Old Habits

by ChristopherWaltz

The walk home from Bierce was, as it turned out, a giant metaphor of my life. The once sunny day turned to clouds and had opened up into a torrential rainstorm by the time I had made it to Larrabee Street. At first, I thought the rain might let up after a few minutes, but instead, it began to come down heavier and heavier as pedestrians began opening umbrellas to shield themselves from the sheets falling from the sky.

  Somehow everyone but me had seen the weather forecast before leaving home.

  I realized quickly trying to shield my head with my jacket was futile, and soon broke into a sprint, running down the street, trying not to bump into any passersby who all seemed to think that because they had umbrellas, walking at the slowest possible speed was a good idea.

  “Excuse me,” I tried to say as I slipped between two people (both with umbrellas) who were obviously walking together. The thought crossed my mind that one of them might lend me their umbrella, as they could both easily fit under one. However, I had to tell myself not to laugh out loud at the idea before the question had even crossed my lips.

  The world was a dog-eat-dog world, and if you didn’t have your own damn umbrella, then you were screwed.

  By the time I made it back to the apartment building, I looked and felt like I had been pushed into a swimming pool, rainwater dripping from my hair and into my eyes as I tried to enter my security code into the building’s lobby doors. Harrison owned the building (and likely everyone living in it), and it was impossible to enter unless you had a five digit code to enter at the door and an I.D. badge to show the doorman once you entered the main lobby. As luxurious as the apartment was, getting into the building felt like going to work at some government office in Washington, D.C.

  My passcode was accepted and the door unlocked with a low, thudding click. As I opened the door and walked into the brightly lit lobby, fishing for my I.D. badge in my pocket, the doorman, who sat at a large, circular desk, smiled at me modestly.

  “Did you forget your umbrella, Mr. Brewer?” He was older, probably in his sixties, and his voice reminded me of every stereotypical British butler from every stereotypical movie with a British butler in it.

  “Apparently I did, Mr. Stone.”

  “Please, how many times do I have to ask you to call me Samuel,” he said as he pulled a white, fluffy towel out from under the desk and held it out for me to take.

  I took the towel happily and immediately began drying my hair. “I wasn’t expecting a rainstorm today,” I said, making small talk.

  “Oh, Mr. Brewer, one is hardly ever prepared for a storm, even when they’re expecting it,” he said, smiling widely.

  I paused momentarily, curious if Samuel was making an observation about my life, or if he, too, was just trying to make small talk. “Samuel, how did you end up working here, for Harrison?” I asked, assuming he knew who Harrison was.

  “Oh, that’s a boring story, Mr. Brewer. Mr. Harrison and I go back a long way. When I was down on my luck, he offered me a job where I wouldn’t have to do much other than sit behind a desk all day. I’m not as spry as I used to be, you see.”

  I smiled, wondering if he had any clue what kind of businessman Harrison actually was.

  “No action for you, then?” I asked, continuing to dry off my clothes as best I could with the towel.

  “Oh, no. After so many years on the frontlines of the action, I thought it a good idea to work a job that was a little less… messy.” He laughed heartily for a good fifteen seconds and then held his hand out for the towel. “Let me take that, Mr. Brewer. I’ll see to it that it makes it to the laundry room so you don’t have to trouble yourself.”

  “Thanks,” I said cautiously, handing him the towel and trying not to think too hard about what he had just said to me. But on the other hand, what the hell had he meant by messy?

  Lightning flashed outside and the lights in the lobby began to flicker ominously as I made my way towards the elevator. I looked up at the chandeliers hanging from the ceiling and pointed towards the elevator.

  “What do you think?” I asked Samuel.

  “Better take the stairs,” he said as thunder rumbled outside.

  “Better take the stairs,” I agreed, walking away from the elevator.

  While taking the stairs might have saved me from potentially getting trapped in the elevator if the electricity went out, by the time I got to the top floor, I felt as if I should have taken my chances. My shoulders slumped as I unlocked the apartment door and entered, automatically thinking the power had gone out in the short amount of time it took me to exit the hallway and enter the apartment.

  All the lights were out, and dark clouds from the storm made it feel as if it were actually a lot later than it really was.

