Dutch

by Madhuri Pavamani

  “Jason Reynolds.” He held up a hardback with an artsy cover. “The Boy in the Black Suit. You should try it sometime, man, it’s good for the soul.”

  “I told you a long time ago”—we bumped fists as I headed to the back of the building—“I have no soul.”

  I could hear him laughing as I opened the door that only he and I could see because only he and I needed to use it. I stepped through and my body temperature heated instantly, so high my blood felt it was boiling, and then as soon as I thought I would pass out from the fire, I was fine and standing before another door, this one old and wooden, weathered and Italian. Bentivoglio to be exact. I knocked the Keeper knock, my own knock so the Dosha on the other side knew who to expect, and waited.

  “Dutch,” a petite Japanese woman greeted me with a smirk and perfect Italian, “è passato troppo tempo.”

  “Megumi?” I raised a brow in surprise and agreed. “It has been too long.”

  She waved off what must have seemed my slight discomfort and tad bit of awkwardness and gestured for me to come through the door and step foot on Bolognese soil. “I know, I know, I’m such a slut. Fucking you and running off like that. Then again, you’re a freak in bed with all your rules and shit, so we’re kind of even, no?”

  But I wasn’t even thinking about her disappearing act. I was more caught up on the fact that we’d just slammed into each other not twelve hours ago—I hadn’t touched her or looked at her or even said hello—and now here we were all friendly and whatnot. It was bizarre and yet so fucking typical.

  “Stop analyzing, Dutch.” Megumi eyed me warily. “You have a nice dick and I wanted to get fucked by that dick. It’s simple and fun and not something to ponder so seriously like you’re doing right now, so we’re good, okay?”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. Like I said, the Doshas were the coolest cats ever. “Yeah, okay. We’re good.”

  She relaxed and smiled and stepped aside so I could pass, handing me a small notebook in the process. “Kash is outside in the yellow Mini. He’ll take you to Avery. In the meanwhile, read the notes on the Poocha. She’s slick and wily; I have no idea why they gave her to Rani’s fuckbuddy. Watch yourself, Dutch.”

  Megumi winked and shuffled me out the door in the direction of the sidewalk where Kash Kalish waited. Kash was a Keeper, but somewhere along the way he’d managed to convince those in power that he was best suited to being Avery’s right-hand man. So rather than hunt Poochas, he zipped around the globe, looking dapper, handling whatever business Avery needed handled at the moment. He was discreet, a perfectionist, and handsome as fuck—basically, an Indian version of Avery. And despite my knowledge of a decades-long affair, they insisted their friendship was purely platonic, more brotherly than sexual.

  “Mathew!” Kash grinned as I slid into the Mini and immediately fastening my seat belt, having ridden one too many times in a fast car with the Keeper.

  “Kash,” I replied with similar enthusiasm, “long time, old friend.”

  “Too long, you bastard.” He put the car in gear and darted into the traffic, chattering away as we raced through the narrow streets of Bologna, pulling to a stop twenty minutes later right outside the city proper. Turning off the car, the old Keeper turned to me with a strange look on his face. “You take care of yourself, Dutch, you hear me?”

  “Not you, too, Kash.” I shook my head as I grabbed my bag.

  “We just worry about you, man”—Kash defended himself with a grin—“gotta protect that Mathew dick lest we have legions of weeping women on our hands once they learn of your demise.”

  “Ha!” I smacked the top of the car and laughed. “Those women will dance on my grave and you know it.”

  Kash laughed before turning too serious for comfort. “Really, Mathew, I don’t like too many jackasses in this line of business, so be safe, you bastard.”

  And before I could crack a joke or tell him to fuck off, he sped away, merging into the traffic like a madman. I stood and watched him wreak his special brand of havoc on the Bologna streets until he was but a mere yellow speck on the horizon. I finally headed up the gravel drive toward my next job, contemplating the landscape while wondering where Juma was and what she was doing, was she wrapped around another, was she smiling, crying, laughing. Was she thinking of me? Did I matter? Because she did.

