6 Days to Get Lucky

by L E Franks

  I was still handcuffed.

  Handcuffed.

  Before I could contemplate my next move, a snarling rabid pit bull of profanity was thrust onto the bench across from me. Reggie was just a blur, retreating as fast as he came, slamming the door closed as he went. I heard three thumps, and the van jerked to a slow roll out of the parking lot.

  Between the enclosed van bouncing and rolling us, and it being filled to capacity with men stinking of stale booze and sweat, topped off with the tang of a little blood, I felt the nausea creep up. I settled back, looking for any distraction, and tried to shift into a pain-neutral position.

  One hadn’t been invented yet, so I went with leaning forward. At least if I threw up I had a chance of staying clear of the splatter.

  “Fucking coppers!” I barely noticed my discomfort now—at the back of the van Darrell had my full attention. He was wriggling and rolling back and forth, trying to sit upright—the bench too high for his feet to brace against the floorboards, like the rest of us were doing.

  As the van made a lurching left turn, he screamed, tumbling between the benches. He kept right on rolling until he settled at my feet and looked up.

  “Why if it isn’t Mr. Valentine.” One thing I could say about Darrell, the man could sneer.

  For the most part, Darrell looked unscathed. At least he hadn’t taken a punch to the face, though I supposed he was at an advantage in a dirty fight and hard to hit. Lorcan was probably still feeling the proof of that.

  The purple shirt that I’d been coveting was inside out and wrung as though someone had tried to grab him and he’d used his catlike superpowers to twist his way to freedom. Well, not exactly freedom.

  “Are you okay?” I considered pinning him in place between my feet, but didn’t want to risk the bite.

  “Fine-fucking-fantastic, Fucktard!” He used my shins to push himself up on his knees and began to surf like he was on a roller off Diamond Head and the van was just another long board.

  “You fuckers are going to hear from my attorney! This is police abuse! I have rights!” Darrell finished screaming at the partition and settled back. I watched him sway a while—his eyes staying fixed forward, a challenge to the guard up front maybe, and a fire began to build in my gut.

  “Well…” I waited for his attention. “Did you get what you wanted?” The bitterness coated my words.

  “Look, this was just business…” He almost seemed apologetic, except I could see he wasn’t. We weren’t his problem.

  “You little shit!” I hissed at him. The fire flashed to rage.

  “Hey now! Careful with the ‘Little’ names. Show some respect, Godzilla!”

  “Careful? Careful!? Are you fuckin’ kidding me, you menace? Do you have any idea what you’ve done? Who you’ve hurt?” I wished I had use of my hands. I wanted to shake him, to throttle him, to hug him until he saw reason.

  “Shit, Darrell—think about your own people. You could have gotten any one of them killed tonight. One wrong step, and they could be dead now. I’ve seen it happen. One second, they’re standing next to you telling you a joke, and the next, some coward with a beer bottle hits the wrong guy at just the right spot by accident, and…” I sucked in a breath. “They. Are. Just. Gone. Forever gone.”

  The drunk next to me stirred—I must have been louder than I thought. Everyone who could, was looking at us.

  Through bleary eyes, the drunk checked me out, finally jerking his chin at my fucked-up face, the one with tears I couldn’t wipe away and hide.

  “I do that? Ssssorry, man…. sorry…” His slurred speech trailed off as he slipped back into his stupor.

  I swallowed hard, mentally wishing him well. He had better manners drunk than most did sober.

  I decided I’d follow his example, refraining from giving Darrell a swift kick in his conveniently positioned ass like he deserved, and closed my eyes.

  * * * * *

  Jail was louder than I expected.

  And crowded.

  I’d been left for processing until almost the end, waiting first in the bar, lying facedown in the debris field, then later, kept cooling my heels in the police van until they had room for us inside.

  Just like in all the best cop shows, the desk sergeant ran herd on us from an elevated counter. It separated public access to the official side of things, effectively cutting the room in two. There were so many of us that the waiting area, usually reserved for those without handcuffs, was overflowing with the customers I’d been serving hours before.

