Shadow Fray

by Bradley Lloyd

  “Don’t count it, fuckwad. Not here. It’s the same you got for the last Fray with Joe.”

  “The same,” Justin said, voice flat.

  “That’s right. The same. Because all those hits, all that dough? That’s because of me. Not you. Me. Because I slit a kid’s throat after you beat him to a bloody pulp.” He got in Justin’s face as he spoke. “After this, though, you do right by me, and you’ll get a square cut. We split fifty-fifty. But you do what you’re told, no questions asked.”

  Justin had no response. No nod. No words. Scarecrow’s breath smelled of mildew. Justin clenched his jaw, silently grinding his teeth together.

  “Your next Fray is in two weeks,” Scarecrow said, backing up a step and once again taking a casual tone. “The Basilica of St. Josaphat, south side of Milwaukee. You know it?”

  “Two weeks,” Justin said. “That’s….” Too soon. It was too soon.

  “Here’s the info, direct from the source.” Scarecrow passed him a small slip of paper. Justin took a breath to steady himself, making sure his hand didn’t shake before he reached out to grab it. He slid it in the pocket with the cash.

  “There’s something else too,” Scarecrow said, reaching once again into his trench coat. “They want you to use a ringer. They want you to use these.”

  Scarecrow handed him a pair of black leather gloves. Not full gloves—his fingers would be free. Gloves like these were common in Shadow Fray, though the leather was rarely genuine.

  Scarecrow glanced around the station again. “Go ahead, put ’em on.”

  Justin slid them on as Scarecrow kept his eyes on their surroundings. Justin’s back was to the rest of the station, but he kept his hands in as a precaution, shielding them with his body.

  “Now flex. Make a fist.”

  Justin did. Four small metal claws revealed themselves on his knuckles, peeking out from the leather only when he was making a full hard fist, and only on the right hand. The fact that they were only a quarter of an inch long did not make him feel better about this.

  Scarecrow looked at him sideways. “Don’t pussy out on me, killer. You look like you’re gonna cry.” Justin forced himself to stop looking at the claws and make eye contact with the man in front of him. “Don’t worry so much. They aren’t gonna kill him. Just hurt him a little bit.”

  “They want this next guy out, then?”

  “Not necessarily. But the bar has been raised, and you’re gonna command attention. Gotta give ’em something good to watch.” Scarecrow’s smile revealed yellow-stained teeth. “Now this is important. When the other handler checks you before the fight, clench your left fist, leave your right one flat. The left fist is the decoy. Understand?”

  Justin nodded. He removed the gloves and stuffed them in the pocket of his hoodie. He and Scarecrow stared at each other for a moment. “Is that all?” Justin asked when the silence grew too long.

  “Give ’em something good to watch, killer.” With that, Scarecrow began walking toward the trains.

  Justin stood there a moment. A bead of sweat dripped down the back of his neck under his hood. Except he wasn’t hot. His hands were cold. He stuck them in his pockets but felt the gloves and stopped.

  He didn’t sign up for weapons, or for this level of violence. But he was stuck—and now everyone would be watching.

  Chapter 6

  UNABLE TO take the isolating blackness any longer, Hale opened his eyes.

  He lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. Why wasn’t he sleeping? It wasn’t like there was noise keeping him awake. He hadn’t even heard a person yet, but it was only his first night here. The move had happened fast, in just a matter of days, but that was for the best. He hadn’t had time to change his mind.

  The place was nice enough, he supposed. Clean. His bed was in the main living area, having set up the bedroom as a kind of gym with his weights and a punching bag. He hadn’t used the bag yet, though he wanted to. It was like a craving. The activity was what he needed to let out some frustration so he could fall asleep, but he wanted to make good and sure the noise wouldn’t carry. The middle of the night wasn’t the best time to put it to the test.

  Hale looked across the dark room to his Harley Iron. It wasn’t big or flashy, but it was his baby. It had cost a small fortune. The complex didn’t have a garage, but he didn’t mind having it in the room. In fact, he kind of liked it. Maybe he should get up and ride. Drive a couple hours north in the middle of the night. Check out the Arena in Milwaukee for the Fray that was just over a week away. The church might be locked up, but he could peek in a couple windows. Maybe he could plan out a strategy. He could use an advantage, because he sure felt off his game.

