by Stacia Kane
“Don’t got the knowing why you ain’t just fuck she already, get you fuckin over you bullshit on it.”
Like it was that simple.
No point explaining, though. Explaining that he didn’t try because if she didn’t let him they’d both feel awkward and he wouldn’t get to see her anymore. He didn’t try because if she did let him—and she might, sometimes she looked at him a certain way or stood real close and he had the thought she just might—she’d run away from him as soon as they were done. He knew she would. She’d done it before. She’d done it that night, the night he couldn’t forget no matter how hard he tried. And he’d tried real fucking hard. No point explaining that she preferred her bedpartners first-name- and one-time-only.
So pretty much, he didn’t try because no matter if she let him or not, he wouldn’t get to see her anymore.
And definitely no point explaining how that would kill him. He’d already had a taste of what he were missing—that night, kissing her, her kissing him back—and it was fucking torture. He couldn’t imagine how much worse it would be to actually have her, to have her bare skin against his and her warm body under his, to touch her everywhere, kiss her everywhere … and then lose her. For good.
Bump must have seen something on his face. Or maybe it was just that Bump already knew all this; not in those exact words, aye, but enough had been said before. His expression changed, the sarcasm and irritation leaving. “Be fuckin careful, yay? Alls I meaning. Dig me that you and she got some fuckin friend thing on, her likin you and all that fuckin shit. Can see her fuckin does. Maybe you gots the right, there, yay. Her do got the knowing how to keep she fuckin mouth shut, her do.”
He shifted position, crossing his ankles in the other direction. “Only still wanting you bein fuckin careful. Gots some fuckin experience on this one, Terrible. Ain’t can trust a junkie, causen it fuckin comes down to you or them pills? Them takin the pills every fuckin time. Wishing it weren’t the fuckin truth, yay, I do, only it is. And ain’t wanting you fuckin get the hard find-out on it.”
CHAPTER TWO
HE'D JUST SLAPPED together a cold steak sandwich later that day when his phone rang. He checked the display. Not the street-man number, the one rang at one of Bump’s safe houses and got sent to him iffen it were important. Red Berta’s code popped up. Shit, that probably weren’t good. Red Berta handled Bump’s whores, decided where they’d go and when, trained em up, all that shit. The only time Terrible really dealt with em—beyond keeping an eye out, driving em iffen they needed it, that kinda shit—was when a problem happened. If Red Berta was calling, it meant a problem.
It was a problem. Red Berta’s voice, always so strong and clear from her days as a showgirl, sounded even harder. She was pissed, more pissed than Terrible thought he’d ever heard her. “You need to get over here now,” she said, cutting him off before he could even say anything. “One of the girls got attacked.”
Fuck. Before she’d finished the second sentence he was up, shoving on he boots and heading for the door. “Where you at?”
“My place.” Pause. “It’s bad, Terrible. Get here fast.”
Like he wouldn’t. He stepped on the Chevelle hard—fuck he loved that car—and pulled up at Red Berta’s place less than five minutes later.
She yanked her door open before he even got halfway up her front walk. Red Berta’s place were nicer than the others on her street; were relative, of course, but still. She weren’t missing as many shingles, her paint ain’t peeled as much, the wide front porch stretching across the length of her house only had a couple of broken and loose boards.
One of them creaked under her foot as she stepped aside for him. “Took you long enough.”
He didn’t bother answering. He coulda been standing outside her house when she’d called and she still woulda said he took too long getting there. Red Berta had she some definite ideas on how shit should be, and she ain’t liked it much when things didn’t follow them ideas.
Besides, he couldn’t blame her being pissed. He weren’t too happy himself; he were tryna keep calm, and recall that sometimes Berta got all over herself over small shit, but … “One of the girls got attacked” ain’t sounded small.
And it weren’t small. Berta led him through the fussy, multi-patterned house covered in pink fringe and fluffy dame shit to the back stairs, then up em and down the hall. The inside were nicer than outside, no peeling wallpaper or whatany like that. She took care of her place, she did.
