“All that you believe you can do...” he corrected me.
“But mark my words,” I continued, again jabbing a finger at him, as though it was a deadly weapon of its own, “if anything happens to me, if you try to stop me from leaving or rope me back into this, the world will find out about you... The world will learn the name Montana Holder, and all about the Red Death Syndicate. The truth will come out, and your whole fucking empire will go crumbling to the ground. So if you and your men know what's good for you, you'll stay the hell away from me, and let me live my life in peace.”
Montana didn't say anything for a long, long moment. He fixed me in those endless gray eyes, studying me, seeming to try to read me. Then he took a very deep breath, let it out through his nostrils like a bull, and at last snarled, “You're making a very big mistake.”
“No,” I said, turning on my heel, and marching headlong through the ranks of his armed guards. “I'm correcting one...”
Only I hadn't corrected shit, and I think I knew it even then.
Three years later I sat in the neon filth of a dilapidated bar, running that final conversation with the Mafioso over and over through my head. Three years, without a peep from Montana or his men. They'd lulled me into a false sense of security, let me believe that I'd actually gotten away scot free, despite that final, menacing warning.
Now, however, it was clear to me that Montana Holder lived by his word, every bit as much as I did. He wasn't going to let me go that easily. He wasn't done with me yet.
I had fucked up, royally, and now I was paying the price for it.
No. No, that wasn't true. It was Sylvia. Sylvia was paying the price for my mistakes. My sins and my ineptitude.
Christ, Sylvia... If anything happened to her I would shoot myself. I really would.
Tears stung in the corners of my eyes as I considered her, how terrified she must be, and all because of me. And all that blood... Christ, all that blood!
I let my head sink into my hands, shaking with rage, as much against myself as against Montana and his thugs.
I'd never meant for any of this to happen. I'd never meant for a single drop of blood to be spilled because of me.
When I'd unwittingly entered into the ranks of the Red Death Syndicate, it wasn't for anything so nefarious as committing violent crimes against the innocent, or even against the guilty.
It was, essentially, because I was bored.
People always tell you that it's lonely at the top, but what they fail to mention is just how boring it can get. I was a rising young star in the NFL, full of piss and vinegar and more money than I knew what to do with. And at just the wrong moment, a friend of a friend of a friend of a colleague came along, told me about these illegal high stakes gambling tournaments that went on underground in the city. That was where it started. Then I became a regular there. An initiate in the Red Death Syndicate. Then a regular purveyor of the exotic drugs they pedaled in order to finance their operations.
In all likelihood, I was probably coked out of my gourd the day they had me take the oath of loyalty to the Syndicate, because to this day I didn't remember it happening at all– although I certainly believed that it happened as Montana claimed.
Those days were little more than a smoky haze in my memory, an orgy of drugs, whores, and whatever other thrills the Red Death Syndicate could offer me. My performance on the field was at its worst during that era, and how the hell I managed to hide all my debauchery from the NFL I honestly have no idea.
Maybe it would have been better for me if they had found out. If I'd been unable to bankroll my hedonistic lifestyle, it might never have gone as far as it eventually did. I would have had to sober up, take a step back far sooner, reevaluate my priorities.
I did do that, in the end, of course. I realized that the course I was on was unsustainable, if not downright deadly. I was racking up debts with the Syndicate thanks to countless nights of losses at the gambling table (enabled, of course, by the bubbling cocktail of chemicals racing through my system.) When I failed to pay them back on time, thanks also to the decreased payment I was receiving for my piss poor performance on the football field, Montana's sky high interest rates kicked in, trapping me in a cycle of debt and addiction that I felt entirely powerless to break.
This proved enough of a turning point on its own. I started trying to detox, improved my game, and stopped attending the routine gambling tournaments that had all but bankrupted me. But the final straw was when I picked up the newspaper one day, and was horrified to read about the deaths of twenty people in a gang dispute– mobsters, as well as the occasional wife and child.
It was then that I understood just how badly I'd fucked up. It wasn't just my own life, but the lives of innocents. I had helped fund the organization responsible for their deaths. Me.
For the first time in my life, I realized that I now had blood on my hands.
For the first time, but clearly not for the last.
Sylvia... Sylvia... Oh, God, what have I done to you, Sylvia?!
My day since that horrible morning discovery had been a mad dash of running around, phoning up lost connections in the criminal underworld, and planning for my one man assault on the Syndicate's premises.
The only problem was, I had no idea where exactly they were keeping Sylvia.
I knew a few of the Syndicate's preferred locations for doing business. I knew where Montana's office was, of course, as well as many of the places drugs were sold, poker tournaments held, and various other wholesome activities took place.
I also knew of the existence of a place where uncooperative associates of the Syndicate were held, and made to see reason by a delightful character known as “the Influencer.” I did not, however, know the whereabouts of this location myself, and I'd spent the day trying to track down the Influencer in order to figure out where exactly it was.
