His Brother's Wife

by Mia Ford

  A tiny bedroom lay off the living room, and the adjoining bathroom had been remodeled sometime in the eighties. The puke green was a lovely color. All in all, not a decorator’s dream, but I did have a small kitchenette, which served my purposes because all I really needed was a small fridge and a microwave. I got most of my meals from the club’s kitchen, and when I was ready for take-out, almost anyone in the neighborhood would deliver to the club, hoping for a free peepshow.

  I was comfortable enough, but the noise level of the music, not to mention the sounds of the catcalls made by its illustrious patrons and the city noise outside, made it hard to concentrate, one of the many prices I paid for being the sister of Richie Silvestri.

  I guess I should have been grateful he refused to allow me to dance. Such a good brother to keep his sister from stripping. As it was, I bartended the day shift, mostly because Richie thought the classier men came in during the day. There was nothing classier than a man who spent his hard-earned money going to a strip club during lunch hour and happy hour. And they all leered at me like I was a piece of meat in a butcher’s front window. Not in my most terrible nightmares would I give any of them the time of day, much less allow them into my bed. I wanted a man who wanted me, not some body dancing around a pole.

  I’d seen them all lined up at the bar and the tables around the center stage—politicians, guys in suits, office workers, the construction guys, the factory rats. Very few of them tipped the bartender well because they’d earmarked their money on the hot fantasies shaking pussy and tits in their faces. Fantasy was the right word because, underneath the erotic outfits and the cliché names, the daytime ladies would never be indulging the fantasies of these men with no future, no hope, no passion in their lives except the hard-on in their pants. These women were single mothers, women going to night school, trapped girls trying to make enough money to get back home to Boise and Omaha and Bismarck, women who’d once held big dreams for Chicago. I could have told them dreams died in Chicago, but they wouldn’t have listened. You had to live it to believe it.

  None of the women gave a damn who passed over the dollar—sometimes a five or ten—as long as it got passed. Yet the men were all looking for that hookup, not knowing that the stripper with the heart of gold, the hot body, and adoring gaze was a fantasy only in their pornographic imaginations. None of the dancers cared who these men were or what they wanted. The women wanted their money, plain and simple, because they had to feed their kids and buy that bus ticket back to failure and lost dreams.

  All of us were trapped between fantasy and reality, playing mind games and just trying to make it through our ten-hour shifts. I really hated the daytime.

  The nighttime, though, belonged to me. Richie thought I watched Netflix and read romance novels up here in my tiny apartment. If he knew I was working toward a degree, my internet would have been unplugged between one heartbeat and the next. Richie thought women were good for two things—stripping or pushing out kids. I had created a problem for my brother because he didn’t want me doing either.

  I finished up my lesson for the night and saved everything on the flash drive. I had just hit Clear Browser History when a fist pounded on my door. My heart skipped a beat.

  “Jesus, hang the fuck on,” I yelled.

  I shoved the flash drive into the pocket of my shorts.

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s me, Butch.”

  My head dropped before I could hold in the sigh, and though my heart tried to return to a normal rhythm, the sound of Butch Collette’s voice always made my hackles rise. They didn’t come uglier than Butch—or meaner. What the hell was he doing here?

  “What do you want, Butch?”

  Something knocked against the door, and then I heard the rattle of something metallic.

  “Came to fix your window unit.”

  Yeah, right. My brother’s right-hand man and enforcer had decided to play service technician? Something wasn’t right here. The man would do anything to be alone with me. I guess I had to give him props for at least finding a valid reason to come to my apartment instead of stalking me on the bar floor like he did every afternoon.

  I glanced at the clock on the microwave. It was almost midnight. I went to the door and opened it a crack, making sure to keep the chain in place. Not that a chain—or a door for that matter—would matter to Butch. If he really wanted in, he’d get in.

