by W Winters
With men like Fletcher. He runs things up north of here. He has for years and when shit got rough the first year of taking Tremont back from Vito’s men who wanted it just as much as we did, Fletcher took our side.
Back then, he said he was rooting for the underdogs. I wonder if he bet on Jameson tonight.
“King,” Fletcher greets me and I grip his hand firmly, keeping my gaze on anything but his pocket square. He always wears a suit I can’t stand.
Ostentatious is one way to describe the pale blue suit that’s wrapped around his body in a slim fit. With the yellow patterned handkerchief tucked in his pocket, garish is the word I’d use for this one. Fletcher is flashy, from his heavy gold watch to the diamond stud in his ear. His look comes outfitted with a lit cigar. Money talks, but the wealth he has, he decides to make scream. I may not prefer his attire, but he’s just the man I want to do business with tonight.
“Good to see you, Fletcher.”
“Your bar is coming together nicely,” he says, starting with small talk. Upstairs isn’t finished, and it won’t be for another few weeks or more. I want it perfect when we open the doors to the public. Down here is just fine. No furniture, nothing that can be stained with the blood that will most certainly be spilled. These heathens would be fine with cardboard boxes.
“Thanks. I heard you’re building one uptown?” I question him and he shrugs.
“Not like this,” he says.
“Wasn’t asking because I’m worried about competition,” I say to reassure the worried look on his face.
He huffs from his nose before straightening the gaudy handkerchief. “I just want you to hear it from me. I’d never step on your toes.”
“Likewise,” I say with a nod and move on to business. “The next shipment has been moved up a week. Leroy has extra product, and he’s happy for me to hand it on over to you.”
“You want me to cut out Mathews?” Fletcher questions, a glint in his eye. He’s had to deal with Mathews because there was no one else. It’s what led to that fucker getting closer to Tremont. This is one more blow to Mathews while giving me favor with both Leroy and Fletcher. It’s a win on all sides and both of them know it.
If I need an ally against Mathews, Fletcher is my man.
“Who’s that?” I ask with a smirk and he lets out a bellow of a laugh. Fletcher sells what Mathews sells. All the heavy shit. Pushing Mathews back by destroying his stash only helps Fletcher keep his territory. Stick with the devil you know, comes to mind when I think about the last conversation Fletcher and I had.
“Know what I love about you?” he asks me, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. “You treat your friends well.”
I give him a tight smile and nod. “I take it you’re happy to not have to rely on the man cutting into your turf?”
“This last week has been less bloody,” he tells me with a seriousness that chills my spine. “I want to keep it that way.”
“It’s been coming to that. A war on the streets.”
Fletcher nods and says, “That’s what happens when a new dealer moves in.”
“I heard he’s moving out,” I’m quick to comment as Fletcher lights up a cigarette. He takes a long puff and exhales as the men surrounding the stage to our right, let out the kind of roar that comes with disbelief. Looks like Jameson’s coming back. That’s what happens with the Irish. You can’t count them out until they’ve hit the ground.
“He can sell his shit elsewhere,” Fletcher says, practically spitting the words out. “It was a mistake to ever buy from him… This Leroy… he’s all right?”
“Been with him for a while, he’s better than all right.”
“What have you been buying, though?” Fletcher questions me and I don’t like it. “That soft shit isn’t the same type of deal.”
I level him with a hard stare. “You don’t have to worry about Leroy.”
He’s slow to nod, then drags on his cigar before saying, “Tremont has some good shit. The pot, the coke, the E…. but when are you going to expand, Young Buck?”
Young Buck. I hate the nickname he has for me even more than the suit I’m currently forced to look at.
“We’re stable, controlled, that’s how I like it,” I tell him and then I put my arms up, gesturing to the room and the stairs as I add, “Money’s flowing. That’s what counts.”
“You’re growing into what was already here—there’s so much more to be done,” he says, giving me the hard sell.