  He needed to work out. He missed the gym.

  But if he were being honest with himself, it wasn’t the gym he was missing. It was Eddie.

  He wanted to fill that emptiness with a drink, or the sharp chemical smoke of a hit. Maybe some of those little blue pills to take the edge off this feeling. It didn’t help knowing all he had to do is go up a few floors and he’d be able to find whatever he wanted. So easy.

  Instead he closed his eyes. Benz had taught him a trick that helped when he had these cravings. Hale took himself out of the moment and imagined what it would be like if he did have a drink. If he did have a hit. And it was weeks or years from now.

  He pictured himself losing a Fray, his body no longer able to maintain its high level of performance. His eyes swollen shut, nose broken. Missing teeth. He pictured Jess’s eyes on him, disapproving. She’d be fearful and disgusted enough to keep Eddie away from him. He pictured Benz having to pick him up off the floor as he sat in his own vomit or piss. Benz taking him to the bathroom and cleaning him up like he was a baby. He pictured Eddie with a mouth full of big-kid teeth and a beautiful smile he would never get to see.

  No high was worth missing that.

  Relief from this single moment of loneliness wasn’t worth trading down for a lifetime of regret. Because that’s what it came down to, didn’t it? He was fucking lonely.

  But perhaps there was a different fix for that.

  Benz might not like it, though. “Don’t do that stuff in my backyard,” he remembered Benz saying. But maybe Benz wouldn’t mind, not if he knew how hard up Hale was right now. Hale threw the sheet off his naked body and got out of bed. He grabbed his jeans from the floor and walked over to the window, where he put them on.

  He was on the sixth floor, and from the window he looked across the street to Excalibur, a forty-story playhouse for the rich and the superrich. Uppers. Business deals, dining, shopping, pool, gym, spa, but mostly a lot of games for throwing money away. He glanced down below the neon sign and saw Benz. The front man. The man everyone needed to see before they got in. He saw a man speak in Benz’s ear, and Benz pointed across the street to Hale’s building, officially called “The Lady of the Lake,” but everyone referred to it as “The Lady.”

  It was really an extension of Excalibur for the less official side of business, which meant alcohol that flowed a little more freely, drugs that were overpriced, and whores that were clean. Probably. The apartments came in handy for the people who worked there but also served as a cover that allowed the police to look the other way. It was a residential building, after all, one even the police would visit when not wearing a uniform. Chicago’s finest needed a place to blow off some steam.

  Hale understood the need. He pulled on a black T-shirt, stepped into his boots, and left before he could change his mind.

  The building had a functioning elevator, but he decided to take the stairs. He’d been avoiding the rest of the building and had yet to see anything of the upper floors.

  He went to the top, where he exited on ten and walked right into a bar. The walls were painted black, the bar accented with red velvet chairs. The lighting came from behind red sconces. Red velvet couches bordered the bar. In the couch nearest him, a lady in a flowing dress reclined, reminding him of a goddess. She was tall and sle
nder, and one of her long hands was on the thigh of the man sitting next to her. The man had been wearing a suit, but the jacket and tie were draped over the back of the couch. The bar was long and had few empty seats. Music played from speakers he couldn’t see.

  The bartender gave him a strange glance, as though recognizing that Hale was out of place. Hale didn’t spend much time looking around, and as he walked past, he pointedly did not look at the bar or bartender. To his left, opposite the bar, were rooms with black-painted doors outlined in red borders. All the doors were closed, but he could smell the very pungent odor of pot, and behind it the more soothing and spicy aroma of opium. It looked like people could sit at the bar until a room opened up and then go inside to sample and purchase a product. This wasn’t what he came for, though.

  Past the bar, he approached the opposite stairwell. In his periphery he saw someone flag him to stop, but he didn’t feel like answering any questions, so he kept walking through the exit like he knew where he was going. He went down the next set of stairs, relieved that the door he’d come through didn’t open. No one was following him.