  “Hello?” I called, trying not to freak myself out. I had seen way too many horror movies as a kid and knew walking into a dark, seemingly empty house was a death sentence. Of course, yelling “hello” upon entering a dark, seemingly empty house usually wielded the same result. “Gabe?” I added.

  Lightning lit up the apartment, causing me to jump and have to remind myself I was actually not in a horror movie. Shaking the ridiculous fear out of my mind, I made my way through the dark, planning on making it to my bedroom where I could change out of my water-logged clothes. However, before I made it to the kitchen, I stopped in my tracks as my shoe came into contact with broken glass on the floor, causing a deafening crunch to ring through the silent apartment.

  I lifted my foot, trying not to make another sound.

  Thoughts raced through my head. Why is there broken glass on the floor? Where is Gabe? Where is Fuchsia? Why is the electricity out in the apartment but not in the hallway? What if someone’s in the apartment right now?

  I calmed myself as much as possible and tiptoed backwards, away from the broken glass. While on the run with Gabe, I had been prepared for the worst of the worst when it came to situations like this. One day, I knew I would come home to the surf shop/apartment we shared and find Gabe dead, or the same thing could have happened to him involving me. However, now that we had successfully (or unsuccessfully, depending on how it was looked at) moved past the “on the run” chapter of our lives, I was completely shocked and terrified to find the remnants of what I could only imagine to be a very violent struggle.

  This would have happened back in California, but not here. We had been found. Harrison owned us now. Why would anyone break into the apartment to hurt us? And how? The steps it took to get into the building were more effort than it was worth to hurt someone. It would have been way more beneficial to wait for one of us to be alone on the street.

  I continued to examine the area, looking for any clues as to what had actually happened. Broken shards of glass littered the ground, and from the looks of it, they had come from a vase of flowers that had once sat on the countertop. Some of the shards of glass had blood on them, but I had no idea who the blood belonged to. I hated to think the worst, but if I didn’t find Gabe, then I had to assume the blood was his.

  As I treaded lightly through the dark apartment, I came across other signs of a struggle. Pillows had been thrown from the couch. The coffee table had been tipped on its side, the contents strewn through the living room from, I assumed, the force of the table being tipped. More droplets of blood made a trail through the living room, towards the room we had started calling the study, though neither of us ever used it.

  Before I had a chance to examine the trail of blood leading to the study, a muffled whimper drew my attention to the bedrooms behind me. I couldn’t be completely sure, but the noise sounded more frightened than menacing, like someone in a panic, trying not to be heard, but unable to keep their terror a secret any longer.

  I turned from the living room and cautiously made my way back through the kitchen to the hallway leading to mine and Gabe’s bedrooms. I didn’t know from which the noise had come, so I stopped in the middle and listened again, hoping for some kind of clue to lead me in the right direct
ion. I didn’t know what I was looking for or what I would find, but I was hopeful it would be either Fuchsia or Gabe, safe and alive.

  The whimper echoed through the hallway again, muffled, but clearly coming from my bedroom. I walked in the direction, my back to the wall so I could more easily be aware if an attacker was trying to sneak up on me, and quickly pushed the bedroom door all the way open. No other sounds came from within the room and nobody came out, but I was sure I had heard something or someone twice already.

  “Who’s there?” I asked, trying to sound as menacing as possible. In honesty, I was just glad my voice hadn’t cracked out of fear.

  The bedroom, like the rest of the apartment, was nearly completely dark. The wall of windows faced east, which meant even the small amount of sunlight penetrating the storm clouds outside was barely able to make its presence known from the west. The room was also a mess, and though I knew I hadn’t bothered cleaning up (we had a cleaning lady who visited four times per week). I also knew I hadn’t left it in quite the state it was in now. Nearly everything had been shoved off my dresser, and the lamp that sat on the nightstand next to my bed lay shattered on the floor. The room looked nothing like the rest of the apartment, but nothing good had happened either.

  Once inside the room, I stood quietly, listening for any more whimpers or noises. Faintly, I heard from behind the closed closet door, “Please, please, please, please…”

  Placing my hand firmly on the door knob, I pulled the closet door open to find Fuchsia huddled in the corner, her face buried in her hands. She continued to utter the chant of, “Please, please, please,” without even looking up to see who had discovered her hiding place. Stepping into the closet, I knelt down next to her and placed my hands on top of hers, trying to let her know she was safe.