  I peered through the opening, up, up, up into Butch’s face. His bald pate glistened with sweat. The scar on his chin blazed a fiery trail over his skin and cut through his lip. No one talked about that scar, but rumor had it he’d gotten it while protecting Richie from a very dissatisfied customer years ago. Butch had carte blanche around here because of that scar. The prison tats on his hands and arms signaled Butch was a badass motherfucker. I never asked what they meant because I didn’t want to be more scared than I was.

  Yes, he scared me, but that didn’t mean I had to let him in my house. Richie thought Butch walked on water, but he would back me on that.

  “I’m getting ready for bed, Butch.”

  Bed. Wrong thing to say. His piggy eyes lit up as he raked his gaze down the gap, trying to see anything at all, any flash of skin. My skin crawled. I curled behind the door and pressed against it, hoping to become invisible. No such luck because his gaze just came back to mine. I felt the flash drive in my pocket like a dirty secret as I tried not to cower under his stare.

  “Anything I can help with?” he asked, giving me a lurid smile.

  I almost vomited right there at my front door.

  “No…thank you.” I swallowed hard.

  “I brought the tools.” He held up a metal toolbox and rattled it for effect. I knew for a fact a hammer and screwdriver weren’t going to cut it on an air conditioning unit. That was the box they used to fix the stripper poles downstairs and occasionally tighten a screw on a barstool.

  “Can we do this tomorrow please? Maybe before my shift?”

  “Seven thirty?”

  “Sure. That sounds great.” I tried to smile, but it felt lost inside. I wasn’t even sure I knew how to smile anymore. I’d heard it often enough at the bar.

  “Hey, beautiful, nice ass… give me a smile with those ruby red lips...”

  What I wanted to do every time I heard it was smash a beer bottle against the counter and shove it in the guy’s throat just to shut him up.

  I really needed out of this town.

  “Okay, Hannah,” Butch grunted. “See you in the morning.”

  He gave me a gap-toothed smile, turned and lumbered down the staircase, all six-feet-five, two hundred fifty pounds of him, muscles and sinew and bone, so much there to inflict pain. Each step creaked a protest beneath his frame.

  I closed the door and locked all three locks, and then for good measure, I shoved a chair under the knob. None of it would have stopped him. He became a charging bull under the right circumstances.

  My legs buckled, and I hit the floor hard. The flash drive poked into my hip, reminding me I needed to put it in the tampon box with the others. As far as I knew, Richie never came into my apartment. Why would he? He knew I was a scared little mouse watching the cats prowl around the house with absolute impunity. Every step I took, every move I made, brought the potential for the snap of the traps that seemed to encompass every aspect of my life.

  Someday…

  I just kept telling myself…

  Someday…

  Someday I would be free.

  But in the meantime, I was stuck here until I could do something better.

  Then the flash drive joined the other four, which held the courses I’d already completed, in a tampon box in the top of the bathroom closet, each stuffed into a little cardboard tube which I knew no man would ever want to touch.

  Chapter Three: Danny O’Shea

  The bar lights should have made the place welcoming, but all I felt was sadness. Neon colors split the semi-darkness, creating pools of vibrant blue, red, and
green. Some of the lights flickered, and other had burned out creating gaps in the messages. The Chicago sports teams were all represented.

  The Bears and the Bulls and the Cubs were all partnered onto signs with Budweiser and Miller Lite and Old Style, as though those multimillionaire players would touch a bottle of something so mundane or drink it with the common guy. I wondered why they bothered. No one who frequented this shit hole had the money to actually go to a game.

  To be fair, I guess there was a chance someone would come out ahead on the wagers going down at the tables, but chances were that bonus cash would find its way into a vein or a pussy somehow. The Cubs wouldn’t see a dime.

  All the lights made my head hurt and would have spiraled me into a severe depression if I hadn’t been here for work. As it was, I was eager to get the party started.

  I waded through the sea of bodies sprawled across the dirty plank floor in various stages of consciousness. My dad’s buddy, Stan—appropriately nicknamed “Gorilla”— had been hard at work in lieu of my arrival. He was supposed to start a bar fight, zero in on a dude named Archie Dee, then let me save Archie’s ass as a way of infiltrating the South Side Gang, which was headed up by Archie’s best pal, Richie Silvestri.

