Peace Tomorrow: A Verón City Novel

by M. Roberts

  “What did you say?”

  She snapped back to him. “You talk of finding Lucius, but nothing of Rose.” Her eyes narrowed on him while his face reddened. “So I say lies and deceit, Lane.” She stood, standing directly before her cousin, staring him eye to eye. “Maybe Lucius isn’t the one I should be afraid of.” She started to walk away when Lane seized her arm. He turned his lips to her ear.

  “What’s the matter, cousin? Don’t want to play games any more?”

  She turned her head to his. “No games to play when the players are dead.”

  The ring of Lane’s cell phone interrupted their standoff. He released her and turned his back to answer. There exchange was brief and hushed, and when Lane turned back to Joan he had wiped he embarrassment from his face, returning to his usual stern expression.

  “I have to go.”

  “Cover your ass.”

  He stepped threateningly forward one pace and stopped. “None of this is my fault, Joan. I’m just the one who has to clean it up. I’m not just covering my ass, I’m covering yours, too, so be grateful.” He turned to go, but stopped at the door to add, “You’re guilty, too, you know.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “You lived in it, too. And just like the rest of us, you did nothing to stop it.”

  Her lips parted to retort, but he had left already and she realized she had nothing to contradict what he had said.

  Lane had left her, and all considerations of their argument, behind him as he again readied himself behind the wheel of his black truck, which tore out of the driveway down the road to meet with Ezekiel at Malcolm and Lucius’s apartment. He parked across the street, where he was immediately greeted by the man who had discovered the body.

  “Lucius must have done it before dawn, I’ve been here ever since and didn’t see any traffic. No cops, likely the neighbors were gone at the time, or slept through it. We should be clean on this one.”

  Lane nodded. “Good. Now stop hunching at my window suspiciously outside an apartment with a dead body inside.”

  The man nodded. “Right, sorry.” He backed away, embarrassed, allowing Lane to hop out of his truck. He looked about the neighborhood before crossing the street to the apartment. Inside, he met Ezekiel, standing over the body, looking down with disappointment. Lane came up beside him, leaving the other man to stand watch at the open door.

  “Shut it and stare through the peep whole, smartass,” said Lane. The man did as instructed, once closing the door keeping his eye fixed on its peephole for any activity. Lane turned his head back to the body. Malcolm’s skull was torn open, brains strew about, eyes left half-visible by the way his lids rested atop them. Their lifelessness was familiar to both Lane and Ezekiel. Ezekiel sighed.

  “A shame, it would have been the cleanest method.”

  “I shouldn’t have put the gun in his hands to begin with.”

  “It was a good plan, we just couldn’t predict the caliber of the man.”

  “Malcolm was a good man.”

  “Not good enough, it seems.”

  Lane turned suddenly to Ezekiel. “This is out of hand.”

  Ezekiel didn’t return Lane’s gaze, instead remaining on the corpse while pulling out a cigar from his coat pocket, gently placing it between his lips, and lighting it with a match. “Our first measure failed to meet success. So our second will be broader.” He puffed until the whole end of the cigar was a glowing red. “I’m sending you. Bury him, Lane. Bury his cousin. Bury his aunt. Wipe Verón City clean of Imada shit. No exceptions. And if his brother ever returns, bury that son of a bitch the moment he steps foot in town, too.”

  Lane closed his eyes, sighing and turning his head from his uncle, who took notice, raising his smoke cloaked face to glare into Lane’s eyes. Lane felt them, but didn’t look back.

  “I’ll kill Lucius for this. You don’t have to worry about that. The rest, no. Innocence will not be plagued by the faults of their allegiances.” He looked up, Ezekiel saw perhaps tears in his eyes, but it was difficult through the smoke rising from his lips. “The guilty will handle their own.”

  Ezekiel withdrew the cigar from his lips. “Who are you referring to, Lane?”

  “We will keep the burden. Not make it worse.”

  Lane turned to leave the apartment, shoving past the man at the peephole.

  “Where are you going?”