  “Fuchsia, it’s me, Jamie,” I said as quietly and calmly as I could.

  She flinched at first, but soon peeked one eye from behind her hands, and before I could react, leapt into my arms. I nearly toppled completely to the floor, but managed to maintain my stance. She let out a cry of relief and immediately began sobbing into my shoulder.

  “Fuchsia, what the hell happened here?” I asked, not sure if she could even hear my over the sounds of her own wales.

  She continued to cry for another minute or so before composing herself enough to speak. She looked into my eyes, tears still streaming down her face, and began recounting what had happened in the apartment. “I was so scared, Jamie! I thought I was going to die! I knew I was going to die!” She sobbed.

  “It’s okay,” I said, holding her. “You’re alive. Everything is okay now.”

  “Some guys came rushing into the apartment,” she continued. “Three or four of them. I didn’t get a good look at them. I was in the kitchen, and when I saw the look on Gabe’s face, I ran for it. I could tell something was wrong, so I didn’t want anyone to know I was here. I had just come across the hall to see if you were home yet, but since you weren’t, I was going to fix some dinner for the three of us…” She trailed off.

  “What happened? What could you hear from in the closet?” I asked, not particularly caring about her dinner plans for the night.

  “I couldn’t hear much. I could hear them arguing, Gabe and one of the guys, but everything was too muffled. I couldn’t make out what they were saying to each other. It sounded heated. And then…”

  “What?”

  She cringed, still shaking in my arms. “I heard breaking glass. I heard yelling… not like angry yelling, but painful yelling. It lasted for a few minutes, but sounded like it got farther away. It sounded like they left the living room and went into the--“

  I cut her off, remembering the trail of blood I had seen on the floor. “They went into the study.”

  “I don’t know, maybe,” she said.

  I turned to exit the bedroom, but Fuchsia wouldn’t budge.

  “Are you coming? Do you know if they left with or without Gabe?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. After a while, maybe an hour, it just got quiet. I heard them leave, but I don’t know if they took him. I’ve been too scared to leave the closet. I was afraid they might come back…”

  “It’s okay,” I said, only slightly frustrated with the lack of information she was providing me. “You stay here, and I’ll go check out the study.”

  Fuchsia’s returning panic startled me. “Don’t leave me here alone!”

  “I promise, you’ll be fine,” I said, trying to comfort her as I started to walk out of the bedroom. I paused momentarily, staring back at her, but her face was still panicked and afraid. Nothing I was going to say was going to make her more comfortable, so I decided to make my way across the apartment as quickly as possible.

  The door to the study was only slightly ajar, but I could see a dim beam of light cast across the middle of the room. I hesitated to push the door open, not sure what I would find, but I decided I would eventually have to. And as I did, a low, raspy breathing could be heard from within.

  “Hello?” I asked quietly, hoping that whatever or whoever was in the room wasn’t the person who had broken into the apartment.

  The only response was a guttural noise that could only be described as HNNNGGGGG. My mind automatically thought of the noises comic book characters made after being punched or nearly killed.

  The beam of lighting shining through the center of the room came from a flashlight that had been left on the large oak desk sitting against the left wall of the study. The light didn’t illuminate much, but I could see a figure sitting in the overly expensive armchair (usually unused) in the corner of the room. When lightning lit up the apartment again, I could tell for a brief second whoever it was, was not just sitting in the chair, but had been tied to it.

  When lightning flashed another time, I could make out long, seemingly wet hair hanging around the person’s face, a dark colored t-shirt appearing to be ripped, and blood stained white jeans.

  Gabe.

  I grabbed the flashlight from the table and rushed to the chair where Gabe had been tied down. I could tell immediately he was not in good shape. His wet hair was actually matted with blood, his shirt had been ripped because someone had been putting cigarettes out on his chest, and his jeans were stained with blood that looked like it had come from his hands.

  “Oh god, what happened to you?” I asked.

  Gabe was barely conscious, unable to form words to answer my question. He let out a couple more guttural sounds, but no actual words crossed his lips. As I untied the ropes that bound him to the chair, he slumped to one side, unable to hold his own body upright.

