stupid without having to say they were stupid. Apparently, he keeps his front door locked and enters through his garage door. His wife and him left at the same time, but she was going out of town for a few days. She had accidentally taken both garage door clickers. He returned home to grab his work laptop, otherwise he would have discovered the mistake later in the day.
It takes me less than ten seconds to open the lock, but the chain is still on. Simple fix and I have the tools in my car. With his permission, I snip one link, and bend it back with a pair of pliers. I request to take pictures of both sides of the door and explain it’s for my protection against liability. Plenty of people try to claim I damaged their doors well after the fact. He has cash, and I send him a receipt via email.
I handle two more cars before noon and stop for lunch. It took me this long into the day to realize I didn’t have my wallet on me. Thankfully, some customers paid in cash, so I get a slice of pizza from a local place and eat it in my car. I get another home lock out before two. Double cylinder, but it’s no match for me. After that I start forwarding the callers to another smith. Before I drive over for the install, I go home and change. Normal calls I don’t care how I look, but installs I tend to be there a minute, so try to look marginally more professional.
The job takes me to the industrial part of the city. Warehouses, utilities, and gas. The sign on the edge of the parking lot directs me toward a large steel building. I exit the vehicle and look at the signage. King’s Chariot Luxury. A private driving service that picks up people who can afford drivers.
If I had to guess, this is a warehouse to service the vehicles.
I take the tools I think I’ll need and make my way to what looks like the front door. With these buildings it’s never clear which door is which. There is a posh waiting area with a large reception desk. One woman is manning a phone and is currently on a call via a headset. She’s my age, mid-twenties, and seems to have made better decisions.
“Sorry about that,” she says after touching her screen to end the call. Touch screen call service on the computer. Cool. “Do you have an appointment?”
“I do. Lady Smith Lock and Key. A Mr. Justin called,” I say, and she checks her computer. From the reflection on her glasses, I see the colored tabs of a Microsoft outlook calendar.
“There you are. I’ll give him a call and he’ll be with you momentarily.”
I look around for a seating area, but do not see one. The woman takes a call and I drum my fingers on the counter to pass the time. My phone rings, and I refer them to another smith. I drum my fingers more.
“Locksmith?” a voice asks. I turn to the voice while nodding.
Lucas Justin is a gorgeous man. I don’t remember the last time a man made me feel like a schoolgirl with a crush the moment I saw him. Full suit and tie, tailor made and fitted to him personally. His hair is black and shiny, slicked back over his head with a few strands dangling down too cosmetically perfect to be an accident.
“That’s me,” I say, and he extends his hand out for a shake that I return.
“Lucas Justin,” he replies. “What’s your name?”
“Lady Smith is fine,” I say. He seems to find that humorous and releases a light chuckle.
“Well then M’lady, let me show you what we’re doing.”
Lucas takes me to the first exterior door of the warehouse where he plans to have me install these locks. He leads me through a massive warehouse with dozens of cars in it. Luxury for sure. Several black Rolls-Royces. Many models of Mercedes from sport to SUV. Range Rovers. Pick a luxury car, they have it.
Mechanics are conducting basic maintenance on the vehicles. Oil changes. Tire changes and rotations. Engine checks. We walk out of the repair shop and into an equally large detail shop. Cars are getting vacuumed, leather is getting polished, and the exterior and getting washed clean. It’s an impressive operation.
“I’m in the wrong business,” I joke and he walks backwards for a moment to look at me.
“Not yet. Still hasn’t made a profit,” he says. I thought he was head of security until he said that. He sounds more like the CEO of the company.
“Serious?”
“Oh yeah. Most business don’t get black on their books for the first few years of operations. You need capital to lease or buy the land, facilities, inventory, employees. You start in the hole. People always sneer trickledown economics, but don’t know the first thing about how a business is actually started. My employees will get paid long before I ever see a profit, and I carry the risk if it fails. That’s not including the people I paid to develop the land and build the structure.”