  They stood us in groups, or sat us together in rows along the walls under flickering fluorescent lights: customers and bikers, hurlers and co-eds, all in varying states of dress and inebriation, waiting to have our names recorded, photos taken, worldly possessions confiscated.

  I strained, trying to catch sight of FatBoy by peering over the counter where earlier groups still congregated. I was looking for a familiar face, some sign that I wasn’t alone in here. Old fears bubbled to the surface. When Sasquatch was walked by, my heart almost stopped.

  “I’m gonna enjoy round two with you, girly.” He spread his lips in a mocking smile, showing off his bloody teeth.

  My stomach lurched.

  Fuck. Did he hit someone or eat them?

  “Shuddup, Carver, stop scaring the civilians—” His escort, another unknown officer, pulled on Sasquatch’s arm. I was going to suggest that switches worked on most dumb animals, but my brain finally got a jump on my mouth and I bit my cheek hard enough to taste blood.

  “Later, chica.” He lumbered on, perfectly compliant under direction. I could tell this was his world and he wanted me to know he was the master of it. Ice cold sweat slicked down my spine, and my sphincter might have constricted, just a little.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck….

  “Valentine, Nicholas!” An officer strolled out from the bowels of the building, clipboard in hand, calling out my name. He didn’t bother to look up, just waited where he stood.

  “H—ere.” My voice cracked a little, and he peered up at me.

  “Do you need a special invite Valentine?” He had shaggy brows and drew them together to glare at me. They resembled a large wooly caterpillar perched at the top of his nose.

  I stumbled to my feet, arms shaking from pain and fatigue and maybe a little fear, and Reggie materialized at my side, supporting me down the hall.

  “Johnson’s all bark and antacid. Just ignore him. He’s on retirement duty. Two more weeks and we throw a party for his cranky ass.” Reggie’s whispers reassured me.

  We passed by Corwyn and Liam, both looking like they’d just strolled off the field with no more care in the world than where they’d get their first draught. Rory, on the other hand, looked like I felt—terrified. At least Mickey was there, leaning close, passing along words of encouragement. Rory was nodding solemnly.

  They both looked up as I drew near: Rory flushing red. Mickey’s face unreadable, at least by me. I don’t think I’ll be welcome at their mother’s table come holiday time, not that I’d be visiting Ireland anytime soon, but on the odd chance I did, the welcome mat had definitely been withdrawn.

  It was a shame. Rory was going to have a hard time of it, if Mickey didn’t accept his choices.

  I shuffled on.

  Lorcan was the last man on the far bench, his hands cuffed in front, resting on an icepack shoved between his thighs. He looked like he’d been run over, and I guess that was true. Darrell certainly had done a number on him, once he’d yanked him off stage.

  His T-shirt was still missing, and I shook my head at the waste. Why were the pretty ones, the buff ones, the gorgeous ones, all such assholes?

  All except for FatBoy.

  He was the full package, beauty, brains, and brawn. Just thinking of him made my mouth water and my eyes leak.

  I felt adrift here, alone. And I realized, for the first time, exactly what he’d done. In the last few weeks, he’d become my touchstone.

  As fucked-up as
we were, he’d given me more than anyone before had ever done.

  Where are you?

  Reggie’s squeeze drew my attention to Officer Johnson reading from a checklist.

  “Any weapons, knives, anything that can be used as a weapon…?”

  “No.”

  “Drugs, paraphernalia, needles?”

  “No.”

  “Are you HIV positive, have AIDS, been tested for the same, have any other communicable diseases?”

  “No, no, yes, no.”

  “Are you affiliated with a gang?”

  “No.”

  “Have you consumed alcohol or drugs in the last twenty-four hours?” Johnson kept reading down his list and looked up in surprise when I didn’t answer immediately.

  “Do I need to repeat the question?”

  “No.”

  “No, you haven’t consumed alcohol or drugs in the last twenty-four hours?”

  “No. I mean… what time is it?”

  “Excuse me?” I must have been the first road bump of the night for Officer Johnson.

