by T. C. Clover
It had a tacky, dark blue paint job, and the marble topper was a hideous quartz color; something that one would find at a discount store. A portly Hispanic guard sat behind the desk and watched CKB enter the room with disinterest. His fingers were intertwined, and his hands were resting on the back of his head, allowing him to recline on a padded swivel chair. The man wore a uniform that was a snug fit, and it featured dull colors that went well with the gloomy office.
CKB set the bag of cash down on the countertop and nodded to the security guard, waiting for him to reply. The man took a deep breath and released his hands from the back of his head, appearing lifeless and unhappy. He raised his eyes to CKB under a mass of unkempt black hair, coming to life for a moment with the charm of a judgmental mother.
“He wants to see you,” the Hispanic guard muttered without making eye contact.
Before CKB could offer up an excuse, the man punched a six-digit code into a keypad, and a false brick wall behind him slid to the right. The television star observed the security gate fading away a few inches each second, as though it were feeding time for a prodigious predator. CKB snatched the brown bag from the countertop like a pouty toddler and walked with forced arrogance past the brooding security guard.
The greater portion of the warehouse shone brighter at its center with a sort of corridor leading up to Mitch Gentile’s desk. On either side of CKB, men were unpacking boxes in the shadows on bare concrete. There were stacks of boxes and bags of various illegal goods almost all the way to the ceiling. Each side of the area was at capacity with freight to a level that would be the envy of a lifelong hoarder.
CKB moved across a length of short black carpet that covered only the center of the room. The corridor featured some wide stairs that rose five feet from the main floor, leading up to Mitch Gentile’s pristine desk of stainless steel and decorative glass. There was a mural behind the desk that came into view as CKB climbed the stairs. It featured a white Chinese dragon that seemed to have snaked its way from the upper left corner of the wall to the lower right.
“You’ve pissed off a lot of people, superstar,” Mitch Gentile stated with the tone of a disparaging father. “I don’t know how all this attention is supposed to benefit me.” He added, bending down to a small black refrigerator near the wall to retrieve a few bottles of Corona Light. “Just put it on the desk.” The gangster ordered, noticing the bag swinging in CKB’s right hand. “I just got off the phone with some guys that aren’t happy about their faces being posted on the Internet.”
Mitch sat down with a flustered look of confusion, glancing over the surface of his desk. His expensive black suit had been tailored a bit too tight, and CKB posited that drinking a bottle of beer might cause the top button to pop off of the jacket. The twenty-seven-year-old gangster seemed calmer when he located a bottle opener in the top left drawer of his oversized desk. He retrieved it with haste and snapped off the caps of the two beer bottles, exercising graceful authority. The man’s eyes locked onto CKB for the first time when he reached across the desk to hand him one of the beers. His pupils had a quality that inspired dread in many people; a sort of assured damnation with predatory flair. Mitch ran his fingers through his long blonde hair, forcing it into compliance with the rest of his ensemble.
“So, what are we going to do about that?” The brash Norwegian asked in an urgent manner and leaned forward to snatch his beer from the desk.
“I guess they’re gonna’ have to deal with it,” CKB answered with a devious smirk, taking a seat opposite his boss. “They do make for good entertainment.” He quipped and pursed his lips, punctuating his sentence with a sip from the beer bottle.
Mitch set down the beer and rested his palms atop the transparent glass of the desk. He remained silent for a few seconds, leveraging an awkward moment to stare at his companion as if to clear his mind.
“I need you to do it again,” Mitch said with conviction, looking away from his colleague to the right.
“Who and when?” CKB inquired with repressed enthusiasm as his left hand tightened around the bend of his knee.
“Today…now,” the powerful gangster demanded without showing a hint of compassion. “It’s going to be Hector Mescal. I need you to take him down a few pegs – let the air out of his tires.”
“Mescal?” CKB confirmed with raised eyebrows and gripped his knee tighter at the mention of such a dangerous name. “Why are we antagonizing Mescal? You told me that would be a stupid move.”