I made a deal with Jackson years back. Back when I was selling for Vito and he knew and he was in the academy. I’d keep things as they were. The cocaine, the pot, there’s a demand for it from certain people in this town and the surrounding areas. I fill it, but keep it contained to just that.
Meth and heroin aren’t an option. We both agree on that. It’s how Jackson’s mom died. I think it’s the only reason the two of us work. He needs me keeping that shit out and I need him to keep the cops off our back.
Uptown, Fletcher makes a pretty penny from that shit. As does Mathews. As does Leroy.
They can sell, split and fight each other for it.
“Not interested at the moment,” I answer Fletcher as I have for the past two years.
He lets out a low whistle, and I watch him watch Jameson land an uppercut against his opponent’s jaw. The blood splatter only fuels the audience to scream for more. Even if it is an upset.
My eye catches sight of my men. Derrick and Liam are still surveying the room from the platform stage. Roman’s in another corner, making another deal. Cade’s got a grin from ear to ear as he’s taking more bets.
“I like the system I’ve got going,” I tell Fletcher, but I didn’t need to give him that. He doesn’t need or deserve an explanation. I wish I could pluck the statement from the air when he looks back at me. I’m taller than him, but it still feels like he’s looking down at me.
“You’re still learning,” he says as he squares his shoulders and faces me. “There’s more money to be made. You haven’t even scratched the surface, my friend.”
He puts his hand on my shoulder and I keep my expression firm. A moment passes, and anger swells inside of me. I won’t repeat myself, and I won’t humor him with more of this conversation.
“Are you good for the drop next week?” I ask bluntly and he drops his hand from my shoulder.
“Always open for your business,” he tells me, and I offer him a tight smile, leaving him where he is and telling him to enjoy the show. He still urges me to “think about it” and I reassure him that if I’m in the market, I’ll turn to him first.
The part that irritates me the most is that there’s too much truth to Fletcher. The real money is in the harder shit. I’m the youngest leader of any crime organization for thousands of miles. And I do have a lot to learn. I picked up the pieces after a year of grappling for power. I took the deals I knew were already in place because we needed the money and the connections. Someone was going to take them, and I literally killed for it to be us.
Men like him, they aren’t my friends. They don’t need explanations. They’d get rid of me if they thought they could get away with it. I’m more than aware of that little fact.
“You look pissed,” Derrick comments as I step up onto the stage to stand next to him.
The collar of my shirt feels tighter as I swallow down the rage. “What’d he say?” Derrick asks, referring to Fletcher.
“Everything’s fine and set,” I answer him and add, “Just pissed at myself.”
“What happened?”
“I’m too fucking friendly,” I tell him and the grin I give him makes him shake his head.
“Just your friendly neighborhood thug,” he comments with humorous sarcasm.
“Something like that,” I say and cross my arms, watching the fight and trying to hear the punches over the cheers.
“Did you decide what we’re going to do about the potential problem?” I can feel Derrick’s eyes on me, waiting for an answer to his
question. I watch blood drip down Jameson’s arm. I watch his jaw clench tighter as he lands blow after blow, the veins in his neck bulging.
Swallowing, I answer Derrick without looking at him. “There’s no sign Mathews knows for sure.”
“Right,” he comments.
“All we can do is be ready if they come for us.” Finally, turning to him I add, “And we can tie up the loose end.”
“Loose end?” he questions but his gaze lights with the answer before I have to say it. “Wright.”
“Wright,” he repeats, although this time he breathes out long and heavy as he does.
“The sooner the better,” I tell him.
“How do you want it done?” he asks, and I tell him I don’t care.
A minute passes and the ref calls the fight, lifting Jameson’s fist into the air. The man looks like he’s barely standing on his own, like he needs that hand to be lifted just so he can stay upright. But he won.
“I thought you said Wright was with the cops?” Derrick’s brow is lined with confusion. We don’t fuck with the cops and they don’t fuck with us.