  Lane paused, turning his chin to his shoulder for a brief response. “Rose. You have another reason for his head now. She shouldn’t have been ignored in the first place.” The door slammed shut behind him, rattling Ezekiel, though no affect revealed that he was, in fact, embarrassed for the moment. In lieu of the silence, Ezekiel turned to the man at the door, who was staring on in a way that made Ezekiel think of a confused dog, and said, “Hit the streets, son.” Though he was aware the man wouldn’t have an idea where to begin, he knew that the man would take the words as a direct order. When the man had left Ezekiel to himself, the kingpin finally blushed.

  16.

  It was bodies and noise and darkness cut with neon in a pool of inebriation again for Joan, who, despite her cousin’s warning, decided she required her element. At the demand of Lane, she was still accompanied by two men, large and intimidating, but respectful to Joan and so she reasoned they were good dogs who wouldn’t obstruct her pursuit of distraction. While they surveyed the club from the two ends of the bar, Joan leaned forward in its center, displaying her breasts in a low cut black number, second favorite to the red one she wore when she met Malcolm. But her most recent lover was last on her mind, overrun by the stimulus of the music, with its thumping generic rhythm, and the eyes of the tall blonde with the chiseled jaw line standing beside her, whose eyes were trained on her lips.

  “You going to stare at them all night, or are you going to buy them a drink to wrap themselves around?”

  He grinned, which she caught from the corner of her eye. She turned her head to him with a raised eyebrow and a curl to the end of her mouth, teasing a grin.

  “What’s their poison?”

  “Mmmm, you decide.” He should’ve chosen for her. In asking, he showed how he would bend to her will easily, and thus proved poor sport. Joan daintily rubbed her hand across his shoulder to assure him she would return, even if the promise her fingers made would be broken by finding a better game on the way to or from the bathroom. And she strutted, her eyes made their way from wall to wall, in their scan falling upon both men and women with a piercing stare that struck for a fleeting moment before she would disappear to them in the crowd. While her guards watched expressionless from different vantage points in the sea of bodies, Joan entered the women’s restroom and shut the door behind her.

  When she had her back against it, she shut her eyes and exhaled. She waited, expecting a rush of tears and emotion to come swelling to her face. She took several deep breaths and thought of trying to force it, until she decided it was no use.

  “Shit.”

  She had felt something in her stomach since she heard the news about Rose. It was a general discomfort, perhaps uneasiness, and as a physical sensation, nausea. She thought perhaps being alone, it would overtake her, bringing her to collapse. Then she could purge it from her, brush it off, and move on. She’d seen other women do this, friends of hers at parties distraught by cheating boyfriends, backstabbing girlfriends, self-conscious notions spoiling the night. They would take to the bathroom, shutting the door behind them to enter into themselves, pull out what was irritating, and exit with newfound composure. Joan had never done this herself, had never the need. But while she was out on the town trying to play games, this horrible sensation in her gut stole away the joy of playing. Concluding that waiting any longer would not help her, she left the door to approach the mirror, reapplying her red lipstick with perfect precision until the entrance swung open and slammed shut. The percussion bounced off the tile floor and the stall doors and rattled Joan who pivoted to view Lucius flipping the lock on the doo
r. He threw back the hood of his jacket and unzipped it to reveal his bare and sweat drenched chest as well as the pistol that was stuff into the front of his jeans. He ran his fingers through his wet, blonde hair to slick it back and provide clear view of Joan, frozen at the sight of him.

  “Remember me?” he said.

  She would’ve expected herself to shake, or to scream, or to finally weep, but nothing happened to her body but a tensing that left her immobilized. Only her lips could muster to move. “Lucius. I had nothing to do with this.”

  He walked slowly towards her. “No? What’s your last name? Where does your money come from?”

  “I am not my uncle.”

  “No, you’re worse. You’re a moocher. You live off his fat stacks, parading around in your little dresses, playing with whoever you want to because you know you’re safe behind the big man and his dogs. Well,” Lucius had stepped directly before her, grabbing her chin lightly between thumb and index finger, lifting her face to stare him in the eye. “Looks like you can still be gotten to.”

