Ensnared

by I N Foggarty

  “Oh, you mark my words, Boy. They’ll beat that arrogance out of you where you’re going.” Did she really have to follow on his heels? “If you ask my opinion your father should have packed you off there the moment you reached middle school. By now you’d have learnt proper respect….”

  Dylan tried to turn his brain off, the woman continuing her rant all the way downstairs. The irony of it being that if he had been in military school since middle school then she would have been out of a job. Entering the study, he quickly shut the door in her face as a thank you for her words of support. Taking a long deep breath Dylan crossed the room to the large oak desk and sat down in the high-backed admiral’s chair.

  “Father,” he said into the heavy receiver on picking it up. While he waited for a response he cursed the hint in his tone that still yearned for his father’s approval.

  “Do you know how long I have been waiting?” the cold and emotionless voice that could only belong to one man replied. When Dylan failed to respond instantly his father answered for him. “Seven minutes and twenty-seven seconds. Mrs Mardle might be getting on in years but I sincerely doubt that she would have taken even half of that time to inform you that I was on the telephone.” Though he wanted to interject with a point about just exactly how old and decrepit the housekeeper had become since last his father saw her, Dylan held his tongue.

  “I can only assume you decided to keep me waiting. This sort of disrespectful, lax attitude is unacceptable, Boy. In business respect is everything. One cannot hope to succeed without first understanding the basic nature of this and commanding respect. And to command respect, one must first master the art of giving it. Do I make myself clear?”

  Dylan’s eyes wandered across the desk surface as he listened to yet another one of his father's unfathomable lectures. There was little of interest to detract his attention bar the typical desk furnishings, an unopened letter embossed with the image of a sharp-taloned eagle and a teaspoon that had somehow eluded the housekeepers grasp. By the time his father allowed him the opportunity to speak there could only be one acceptable response. “I understand, Father.”

  “You understand nothing.” Dylan uncontrollably recoiled from the receiver slightly as his father’s tone took on a fiercer edge. “You hear my words but pay them no heed. Next time you will answer the telephone promptly.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Now that we have gotten that out of the way, I have something else I need to discuss with you.” He paused a moment perhaps to drink something, Dylan couldn’t hear. He clutched the phone to his face. “When Mrs Mardle answered she started babbling on at me about a lamb.” Dylan bit his lip. Though it had been the woman’s lamb he had burned he may have inadvertently cooked his own goose. “However, as it is not currently on a dinner plate in front of me I do not care.” On hearing those words he covered the receiver with his hand and let out a sigh of relief. “As I said I have far more important matters to discuss.”

  More important matters? And had his father just indicated that Mrs Mardle had nothing to do with the phone call bar relaying the message? Before Dylan had time to process this new information his father continued.

  “Sunday evening is the Annual shareholder's banquet. Being my only son, heir and most importantly future chief executive officer of my company, your presence is required alongside my own and your mothers.”

  “She’s not my mother,” Dylan blurted out before he could stop himself. “She’s made that perfectly clear since I was eight.” He immediately regretted his outburst.

  “I will not have this discussion with you again.” His father’s tone had hardened and Dylan could tell he stifled the urge to yell. “She is my wife and has been since before you were born and you will treat her as your mother or so help me I’ll…”

  His father’s words drew out the deep-seated anger inside him and Dylan lost control of his temper. “Why should I? She doesn’t treat me like a son.”

  Even though this argument was old ground Dylan refused to give an inch. It being the one issue that no matter how hard he tried he always felt compelled to stand up to the man over. Regardless of the consequences. Unfortunately, he had pushed his father too far.

  “You will treat her the way I tell you to treat her and that is the end of it.” The yelling brought the image of the man’s temple throbbing to Dylan’s mind. “You will fly to New York and join us for the annual shareholder's banquet. You will be presentable and talk to people like a proper gentleman. I will not have the shareholders thinking that their future CEO is as much the lazy, arrogant teenage layabout my reports tell me you have become.”