“He is,” I answer Derrick and lift a shoulder nonchalantly. “I’m tired of being friendly.” I say the joke in a deadpan manner. “Kill Wright. From here on out we don’t trust anyone to stay quiet.”
Derrick huffs a laugh, although it’s tight. “No more Mr. Nice Guy.”
Laura
There are no streetlights on my grandma’s street. They’re something the city never put in. So when I park, I don’t turn off the car yet. I want that bit of illumination from my headlights as I take out my phone and peek at what Cami texted back.
I grin when I see her message about how she still hurts. But it’s a good kind of hurt. I know the feeling. Is every time like this? she wrote in the last text.
Only the good ones, I reply before tossing the phone back into my purse. Taking a quick look around, I turn off the car and palm my keys. I’ve never liked the dark. But I especially don’t like it here anymore.
I catch sight of a black sedan idling a few cars up. It would be hard to miss it. It’s a sleek car and looks expensive; it looks like it doesn’t belong here. The red brake lights come on and the car pulls away a little too fast, making their tires squeal. It’s odd they’d drive away so quickly and because of that, I try to read the license plate, but all I get are the first two numbers. One and seven. I try not to care that I didn’t see the rest of the plate. It’s a habit I have, but this is just a random car.
It sends this weird vibe through me, though. Seeing that car take off… I can’t shake it even though it’s just a car. I don’t know most of the people on this street anymore.
It’s nothing, I tell myself and think about Cami’s text again. But the odd feeling, that little stir of anxiousness, sits like a rock in the pit of my stomach.
All the good feelings from taking the practice entrance exam this morning seem to drain from me as I take the stone stairs up to the porch. I practically aced the test. I can’t believe it. I didn’t actually think I’d do well enough to even consider putting in my application anywhere. I never did well in school, so why would I? A hint of a smile tries to pull my lips up, but then I hear the gentle creak of the rusty porch swing. It lingers in the quiet air like the memories do. Grandma would have been so proud.
This place will always have memories around every corner and in every crevice, even if it’s lifeless. Lacking everything it held when I was a kid. The dark and the quiet are reminders of everything that’s gone. Everything that will never come back.
My eyes are on the ground while I walk, which is why I’m so shocked when I reach up to put the key in the door, only to find it already open.
The wooden frame is splintered. Confusion hits me first. I haven’t even put the key in yet.
Thump.
The lock is still turned; I can see the hunk of metal as the door brushes open with the slight touch of my hand. Gasping, I try to stay calm, but I don’t see how I can as the reality registers.
Thump.
The shoe print on the door is black against the white door. Someone kicked in the door.
“Fuck,” I say and the curse leaves my lips in a whisper.
I’m half a step back, feeling the racing need to run take over when I smell smoke.
And then I see the bright red and orange flames beyond the cracked frame.
It’s on fire. My grandma’s house is on fire. No! God, no!
“Help!” I scream, gripping the keys so hard in my hand it feels like they’ve broken my skin.
My hands are shaking as I fumble in my purse. My keys drop harshly onto the concrete porch. Then something else, maybe my sunglasses; I don’t know and I don’t care.
I just need my phone.
I’m still shaking when I finally find it. Struggling with both hands to grip it and dial 9-1-1, I drop my purse and stand there on weak legs as I stare straight ahead, watching the bright red expand alongside billowing white and gray smoke. The hallway is clear, telling me it’s the kitchen. The kitchen is on fire. The flames are high, almost to the ceiling. It’s too far gone. No, no, please tell me this is a nightmare.
The operator is cool, calm and professional. Whatever he sounds like, I’m the opposite. Tears prick my eyes and my voice cracks as I tell him the address and that my house is on fire. Tell isn’t the right word; maybe scream or cry would be better to describe it. My mind is a whirlwind, my lungs fail me and so does any form of common sense. He’s asking me questions, asking if I’m safe and away from the fire.