I can relate to that. Not to his scale, but I acquired my tools and equipment piecemeal over two years. That cost me over ten thousand. Add a mild gambling addiction and you have a woman who is constantly worried about her next rent payment.
“Door number one,” Lucas says, and opens it for me. I look at what I have to work with and start preplacing the tools in the order I need them. Before I start, I pull out my phone to take pictures of both sides. “What’s that for?”
“Evidence that I didn’t damage the door,” I say, and slide the phone into my back pocket. “Not saying you will try to say I did later.”
“Take it you get that a lot?”
“At least twice a week.”
I remove the housing cylinder on the interior side and separate the cylinder from the mounting plate by sliding the spindles out. The screws holding the striker to the door are removed, and I slide out the deadbolt. Next the exterior housing cylinder is removed, and I start prepping to remove the handle. Similar process, and now the door has two holes ready for new parts.
“What makes the M4 different?” Lucas asks.
“Is this another test?” I tease.
“I was recommended it by a friend. Just wondering why it’s better or if it is.”
“It is better. Way better than this,” I say, pointing at the lock and handle now on the floor. “This lock I could have picked in, twenty seconds on a slow day,” I say. “M4, might take me two to three minutes.”
That doesn’t sound like a huge difference, but I’m a professional locksmith. A common criminal who thinks he’s good at picking locks would likely get frustrated and quit. Not to mention, time is everything. Two minutes in the open is a huge risk. Any lock is pickable, the best any lock can offer is how long it takes.
“What makes it harder?”
“Most locks just have top pins. You move it into place, insert further, and so on. This lock has side and lift pins as well, which makes it a real pain. You’d basically have to pick the lock twice. The keys have interactives on them…” I say, holding up the key and lightly touching what looks like a small button, “…making them hard to duplicate and you need special cutting tools to make a duplicate even if you managed to get a hold of a blank key. Bumping it is unrealistic.”
“Worth the money?” he asks, and I nod. “Good to know.”
I finish up the first door and I get taken to the rest of the job. Three exterior doors are getting the beefy locks, and the interiors get cypher locks with a ten-digit code. I install the locks and set up the code ready for input. I look the other way as he types them in. Before I leave, he asks if I know anything about digital security systems, which I know a fair amount. He leads me outside to the outdoor pin pads for his garage bay doors.
Lucas gives me the rundown on his digital security system, the cameras, and so forth. I make a basic recommendation to change the angle of the outdoor camera facing the pin pad, reducing the likelihood of shoulder surfacing by his own security.
When all the work is done, Lucas asks me to follow him to his office. I give him a summary of the work I just did. Seven installs over two hours. I charge forty an hour, and fifty for each door. After taxes it’ll run him almost five hundred. He rights me a check for a thousand.
“Whoa, that’s a little more than I said,” I say.
“You left out the security consultation,” he replies, and I can only smile.
“You got a minute…sorry, didn’t know you had someone in here,” a male voice says. I turn over my shoulder to a man who looks similar to Lucas. Similar like brothers, or another close relative. Older if I had to guess.
“Just finishing up with the locksmith,” Lucas says, and I give the new man a courteous smile.
“I imagined a fat dude with an ass crack showing,” he says.
“That’s a plumber, and a stereotype, Ryan,” Lucas says. “Anyway, thanks for the work. If we have any more security issues, you’ll be the first person I call.”
“Well thank you. Have a nice day,” I say, and see myself out.
—
Five hundred extra dollars should have gone straight into savings, but it didn’t. It would be easy to put the money on the tables at a casino, but I lost my taste for that environment. Too sanitized. Too many old people who can’t play. It’s just boring.
I call my bookie Dante and ask if he knows of a game somewhere. He says he’ll check back in with me after he makes a few calls. While I wait, my phone rings after nine. A man says he needs to drill a single cylinder. Worst case scenario, I show up late to the game when he calls back, and I show up looking hot. He provides the place, and I change before leaving my apartment again.