  The ball of feeling in her gut churned, twisting with his final words to cause a grimace to spread across her face. She still didn’t understand it, and that frustration caused it to grow more. She hard swallowed what spit she could conjure down her dry throat to push back against the feeling. Then, she replied, “You watch from shadows and strike at what’s easiest. You have me in the bathroom when your goal is Ezekiel at his throne. Victory, it seems, is far off.”

  Lucius scowled. “Death at the door and still with wit, she retorts.”

  “Not death. Just another dog.”

  Lucius slowly retrieved the pistol from his jeans. He slid the end of the barrel up underneath Joan’s chin, pressing into the soft skin. “Take off your mask, darling.”

  “You’re lost, Lucius.”

  “Malcolm said that. The both of you, sitting atop your pedestals.”

  Joan shook her head. “It’s in your eyes, Lucius. You don’t know where you are.”

  With tears welling, he pushed the barrel harder into her flesh. “I know exactly where I am. For once, I know exactly where I’m going.”

  “Don’t believe me. But listen to your friend. Malcolm knows you.”

  The tears began to well over. “Where’s Rose?”

  “Rose isn’t what you’re looking for.”

  “Tell me where I can find her.”

  “Malcolm knows what’s best for you.”

  His lip began to quiver. “Tell me, Joan.”

  “Listen to Malcolm, Lucius.”

  “Shut up.”

  “He’s your best friend.”

  “Stop.”

  “He wants what’s best for you.”

  “Malcolm is dead.”

  The ball in her stomach burst and its vitriol spilled into all corners of her body, surging through her veins with its hate, for him, for herself, for Malcolm, for the fact that she had been staring into the eyes of his killer without knowing it and telling him words of encouragement. She hated this most of all, that she was unaware and thus exposed.

  Lucius released her, shoving her out of the way to swing of clenched fist into the mirror, shattering it and splitting the skin of his knuckle. Less than ten seconds after the sound echoed in the bathroom the guards were banging on the door.

  “Joan! Let us in!”

  She was stunned and standing in the center of the room, jaw clenched and reluctant tears spilling over the edge of her eyelids, watching Lucius clumsily bat the butt of his pistol against the window to break it open and crawl out. It was four feet from the floor of the bathroom and outside it sat at the bottom of the building in the alley. The last of Lucius slipped out when the two guards forced open the door with their shoulders. The first in went immediately to Joan to ensure she was okay, while the other went for the window after Lucius. He crawled out onto the pavement, pushed himself up by his palms, and leapt to his feet, at which point the back of his skull was met with cold steel. He went still, staring into the frenzied and tear soaked eyes of Lucius in front of him, while Nathaniel held the gun behind him. In the silence of the moment, they listened to the other guard’s comforting words to Joan. “You’re alright, he’s gone, Joan,” completely unaware that he was just outside.

  Lucius leaned forward to whisper to the guard, “I didn’t kidnap Rose.”

  “I know.”

  Lucius eyes revealed his surprise.

  “I saw Titus drop off the letter. I delivered it to Ezekiel. He had me swear I wouldn’t tell anyone.”

  “You admit this is all bullshit?”

  The guard smiled. “Foot soldiers need a reason for war.”

  “And I suppose you’re something more?”

  “I know what a shit stain you are to this city. No excuse needed for murder.”

  “You Dicaro boys, you’re all so fucking confident, even with a gun to your head.”

  The guard laughed. “You’re no killer.”

  From within the bathroom, Joan’s voice came, “I don’t need you to comfort me,” pushing back the guard as he placed his hands on her arms.

  Lucius paid it no attention, instead intent on proving the guard wrong. “I killed one of yours, a dealer at his corner.”

  The guard shook his head. “You fired in defense. I knew Cory, he would strike out against anybody who threatened him, didn’t matter what they had in their hand.”

  Lucius stepped into the guard’s face. “I killed Malcolm.”

  The guard went quiet. Then, “Bullshit.”

