The Trouble Legacy

by E. R. Fallon

  “It’d be aggravated assault. They could send her away for twenty-five years, maybe more. You got to admit, it’d buy us a lot of time. After you do it, you’d drop me off near the hospital and I’d stumble in and say Violet beat me.”

  “Aggravated assault. That’s pretty serious. I’d have to hurt you bad. I wouldn’t want to damage that nice face of yours.”

  “I put one of our guys on her trail, and Violet does a supply run to get milk in the morning on Mondays, and she takes a shortcut through the alley behind her pub,” Camille said, continuing to tell her mother the plan despite Sheila’s resistance.

  “Jesus, Camille, have you not heard a damn word I’ve said?” Sheila swiped at the coffee cup and some spilled on the table.

  Camille shot up from her chair and grabbed a cloth to wipe the mess. Then, with her back turned to her mother, she pretended to cry, as her showing emotion always seemed to get to Sheila.

  After a moment, Sheila reached over and put her hand over Camille’s. “Is this really so important to you?” she asked quietly.

  With her back still turned, Camille nodded.

  Sheila sighed. “I’ll do it. But only because I love you.”

  Camille quickly turned and hugged her mother. “I love you,” she said. “You’d do anything for me.”

  “When do you need me to do it by?” Sheila asked.

  “I was planning to do it tonight.”

  Sheila nodded. “One thing,” she said, as Camille started to sit down to finish her coffee. “Johnny’s got to be okay with our plan. He’s got to know about it, you can’t keep something like that from your husband.”

  “Of course,” Camille said. She’d planned to tell Johnny all along, but wasn’t sure how. Johnny wouldn’t want to see her hurt, and would do anything to stop it, but at the same time, she knew he’d want to protect their assets.

  “When?” Sheila pushed her for an answer. “When are you going to tell him?”

  “Soon.”

  “Soon? Sweetie, you want me to do this tonight. Soon is not going to cut it. Better do it fast. Where is he now?”

  Johnny was in their garage, working on one of their luxury cars. Another reason they liked living in the suburbs, because they could hide their money from the city cops.

  Camille contemplated whether to lie to her mother, then said, “He’s outside.”

  “Better hurry up and tell him before your coffee gets cold,” Sheila said, gently pushing on Camille’s back to get her to leave.

  The gesture made her feel like a child again, and, like a child, she followed her mother’s orders.

  She opened the side door to the garage and then hesitated as she approached Johnny, who had his back turned to her as he worked on a hot red car. She knew her plan would anger him, and she didn’t want Phoebe upstairs to hear them arguing.

  “Johnny?” she said quietly, and he turned to look at her.

  “What’s going on, baby?” The tall, handsome Johnny, with his dark good looks, smiled as he wiped grease from his hands with a small towel. “Is your mother gone yet?” he teased, because he was actually fond of her mother now, despite the two having had a previously tense relationship.

  “She’s still here,” Camille said, and almost smiled, until she remembered what she came to tell him.

  Johnny stepped close to her and reached out to touch her face, but she stopped him and looked at his hands for grease.

  “They’re clean,” he said, with a smile, holding them up for her to see.

  Camille nodded and he lightly stroked her face and kissed her, but she had too much on her mind and didn’t delight in his touch. She needed to tell him her plan, and she needed to do it fast. She hadn’t asked Johnny to be part of her plan, because she knew he wouldn’t want to hurt her. But she couldn’t lie to him, because he’d be angry if he found out she had. Her mother was right about that. Close couples didn’t keep secrets from each other, not even this.

  “Johnny,” she said as he continued to touch her face, stepping away from him.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, with his brow furrowed.

  “It’s nothing you did,” Camille assured him. “It’s something I’ve been discussing with my mother. I think I’ve thought of a way to get rid of Violet McCarthy that doesn’t involve us risking being locked up.”

  “Go on, tell me,” Johnny said, with his sexy half smile.

  “It’s my idea, but my mother’s going to help.” Camille took a deep breath.

  Johnny sensed her apprehension and said, “C, is everything okay?”