  “It depends.” The wooly caterpillar was back. Officer Johnson shifted to peer around me at Reggie.

  “Did you hear that, Officer Lincoln? It depends.” Crossing his arms, clipboard nestled against the navy blue uniform, he addressed me again. “Fine. It depends on what?”

  “The time… It depends on what time it is.” I was trying to calculate the beer I had Friday night.

  “Seriously?” Johnson made a great show of shoving a thick rubber diving watch in my face.

  1:45 a.m.

  I giggled. Last call.

  “Well?”

  I tried to pull it together.

  “No.” This time the caterpillar shot up, almost flying off his face. Any second, he was going to snap and he’d show me the business end of his club.

  I giggled again, shaking my head furiously.

  “Sorry, sorry… just punchy. No, Officer Johnson, I have not had anything in the last twenty-four hours.”

  “I find that hard to believe. Do I need to order a drug panel on you?”

  I seriously doubted he could do that, but maybe.

  Reggie jumped in, probably seeing bad things in my future if I kept talking. “Valentine is the head bartender at Frisson.”

  Johnson wasn’t impressed. “Not even a shot to calm the nerves between crowds?”

  My temper spiked. “You work for me and pull that shit in my bar, Officer Johnson, I’ll fire your ass. Sir. So no. No drugs, no alcohol in the last twenty-four.”

  The silence pressed between us.

  “I’m going to have Officer Lincoln search you for contraband and personal items. He will place them in this envelope—” Johnson slid a manila envelope from the bottom of his paperwork. “—and we will take your picture and run your prints. And god help you if you’ve lied to me.”

  I believed him. He seemed like the rubber hose type.

  Reggie systematically ran his hands over my body. Since most of my belongings were in my locker back at the bar, there was plenty of room in the envelope for my phone, my belt, and a tiny green crystal shamrock pin that Natalie had brought for me to wear, and then stuck in my pocket when I wouldn’t.

  The rest of processing was anticlimactic. Reggie cut the cuffs off me so I could stand up straight for my mug shot, and I carefully rotated my shoulder, wincing through the motion. It could be worse.

  I gave him what I hoped was a roguish grin. He rolled his eyes as they moved me around for my fifteen minutes of official fame.

  They took the laces from my running shoes, ran my hands under a digital scanner to capture my prints, and before I could think up anything else to annoy Officer Johnson, Reggie was walking me down the hall to the holding cells and drunk tanks.

  My footsteps echoing off old linoleum tiles, bouncing around the institutional green walls, sent my heart stuttering. The old terror was back, only this time it was real.

  We passed cage after cage filled with my customers—people I knew had only been swept up in the tsunami of violence that struck us hard and fast.

  “Wait a minute, Reggie—why are they all here? I know most of these customers weren’t involved…”

  “Public drunk and disorderly. At least until we can sort your mess out or they sober up, whichever comes first.”

  He took me all the way to the end, to a tiny cell half in gloom.

  “Your suite.” He ushered me in. The cell door clanged shut behind me. Reggie paused, then asked, “What the hell happened over there, Valentine? It looked like a bomb went off.”

  “That’s not a bad description… Let’s just say it came in a small package and had a really short fuse.”

  “Ahh.” Not that Officer Lincoln got the reference. As pissed as I was at Darrell, he had enough trouble without me volunteering him for more.

  Reggie reached into a pocket on the side of his utilities and pulled out a small bottle of water and a pack of Tic Tacs, which he handed me through the bars.

  “Probably be awhile before they come around.”

  “Thanks, Reggie, I owe you one.”

  “No bother. ’Sides, those are from Harper—I’m not that considerate, ask my girlfriend, she’ll tell you.”

  He disappeared, and I looked around my cell.

  The Hyatt it wasn’t.

  There was a cement bench built along one wall, bare except for the mattress roll at one end—looking thinner than the thirty-year-old seat cushions we had on our dining table chairs as a kid.

  Not that sleep was on the agenda.