  Though the man’s final words stung Dylan did what he always did under pressure from his father; he folded. “Yes, Father,” he replied obediently.

  “Good. Now Harrison has already booked your flight for Saturday evening. I shall have him call you to go over the details. Goodnight.”

  Dylan didn’t even get the chance to respond before he heard the other end of the line go dead. Throwing the phone back down he stormed out of the room. In the hallway, Mrs Mardle stood with a look of bated anticipation on her face.

  “Don’t worry your still in a job,” he snarled at her in response to her unasked question.

  Before the old witch could reply he ran from the hallway and up the stairs. When he reached his bedroom he slammed the door shut behind him. That was his weekend ruined he decided as he undressed for bed. The only saving grace might be that if he got drunk at Raymond’s party on Friday night he might accidentally drown himself in the pool. Though not before reaching home base with the lucky lady of his choosing.

  Once completing his evening bathroom routine Dylan climbed into his spacious double bed. He would need his sleep, for he had work to do tomorrow. The ledge leaper had stolen the limelight for the day so there had been little by way of an opening in conversation to bring up the subject of Raymond’s party. However, things would have settled down by the morning and he could slowly begin to plant the seed in Matt’s head that he wanted to attend. Rolling over Dylan set his alarm and closed his eyes. His weekend may just have been ruined, but there would still be plenty of fun in the run-up.

  Boom and Bust

  The day’s relentless heat had slowly started to dissipate and a large body of clouds had begun to ebb their way across the city. The source unquestionably being Lake Michigan. As one particularly ambitious wisp crept in front of the moon the pale glow that had provided the road below with its only source of light began to wane. The road in question resided in the northern outskirts of the city and was one of many where the need for repair and attention had long since fallen on deaf ears. The street lights had all blown save for a solitary dim flickering one that did not seem long for this world. Added to that the cracked and crumbling tarmac, complete with faded markings gave it an air of disuse. In other words, a road passed with ease in the daytime but ignored during the night. Regardless it remained unremarkable, just like any other stretch of tarmac in the area.

  Not for the first time that night a loud and wholesome thud mixed with metallic undertones sounded as the wheels of a large truck caught one of the many cavernous potholes in the surface. An irrelevance really, for the only people around to hear it were currently crammed into the back end of the vehicle.

  “Ahh, Shit!” Ramone cursed out loud, the sudden jerk causing his lighter to slip and burn the end of his finger rather than the cigarette held between his teeth. Uttering a few more choice phrases under his breath he quickly sparked the small orange/blue flame back into life and lit the smoke before the truck jostled again. The air contained within the thin metal walls was stuffy and laced with the unmistakable stench that occurred when too many people were crammed together in such a tight space. Glancing around Ramone puffed on his cigarette and added a veil of smoke to the assortment of smells.

  He observed the men sitting across from him, their backs against the opposite side of their metal transport. As his eyes searched their fa
ces he realised he could barely attach names to them. Joe, Michael, Oscar…? The only one of the four he could say he definitely knew was Carlos. Yet even then he could muster little more than a name. A sad reality he realised. He didn’t know these people. Had no idea how they would conduct themselves during a sale or what use they would be if things got messy. Hell, he wouldn’t even have a clue what to order them at a bar. A cold despondency washed over Ramone as he looked to either side of him and drew a similar blank with the faces he saw there. It occurred to him then that his time away from the main dealings of the organisation must have been longer than he had realised. He was out of touch with the members of Los sin techo. Once upon a time, he could have told the life story of each of the men around him in perfect detail…. stories which now all had the same ending…

  The truck thundered over another pothole and Ramone almost bit through the butt of his smoke. “Can you try and not hit every fucking hole in this fucking road,” he yelled towards the front of the vehicle.

  “Shove off, Rae. It’s more fucking hole than road out there,” the driver replied using Tanya’s pet name for the disgruntled old hand. Ramone growled but the driver cut his response short. “Hell, I’d wager there’s more hole out there than there is in here.”