This guy is bold. It has been a long time since I provided this service at a residential address. A two-story home with a large porch. Two window peaks and a driveway leading to a detached garage. No white picket fence, but it is a house that feels like home. I was instructed to use the back door, but to feel free to use the driveway. Next to the garage is patio with furniture worth more than all the stuff in my apartment.
I ascend the back stairs and knock. A few seconds later the door opens, and I lean back. It’s the man who came into Lucas’s office as I was leaving. Ryan. Do I hope he made a mistake and needed a real drill, or do I hope he wants to drill?
“Lady Smith, please come in,” he says. How gracious can a man who called an escort possibly be? “Drink?”
“I don’t drink on the job. Where’s the lock?” I ask, and he grins. I always double check when they take me to a residence. I’ll explain my wardrobe if I have to.
“Relax, I called the afterhours you,” he says. I hear ice cubes land in a glass, and the squeak of a cork being pulled from a bottle. “Drink?”
“Same answer,” I say. “I do this on a referral basis. How’d you know?”
“A client you had a few months ago. I knew he liked the experience, figured I wanted to taste the product myself. Didn’t figure my brother would call you for actual lock smithing. I thought that was bullshit if I’m being honest.”
“Taste the product?” I ask. Am I the product? I guess I am.
“My brother is the CEO, but I manage all things related to customer satisfaction. Complaints, comments, concerns, those kinds of things. Sometimes customers ask me for more than just a car. California and Seattle are hemorrhaging the people who can afford to move. Those people are going to Texas, Florida, Arizona, and yes, Montana.”
“What does that have to do with me?” I ask.
“People with the money are leaving. My brother moved the entire business here last year. Voted with his feet, and he’s not the only one. As more people come, the money comes with them.”
I get it now. Lucas is getting ahead of the trend. Wealthy people are moving, and their wealthy tastes are moving with them. They want to feel like a west coast city, without the west coast taxes or mostly peaceful firebombs.
“You’re the hospitality guy. So, if the customer wants more than just a car, by that I mean, drugs and or pussy, you help make that happen?” I ask, and he nods.
“Exactly. Hence, tasting the product,” he says.
“What’s the money look like?” I ask.
“You don’t have the job yet,” he says, raising his eyebrows. This is an audition. Fine. I lay down my rules, and he complies by dropping the money on the table.
Ryan takes me to his living room and puts his hand on the back of my head to drop it onto his dick. He’s firm in seconds, and I start working him with my hands as well. I have an idea of his desired pace by how he holds my head, and work to that. His endurance is moderate, but he holds my head down and nuts without warning. I refuse to swallow, and he refuses to let go, so I squeeze his balls until he does. When I’m free, I spit into what’s left of his drink.
“You didn’t say no mouth pie,” he says.
“It’s just polite,” I say, and he grins.
“Damn, that was good. Jump on while I’m still hard,” he says.
“Condom,” I demand.
“Two hundred extra.”
“What part of no negotiation do you not understand?” I ask, and he laughs.
“Everything is negotiable,” he says, and reaches into the pocket of his pants on the floor. “How much for that ass?”
“My ass is not for sale.”
“Five hundred?” he asks, dropping five bills on the table. “Thousand?” Five more. Me saying nothing maintaining an expression of not being impressed is my answer. He looks like he’s never met someone who couldn’t be bought. I love the feeling of victory when a man realizes not everything has a price tag. He’s not the first to barter for my anal virginity.
“Even escorts have standards,” I say.
“It’s pronounced prostitute,” he says, and I feel my hand clench, but I relax it before he notices. He isn’t hard anymore, so pulls his pants all the way back on. “So much for that.”
I take the hundred he put on the coffee table before we started and slide it into my purse. It doesn’t look like I have any stains as I adjust my dress to a comfortable position. Ryan grabs his crotch and move some of the pieces before crossing his legs and leaning back into the cushion.
“Five hundred a customer, tips are yours,” Ryan says, restarting the original job offer.
“They need to be perfectly clear of my rules. I don’t need to get in that car and start renegotiating with a guy who is trying to raw dog my ass because you oversold the service,” I say, making him smile. He nearly forgets about his drink and almost takes a sip before flinching back when he looked down.
