In Too Deep

by Fox, Harley

  The dog looks up at me. It doesn’t look angry or scared now, but it looks sad. I swallow.

  Can I do this? I don’t know if I can.

  Nobody behind me is speaking. Steeling myself, struggling to keep down the emotions that threaten to rise out of my chest, I thumb back the hammer of the gun and lift it to aim at the dog’s head.

  The dog doesn’t move. I’m holding the gun with both hands, trying not to let it shake, as this poor, defenseless animal stares back at me.

  Just do it, Trista. It’ll all be over soon. Just do it and put this thing out of its misery.

  My finger is on the trigger. I can feel the resistance in it. Blinking and feeling one tear slide down my cheek, I close my eyes and finally pull the trigger.

  Click.

  My heart stops. I open my eyes to see the dog still staring at me. Behind me are whoops and hollers, some laughter, as I look at the gun in my hand. The trigger is drawn, and the hammer is down. Suddenly a hand pats me on the back.

  “Not everybody can get through that,” Maddox says, and he takes the gun from my hand, smiling at me as he bounces it in his hand. “Empty shells. We filled them with lead to give them the weight.”

  Another slap on the back and I feel stunned, unable to move or speak or do anything. But apparently it doesn’t matter. Maddox keeps his hand on my back as he spins me around where I see everybody looking at me, proud, Alyssa nodding her head again.

  “Okay, everybody!” Maddox says. “Welcome the newest member of the Bullets. Trista,” he says as he turns to me, a bright smile on his face. “You’re in.”

  Trista

  It feels like I’m going to have a heart attack.

  Every member of the Bullets is smiling at me, and as Maddox goes to untie that dog they all come up, patting me on the back, grabbing my hand and shaking it.

  “Congratulations, Trista.”

  “I knew you had chutzpah.”

  “Way to go, kid.” I look up to see Flynn smiling down at me, his rich brown eyes glowing with admiration. “I didn’t think I’d see you again.”

  Inside of my brain there’s a battle going on. On one hand I want what Flynn and I had last night. I want that closeness, that companionship, that I’d never found anywhere else in my life before.

  But on the other hand I have to remember where I am, have to remember who he is. He’s a Bullet, and I’m really a police officer. I’m deep behind enemy lines here, and I need to remember my role, remember who I’m purporting myself to be.

  “Thanks,” I say, hoping my voice sounds cool. Another hand lands on my shoulder and it’s Tyrone, congratulating me. I thank him, stepping away from Flynn, and as I do I can’t help but look back over my shoulder. He’s watching me, and I have to tear my eyes away from him.

  I watch Chloe pull a piece of jerky out from her back pocket and hand it to Maddox. He gives it to the dog to eat before letting it loose by the back door where it promptly runs away. Then he walks back.

  “Okay people!” he yells out. “New member aside, let’s get back to what we were talking about before. Will sent me an e-mail saying we’re getting a new shipment in soon, maybe in a week or so. He said he wants this place cleaned up and set up to cut, package, and ship the product.”

  I can’t believe it. I haven’t been a member for two minutes and already they’re talking about getting a shipment of drugs! Of course the Bullets are a distributor, but even if they’re taken down now that won’t get rid of their supplier.

  “I want this garbage taken out of here,” Maddox points to the oil drums and other trash near the walls, “and the place set up. Trista, Flynn,” he says, turning to face us as the other Bullets begin scattering about, getting to work. “I need you to take her out to show her our buildings. She needs to know where things are for when she needs them. Don’t take too long, okay?”

  “Uhh, are you sure you don’t want me here to help set up?” I ask. I don’t want to lose this chance!

  “We’re fine here.” Maddox levels his gaze at me. He turns to Flynn. “Quickly, Flynn.” And then Maddox turns and walks away, heading toward the office.

  I watch him go, his grizzled mane of hair retreating from us. When I turn to look at Flynn he turns at the same time, and our eyes lock for a moment. It feels like I’m trapped. I don’t know what to say. Flynn’s the one who breaks eye contact, swallowing before he says, “Come on. We’ve got places to see.”