She opened a door on the right and motioned him in, and he had to clamp his jaw hard, fold his arms tight over his chest. Talking loud, moving fast—like he wanted to do, fuck—might scare Clapper Sue, huddled on the bed under a blanket.
Bruises decorated her entire face, dark ones already turning yellowy at the edges. Her black hair tangled down one side and almost covered the eyes that were only slits in her puffy, swollen face.
He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Deep breath. Calm down. “When this happen?”
“Last night,” Berta said. The skin around her scars—she’d survived a ghost attack during Haunted Week—puckered, she were so mad.
What the fuck? Last—why the fuck was he only hearing on this now, why the—
Berta held up a hand; she must have seen what he was about to say. “She ain’t come back this morning, but sometimes she forgets to check in. We didn’t think anything was wrong because nobody told us she was missing, and then Leela found her an hour ago, in an alley off Cross. Fiftieth and Cross.”
Chess lived at Forty-seventh and Cross. He swallowed, shoved that thought to the back of his mind to worry on later, and pulled Berta back into the hall. Clapper Sue were watching him, watching both of em. Best to talk without her hearing for a minute. Shit. When he found the dude did that to her … He couldn’t wait.
“What happened? What other girl she there with? What street-man?”
“She works with Alvia. They were on Ace, Fifty-ninth and Ace. So—”
“Last night? This last night, that where they were?”
She nodded.
Fuck. Meant the street-man should have been nearby was Slick Michigan. Slick, dead by the docks.
Maybe he was wrong. Maybe Slick got killed so somebody could attack Sue, an nothing to do with magic at all. “Alvia see the dude picked Sue up?”
“No. She was around the corner getting picked up by a customer. She was with him all night, which—”
“So nobody saw this dude. Nobody knows shit, cepting Sue in there.”
Berta shrugged. “I tried calling Slick, but didn’t get an answer. He never called in to say she wasn’t there, which is why we didn’t—”
“Slick’s dead.”
“Dead? What? Did they—you think they killed Slick to get at Sue?”
His turn to shrug. “Ain’t can say. Don’t know shit just now, aye? But awful fuckin lucky, Slick be gone an somebody come for Sue just then.”
“You want to talk to her?” Berta stepped back, gestured toward the open door.
Terrible glanced in. Sue still sat there with the blankets pulled up to she chin, looking like she expected somebody’d jump out of the shadows and hurt her. “She gonna want to gimme the tell? Maybe better you just say me, aye? She ain’t needing me in there—”
“Naw.” Sue’s voice, so soft and quiet, came through the doorway. “C’mon in here, Terrible, lemme say. Lemme tell you. Be all good, promising. You gimme you questionings, aye? Come on in.”
Beaten. Raped. Drugged. Left in an alley on the freezing ground. Just thinking on it made his breath come hard. Finding them who killed Slick were important, something he needed to do. Finding who attacked Clapper Sue, that were more than important. That were something he were dying to do, something his entire fucking body were tight with the need to do.
Sue ain’t had any real knowledge for him, though. Dude in a light-colored sedan picked her up, drove into an alley, then started punching. Did what he wanted to her, took back the money, shoved
a needle in her arm and the next thing she knew she were waking up with Leela standing over she. She ain’t known the dude and ain’t had a good description of he, causen they all looked the same.
The only good knowledge she had for him was that Slick had been there when she got to her corner. About an hour in—so maybe ten o’clock—he said he’d be right back, wandered off down Ace, and ain’t returned. He’d been gone maybe half an hour, she said, when she got picked up. So Slick made it to the street, leastaways. Terrible weren’t sure how much good knowing that did him, but he figured at that point knowing anything were lucky.
Had Slick been killed right away, or had he done something else first? He ain’t should have just wandered off like that, no, but it weren’t unusual; not the first time he’d been caught heading off to spend fifteen minutes with some dame when he oughta been working. Dealers weren’t there specifically to keep an eye on the whores, but being a dealer meant he were supposed to stay on he corner. People got to know who were there and when, who they wanted to deal with. Were the dealers’ job to keep an eye on shit, too, make sure everything were right, and they had to know their street to do it. Had to be there if aught went down so’s they could call it in. If Bump and Terrible ain’t had knowledge on everything going on, they could get fucked real fast.