  Stan had been one of the best detectives on the force before he was forced to medically retire after taking a bullet to the brain that would have killed most guys. At six-foot-six and three hundred pounds, it just pissed Stan off. Still, the force deemed him unfit to serve and mustered him out. Now, he worked as a private consultant, helping out cops here and there and earning a few bucks for his time. Having him bust up the place and knock a few dicks in the dirt tonight was the best five hundred dollars I’d ever expense to the job. When he said he’d start something to give me an in with Richie Silvestri, he hadn’t been kidding.

  The target of my brawl ruse—the reason for the C-note investment—was currently being held against the bar by a big, burly fellow who looked like he could be Bigfoot’s cousin. He wore greasy jeans, had a scruffy beard, a shaved head, a sleeveless t-shirt that showed off his ham-hock arms, and an old biker’s jean vest that had the name KILLER sewn on the front.

  He was not Stan, even though he was holding my target, Archie Devereaux —Archie Dee— the small-time fish playing with the sharks in the big cesspool that was Chicago’s underworld. I knew Archie was allowed to play only because he’d been Richie Silvestri’s best friend since they were baby gangbangers. He was a tall, skinny dude that looked like he might break if you looked at him hard. Another few seconds with this guy’s beefy hand around his throat would have probably made him shit his pants.

  “Sorry about that,” a deep voice said from behind. I turned to see Stan staring at the guy who had Archie by the throat. I had to look up to meet his eyes. “That asshole got to Devereaux before I did. You want me to take him out for you?”

  “Nah, I have to do this,” I said, taking a deep breath and blowing it out slowly. “Just keep my back covered.”

  “Will do.”

  “And Stan,” I said with a smile. “If this goes south, don’t let this guy kill me.”

  “Roger that.”

  “Hey, Bigfoot,” I said, approaching the big guy from behind.

  He gave me a hard look, like you would do to a fly buzzing around your ear. A growl rumbled out of the big guy’s throat, followed by a snarl. “Fuck off,” he said. “Or you’ll be next.”

  “You’re not supposed to play with your food,” I said. “Why don’t you just put the guy out of his misery or let him go?”

  He growled at me again and tightened his grip on Archie’s throat. “I said fuck off, shit head.” He swung around, pulling Archie with him like he was a rag doll. “You wanna take his place?”

  “Sure,” I said with a shrug. “I’ve got nothing better to do than knock your fat ass away from the bar so I can get a drink.”

  The guy frowned at me like he was sensitive about his weight. He let go of Archie’s neck, and the poor guy dropped like a stone, gasping, his face red, eyes bulging. Bigfoot took a step toward me, stomping on Archie’s hand in the process. A howl rose from the floor as Archie clutched what was probably a broken hand, but the big guy kept his focus on me.

  This asshole was huge and hairy, and would have looked far more comfortable in the Pacific Northwest than here in a steamy pool hall that reeked of sweat, stale perfume, and so much beer-soaked wood a man could gag just walking into the joint. But I was big, too, and had been a linebacker in high school. As long as I didn’t hit him with my bum knee—or he didn’t hit me—I figured I was golden.

  “Think I can’t take you?” I asked, smirking at him just to rev him up. Big guys like him get revved up and lose focus, thinking they can win the fight purely by their size.

  “I know you can’t take me,” he snorted. “Come on, pretty boy. Show me what you got.”

  Pretty boy? Really?

  He took another step forward. Crunch went Archie’s foot. Archie howled and scrambled away, crab-walking his way several feet to curl under the lip of the bar.

  I had almost forgotten that the bar fight Stan had started was still raging behind me. A body slammed into my back, but I shook it off, ignoring the warmth of damp sweat, and possibly blood, against my T-shirt. This fight had devolved from a chaotic skirmish into a full-on battle. I wasn’t worried about me, but I needed Archie out of here in one piece to be of any value to me.