“They’ll get the memo but some might not read it,” he says.
“Then no,” I say, and start toward the back door.
“Call me if you change your mind. Always hiring.”
—
The drive home is quiet because I don’t even bother turning on the radio or plugging in my phone for music. I just roll down the window, light a cigarette, and listen to the wind. I’m around the block from my house when I hear it. Loud pipes from multiple motorcycles.
Two drive out in front of me, and then match speed. Even from distance I can see their colors. Red, gold, and silver with a skull wearing the helmet of a Roman Legionnaire. Roman numerals above the symbol says IX for nine. The 9th Legion. I look in my rearview and see three more. One of the two toward the front points toward the sidewalk. Sighing, I do as told and keep the car running. All five stop, but only one kicks out the stand and starts walking toward me. I watch him in the sideview mirror and crank down the window after he knocks with his fingertips.
“What’s this I hear from Dante you looking for a game rather than making a payment?” he asks. Fucking snitch. Dante just had to tell Pete, who told Titus.
“I can’t do both?” I ask, and he leans on the window so low his chin is on his hands.
“You got a good scoop to compensate?” Titus asks.
Titus is the leader of the biker gang known as the 9th Legion. Older, honestly too old to still be doing this. Not a hint of color in his hair or beard, wrinkled tattoo of a bare-chested woman whose tits look like soggy eggs.
Like many clubs, they have a rank structure with titles. The leader is The Caesar. Other ranks include Centurion and Standard Bearer. I’ve spoken with three of them personally, so those are the only three I know. I borrowed money last year to pay off a poker debt from someone I thought was worse than these guys. Boy was I wrong.
I missed a payment, and I was threatened with everything you would expect a man to threaten a woman with. That’s when I thought of something else I could pay them with; information. When I work, I’m also casing targets. Ten percent of their take goes to my debt. My after-hour services is all toward the goal of not having to do it anymore.
“I did a place up in the Heights today. Had to snip the chain, and most times people don’t bend them back into place properly,” I say, and open my phone. I show him the pictures I took of the door, which also showed the inside of the house. Titus pulls out reading glasses from his vest and places them over his eyes. “At least fifty-inch TV, wife’s out of town, less likely to have someone home during the day.”
“Nice,” he says, and writes down the address when I give him it. We know better than to make calls or send texts. He knows Detective Deacon has is sights set on me. The gang likely circled the block a few times to make sure it was a clear. “Anything else?”
“Might take some planning, but I got something big.”
“How big?” he asks.
“Like I don’t ever want to see you again big,” I say, and swipe to the pictures of the doors at King’s Chariot Luxury. He whistles after I tilt the phone to him.
“Is that a Royce?”
“At least a dozen of them. Benz, BMW, the works. Warehouse in the industrial area,” I say, and he thinks for moment.
“I don’t think I have a buyer for that right off the top of my head. Cars like that will be low jacked. That might be too big. A lot of heat for a job like that,” he says, and hands my phone back to me.
“If it’s too much for you, I can find someone else,” I say, and he laughs. “I can give it someone with the balls to do it. Take my cut, pay you, and be done with this.”
“You’re lucky you’re cute,” he says right before he grabs my hair. I yelp, and he throttles my head to the steering wheel, then back to the headrest. “And now you’re not.” I can feel blood drizzling down my chin, and I’ll be covering the bruise with makeup tomorrow. My mind flashes to when I missed the payment. Titus had two of his guys hold me face down on a table in their bar. My shirt had been ripped open, by breasts had been greedily fondled, and my pants were to my ankles. If I hadn’t thought about trading information at the last moment…I can’t even think about it without wanting to die.
“Don’t forget the only reason you have an alternative is because you have access to these places. Otherwise, I’d toss you on every corner, no rubbers, and your ass would be ten off with a group-on discount, understand?” he asks, and I’m too dazed to reply. I’ve been hit before, but even pinning me down didn’t hurt this bad. “Do we need to straighten you out the old-fashioned way?”