  “Jesus Christ, you fucked her.”

  Avery watched me from the doorway with a knowing look on his face. I hated that look, mostly because whenever he wore it he was spewing some random truth about me that one, I didn’t want to face, or two, I didn’t want to discuss.

  “I haven’t even walked in the door and you’re already talking shit.”

  “Beautiful brown woman from the bar that night.” Avery acted as if I hadn’t said a word, instead wholly focused on what he remembered, because he remembered every goddamned thing. “Evidently I was wrong about her.”

  “Yes, you were,” I replied, “she’s just like all the others.”

  He waited for me to continue, and when I didn’t, he continued for me. “You’re lying through your teeth and have fallen madly in love.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa.” I stopped him short and held up my hand, shaking my head all the while. “Who said a word about love?”

  “You didn’t have to.”

  I walked past him and into the house, looking around the massive foyer, taking in the soaring vaulted ceilings, rich tapestries, and elegant furnishings expertly placed wherever my eye landed. What I could see was stunning and I was certain the remainder of the house was perfection. Without needing to ask, I knew Avery owned this place. I wondered whether Kash lived here as well.

  “Where’s my room?” I asked as I stood in the hallway with my bag in my hand, wanting a quick shit, shower, and shave. “And I don’t love her, so stop looking at me like an auntie. I fucked her, that was all. You know there’s only room for you in my long-dead heart.”

  Avery approached me slowly, smiling like the cat that caught the canary, and despite my bravado and declarations, he was making me real twitchy and uncomfortable. And he loved every second of it. Stopping in front of me, he looked into my face, his eyes moving over every inch of me, taking in every detail until I couldn’t stand it and shifted under his gaze. My discomfort made him giddy; he took my face in his warm hands and playfully tapped my cheek before I pulled out of his reach.

  “Stop that shit, man!”

  He loved it. “You’re so gone, Dutch. I can’t wait to meet her. I want to kiss her and say thank you.”

  “You won’t be meeting her ever, Avery, because I already told you, she’s nothing special. She is everything you said she would be and I can’t be any of it. Ever. Nor do I want to. Why do you think I’m here?”

  He finally stopped looking so smug and satisfied.

  “I’m here because she’s nothing more than a fuck. Just like the others. And since that night in the bar, when I slammed her against the wall and demanded she shut up and not touch me so I could fuck her the way I fuck everyone else, I’ve had a hundred others because she is not the love of my life or the woman you’re waiting for who is going to save me from myself. She’s not even half of that woman. She’s nothing.”

  Avery frowned and looked dismayed, probably regretting he ever got me started, but I was on a roll and couldn’t stop if I wanted to.

  “She didn’t break down any of my walls or make me feel anything different from any of the other thousands of cunts who have let me fuck them. And contrary to what you believed, she didn’t demand to be touched or kissed or held. In fact, without any prompting on my part, she stripped off her clothes and stood before me naked and wet and begged me to fuck her. I believe her exact words were ‘no touching, just fuck me.’ So sorry, man, but you were wrong. Beautiful brown woman at the bar wasn’t so special after all. Now show me my room so I can clean up and we can kill that Poocha.”

  He stood there for a second before pushing past me with a grumble. I headed upstairs without a
nother word.

  “Second door on the left,” he called to me, then disappeared, his disappointment evident in his silence. And I hated it, but even more than that, I hated myself for everything that transpired, all I said, the private moments I made public, the lies I told just to spare myself his introspection. That didn’t mean I was going to take back any of them, because really, as much as I wanted to be the guy who would do the right thing, as much as Avery believed I was that guy, the fact remained that I wasn’t.

  An hour later I was in the kitchen with a drink, a smoke, and some big tits in a tight T-shirt eyeing me suspiciously. The newbie Keeper, Rani’s worthless piece of ass. She was pretty and stupid and I knew she was stupid because I knew Rani like the back of my hand and she loved fucking dumb gorgeous bitches. I studied the Keeper’s fine features and tiny wrists and watched as she took me in, making her own calculations, deciding what to do with me.

