by Teagan Kade
Fifteen minutes pass. The glovebox begs to be opened.
Don’t do it.
I check down the street, the rear-view. There’s no sign of Max.
I turn and look at the rear seat. It’s full of clothes and boxes. He probably lives in this car.
I come back to the glovebox. Better the enemy you know, right?
Quietly as I can, I open the glovebox and fish inside. There are a bunch of papers in there, mugshots of people, random police files. It’s not a casting call for Jeopardy, that’s for sure.
There’s an additional photo tucked underneath. It’s a black-and-white glossy of Max in a boxing ring, his gloved hands held high, a belt between them. Half of his face is bloody, one eye closed over completely, but he looks happy.
I’ve never understood boxing. It seems like nothing more than an excuse for grown men to beat each other senseless. I’m surprised such an arcane sport still exists.
I dig deeper into the glovebox, my hands falling on something cool and hard. What do we have here?
I take out the object and stiffen.
It’s a gun, a pistol to be precise.
I’ve never held a gun before. It feels alien in my hands, shaking there between them. I bring my other hand up to keep it steady, holding it before me.
Without thinking, I pull the hammer back, the click that follows is louder than I expect.
I hold the gun and thoughts stream into my head, thoughts of escape.
You think you’re going to shoot your way out this? You’re not Clint Eastwood, Dawn.
I’m about to un-cock the hammer when there’s a tap on the window.
Without thinking, I turn, squeezing the trigger involuntarily.
The figure there shifts away just in time, the window shattering. The pistol kicks me back into the seat, my ears ringing.
A hand reaches in and pulls the gun away, the door opening and glass spilling to the ground. “What the hell are you trying to do?” Max shouts. “Kill me? Didn’t you fucking hear me before?” He’s angry and I don’t blame him.
He pulls me out, holding me tight with one hand, the pistol in the other. “If you think there is a way out of this, you are wrong. I am your way out. Understand? Without me, you are dead. D-E-A-D, and I’m not talking about being put in the ground, I’m talking about being forced to work in a whorehouse, fucking guys 24/7, drugged out of your mind, fucked literally to death over months, maybe years. Is that what you want?” He shakes me for emphasis. “Do you fucking understand me?!”
“I’m sorry,” I plead. “I didn’t know it was—”
“Loaded?” he laughs. “Why the fuck wouldn’t it be? Do you know who I work for?”
He lets go of me, hands on his head as he paces out into the street. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
“I’m sorry.”
He exhales and turns back, placing the pistol down the back of his pants. “We’ve got to trust each other, okay? That is the only way this is going to work. It’s asking a lot, I know, but if we don’t, we’re fucked.”
I nod, wrapping my arms around myself. “Okay.”
He leans against the car beside me, temper simmering. “Alright then. The good news is I’ve got a lead on your boy.”
“A lead?”
“The Italians came through. It seems Saul’s not the only one Rick the Dick owes money to.”
That comes as no surprise. “Why did you stand up for me?” I ask, genuinely curious. “Why didn’t you just hand me over?”
Max looks down at the ground, shaking his head, hands on his hips. “Honestly? I don’t know. I guess I just don’t like to see innocent people hurt, and you… you’re…” but he can’t finish it.
“Isn’t that your entire job description? Hurting people?”
His lambent gaze is electrifying. “Not like you. Not…” he trails off. “We should get going. We’ve got a bit of a drive.”
“Can I at least let my friend know I’m okay?”
He shakes his head. “No. I’m sorry. It’s better this way.”
My throat’s tight. “If you’re expecting me to… you know…”
He faces me in full. “Are you fucking serious? You think I’m doing all this to what? Get laid?”
He shakes his head. “Fucking hell. There are easier ways. It’s not that you’re not attractive. I mean, you’re fucking amazing… but… Forget it. We should go.”
“Where are we going?” I ask.