“Yeah, and it still is a stupid move, but it has to be done,” Mitch asserted with a nod, exhaling somewhat with regret. “Sometimes we have to do stupid things, Cody; it’s like setting off an explosion to put out a bigger fire.”
“And how am I supposed to get away from that explosion?” He questioned with waning confidence, hoping that this was a joke with the punch line still pending. “Am I going to have any people?”
“No, it’s just going to be you,” the boss replied with a shrug as if to challenge his employee’s manhood. “You know that you’re always alone on these. If I recall, it was your idea to do this; you thought it was fun.” Mitch expressed with impatience and tapped his right index fingernail hard against the glass.
“Okay, I’ll get it done,” CKB agreed with a deep breath, exhibiting a total lack of confidence in his statement.
“Good, the sooner, the better,” his boss reiterated in a lackluster moment of victory. “When you’re done with that, I need you to take Mayor Ackerman’s daughter out for a fun night. Give her whatever she wants.”
“I’m seeing someone,” the astonished man protested. “Why can’t George-”
“Because I want you to take care of her!” Mitch interrupted with blistering authority. “That damn TV show must have made you forget who you work for. I only allowed you to do that if it would give me some opportunities. Now that you’re a celebrity, I’m going to whore you out to the city. Understood?”
“Understood,” CKB acknowledged with disappointment, wishing he were almost anywhere else in the world.
“If she wants some Vitamin D, then give it to her!” His boss growled with frigid authority and glared at CKB like a malfunctioning vehicle. “When you work for me, Cody, you have to be a man! Hell, you have to be more than a man… I’ve got everything ready to go for Mescal. Get your gear and get out of my sight!”
Templar Drug Territory – Brooklyn, New York
CKB walked with a forlorn expression through the projects of Southeast Brooklyn. Dozens of eager faces surveyed his progress through the streets of the Templar’s drug territory. Hector’s spies seemed to hover in the space between the real world and that of the dead, eyeing him from basements and rooftops. This quandary was a part of town so corrupt that the residents would disobey the laws of physics if they knew how. The police rarely ventured into the area, and when they did, it was considered a rookie mistake.
A public swimming pool was at the heart of the projects where Hector Mescal liked to relax and conduct business. It had been abandoned by the city long ago as if the ghost of righteousness were exorcised by all the horrid events that took place. After passing through a few natural barricades and checkpoints monitored by the Templars, CKB found himself approaching the infamous swimming pool. There was a rumor that Hector often swam in the blood of those whom he had sentenced to death.
The fence that used to surround the pool had been removed and replaced with a ten-foot wall of concrete blocks. This wall had small portholes through which one might get a glimpse of the pool if they were close enough. One also may have met with the business end of a shotgun for doing the same.
CKB began his approach toward a black gated entrance of the swimming complex with a brown paper bag swinging in his right hand. When he was within fifty yards of the thick steel gate, four men appeared on the asphalt behind him, maintaining the same pace. He glanced backward to se
e that they were all armed, and ready to cut him down at the first sign of trouble.
Stoney was perspiring as he watched CKB getting escorted by armed men from an alleyway off to the right. His bowels were reporting severe discomfort from an urgent need to relieve himself. The stoic police officer glanced around the area in search of a reprieve, but there seemed to be nothing but low-rent housing. He knelt down on one knee behind a dark green dumpster. The smell of garbage made him want to vomit, and the troubling pressure in his abdomen was causing his legs to shake. Stoney took in deep breaths as his brow began to drip with sweat. The vengeful man thought himself crazy for venturing into this part of town, and the melancholy of regret was enveloping him like a cloud of poisonous smoke. All he had seen for the past few blocks were tattoos, guns and gang colors. If hell had a recreation center, then this would have been its swimming pool.
“What’s your business with us, ese?” A Templar enforcer called out to CKB, prompting him to stop walking.
“I’ve got some flowers for Hector,” CKB answered with caution, hoping that this code phrase was still correct. “He needed them from my mother.”
The drug enforcer didn’t answer, but walked over to CKB and snatched the bag from his right hand. He peered inside at the contents