  When the guy came toward me my right fist shot out quickly. My knuckles caught him right on the chin and stopped him cold. He rocked back on his heels then staggered against the bar. He clutched at a stool to keep from tumbling, and then he roared at me like a pissed off mountain gorilla.

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” I shook my hand, hoping that I hadn’t broken it on this asshole’s face. “Did I hurt you?”

  His hot breath poured from his mouth as he let out another roar and charged toward me, head prepared to butt me into next Tuesday. Even better.

  When the fucker got within a foot of me, I sidestepped and spun around, using my weight to propel him farther. He plowed into a table, toppling bottles, breaking glasses, knocking people down, and smashing the rickety thing beneath his ginormous head.

  The sounds of clapping and cheering replaced the sounds of fists hitting flesh and bottles shattering against the floor as everyone around us froze in mid-step and mid-punch. I sauntered over and lifted the ape by the belt and the dank hunk of hair at his neck. I somehow managed to lift him and flung him across the wet floor like a bowling bowl.

  My human bowling ball knocked down everything in his path and smashed into the jukebox, cutting off Johnny Cash in mid-warble. The glass over the front cracked then rained in shards to the floor. The lights flickered, dimmed, flickered again, and then the box just moaned and died. Bigfoot gave a low groan and fell still.

  “Holy shit, man. You took down Otto.”

  I turned to find Archie limping toward me, nursing his hand against his chest like a baby bird. A bright red ring punctuated by two thumbprints hugged his neck. His eyes said junkie; his breath said alcoholic. I knew he was both, but he was perfect for my plan. He was staring at me with something akin to wonder. Even better.

  “Otto was messing up my night,” I said with a shrug. “I don’t mind a good brawl, but killing someone shouldn’t be part of it.” I waved my aching hand up and down his body. “You all good?”

  He nodded quickly, so fast I thought his head would pop off.

  “I haven’t seen you around,” Archie said, his eyes still glowing like I’d just played the world’s greatest guitar solo. “New to town?”

  “I been away for a while, upstate,” I said, inferring that I’d just gotten out of Joliet Prison without actually saying so. “Danny O’Shea.”

  “Archie Devereaux. But call me Archie Dee. Everyone does.”

  “Nice to meet you, Archie Dee.”

  I held out my right hand. Archie started to shake it then winced at the pain in his own hand. I was
glad because my hand hurt like a mother.

  I nodded at the hand he was clutching to his chest. “Is it bad?” I didn’t care, but it seemed the right thing to say.

  Archie glanced at his hand and tried to put on a brave face. “Would have been worse, a lot worse.” He glanced toward the giant slug still lying in the demolished jukebox. “Otto doesn’t quit.”

  “Seemed like a quitter to me.” I huffed.

  “Yeah.” Archie gave me one of those smiles that almost made you feel sorry for a guy. Almost. “I owe you,” he said. “Big time. You name it.”

  I shoved my hands in my jeans pockets and rocked on my heels. This guy was like putty in my hands, though I’d suspected he would be. I pretended to think for a minute.

  “I could use a job,” I said. “Know anyone looking to hire someone with no marketable skills?”

  Archie gave me a bobble-headed nod. His shaggy hair fluttered against his shoulders. “A job? Sure, I can hook you up. You got a car? I can take you to him right now.”

  “Sure, my car’s right outside.” As we started out the door, Otto was groaning, starting to come around, I looked at Archie and smiled. “Wanna give the bastard a kick for luck?”

  “I’m afraid it would be bad luck,” he said, giving me a nervous smile and shaking his head, as if he knew what kicking Otto might bring down on his head later on.

  “Then let me do it,” I said. I pulled my foot back and gave Otto an easy kick in the ribs that made him groan.

  “I like your style, Danny O’Shea,” Archie said with a look mixed with admiration and dread. “Come on, let’s get the fuck out of here before he wakes up. I got someone you need to meet.”