  “Just this morning.” Lucius raised his gun to the guard’s face. “He was my friend. You’re nothing to me.”

  “Just leave me alone!” Joan shouted. The three men in standoff just outside the window ignored her protests as their attentions were locked on one another, Lucius and the guard exchanging stares, Nathaniel trained on the back of the guard’s head.

  “What’s going on here!?” shouted a new voice from within the bathroom.

  “Nothing,” replied the guard.

  “You smash this mirror?!”

  Lucius inched the pistol forward. “Titus must have Rose. Where is he?”

  From the guard in the bathroom, “Look, you don’t know anything.”

  “Fuck I don’t! Girl’s crying, mirror’s smashed, Hulk is trying to brush me aside!”

  “That’s right, so don’t make me angry.”

  The pistol’s barrel was at the guard’s nose. “Tell me.”

  “Time for you to leave, buddy!”

  A hard swing and a fist against face, the slap of a body hitting the floor.

  “He stays downtown, garden apartment, corner of Twelfth and Wealthy.”

  A collection of gasps from club goers. Some young girl, “He just knocked out the bouncer! Call somebody!”

  “Shit!” shouted the guard as he left Joan to climb out the window. His head appeared at their feet, eyes finding them and following their legs up to see the situation from the ground. “Shit,” he repeated. Nathaniel’s arm dropped, he pulled back the trigger and guard’s head burst open in the window frame. Before his body fell back into the bathroom, Lucius fired three rounds into the remaining guard’s chest. As he dropped to his knees, a sudden shriek of horror from the young girl who had now entered the bathroom shot out into the alley, signaling to Lucius and Nathaniel it was time to flee. They sprinted out of the alley, their footsteps missed by the ears of all but Joan, who heard them traveling out into the city to wreak more havoc before they were stopped. She herself wanted to stop them, but the acidity of self-hatred kept her body weak as it crumpled to the floor.

  Titus

  Life. Life. Life is—Life is—No, life is—Life is­­—Life is­­—Life is—Stop. Life is­­—Life is pain. Hahahahahaha. No, stop it. Life isn’t pain. Life IS pain. Your life is pain, Titus. No, my life is not pain. My life is hard, but it is not pain. My life is not pain. My life is not pain. MY life is not pain. My LIFE is not pain. My life IS—No, shut up. I know this. I know what
my life is. You don’t understand. Oh yes, we understand. You don’t understand anything. Careful who you say such things to, Titus. Don’t try and make yourself into a strong man, now. You are weak, Titus. We know. We know what your life is. I know what my life is. I know what I am.

  ....

  I know what I am. Let’s hear it.

  Alright.

  I am.

  We know as much.

  I am smart. I see things. I see things others don’t. I just. I don’t. I can’t explain them.

  Life is torture. Life is want and yearning, and never truly earning what you want. Life is desperate, even when life is good, life holds a veil before you. Life is your choice when you act on your want, when you make selfish decisions and life is the guilt and the punishment for such actions. Life is a debt to be paid, collected in death. Even when life is good, life will end. All are filled with the guilt of striving, of wanting and of chasing, of selfishness, and so their punishment is in accordance with their sin. For their selfishness, they lose their self. Life is borrowed from death.

  No. Life is not guilt. Life is an ant running beneath the beam of a spyglass, forever avoiding the malevolent gods who hold the universe on strings. They choose to ignore some, playing with others for their sadistic pleasure.

  Yes. Life is an ant, Titus. All life is scurrying and pointless and put to its right place in the end. Laid to rest, the endless meaninglessness of its exhaustion. We think we fill it with what matters, with things like love. We believe love is altruistic. Love is the most selfish emotion, love is the most self-serving act. To have another’s presence with you provide you with pleasure. Disgusting, a lie. There is nothing so pure, nothing so ironic. Life is meaningless. Life is a maze for the ant, an endless hunt, and a delusion that the hunt will end with a prize. Their prize is justice. Their prize is death. True love would kill, Titus. If you love something, kill it. Don’t keep it prisoner to life. Set it free, allow it not to exist.