  “Gabe, you’ve gotta stay with me,” I instructed as calmly as possible. On the inside, I was a screaming, crying mess, but I tried as best as I could to not show it on the outside. I had no idea what had happened to Gabe, but my only concern at the moment was keeping him awake and as alert as possible.

  He breathed in deeply, still slumped over, and it sounded as if his lungs were filled with water. His throat gurgled, and his eyes fluttered as his chest heaved out and then in very slowly. He was breathing, but barely, and it seemed haggard and almost too difficult for Gabe to do.

  “Can you tell me who did this? Can you tell me anything?” I asked as Gabe tried to lift his head.

  Gabe coughed, a small amount of blood spewing from between his lips, which were both busted. I hadn’t gotten a good look at his face on account of the straggly hair hanging in front of it, but when I got a glimpse, I saw that both of his eyes were black, the bridge of his nose was busted, and he had three long gashes along his right cheek.

  Then, though in a strained voice, Gabe let out one word, a name.

  “Geet,” he said, pained.

  “What about him?” I asked. “Was he here? Did he do this?” My voice was becoming panicked. Someone had tied Gabe up and, by the looks of it, tortured him to near death. The thought that the person who did it could have been his brother brought the lar
gest of fears into my heart. If Geet was capable of doing this to his own brother, what would he do to Fuchsia? What would he do to me?

  Gabe gurgled a few more strained breaths, trying to pull together his strength before speaking again. Now untied, he made a meager attempt at standing, but made it less than an inch off the chair before slumping back down.

  “Maybe you should take it easy,” I suggested.

  “He did this,” Gabe whispered. “My brother nearly killed me.”

  I pulled my cell phone from my pocket. “I’m calling 911,” I said, not caring if the call would be traced back to the disposable phone I had been given by Harrison. When it all boiled down, Harrison was in charge and had likely given the order for Geet to attack Gabe. Harrison was the boss, and Geet was the muscle.

  Gabe raised his hand in an attempt to slap the phone away from me. He failed, but I lowered it nonetheless.

  “NO,” he managed to almost yell, panic evident in the word.

  “Gabe, this is too much. Your brother tied you up and beat the shit out of you!”

  Gabe’s eyes fluttered again. His condition didn’t seem to be worsening, but he also wasn’t getting any better. He was still too weak to stand, and his bloody hands were shaking. I grabbed his left hand and examined it. The blood all seemed to have come from his fingers, but I couldn’t see any wounds.

  “What did he do to you?”

  Gabe managed to roll his head back and stared me directly in the eye, though his were almost swollen shut. “He shoved playing cards under my fingernails.”

  Gabe’s eyes trailed to the opposite side of the chair where on the floor I could see four blood-soaked playing cards. The blood was still wet and had left several streaks across the marble floor. Each one was an Ace from each different house: clubs, diamonds, spades, and hearts.

  I was speechless. I was sickened. The thought of Geet beating Gabe half to death was bad enough, but knowing he had actually used old-school mobster tactics on his own blood relative made me want to vomit. “Why?” I asked.

  Gabe coughed, spitting more blood onto his already ruined shirt. I noticed the cigarette burns up close and realized how many more of them there were than I originally thought. An ashtray left next to the flashlight on the desk told me Geet had lit and put out at least three dozen of them on Gabe’s flesh.

  “He was looking for you,” Gabe spat.

  I couldn’t tell if he was angry or not. He seemed void of all emotion, as if he was as devastated and shocked about what had happened as I was. He added, “I tried to tell him you were out finding new clients, but he didn’t believe me.”

  I swallowed the lump in my throat and managed to say, “We’ll figure this out. We’ll come up with some kind of plan. He can’t get away with something like this.”

  Gabe let out a terrifying, pained laugh and looked away from me. I couldn’t be sure, but it looked like a tear was trying to escape from his swollen eye. I had never seen Gabe Malvado cry, but something told me if it ever happened, it meant the odds were stacked against us.

  “We’ll do something,” I said, trying to comfort him in some way.

  “I already know what we have to do,” he answered coldly as another bolt of lightning lit up the Chicago sky outside the window-covered wall of the apartment.

  I was afraid to ask, but still managed to let out a quiet “What?”

  “We’re going to kill Harrison.”

  (God Willin’ and the Creek Don’t Rise)