  “You’re going to think I’m crazy, but, my mother, she’s going to hurt me and then I’m going to make it look like Violet did it,” Camille said quickly, so that she wouldn’t be tempted to leave without telling him the truth.

  Johnny’s gaze narrowed on her. “Hurt you? How?” he asked, stepping close to her, so that she was forced to meet his eyes with hers.

  “She’s going to beat me up,” Camille said, quietly.

  “No, that’s insane. There must be a better way.”

  “Like what?” Camille said in exasperation, as the light from outside poured through the garage window and shone in her face. “I’ve thought of everything, and this is the only way we get to keep the business, stay out of jail, and get rid of her.”

  “Why don’t we just kill her?”

  “No,” Camille said.

  “Why the hell not,” Johnny said, his face flushing red. “We’ve done that to so many others. One more won’t make a difference.”

  “I already talked with my mother about this, and who would replace Violet? Somebody worse? You know the saying, The enemy you know…”

  “Yeah, I do,” Johnny said, as he put his hand to his head and sighed. “I don’t like anyone hurting you, even your own mother,” he said, looking at her, reaching out and putting his arms around her waist. He tugged her closer to him. “Don’t do this,” he said, and his gaze darkened as he warned her. “If you do, Phoebe and I might have to leave.”

  “Are you threatening me?” Camille asked, recoiling from his hold on her.

  “Yeah, maybe I am. Because I care about you,” he said, moving to touch her face.

  Camille allowed him to, for a moment, because she knew his anger well and feared it. Then she looked away from him. “I’m going to do it anyway,” she whispered.

  “Business means more to you than we do?” Johnny said, his voice rising.

  “No, of course not. You know how much I love you,” she said, her voice tightening as she fought back emotion. “But this is the only way. I can feel it in my gut.”

  A moment of silence fell between them, with Camille’s stomach tensing as she wondered, and dreaded, how Johnny would react.

  “How badly does your mother have to hurt you?” Johnny asked, after a while, as though he still didn’t like the idea but could come around to it because he loved her—and wanted to protect their business.

  Camille exhaled with relief that she would avoid his wrath this time. “Badly enough for them to put that bitch away for a long time,” she answered carefully, her face heating with anger at the mention of Violet.

  “She’s going to use, what, her fists, or something heavy?”

  “My mother’s an older lady, but you and I both know she’s stronger than me. She’s going to knock me about, and she might even enjoy doing it, after all the shit she’s had to put up with from me over the years.” Camille laughed a little and managed to get a smile out of Johnny.

  “Come here,” he said, reaching to hold her, and she walked into his strong arms. “I still don’t like the idea.”

  Even as she was walking into the garage, she debated whether to tell him at all. Camille looked up at him. She knew her mother wouldn’t go through with it unless Johnny was onboard, after her remark about not going against your husband. But how could she convince him?

  She wiggled her way out of his arms and slowly knelt in front of him on the floor. She grabbed his pants
by the waist and undid the button, as he twisted his fingers through her hair and held her face close to him.

  6

  The evening of the following day, Camille sat in the chair in the cold, dim garage, the chair that her mother had tied her to so she wouldn’t be tempted to fight back, instinctively. Sheila had put about 30 heavy coins in a pillowcase and took another swing at Camille’s face. They had to make it look real, and so it hurt like fucking hell. Camille started to duck then forced herself to accept the blow across her cheekbone. Her face stung and she could feel blood dribbling down her cheek.

  It was only the second hit.

  “Oh, sweetheart, I am so sorry,” Sheila said softly, yet there was a glimmer of pleasure in her eyes that made Camille think her mother was enjoying it a little too much. Perhaps it was a form of revenge for Camille’s moody teenage years.

  “Just a couple more, and then we’re done,” Sheila said as Camille moaned from another strike, across her forehead this time.

  “No, make it look real. I can take it,” Camille said, her voice hoarse with pain. Thinking of Violet locked away for years, maybe even more, maybe life, helped her get through the ordeal.