“No,” I stammer, and start trying to hold back tears, but a few slithered out and mix with my blood.
“Good. Get me more information on that place. Guards, cameras, security, the works. I don’t care how you do it. I’ll try to find some buyers in the meantime. The place in the Heights is good enough for this week,” he says, and I nod against his fingers still holding my hair steady. “See you around.”
I tremble in my car as I watch them leave. Minutes after they depart, I don’t put the car into drive. I try to light a cigarette with shaky hands, but I drop it outside. Instead of going after it, I just start pulling another from the pack. I struggle, and end up slinging what’s left in the pack onto the dash. Frustrated, scared, and in pain, I sob against the steering wheel, and startle myself when I accidentally make the horn honk.
After ten minutes, I get myself under control and try to wipe the blood off my face, but it’s already starting to crust over. Unable to do anything about that until I get home, I start my car and finish the drive.
I stumble into my apartment and hit the wall with my back. I slide all the way down and begin a second breakdown. The last time I was this low, I swallowed pills and made myself puke a minute later. Those kinds of thoughts are swirling in my head right now. A nice quiet ending. A permanent sleep. It stays in my head for too long, and I start looking for something strong enough to do it.
The mirror of the medicine cabinet hits the walls and cracks. Great, more bad luck. Just what a gambler needs. Items in the cabinet are haphazardly thrown over my shoulder. I find some old anxiety meds, and place them on the counter. I might as well die looking good, so I clean up my face before taking the pills to the kitchen. I pour from a bottle of vodka and dump what’s left of the pills. Counting them is meaningless, I just make sure it’s enough.
The glass is to my lips when the door knocks. It’s almost midnight, who the hell could this possible be? I look at the glass still in my hand, and as if my body was retaliating to my intent, my hand loses grip, and it crashes to the floor.
“Fuck,” I say, carefully stepping around the debris self-destruction. “What?” I ask.
“It’s…um…Matt. From yesterday,” Matt says. Who the fuck is Matt? I groan and walk to my door and gaze through the peephole. You gotta be shitting me. “Hello?”
“What?” I ask through the door.
“You left your wallet yesterday. Read your ID, had the address,” he says. Matt holds my wallet up to the hole, and I place my forehead against the door. “You want it back?”
“Put it by the door and leave please,” I say. I watch him contemplate for several seconds before he places it on the ground.
“About last night…” he starts to say, but I’m not in the mood.
“…leave. Who the fuck brings the wallet back to a prostitute?” I ask, and he stands silently longer than my patience can bear right now. I open the door sharply, and he steps back into the railing.
“Are you expecting a reward or something?” I snap.
“No I…”
“…then why the fuck are you here!?” I scream, pushing him hard into the railing again. He stares at me unsure of what to do or say, and quite frankly I’m stumped as well.
“You want to talk about…”
“…do I look like I want to talk to you?” I cry, and he touches my arms, and I flinch back, and swing at his chest. “Don’t fucking touch me.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, but still catches my hands to protect himself. “Please, stop hitting me.” I stop struggling, and he lets me go. “All I wanted to do, was bring you back your wallet. Seriously. No ulterior motive, nothing like that. There it is.” I look at the ground and kick my wallet inside the apartment with my heel. “Sorry for stopping by like this. I should have called. Anyway, have a good night.”
Matt turns to leave, but I instinctually grab his jacket as he turns. He stops and turns to my face drowned in tears.
“Please,” I hiccup. “Could you stay a minute. Anything you want, I don’t care. Anything, no rules. I just need the company. I don’t trust myself right now.”
Matt takes a moment to process my emotional state, and nods before I lead him inside. I start to kiss him before the door shuts, but he pulls away from me. Instead, he shuts the door, and the exhaustion make me collapse. He catches me and carries me like a depressed princess to my bedroom. He places me on my bed, and literally tucks me in. I try to initiate something again, but he only kisses my forehead and sits on the bed until I fall asleep holding his hand to my cheek.
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