  I gave her nothing but a stone-cold stare as I drank and smoked and ruminated on the fact that I had to clean up whatever mess the bitch had made of her assignment. She wanted to say something, I could tell words were sitting on the tip of her tongue, I just hoped she had enough sense to keep her mouth closed and those words to herself—I didn’t want to have to make her shut up.

  “Dutch, behave.” Avery breezed into the kitchen and shot me a look before continuing. “He doesn’t talk much, he’s as nasty as you can gather, but he is the best.” And so began my briefing of the epic clusterfuck big-tits had made of her assignment and the painful and varied and many steps I would need to take the clean up her shit.

  “This farmacia is where Ms. Pallavi Shah, our Poocha, was first spotted with her Deader. She successfully reclamated that one, went underground for a day or two without leaving the city, then Kash spotted her here”—Avery pointed at a tablet with a map of the northeast quadrant of the city—“in a mansion owned by the Labruzzo family. We’re not sure if she has personal ties to the family, but she stayed with them for a week, all while reclamating seventeen Deaders.”

  “What the fuck!” I exclaimed.

  “Tell me about it,” Avery replied. “I was brought in when Ms. Shah showed up here, in the southwest section of the city, in some sort of underground bunker. The plan was to flush her out and land a strike, but it failed, and then I lost my patience and called you.”

  I looked over the points around the city, studied the maps, and smoked. I fucking hated cleaning up other people’s shit, but this was Avery and I would do anything for him.

  “This Ms. Pallavi Shah,” I finally looked up from the various tablets and spoke, “any idea what she smells like?”

  “Dutch”—Avery rolled his eyes—“don’t start with that. I didn’t smell her cunt.”

  I shook my head and laughed. “You of all people should know by now a Poocha is more than the simple essence of what’s between their legs. Haven’t you ever caught the scent of your lover, that something special that stirs your soul, their essence, that scent specific to them? That’s what I’m looking for—does she smell of vanilla and grass or lavender or maybe bitterroot and garlic or even something disgusting, like garbage or shit? Not the smell of Miss Shah’s desire.”

  Instead of engaging me in what he knew to be a rabbit hole of my methods versus his, Avery slid over a picture of Pallavi Shah for me to study, learn, and memorize down to the finest of details. Minutes later, after I’d had enough of Ms. Shah and her odd and alluring face, I stood and prepared to leave.

  “There any extra blades around here?” I asked as I glanced Avery’s way, totally ignoring the dimwit Keeper, and lit a smoke. “I’ve got two short ones, so if there’s something slightly longer, I’ll take it.”

  Avery walked with me down the hallway, opened a floor-to-ceiling cabinet, and began testing various weapons while giving me the quick and dirty on my Poocha.

  “Ms. Shah is fast and shifty and it’s like she has eyes on the back of her head. One wrong move and she’ll see you coming from a mile away. And don’t be fooled by the pretty face—she’ll cut your dick off in a heartbeat, so please don’t try and fuck her.”

  “I’m not going to fuck her,” I replied as my smoke dangled from my lips and I ran my hands all over his stash of weapons.

  “Because you’re still reeling from the beautiful brown woman in the bar.” Avery shot me a sideways glance and smirked.

  “Not fucking her either, asshole.” I selected a decent sized machete-like blade and holstered it inside my jacket, pretending Avery’s insistence on working Juma into the conversation was no big deal.

  He stared at me for a second and finally laughed.

  “You’re full of shit, Mathew,” he said, handing me two small blades to keep at my waist, just in case, “but I love you so am going to go along with whatever story you’re telling yourself about that lovely brown being. Just remember, I was there. I saw her hips and thighs. And I saw you see her hips and thighs. I know.”

  “You don’t know a goddamned thing about anything, you Chinese motherfucker.”

  Avery smirked as he checked my weapons one last time, making sure not to touch me, and then stepped back so I could depart.

  “Be safe, Dutch.” He smiled sadly. “You might not love these women and they might not love you, not even the beautiful brown woman from the bar. But I do. Remember that.”