That had proven a wild goose chase of its own, however. I had heard that the Influencer had been allowed to retire from his position since I'd been involved with the syndicate. After the death of his wife from cancer, as well as a heart of attack of his own, Montana had made a rare show of mercy and allowed him to hang up his hat, and live out his remaining days without the stress of knocking people's teeth out in order to get them to cooperate. He still remained an honorary member of the Syndicate, however (because, as had been shown to me pretty clearly by now, no one ever leaves the Red Death Syndicate.) And after a difficult day of searching and bribery, I'd managed to navigate his labyrinthine collection of pseudonyms to arrange a meeting with the Influencer himself, whose real name was Pete Riley, in case anyone in the world wants to know.
And presently he arrived, the door to the empty bar clanging open just as I was checking my watch for the time, thinking with a growing horror that I'd been stood up.
The Influencer was an older man, but no less intimidating for the fact. His hulking form trundled in through the front door, casting black shadows across the wooden floor, eclipsing each and every light he passed along the way.
“Whiskey,” he grunted to the bartender, and downed it one gulp once it was poured. “Another,” he growled, the remnants of the first still dribbling down his stubbled chin.
I tensed up, squeezing the set of brass knuckles I had hidden under the table, just in case they should wind up being necessary.
His thirst evidently quenched after a third and final drink, the Influencer spun around and stared toward the table where I sat waiting, fixing me with his glazed, vacant eyes. He stomped toward me like Frankenstein's monster, the floorboards creaking dangerously beneath his weight as he approached.
“Certain parties would be very very upset if they found out I was meeting with you here,” he said in a deep, gravelly voice.
“Certain parties need not find out, then, do they?” I said brightly.
He sneered. “Certain parties always find out what they aren't supposed to find out. Certain parties see everything...”
I blinked at him.
How Montana could possibly know what was going down between us, I had no idea. I peered over the giant's shoulder to the bar for a moment, to see if the bartender was watching us. He didn't appear to be– he was busy wiping down the dusty bar top with a rag, not seeming to pay either of us any mind. Then the next thing I saw he was turning, disappearing into the kitchen, our interaction seeming to be of no interest to him whatsoever.
I permitted myself a shallow breath of relief, then returned my attention to the Influencer.
“You didn't have to come,” I said.
“I know I didn't,” he said, his rheumy eyes directed at me, but not seeming to focus on anything in particular. “A man like me doesn't have to do anything. But the price was right, and I can use the money.”
I nodded. Pulled out a stack of cash, and pushed it across the table toward him. I expected him to remove the band from around it, and thumb through the bills before proceeding any further. Instead he simply closed a ham sized fist around the wad of bills, stuffed it into his pocket, and laced his fingers together back atop the surface of the table.
I stared at him, a bit taken aback.
“You aren't going to count it?” I asked.
He scoffed. “Do I look like the kind of guy who ever has to count the money?” He raised his massive arms to either side of himself for emphasis. “People know that if they stiff me it'll be the last damn thing they ever do. It's a lot easier just to play it straight than try to cheat me, and end up in a full body cast.”
I considered this, then nodded.
“Yeah, I guess I could see that...”
“Now what do you want Allstar? I've got a whore coming to my apartment in an hour, and I don't want to keep her waiting.”
I winced at this, and didn't think about it any more than I had to.
“I need to know the location of where you used to do your... Influencing,” I said, this euphemism making me wince as well. “Where you would bring people who weren't cooperating, loosen them up... That is, if it was just a single location.”
The man bared his teeth at me and growled, an upward flash of his teeth that was nothing short of doglike. I raised an eyebrow at him.
“Trade secret,” he said, and I felt my blood getting hot again.
“Are you serious?” I asked. “You are aware of how much money I just handed you, are you not?” I tightened my grip on the brass knuckles, desperately wanting to avoid a need for them, but the atmosphere growing increasingly tense, to the point that I thought I would have to.
He snorted. “That was for the meeting,” he said. “There's a separate charge for the information. And because of that little toy you've got hidden beneath the table there, thinking you can use it to get what you want out of me for free. I call that an arrogance tax. I was led to believe this was a friendly meeting...”
I scowled at him, our eyes locked together. Finally I sighed, slackened, and threw the brass knuckles off of my hand and out onto the table for him to see, their threat neutralized. Then with my other hand I yanked my wallet out of my pocket and threw it over at him, stuffed full of bills I'd hoped to have handy later in case further bribes were necessary.
“That's all I've got on me,” I said, and this time he did thumb through the bills, checking to see whether this transaction would even be worth his while. He seemed to approve, and glanced up at me again with his dull empty eyes.
“There's an old abandoned factory on the East Side, he said matter-of-factly. Ericson Manufacturing, it used to be. Made ball bearings back in the day. Still some lying around if you look in the right places. A sock full of those motherfuckers makes one hell of a DIY blackjack if you don't have a weapon handy.”
“Ericson Manufacturing...” I said, lighting up. “I know where that is! I've driven past there! That's where you used to bring people? Every time?”
“That or hold them dangling off a bridge,” he said. “But that was only for special occasions... That all you needed Allstar?”
“Yes... Yes, thank you so much!”