Which was part of the reason why Terrible stood in the alley where Leela found Sue, getting ready to walk across the street and start asking people iffen they saw or heard anything. He doubted any would, but he had to ask. And he ain’t had a lot of time to do it in. Were three o’clock already. It’d start being darker soon.
In fact, were only a couple of days past what Chess said were the longest night of the year. That used to be called Christmas, he thought, before Haunted Week and the Church of Real Truth and religions being illegal; he had a couple memories of that, vague recalls on colored lights and people wearing red suits ringing bells. Very vague. He weren’t even certain they were real. But he knew Christmas used to be just before the year changed, and that were only a few days on, so he figured that were it.
He’d be with Amy on New Year’s, leastaways that were the plan. But with it looking like somebody were out there killing street-men and attacking whores, he maybe wouldn’t be doing aught but hunting em down. Probably best not to mention that to Amy, though, till he was certain.
And best not to stand there in the cold thinking on any of it. Had he work needed doing.
He studied the buildings around the alley. It looked like any other alley in Downside, any other street: broken windows, graffiti, crumbling bricks, litter and shards of glass strewn over the cracked cement. Not a single eye peered out of any of the holes in the walls or from behind any corners, but he knew they were there. Knew they’d all gone and hid when he parked outside. They ain’t knew why he was there, and nobody wanted to take the chance it was because of them.
He leaned against his car and thought for a second. Wayne Oldham lived on the top floor directly across the street, and Wayne had a few owes. Nothing big, only a couple hundred or so, but enough to start a conversation.
Wayne was also an asshole. An asshole who knew a lot of other assholes, and an asshole who needed to be handled in a particular way, which was just fine with Terrible because thinking on what had happened to Sue made his vision narrow, and he wouldn’t mind at all getting to beat somebody down.
And Wayne was home. He opened the door, his eyes too-wide with fake innocence. Like he ain’t fucking knew he owed money. “Terrible,” he said. “Nice—”
Terrible closed his fist around Wayne’s throat. Tight, and hard. “Fifty. Gimme fifty now, an I ain’t break any bones.”
He gave Wayne a few seconds to think about it, watching his face turn an interesting shade of purple. The darker it got, the more eager Wayne would be to talk.
When Wayne’s eyes started rolling back Terrible let him go. Wayne crumpled to the floor, coughing and gasping like an engine ain’t wanted to keep running. Terrible ignored the sound. He reached down to grab Wayne’s arm, yank him back to his feet, and hustled him into his shitty apartment.
Looked like every other junkie’s place—almost every other junkie’s place. Wayne was a banger, though. Used needles. Not like Chess. Different thing. Totally different. Bloody tissues littered the floor, along with charred spoons, balloon shreds, matches and tiny bits of cigarette filter. The ashtrays overflowed.
Terrible saw the woman before she moved. Easy. He sidestepped, swinging his arm—the arm holding Wayne—to the right as he did, putting Wayne’s scrawny shoulder in the way of the woman’s blow. The crack the bat made when it hit Wayne’s bone—might even have broke it, from the sound, and from Wayne’s shriek—seemed to echo in the almost-empty room. Coursen it was almost empty. Wayne had sold anything he could.
Damn it. He hated having to do this with dames. He dropped Wayne and grabbed her by the back of the neck, pushing down so first her knees, then her forehead hit the floor. Both she and Wayne were screaming. Fucking annoying.
He knelt between them, keeping his hold on the back of her neck and doing the same to Wayne, leaning forward so his weight pushed both their faces into the dirty floor. “What money you got?”
“Got no,” Wayne said. Hard to understand him, since he were talking into the thin carpet. “Sorry, sorry, got no, waitin on … Louann here, she gonna get me some, she gonna … gonna earn us some … ”
Aw, fuck. He gave them both another hard shove into the floor, tightened his fists. Their necks were so fucking stringy and skinny in his hands. “How? How’s she earning it?”