  With those words, I departed.

  I spent the next three weeks hunting, killing, then beginning it all over again. Those three weeks were quite like many of my others—it was all one big clusterfuck, this existence of mine. I didn’t even waste time with the gruesome theatrics, I just straight-up killed that Poocha every chance I got. Gunshots to the heart, slit throats, I even used a samurai sword on her, beheading her so quickly I surprised both of us. I had never killed so much with such speed and precision in such a short span of time, and by the last death, I was a goddamned wreck.

  It was long and drawn out and disgusting and when I finished with it, I was exhausted, defeated, distraught. I needed something but I didn’t know what and so I reeled, walking the streets with a bottle in my hand, blood all over my clothes, and a curse in my heart. Avery and Kash finally found me in a dark corner of a back alley, getting my dick sucked by some random woman while her boyfriend fucked her ass. It was base and animalistic and depraved, just like me, and they should have left me right there with that couple to do with me as they wished.

  Instead, I woke up safe and sound and unmolested in the opulent bedroom of Avery’s home, surrounded by beauty and luxury. Comfortable and comforted. I pushed out of bed, packed my things, and headed downstairs.

  “No good-bye kiss?” Avery called from the kitchen as I opened the front door.

  “You should have left me in that alley.”

  “Dutch, I will never leave you in any alley,” Avery promised as he came up behind me.

  “You should.”

  “I should do a lot of things,” he replied. “Leaving you in an alley isn’t one of them.”

  “I gotta go, Ave.” I glanced back at him.

  “You okay?”

  “No,” I admitted, “but I can’t remember the last time I was okay so it’s cool.”

  My confession caused him to grimace; Avery felt somehow responsible for my sorry state of affairs, despite the fact that my state of being had very little to do with him and everything to do with me.

  “Call me if you need anything,” he begged, “and thanks for whatever the fuck you did on this job to get it done so fast. I owe you.”

  “You don’t owe me, Ave. I’m a killer for The Gate. This is what I do.”

  He watched me quietly for a second and I knew what he was going to say before the words left his mouth.

  “No, Avery.”

  “You should find her,” he persisted, despite my insistence. “Beautiful brown woman from the bar, she’s haunting you. I can see it in the way you carry yourself. Just find her and get lost for a while.”

  “No.”

&nb
sp; “Dutch.” Something in his voice caused me to look up and meet his stare. I should have never done that—I should have just gotten the fuck out of Dodge.

  “She’s not Kajal.”

  And just like that, everything—sight, sound, sensibility—came to a screeching halt as I considered six hundred and ninety-three ways I could kill my best friend.

  I wasn’t always like this.

  I swear I wasn’t.

  Once upon a time, I had never killed a soul and I loved a girl. Her name was Kajal Chaudhry, she lived down the road from my family’s compound, and her two favorite things were mangoes and mynah birds. The year of my fifteenth birthday, I spent all of my time trying to become her third favorite thing, much to the amusement of my friends and the chagrin of my family.

  She is unworthy and foul and beneath you.

  She is not like us and will never be like us.

  She is a waste of space and time and energy.

  They chattered on endlessly about her but it made no difference—I still spent every day after football and cricket practice down the road under the banyan tree, doing my best to make Kajal smile and talk and sometimes even laugh. She was shy and quiet and thoughtful, with wise eyes and a voice so low sometimes I wondered if anyone heard it but me.

  “Why is your name Dutch?” she asked one day.

  “Why not?”

  “It’s not very Indian,” she replied.

  “I’m not very Indian,” I countered, to which she laughed, long and low, and then leaned close and whispered so that I had to lean close to hear.

  “Then you’ll have no problem kissing me, Dutch Mathew, with your not very Indian lips.”

  It was a command, flirty no doubt, but a command all the same, and with it, Kajal Chaudhry, the unworthy girl down the road with the hair like blue-black ribbons, the lips like sin, and the teasing eyes won my heart and demanded my first kiss.