  On the opposite wall was a tiny stainless steel sink, fitted in the corner with a metal commode beneath. Which reminded me that my mouth still tasted of roadkill. No point in wasting Officer Harper’s gift. I held the automatic faucet open, letting the water run as long as it would before dribbling to a predetermined halt. Then I did it again, ignoring the pain as I leaned over to slurp, swish, and spit. On repeat.

  I ran wet hands carefully over my face, gently rubbing at dried blood, cleaning myself when possible, cataloging the cuts and bruises that remained, running a tongue along my teeth and the inside of my cheeks.

  I was tempted to take off my shirt and use my undershirt to wipe down the rest of me, but I was afraid of what stripping would reveal, so instead I pretended any pain from the neck down didn’t exist and satisfied my need to be clean by dusting the bar debris from the rest of me. I even took off my shoes, shaking out small pieces of wood and stone.

  Reggie wasn’t wrong. It truly was like a bomb had detonated, with me at the epicenter.

  There was nothing left for me to do but sit on the edge of the bench and crack open the water. I ignored the mattress pad at first, but after a long pull of clean water cleared my throat, I unrolled it and flopped down. No telling how long I’d have the place to myself, and I might as well stake a claim.

  I also left half the water from long habit—not sure when I’d get another. The water in the cell tasted of iron, though that might have been from the cuts in my mouth. Instead, I pulled the little container of mints and shook them. Another flash back to childhood.

  I flipped open the lid, letting four of the tiny white footballs drop into my palm.

  I crunched the first two—the spike of peppermint cutting through the lingering sick—and sighed in relief.

  I really didn’t like to be unclean. I was fastidious in my personal hygiene, even if my loft would be laughing its ass off at the notion.

  God.

  A sentient apartment.

  World’s worst roommate.

  I sucked on the last two mints, letting their peppery essence melt on my tongue and thought about that for a while.

  One time, I’d read a short story by one of the sci-fi giants—where all the inanimate objects took over the world. It was a cool story, and I loved the idea when I was twelve. Now I wasn’t so sure.

  They’d have humankind on its knees in minutes. I couldn’t think of a reason to keep us around—we seeme
d to elevate stupidity to an art form.

  The mints had dissolved to flat flakes on my tongue, fracturing into shards as I played with them.

  I’d been in my cell maybe ten minutes, and I was already going stir-crazy. All I had to pass the time with was the regular opening and closing of cell doors and occasional drunken outbursts. I made a game of guessing who they were.

  The hurling team was easy in a generic sense: I thought I recognized Corwyn and Liam through the din, but the rest of the team was just a lyrical river of song and laughter floating above the rest.

  I didn’t realize I’d been listening for Darrell, until I heard them dragging him down the hall.

  “Fuck the Leprechauns! Fuck the Establishment! I have RIGHTS! You can’t treat me like this…!” Darrell’s rant reverberated in my skull, and I missed having a pillow to shut out the noise and light.

  I heard a cell door slam down the row, suddenly grateful for small favors—at least he wasn’t being deposited in my lap.

  Rolling onto my good side, I contemplated yelling at him some more. I seemed to have a soft spot for the guy, but right now, it was more spoiled fruit than tender affection. I smarted every time I thought of Blake.

  Of Christine!

  Wasn’t that a revelation?

  The second I saw Sasquatch’s hands on her, all the animosity I’d built up against her disappeared. She was one of mine. Like Juan, and Simone, and Natalie.

  Like Blake.

  I doubted my boss would even think about me until later.

  That at least sparked action.

  I unbuttoned my green silk shirt—the short sleeves doing nothing to keep me warm—folding it back and forth accordion style until it resembled a broad blindfold, which, with any luck it would be.

  Maybe I’d stuff the edges into my ears and have it serve the dual purpose of muffling the ambient noise of the jail. I’d had enough retching of my own this week. I didn’t need to share anyone else’s.

  Yawning, I closed my eyes, the weight of the fabric comforting and dense, the smooth fibers a gentle touch against my cheek. I drifted, half aware, as the routine of opening and shutting cell doors seemed to fade, the lag between prisoners lengthening until gradually they ceased altogether. My body became pinned by the weight of the universe, holding me down until I let myself go.