  Walking onto the ninth floor, he saw that while the décor was the same, the floor had a very different layout. Where the bar had been were more rooms. Gone was the music, and as he walked down the hall, he could hear grunting behind one door. Past another door, he heard moaning. Down the hall a man opened a door and walked out, never glancing back. His jacket was over his arm and he was using one hand to close the last button under his collar.

  Jacket. Collar. Well shit. Hale didn’t get embarrassed, but he was supremely underdressed, wasn’t he? No wonder he’d gotten strange looks up above.

  A brighter light suddenly illuminated him from the front, making him feel like he’d been caught. But that wasn’t it. He blinked. Ahead of him another door had opened, casting a whiter brightness into the darker red-lit hall.

  He was drawn toward the light like a moth to a flame. He didn’t care one lick if he got burned. Hell, he could use the warmth.

  He slowed and stopped as he walked by the doorway. Inside on a couch facing the door sat a woman. She had a flowing robe that was nearly sheer. She didn’t see him. She sat rubbing lotion on her long legs. Her skin was a dark ebony, her hair coiled high on her head in braids. Her legs glistened in the white lamplight, and her breasts dipped down as she bent over, showing a perfect line of cleavage.

  As she rose up to a full sitting position, her movement fluid and graceful, she looked at Hale.

  In her hand was an AMT .380 caliber semiautomatic pistol.

  Her large brown eyes studied Hale’s face. After a moment she spoke.

  “Honey, I don’t like surprises.”

  Hale smiled and put his hands up. “Maybe you’ll like this one.”

  She raised her chin, squinting her eyes slightly. “Where’d you come from?” She didn’t sound the least bit intimidated if he had surprised her. Her voice was feminine but deep, her tone curious and playful.

  “I came from downstairs. Couldn’t sleep.”

  She slid the gun back under the couch cushion from where she’d so expertly raised it.

  “You’re him, aren’t you? The new guy. Benz’s brother.”

  “Not by blood.”

  “Does that make a difference?”

  “Only if it does to you.”

  “What I’m saying is will he care that you’re here?”

  Hale shrugged.

  “Sure, honey. That’s what I thought.”

  Just then the door at the end of the hall opened. A suited man, hefty and very much out of breath, walked quickly in his direction. He had a firearm at his hip but hadn’t drawn it yet. His words were pointed. “Sir, you can’t be here.”

  “Sure I can. I live here,” Hale drawled.

  “It’s all right, Raul,” she said, leaning forward to be heard into the hall. “I got this one.”

  Raul slowed his quick pace, appearing grateful that he didn’t have to hurry.

  “Step inside, honey, before we really get an audience.”

  Hale smiled at Raul, who was still coming toward him. He stepped inside the apartment and closed the door just as Raul neared.

  An abrupt knock immediately followed. “You sure you’re all right?”

  “I’m peachy, but thanks for checking, Raul. You always got my back.”

  Hale could hear the muttered “asshole” from the other side of the door, and he was pretty sure Raul wasn’t talking about the lady in front of him.

  She reached up and flipped a switch on the wall. It looked like a light switch.

  “Now, that means I’m busy, so we shouldn’t be disturbed, but it also means you just started paying. Come sit down by me, honey,” she said, patting the couch beside her. She didn’t move over, even though she was sitting in the middle.

  As Hale sat, he could smell incense, or perhaps opium, but it was overpowered by the smell of cocoa butter the woman had been rubbing on her legs.

  She produced a card, holding it up between two long fingers, the nails painted red like the velvet accents in the room. “Next time call first if you don’t want to go downstairs to the visitors’ entrance. I’ll come to you. That way you’ll be safe from prying eyes.”

  Hale took the card from her and leaned forward to put it in his back pocket. As he did, he could feel the warmth of her exhale. Her breath smelled faintly of citrus, which was very rare in this region.

  “You’re not gonna look at it?” she breathed.

  “I thought I’d ask your name the old-fashioned way,” Hale whispered in her ear.