  Johnny had taken Phoebe out to dinner, to get her out of the house. Then he planned to drop her off at her friend’s house after, to spend the night. Johnny had told Camille it was for Phoebe’s sake, so that she wouldn’t overhear the commotion, but Camille sensed it was for Johnny’s sake as well, so that he would refrain from throttling her mother for hurting her.

  Her mother nodded and prepared to take another blow. They had set a few rules beforehand: they had to make it appear real, but the injuries could be nothing that really damaged Camille. The eyes, ears, legs and arms were off limits, but elsewhere on the face, and the chest, made for a disturbing visual effect, which Camille wanted.

  They’d planned for Sheila to drive Camille into the city when it was over, and drop her off near the hospital by Violet’s pub. Johnny would get rid of the evidence at their town’s garbage center, where he had a friend. Camille had had a few shots of strong Irish whiskey beforehand to lessen the pain.

  Camille turned her head away when Sheila hit her mouth with the heavy coins. She could feel her lip split open and warm blood gushing out down to her shirt and she looked down as it absorbed into and spread across the white fabric. She’d worn white on purpose, so that it would highlight the blood. Camille coughed as her mother smacked the pillowcase across her chest, lightly enough so that it wouldn’t kill her, but hard enough so that it’d leave a mark on Camille’s skin.

  Half an hour later sweat dripped from Sheila’s brow as she breathed out. “Phew,” she said. “This is quite a workout.”

  Camille knew her mother was trying to make light of a strange situation, but her body ached and burned from the wounds and the bleeding, and she called for her mother to stop.

  “Bring the mirror over to me,” she said, her throat dry. “And some water.”

  Sheila dropped the pillow with the coins in it on the floor and got the items. She held up the mirror to Camille’s face, and Camille let out a long gasp. Her mother had done a good job, perhaps a little too good. Sheila hadn’t done so much damage that Camille would be maimed for life, but it looked as though it would take some time to heal, and it would be a while before Johnny desired her again.

  “Untie me, so I can drink,” Camille said, trying to reach for the water in her mother’s hand, but unable to.

  Sheila walked behind her and quickly undid the cord. She held out the water to Camille, who took it and drank.

  “Slowly, honey,” Sheila told her daughter.

  Camille didn’t heed her mother’s advice and gulped the water down. Her mother started to hand her a cloth to wipe her face but Camille stopped her.

  “No, I don’t want to clean the blood, we need to make it look real, we need the police to believe me,” she said in a raspy voice.

  Sheila nodded and put the cloth away. She helped Camille stand up from the chair and the pain hit Camille all at once. Seated, it hadn’t been so bad, but standing, it felt like every inch of her body had taken the beating. She throbbed and burned, and her stomach churned as she suppressed a gag.

  “I’ll drive you to the city,” Sheila said. When Camille didn’t answer her, Sheila said, “Camille, are you going to be okay? You’re my daughter, my girl, I hate to just drop you off and leave.”

  “There’s no other way. You can come later. When they ask to ring a family member, I’ll give your name. Then you can call Johnny. Don’t bring Phoebe to the hospital. I don’t want her seeing me like this.”

  “Honey, she’s going to have to see you eventually,” Sheila said.

  “I don’t want to think about that now. Let’s just get this over with.”

  Sheila handed Camille her purse and went outside to check that the neighbors were out of sight. When it was clear, she helped Camille out of the garage to her car in the lighted driveway. Sheila got her seated in the back of the car, and then sat in the driver’s seat.

  “Take your time,” Camille told her mother. “Wouldn’t want you to get stopped by the cops.” She made a light joke, and could see her mother smiling slightly in the rearview mirror.

  Sheila left the driveway toward the highway.

  “Music?” her mother asked out on the quiet road.

  “Sure.”