  A roar of laughter rose up from the collective Los sin Techo members; Ramone’s voice didn’t join them. Instead, his eyes wandered across to the source of the driver's crude reference. Huddled together between the two sets of men like a flock of frightened sheep sat a dozen girls aged between sixteen and twenty-five; or thereabouts. His eyes lingered upon one particularly dirty looking one, quite an achievement, given that all twelve looked like they’d been wallowing in their own filth for days on end, he caught a whiff of something new being added to the airs putrid concoction.

  “Aww this one’s just fucking pissed herself,” he shouted above the laughter.

  “Who gives a shit?” one of the men across from him replied.

  “This bitch,” a second voice countered from the rear of the truck as he pointed to a black haired girl. Another roar of laughter followed.

  Ramone returned his gaze to the brown haired girl in front of him. Though she held her head between her knees he could still see that her face had a look of terror far stronger than any of the others he had looked at. Reaching a hand out towards her the girl struggled to move away from him as he took hold of her head and brought her gaze up to meet his own. His hard black eyes stared into her hazel ones and he could see a lucidity the others lacked. Those soft hazel eyes so full of fear lacked the glassy glaze he had noticed from the other merchandise about to be sold. He’d never seen Sergio’s newest line of stock before tonight. A far cry from the truckloads of DVD players and other assorted electricals they used to smuggle back in the day. Hell even their ill-fated attempt to move into the illicit substance market would have been better than this…drugs didn’t smell nearly as bad and were arguably less corrosive for the soul.

  The screeching sound that belonged to the trucks worn out brakes cut through the last of the laughter like a rusty saw blade and the sudden jerk of the vehicle caused Ramone’s thick frame to violently thrash sideways; the girls chin slipping from his grasp. “You wanna give us a bit of fucking warning next time you idiot!” he grumbled, straightening himself.

  “Everyone out,” the driver called from outside, the sound of his hand slapping the metal panelled side of the truck resonating inside.

  The rear doors opened out onto the cloudy night and the men to his left wasted no time in dragging the girls beside them out; most going without much need for coercion. Ramone quickly followed their lead as he snatched hold of the hazel-eyed girl’s thin wrist and dragged her forward towards the exit.

  “No…” she whimpered out in a hoarse whisper, her naked heels digging into the rough wooden floor.

  “Move,” he commanded as he hauled her forward, almost throwing her out the open doors. She went but he could see her shiver.

  They had parked inside an old warehouse its cold concrete floor strewn with debris and parts of the roof that had caved in over the years of apparent disuse. Around the wide expanse, various crates and barrels were littered, some free-standing others stacked to the ceiling. There were no doors on either end Ramone noted. Instead, a second battered looking lorry sat parked opposite their own, a pristine black limo with golden rims next to it. “Pirelli,” he muttered under his breath as he caught sight of the exquisite looking automobile. He hated that motherfucking prick and his stuck up ‘I’m king of the ghetto’ attitude. They’d all come from nothing and would all one day return there. The afterlife had no need of kings or limos for that matter.

  In the bright light of the truck headlamps, for the warehouse had no lighting of its own, Ramone could see clearly what they were selling. He forced the brown haired girl towards the relatively clear space that lay between the two vehicles. Haphazardly he stopped her in line beside the others. They looked a total mess he thought, his gaze falling over clumps of dirty matted blonde, black, brown and red hair. Perhaps someone should tell the people who prepped them to try washing the merchandise instead of just soaking it with a hose. The girl struggled in his grasp and so he was forced to reach inside his Jacket and withdraw his sidearm. It caught in the holster and he had to wrench it free before being able to jab it into her back. She gasped when the metal of the barrel pressed into her torn t-shirt. “Squirm like that again and I’ll put a bullet through your fucking foot.”