Wayne apparently realized he’d said the wrong thing. “She … she … ”
“Aye? What?”
“Only be a couple dudes we knowing,” the dame—Louann—said. Squeaked, more like. “Wanted it from me, them did, not from just any dame. Them ain’t be paying for it any elsewheres, true thing them ain’t.”
“Maybe—maybe she coming work for Bump.” Wayne tried and failed to lift his head so he could look at Terrible. “Maybe she work off my owings. Maybe you wanna take she off inna bedroom, give she a try? Be—”
Terrible shifted his weight, pressed his knee into the dame’s back so he had a free hand. He needed it to smash into Wayne’s face. Which he did, with a satisfying crunch of bone. Fucker. What kind of man whored his woman like that, ain’t even checked with her first?
And as if he had even the faintest interest in that dirty, ragged, starved sack of bones under his knee, with her broken teeth and bruises. Even if he needed to take a whore to his bed, he wouldn’t be interested. Bump’s whores were clean, and most of em were pretty, and he could have any one of them he wanted any time he wanted, for free.
He never did, but he could. He weren’t so desperate he needed to jump whatany dame waved it in his face. Specially not one like this one.
“You knowing how this goes,” he said, loud so they could both hear him over their wails. “Money, or knowledge. Which you got?”
“Knowledge on what?” Louann asked.
He lessened the pressure on their necks. Not a lot, but a little. Let them think he were thinking on it, trying to come up with something they could maybe give him, so it wouldn’t seem so important.
He counted to fifteen in his head, nice and slow, then said, “Last night. ’Cross the street there. Had we a robbery happen. You hear any on it? Heard anything last night, round one?”
Silence. Fuck. They was trying to come up with a lie to give him, he bet. The longer them paused the bigger the lie would be. Always worked that way.
“Heard screams,” Louann said. “Lotsen em. Shouts an screamin.”
Just as he’d figured on. Bullshit. He’d play along. Maybe they’d let slip something he could use just the same. “What kinda screaming?”
“Like a argument,” Wayne said. “Like threats an all.”
“Who it was? You hear who? Any names or aught like that?”
“Just some dudes, some dames. Dudes saying �
��Gimme the money,’ an the dames screaming, they was, big loud screams.”
“Aye,” Louann said. “Heard on that, an were afraid to look outen the window, aye? Figured were maybe Slobag’s men like afore—”
“What?”
Louann tried to twist her head to look at him. It didn’t really work. He just caught the side of one bloodshot eye rolling in its socket. “Slobag’s men, like two days past, were onna street tryna load off some bags, dig me? So figured on you hearing on it, maybe them coming back.”
What the fuck. Slobag’s men there? At Fiftieth?
He bet they used them fucking tunnels again. No matter how many times he chained up them doors, tried cementing em closed, bricked em over … they kept fucking getting em back open.
And not much else he could do on it. Slobag’s men knew those tunnels too well. Be too hard to fight em down there, leastaways just then it would. So he and Bump let em have their little tunnels, seeing as how all they ever did with em was sneak around and annoy. Bump had enough spies over there that he and Terrible’d know iffen those tunnels was gonna be used to start up a battle. Until then, better to just let em think they had one over.
But iffen they was going to start tryna use them for doing business … shit. “An you ain’t said shit on this? Ain’t told any street-men or any else?”
Wayne whimpered; Terrible realized his grip had tightened, harder than he meant it to. He loosened it some, so Wayne could talk again. “Sorry … sorry, ain’t thought—we just ain’t thought on it, were all, was … busy usselves was, see, us busy.”
Busy. Bullshit. Were holding on to the knowledge, he bet, knowing they had owes and that he’d be around to collect. Or maybe they was just too fucking dumb to think on it. Were possible. They both were idiots.
And they both smelled. He wanted to take himself another shower after this, after touching them. Chess always carried baby wipes with her. He figured he’d look like a pussy iffen he did the same, but times like this he maybe didn’t care so much.
“Be the first time they down there, two days past?”