  “Of course Benz’s brother would be a real gentleman.” She traced her hand along his arm. “You can call me Wilma.”

  That was an odd name and one Hale didn’t immediately find sexy. He cast the thought aside. “Pleased to meet you, Wilma,” he said, raising her hand and kissing it. He usually was nothing close to this chivalrous, but she was beautiful. Maybe this would be a long-standing relationship, one Benz didn’t have to know about if she didn’t decide to tell him.

  “It’s on account of my hair, see? Like the lady in the old cartoons.”

  Hale noticed she had streaks of red braided into her hair. He didn’t watch television shows, though, so he had no idea who she was talking about. But no matter. He leaned forward to kiss her softly.

  Her lips were like velvet. It felt like years since he’d kissed someone. Was it? It was after Janie, for sure, but part of a drug-fueled fuck-a-thon he didn’t care to remember. He wasn’t sure why he kissed her now, except he found Wilma charming. In a way, she sounded like any whore, but for some reason her honeys and darlin’s (and no doubt he’d soon get some sugars) rang true. He could almost believe she was attracted to him.

  “God, I hope you have a dick,” he said. His tastes had been fairly singular for quite a while, and Benz had said women worked here.

  She laughed, throwing her head back and opening her mouth to show big pearly teeth. She certainly was high class. He wasn’t used to this.

  “But of course, sugar!” she said.

  Hale smiled genuinely. “Uni or trans?”

  “Baby, I was born this way… more or less, anyhow. Now, what’s your pleasure?” she asked, sitting with her legs crossed.

  “I want you to get down on your knees and suck me hard. I want your dress open on top so I get flashes of those gorgeous breasts and your dark nipples. Then I want you to stand up, turn around, and face the wall. Drop the dress. Drop it slowly. And then I want to take you from behind.”

  “Can I touch myself when you’re fucking me?” Hale assumed she meant the male part of her.

  “No. That’s my job.”

  She looked surprised at that. Could be most of her clients didn’t like that part of her. If her voice was any indication, she went from surprised to very pleased, as she practically purred her next words. “Why do I get the feeling you’re the wrong man saying all the right things?” She ran a finger down his chest, toward his jeans.
“I haven’t come all day, you see. I like to wait for the right man, and the right man is always the last one of the night. But you, you’re not the right man at all. You’re different. Just showed up at my door. And I really shouldn’t be doing this.” She smiled. With the lamplight behind her, her eyes were nearly black.

  “You and me both,” Hale said, placing a hand on her cheek and leaning back, signaling that she could get on the floor. Relaxing, he closed his eyes. It would be better to watch, to know someone was there in front of him. And yet….

  Despite all her charm, Wilma had never even asked him his name.

  He left his eyes closed. He should get used to the blackness.

  Chapter 7

  JUSTIN OFTEN worked out first thing in the morning, but not like this. Walking up fourteen flights of stairs, from their unit to the twenty-eighth floor, it became obvious that he wasn’t in peak condition. He hadn’t been swimming since the Fray; going into lake water wasn’t especially wise when one had open wounds. In fact, he likely wouldn’t be swimming any more this year. In a month the water would be far too cold.

  Charlie was handling the stairs fine. Maybe smaller legs and a lower center of gravity were good for stairs—or just the fact that he was a kid. Char was so small and skinny he could practically have flown up given a feather.

  Once at the top, they opened the stairwell door and walked all the way down the long hall, past all of the doors, to the end. The prime penthouse suite in the Lakeside Condominiums, where Gristopher Mays lived.

  Charlie knocked on the door, having run ahead of Justin. What was it that compelled kids to run down long hallways? And who would run after fourteen flights of stairs?

  Justin caught up as Charlie waited. Inside they could hear noises. A dull metallic bang, footsteps, the hum of voices. Justin considered knocking again as Charlie looked up at him anxiously, but eventually they could hear someone walking toward the door.

  Devin, a light-skinned black man with meticulously close-shaved hair, answered the door. Immediately, Justin caught the rank smell of shit. Faint, but unmistakable.