  “Looks like you’ve got yourself a live one there, Ramone,” the voice of a man who it transpired was actually called Paul said from the other end of the line. Before he could tell him to hold his fucking tongue the doors of the opposing truck slammed shut and a group of men dressed all in black began forming across from them. They numbered twelve in total, three more than they had. Even in what should be a straightforward exchange between two acquainted parties it unnerved him. The sound of a second door being closed, this one much softer than the others, drew Ramones attention to the fact that his initial observation of twelve men had been three short of the mark.

  “Ah, our friends from Los sin techo finally decide to arrive.” The voice had a high, almost squeaky pitch to it augmented by its owner’s Italian accent. The source soon became apparent, the black-clad figures shifting to either side to allow the owner to pass between them. Flanked by two men in dark suits with white shirts and ties the figure was a sight to behold. Clad in a bottle green suit with a long white fur overcoat the slender man’s gold chains glistened in the headlights. His black hair slicked back with enough oil to run both trucks for a year. His pointed beard and moustache were just as sodden and Ramone thought he could see a few droplets cling to the hairs that hung closest to the toothpick held between his white and gold teeth.

  When the man strode forward the highly polished mahogany cane in his hand made a soft tapping sound on the concrete. Completely for show, Ramone would wager unless something untoward had happened to the prick since they had last met; one could only hope.

  Across from them, Pirelli’s men filled in behind him so that there were now two lines formed across the width of the warehouse. From his side, Ramone watched as ‘Paul’ forced his way between the merchandise to meet the flamboyant Ghetto Lord halfway.

  “Mr Pirelli?” Paul said by way of a greeting, his thick Michigan accent serving only to further highlight the fact that Tanya had been right about his personal details.

  “Ah, Mister Paul,” the man responded giving his counterpart a cursory glance from head to foot then back again. In that instant, the dominant one between the two men became clear. “I was expecting someone taller.” If Paul noticed the slight he gave no indication of it. When a retort did not come, Pirelli smiled, flashing his golden teeth.

  Paul swallowed and tried to regain some equal footing. “You got the money?”

  “How do we like that boys, ah? This whelp and I have only just met and already he asks me for money!” Pirelli exclaim
ed, holding up his arms and turning to face his assembled crew. A snort of laughter followed the gesture. Watching the scene convinced Ramone that not one found the remark humorous. He felt a trickle of sweat form on the small of his back and glanced around again for the exits.

  But then Pirelli started to laugh. “You’re a bold kid to expect me to just hand over money for goods I haven’t even looked at yet.”

  “Then come and look at them.” Not bad Ramone thought, keeping his eyes fixed on the Italian. He had half expected the boy to hastily backtrack. Then again he shouldn’t expect him or any of the others for that matter to do anything. His failure to even name them should have told him as much.

  A devilish smile crept across Pirelli’s lips. “So Sergio finally sends me one with some stones. I hope for your sake your merchandise isn’t so….” The man paused for a second. “…eh how’d you say…well endowed.”

  Ramone pressed the barrel of his gun more forcefully into the hazel eyed girls back, his hand gripping her shoulder. Mr Pirelli, his bodyguards and Paul made their way to the far edge of the line. Slowly they moved from one girl to the next, stopping only to raise a chin, turn a cheek or flick a lock of hair. “Not exactly the most interesting flowers in z’e garden,” he proclaimed as he stopped to glance at the girl in front of Ramone.

  “However, even in the most mundane garden one can often find z’e sweetest rose.” The girl gasped slightly when Pirelli lifted her chin with the golden handle of his cane and looked into her eyes. “I think I’ll pluck z’is one myself.” The man swiftly raised his free hand and snapped his fingers; his eyes still fixated on the girl. Without hesitation, the two suits moved forwards and took hold of her arms.

  “No!” she yelled as Ramone felt his grip on her shoulder be forcibly lessened.

  “Ah, it appears z’is rose still has its thorns,” Pirelli proclaimed, stepping backwards and raising his arms up to the crowd once more. He may have sounded amused but Ramone could clearly see the look of displeasure on his face; Pirelli did not appreciate ‘thorns’.