  He turns and leads the way to the front door. I have to hurry to keep up with his long strides, and soon enough we’re outside, blinking in the bright sunlight.

  “Where’s your bike?” he asks.

  “I put it at the end,” I tell him. Flynn nods when he sees it.

  “We’ll go to the bar first. I’ll lead the way. Try not to fall behind.”

  The bar? I could be inside, seeing what kind of information I can get out of everyone. But Flynn doesn’t wait for an answer as he climbs onto his own bike and starts it up.

  I walk over to mine, reminding myself to stay in character, and start my bike up. Flynn heads out of the lot and I follow behind him, glancing back at the warehouse one last time.

  We won’t be gone long. Besides, it’s not like I can do everything in one day. Take your time, Trista. Calm down.

  Flynn rides faster than he should, and I really have to push my bike to keep up. He goes south out of the warehouse district and then west, approaching the bar from the back. Turning onto its street, we slow down as we pull into the almost-empty parking lot. Only a few bikes and a couple of cars are parked here. Flynn parks his bike and I pull mine up beside his, turning it off. We get off and he leads the way inside.

  The bar seems dark and depressing at this time of day. There are a couple of guys playing pool—leather jackets, no stitching—and a few people at the bar, drinks in front of them. Flynn walks through the empty space and I follow as he makes his way up to the bar. My eyes glance over to the bathroom where Flynn and I had sex last night. I feel like he’s going to say something about it, maybe ask me for another round, but he doesn’t. Instead he stops in front of the bar and I do the same. The bartender comes over.

  “Hey, Flynn,” the woman says. “You’re here early.”

  Her eyes flick over to me and she gives me a once-over before returning back to Flynn.

  “Got a new recruit,” Flynn tells her. “Trista, this is our bartender, Marla. Marla, this is Trista.”

  I reach out my hand and shake hers.

  “I’m supposed to show her around. Is it okay to go in the back?”

  “Sure, it’s all clear,” Marla says. “You want anything to drink?”

  “Yeah, I could do with something to wet my whistle,” Flynn says with a smile.

  We’re going to be out of here soon. Drinking and driving.

  But I shake my head as Marla takes out two glasses and fills them with beer. She comes back and puts them on the bar in front of us where Flynn takes his immediately. I reach inside my shirt, taking out some cash tucked away in my bra. When I try to hand it over, though, Marla only raises an eyebrow and Flynn puts a gentle hand on my arm.

  “It’s free,” he says to me, and I lower my hand down, feeling myself start to blush.

  “Little wet behind the ears, ain’t she?” Marla asks Flynn. I stuff the cash back in place.

  “It’s her first day,” he says to her. “Besides, she’s not from around here.”

  “Oh no? Where you from?” Marla asks, looking at me.

  I freeze for a moment, before remembering my persona’s back story.

  “Pasadena,” I say to her.

  “When’d you move here?”

  “Just about a year ago.” Marla narrows her eyes.

  “You been here a year and you don’t know gang members don’t pay at their own bars?”

  I swallow, then level my gaze at the woman.

  “Sorry,” I say to her. “I’ve been making my way on the streets, trying to survive. I didn’t exactly have the luxury of dr
opping in to every bar in town.”

  Marla stares at me, her gaze narrowed, and I stare right back at her. Then she blinks, and her eyes lower for a moment before she looks at both of us.

  “We all gotta make our way somehow,” she says, and then with a smile at Flynn, “Let me know if you need anything else, Flynn.”

  “Thanks, Marla. We’ll let you know.”

  Marla turns back without giving me another glance and I pick up my beer, take a long drink out of it. Then I turn to look at Flynn.

  “Well?” I ask. “Are you showing me the back room, or what?”

  Flynn nods, quiet, before leading the way behind the bar, through a door in the back.

  There’s no one back here as we make our way along linoleum flooring, past crates with empty beer bottles, and silver beer kegs sitting side by side along one wall. A door with the word Office is on the left, and it’s here that Flynn takes me. He opens it up to a small square room with a desk in the middle, chair behind it, a calendar, and a couple of pictures up on the walls.