  A pop singer’s soft voice filled the car, and the sound made Camille’s eyelids flutter. She straightened when she started to fall asleep, and looked out the window at the passing scenery: the occasional other car, identical, polished suburban houses, and a well-lit restaurant. Ordinary things, but they made Camille feel out of place, the house especially, because she knew she didn’t belong in the pristine town. She was a tough, city girl, a gritty girl, a career criminal, who the hell was she trying to fool, living in the suburbs? Ever since moving there, she’d tried her best to fit in, but knew that most of the other people who lived there, the other parents at Phoebe’s school especially, viewed her as an outsider, and probably always would, as someone with a rough accent and a Latin husband. At least she wasn’t stuck in their old, shitty neighborhood, like Violet was. That brought a small, painful smile to Camille’s face, despite the circumstances.

  The traffic thickened once they neared Manhattan, and Camille’s pulse quickened. She could feel the blood on her skin starting to dry. What the hell would she tell the doctors at the hospital, that she’d stopped to have a smoke after she was beaten?

  “You’re going to have to take a shortcut, Ma,” she told her mother.

  “You’re right, baby,” Sheila replied, then maneuvered out of their lane and pressed down on the accelerator toward a side street, leaving a beeping chorus of the other cars in her wake.

  “Fuck you!” Sheila shouted at the top of her lungs.

  “Jesus, Ma, that was fucking loud,” Camille said.

  “Sorry, I can’t help myself. It’s those rude assholes that bother me,” Sheila said.

  They neared Violet’s neighborhood, which belonged to Camille and Johnny, and Camille hoped that her mother’s red Mercedes, which Camille had given her as a present, wouldn’t be recognized by any potential witnesses. Not that anyone in the neighborhood would dare squeal on anyone in her family. Everyone knew much better than that. Squealers, rats, got cut. Killed.

  Sheila made sure no police were around, and then parked in a fog-filled alleyway by the hospital. She left the engine running when she exited the car to help Camille out. Sheila opened the passenger door and Camille eased her sore body out of the seat.

  “Leave, Ma,” she ordered her mother. “We don’t need any cops seeing you and then start sniffing around.”

  “I hate leaving you like this,” Sheila replied.

  “It’s part of the plan,” Camille said.

  Sheila hesitated for a moment longer, then nodded, and got into the car. Camille watched her mother driving off then emerged from thick fog to walk toward the hosp
ital, a tall, white building, which she could see in the distance. She stumbled across the street, and a taxi swerved out of her way.

  “Watch where you’re going, lady,” a man shouted at her from the car, but Camille clutched her chest and staggered forward, too tired to react.

  She reached the hospital and pushed past a group of young people smoking by the entrance. They seemed like they were waiting for someone inside.

  “What the fuck is wrong with her?” one of them said. “Girl looks messed up.”

  The automatic doors opened and Camille shuffled inside, dropping to her knees on the cold, hard floor once the glare of the indoor lights hit her eyes.

  A woman wearing a crisp white uniform shouted in her direction. A nurse?

  Through blurry eyes, Camille could see the people seated in the waiting room watching her. Then she closed her eyes as she collapsed to the floor, hearing the sound of a stretcher being wheeled toward her as she pretended to lose consciousness.

  What happened next Camille could only hear as she kept her eyes shut. Someone, a man, she thought, pulled her off the floor onto the stretcher.

  “Looks like somebody beat the shit out of her,” she heard him say. She assumed he was a hospital attendant.

  “Let’s get her seen by a doctor, ASAP,” the nurse said. “We’ll move her to the front of the line. Thank God, there’s only one gunshot victim so far tonight.”

  Camille could feel them watching her and struggled to keep her eyes closed. Then she felt the stretcher being rolled away. She groaned a little, and it wasn’t pretend, as she really did feel awful.

  “Has she got any ID on her?” she heard the nurse ask the attendant. “A wallet, maybe? She doesn’t have a purse on her.”

  “Let me check,” he said. She felt the stretcher stop and him going through her pockets.

  She had her wallet tucked inside the pocket of her jeans and could feel him pulling it out.

  “Name’s Camille Garcia,” he told the nurse.

  “Any next of kin listed anywhere?”

  Camille felt them resume pushing her and heard what sounded like a curtain being closed around her.