He smirked. “Don't go creaming yourself on me,” he said. He rose up from his chair, wood scraping against wood as he did so. He pulled out the cash from my wallet, stuffed a single twenty dollar bill back into it, then tossed it back across the table at me.
“Pay for my drinks,” he snarled. “And you better not breathe a fucking word about this to anyone. I may be retired, but I still keep a sack full of those ball bearings handy for snitches who need their teeth knocked out.”
“I won't breathe a word,” I said.
“I hope not,” he said. “Or it'll be the last breath you'll ever take...”
And with that he turned, stomped out of the bar with the floorboards creaking behind him, and disappeared into the snowy night.
I breathed a heavy sigh, and ran a finger through my damp hair, sweat rolling down my temples.
Oh thank God, I thought. I'm one step closer... I'm one step closer to making this right! I'm coming for you Sylvia. Please, please know that I'm coming for you, and that I will make this right.
And Montana Fucking Holder... I'm coming for you, too. You better believe that I'm coming for you...
9
Sylvia
Time passed with devastating slowness. I'd sat neglected for hours ever since I'd awoken, my stomach totally empty, my terrified mind left to ruminate endlessly on what the hell was happening, yet the answers becoming no clearer whatsoever no matter how many times I circled them.
Luc... It was because of Luc that I was here. They were trying to use me to get money out of him, that much was clear. But who were these maniacs? Did they actually know Luc, or did they only know of him? Had they simply seen him win the Super Bowl, and decided he would be an excellent cash cow to milk?
They sounded like they actually knew him. They talked that way, anyway.
But how?
How could Luc, my precious sweet Luc, be involved with people like this? I just couldn't see it, not in any capacity.
But that was just it, wasn't it? I hadn't seen him, in any capacity, in so many years. My entire, current impression of Luc came from a single night spent with him, in bed and out on his balcony. Not even a full night, I reminded myself, because these psychos had kidnapped me from his place before morning.
What did I really know about him? Hadn't there been tabloid stories about him a few years ago, getting in trouble with drugs and gambling? Of course those were just stories. Trashy gossip in rags whose names aren't even fit to repeat.
But what if there was some truth to them? What if the Luc Stalworth I thought I knew was only a pale approximation of the real Luc? The Luc with a darker side, who associated with thugs and murderers, and who would put me in harm's way for the sake of his vices?
Would that Luc pay to have me safely released?
I was starting to suspect not...
I had no idea how long I'd been in here. It may only have been hours, but there were no clocks, no windows, hardly even any noises from the outside. It might have been days as far as I knew, and indeed it felt like days. And with each excruciating minute that passed, I grew increasingly sure that the man I thought I was in love with wasn't going to come for me. That I would die in this building, then rot in this building, then be buried beneath this building.
I began to cry.
Hot tears streamed down my face, moisture I couldn't spare after so long without a drop of water to drink. The salty heat stung my cracked lips, burned my throat, made me cry even harder.
I should never have gone to that party... I should never have thought I could somehow fly high beyond my station in life. I should never have gone to the fancy prep school where I didn't belong, should never have slept with Luc, acting like the two of us were anything resembling equals just because I shared his bed with him.
I'd let my fantasies run wild, and now look where I was. I wanted to be back at the kitchen table with the Bronte sisters, fantasizing about a life that could never come to pass. It was so m
uch safer than actually trying to live it.
Just look where that had brought me, and how much shorter my life would surely be because of it.
And then, just when I was certain all hope was lost, the door to the room suddenly creaked open. I sat up straight in my chair, and tried to stifle my crying, not wanting to let the bastards known they'd got to me.
“Dinner time, bitch! Hope you like dog shit...”
It was O’Leary, of all people, the last person on earth I wanted to see right now. But he did carry with him a gallon jug of water, as well as a modest tray of food– potato chips and a bologna sandwich.
He kicked the door shut as he strode forward, then sat the jug and the tray down on the floor next to me. Much to my surprise, he then went around behind me, and began loosening the ropes around my arms.
“God damn it,” he hissed, at one of the knots evidently resisting his efforts behind me. “You're a hell of a lot more trouble than you're worth, you know that?”
All at once, I felt an immense slackening. Blood rushed to the tips of my fingers, which had been tingling uncomfortably for hours in their restraints. I pulled my hands forward and shook them in order to restore some of the life to my digits.
“You mean you're actually letting me feed myself?” I rasped, when he came around in front of me again. It seemed almost too good to be true, if such a phrase could describe anything that had happened so far in this hellish prison I was in.
“What, you expect me to do it? Like a fucking dog? I guess that would be fitting, wouldn't it? Just hurry up and eat already so I can get out of here...”
He kicked the tray of food in my direction, spilling several chips across the floor along the way. I gave him a mean look, but didn't dare give voice to the expletives forming in my mind in response to this. Instead I simply said, as sweetly as I could possibly address him, “Thank you.”
Then I picked up the water jug from the floor, and greedily tilted it back to let the liquid gush forward, filling up my mouth and letting it spill down onto Luc's t-shirt.
The Red Zone: Second Chance Sports Romance Page 7