  “There’s a key here,” Flynn tells me as he walks around the desk. It’s pretty cramped in here so I stay at the front of the desk. I take a sip of my beer, watching him put his down as he opens up one of the drawers. Then he rolls his eyes. “Ugh, I’ve told Marla to tidy this place up,” and he begins fishing around inside.

  As I watch, my thoughts go back to last night … to the drunken, unexpected encounter I had with him in the bathroom stall. In the bathroom stall! I’ve never done anything like that, never even dreamed of it. The last boyfriend I had was back in high school, and his family was Christian. It’s a wonder we even had sex. I’d just never found the time for romance in my life, what with police training and my job and …

  Wait a minute, what am I talking about? Romance? What happened between Flynn and me wasn’t romance. It wasn’t even … anything. I’m sure that kind of thing happens to him all the time. Even with Marla … I saw the way she looked at him. No, I’m probably just another notch on Flynn’s belt. I mean, he hasn’t even said anything about it anyway …

  Flynn finally takes a key out, looking relieved. It’s got a loop of brown string through it in place of a key ring.

  “Found it,” he says, closing the drawer shut. He picks up his beer and takes a long drink. “Okay, come on.”

  I’m ushered out of the small room and Flynn closes the door, then takes me farther back in the bar. There’s some standalone shelving here, holding crates of glasses, some cleaning supplies, extra rolls of toilet paper. Flynn takes a turn at the back of one of the shelves and we go deeper into the bowels of this building. Old, rotting wooden crates are stacked up, and some broken mop handles lean against the wall. Finally I see a door against the far wall, and it’s here that Flynn takes us. He puts the key in the lock and turns it, pushing the door open.

  If I was expecting some sort of secret bunker-type room with shelves holding stacks of gold bricks, I would have been severely disappointed. Instead Flynn flicks on the light and I see it’s just an old utility closet. While there’s shelving along the walls, all that occupies it are stacks of dusty, filthy aprons, some cans of Ajax that look to be from the Seventies, piles of empty manila file folders, the edges of which look to have been chewed by rats. Down on the ground I see a disgusting pile of old rags that must be moldy, plastic containers leaking cleaning fluid, and dirt and grime everywhere. If a health inspector were to see this room alone, this entire bar could be shut down.

  Flynn takes a drink of beer before putting the glass on the shelf, right next to the stack of file folders.

  “Okay, now,” he says, dropping down to a squat, “behind these there’s a fake wall.”

  Reaching forward, Flynn grabs the pile of moldy-looking rags and pulls them to the side. I want to gag at the sight of it, especially since the wall behind it looks discolored from their being there. But when I look at it more closely, the discolored part of the wall actually seems edged in black. And when Flynn puts his hands on it and gives it a push, that section of wall tilts out and he pulls the panel away, placing it to the side.

  In the cavity left behind I see bundles of bills bound with white paper, all stacked up. Beside the bills is a white cloth sack, and Flynn pulls that out, loosening the drawstring that’s holding it closed. He opens it for me and I look in to see half a dozen handguns and some boxes of ammunition.

  “You said you didn’t have a gun, right?” Flynn asks me, and I look up at him.

  “Huh?”

  “At the warehouse. You said you didn’t have a gun.” He gives the bag a little shake.

  “Oh, no,” I say to him. “I … I can get my own.”

  “You need a gun,” Flynn says to me. “And that’s what these are here for. They’re extras. Take one.”

  I really don’t want to take some stolen gun, but I have no choice, so I switch the beer to my other hand and reach down into the cloth bag. The various pieces of metal all feel cool to my fingertips and I wrap my hand around one of them, pulling it out. Flynn looks at it and reaches inside, brings out a box of ammo, which he hands to me.

  “The Glock,” he says. “Good choice.”

  I turn over the gun in my hand, looking at it. As Flynn is cinching the sack back up, I see the serial number imprinted on the side.

  “Hey,” I say to him. “This has a serial number on it.”

  “Yeah,” he says. He stows the bag back into the cavity. “All our guns are registered. We don’t mess around with something like that.”

  Huh.