He’s going to tell me to step back. To get far away and keep my distance until help comes.
His voice comes through clear from the other end and I’m right.
I’ve never been one to just step back. Even with my blurred vision, I can see the fire is raging. But what if whoever broke in is still in there? What if I could find this bastard?
The phone drops in a swift motion, landing at my feet. A door slams open to my right, Mr. Timms’s house, as I take a step into Grandma’s.
“There’s smoke from the back of your house!” Mr. Timms yells at me. I barely even hear him, although I recognize his ever-harsh tone. I sure as shit don’t respond as I push open the door, feeling the wave of heat surround me instantly. I have to cover my mouth and nose with the crook of my arm.
The vise around my heart tightens as I walk quickly to the living room on the left. My coughing is involuntary as I pull open the coffee table drawer and take out a gun. The metal shines with the flick of flames as I get closer to the kitchen.
There’s no chance whoever started this fire is still here. It’s a raging storm of heat and flames at the back of the house. There’s so much smoke; how long has it been going?
The sirens swarm from outside, but there’s so much damage. Too much.
I can’t even get to the bathroom, or the kitchen sink. My sobs are impossible to contain as I watch the destruction overwhelm this old house where I grew up.
A sound that resonates like the crack of a whip forces me to scream. Mr. Timms yells something from outside. He’s closer now, yelling at me or the fire trucks. He sounds frantic but all I can hear is the sound of my home being burned to the ground as I watch.
I hear a crack, a snap and then a loud bang as the fire seems to grow along the wall like a vine. The pictures slam to the floor, leaving the shattered glass to skitter across the hardwood. I scream, covering my mouth as I stare in disbelief. A younger version of myself seated in my father’s lap is slowly charred, lit aflame, and engulfed.
“The pictures,” I say as my hands shake and I make a move to gather the ones closest to me and farthest away from the kitchen. Slipping the gun in the waistband at the back of my jeans, I feel the cold metal graze against my skin. With both hands up in the air, the smoke violates my lungs.
The first cough makes me heave in air, but the air is thick with soot and I collapse to the floor. I’m light-headed, taking in quick short pants, but
I can breathe at least.
“Laura!” Seth’s voice cuts through it all, like a bright light on the darkest of nights.
My neck cranes back to see him in the doorway. “Laura!” he screams louder as he runs into the house, his arm covering his face.
“Seth!” I scream as loud as I can and crawl to him, keeping my body low on the ground.
He breathes my name so softly when his eyes reach mine, I don’t know how I heard it. Maybe it was the ghost of a memory filling in that actuality.
His movements are effortless as his arm wraps around my waist. I can hear my plea for the pictures at the back of my throat. I even reach for them, but Seth is strong, and the moment is hopeless. I’m so light-headed more than anything. It makes me weak.
I don’t have a single picture of my father. I don’t have any pictures of my grandmother.
They’re all in this house.
The vision blurs in front of me as my skin feels cold and my head light. Outside is brighter than it’s been this late. Everyone’s porch light is on and everyone’s watching. When my ass hits the hood of Seth’s car, parked recklessly in Mr. Timms’s front yard, I see how large the flames have gotten, how the house is completely engulfed. Maybe whoever did it had just been here.
I could have saved it all, if only I’d been here earlier.
Seth’s hands are on me and he’s talking, he’s shaking me, but I can’t stop crying. I can’t stop this trembling.
I’ve never felt like it was all gone until this moment. It may have been empty, but it was still here. It held so much of me. Now what do I have?
My breathing is ragged as Seth pulls me into his hard chest. I feel him stroking my hair as I try to calm myself. Drying my eyes on his shirt, I watch as the hoses are pulled. I can smell the singe of burned wood as the flames rage against the downpour of water.
The firefighters are barking out orders nonstop. So much is going on that I can’t focus; people talking, people looking at me, crowds gathered to watch my childhood home burning to nothing.