  “This is twenty thousand,” Flynn tells me, pointing at the cash. “It’s money for emergencies only, okay?”

  “Got it,” I say, and I tuck the gun into the back of my jeans, underneath my jacket. The ammo I stuff into my jacket pocket.

  I watch as Flynn resets the piece of wall and puts the moldy-looking rags back in place. Then he stands up and I back out of the closet as he takes his beer, turns off the light, comes back out, and locks the door.

  “Okay,” he says. “Let’s go back out.”

  I’m in front now so I lead the way back, around the standalone shelving, back to the office where Flynn puts the key back in the drawer. Then we head back and find ourselves behind the bar again where Marla looks over from a book she’s reading.

  “Hey,” Flynn says to her. “Clean up back there.”

  “I like it how it is,” she says, going back to her book. Flynn shakes his head and we step out from behind the bar.

  “All right,” Flynn says. “Bottoms up, off to the next place.”

  He begins drinking his glass of beer and I stare at mine—it’s still over three-quarters full! But regardless I tilt it back and begin chugging, trying to ignore the building gas in my stomach, trying to relax my throat so I don’t choke.

  Flynn brings his empty glass down with a sigh and I’m only halfway through mine. I have to take a break, swallowing the mouthful and gasping for breath afterward. Flynn only smiles and shakes his head.

  “Not a big drinker?” he asks, and I try to suppress the burning in my cheeks. “Here, I’ll finish it for you.”

  He holds out his hand but I keep a tight grip on my glass, give him a dangerous look, and proceed to keep guzzling beer. It takes me almost ten seconds, but I finally finish the last of it, putting my empty glass down on the bar with a thud. Flynn’s smile is wider and I open my mouth to speak, but a long, relieving belch leaves me instead. This time I actually do blush as Flynn laughs.

  “Not bad, not bad,” he says. “Okay come on, let’s go.”

  Flynn says goodbye to Marla and leads the way out of the bar. I follow him, trying not to swerve as I walk. We step out into the bright light of the sun and my head is swimming. Back onto our bikes, the gun feels strange tucked into my jeans. Soon we’re off, leaving the bar and riding down the road.

  I feel nervous, being on my bike after having drunk so much beer so quickly, but the air whipping against my face helps to keep me alert. We zip thro
ugh the streets, riding alongside cars in traffic. Sometimes Flynn turns sharply down a narrow side street and I almost skid trying to follow him.

  But eventually we get to a self-storage facility, one of the few in the city. Flynn and I ride up to the gate at the front and he punches in a key code, which causes the gate to automatically open up. Going in, he takes me down to a door at the far end where we park our bikes and get off.

  “There’s a set of keys,” Flynn tells me as he fishes his out of his pocket, “we’ll have to make for you.”

  He unlocks the door and we walk into a narrow corridor that branches off in three directions. Flynn and I head left, past identical door after identical door. We make a right, then a left again, going through a labyrinth of identical corridors. Finally we stop in front of one and Flynn unlocks the heavy padlock on the door, and rolls it up.

  It’s dark as we step inside, and then he rolls it down again, cutting off all light completely. For a long moment he and I are shrouded in pitch blackness. I hear his boots against the concrete flooring and I wonder if he’s going to try to make a move. My heart begins to beat more quickly, and down low in my belly I feel a strange stirring. Almost like a longing for something that isn’t there.

  But the feeling is swiftly cut off as I hear a click and overhead lights blink into life. Inside I feel a falling, as though from disappointment. But I hide it as I look around the storage unit, unable to believe my eyes.

  There’s shelving built into all three available walls. Stacked, occupying every possible space on the shelves, and the floor underneath it, are crates and crates of weapons. Flynn goes to some of them, opening them up. There are handguns, shotguns, semi-automatic and automatic rifles. Some of the crates are given over to boxes and boxes of ammo. There are bulletproof vests and police riot gear. He even shows me a box that contains hand grenades.

  “This is one of our three caches,” Flynn tells me. “There’s one in every storage place. Some of these crates have money in them … you can see, they’re marked with a green sticker.”

  Indeed there are a few crates here and there with a green circle sticker on them.