The funny thing is, I do want to kiss him, a small gesture to say thanks, a peck on the cheek, but I can’t bring myself to do it, to approach him or make the first move. You don’t step closer to a fire when you’re already being burnt.
He holds the passenger door of the Lincoln open, taking out the pistol and swiping the rest of the glass out of the window.
“To answer your question,” he says, standing there with the pistol in hand. “Nowhere nice”.
Max drives, the road as black as the moonless sky above. “It turns out your beloved Rick took off as soon as he got the money from Saul. From what I can gather, he never intended to pay it back, the motherfucker, knowing full well you’d be left to deal with it.”
I shift in the seat. “Where is he now?”
“He was last seen at an underground betting agency putting down some big numbers, enough to get him noticed by the wrong people.”
“Where is it, this ‘agency’?”
“Shithole Central, and by that I mean Newark. The Italians are one thing, but the Ukes run this establishment, which is why you are going to stay in the car and let me handle this. The last thing I need is more blood on my hands.”
I’m not about to argue. “You think they’ll tell us anything, these, uh, Ukes?”
“Ukrainians,” he fills. “They’re scary fucking characters, like our friend Viktor back there.”
I think back to those soulless eyes, the dread returning. “Are you going to kill me, once this is all over?”
He laughs. “Kill you? No. That’s not my MO.”
I pick at a broken thread in the seat’s leather. “What is your MO?”
“Get in, get the job done, get out—simple.”
“It doesn’t sound like anything about your job is simple.”
He laughs again. “Ain’t that the truth.”
Twenty minutes later we arrive in Newark. This is about as far from the glamor and prestige of the city as you can get. Housing projects blot the horizon like giant Lego blocks. Kids skulk around on the streets, on corner fronts, sneering and spitting as we drive by. The sound of sirens is ever-present. It’s hard to believe we’re only an half an hour from Manhattan.
It appears even more sinister under the cover of darkness, only the odd street light providing shape to the shadow.
The agency in question is actually a shop that sits in a row right by the train tracks, each store more decrepit and lackluster than the last. There are, however, people about, which means something must be drawing them here.
Max parks on the opposite side of the street and points at a non-descript butcher’s shop with a giant ‘Buy in Bulk!’ slogan on the window. The lights are on inside. No regular butcher I know of is open this late.
“The betting happens out back,” says Max. “But the only way in and out is through the store. It takes big balls to do a runner when you have to pass by three big Ukrainians with knives on the way out, you see.”
I don’t ‘see’ at all. This world is as foreign to me as Mars.
Max opens the door and steps out, swooping down to speak into the cabin. “Stay here, don’t move, and don’t speak to anyone. I’ll be out soon.”
I tilt my head towards the glovebox. “Don’t you want your gun?”
He shakes his head. “Like I said, simple is my MO, and you never get simple when you wave a gun around. You get dead.”
I nod in understanding.
The door closes. I watch him making his way across the street. He’s tall and extremely well built—definitely th
e body of a boxer. You could use those shoulders for bookshelves they’re so solid, and, as foolish as it is to be having such thoughts right now, his ass tucked tightly away in those jeans is what dreams are made of.
He kidnapped you and you’re checking out his ass?
“Got any change?”
I jolt in my seat, turning to find a homeless man at the passenger window. He’s smiling even though he has no teeth to show for it.
I shake my head, can’t even get the word ‘no’ out I’m so shaken.
I’d wind the window up if there was one.
The man mumbles something and moves on, sitting down by the fence dividing the road from the train line, bringing a bagged bottle to his mouth.
Worst case, I go for the gun.
Yeah, like you could pull the trigger…
I already have, haven’t I?
By accident. You’re lucky you didn’t blow his brains out.
But what do they say? People do exceptional things in extraordinary circumstances, right?
Whatever you say, Lara Croft.
I watch the front of the butcher’s, turning every so often to check on the man by the fence, scan the side mirrors for anyone else deciding to scare me into an early grave.
The first sign of trouble is shouting. I can hear it, voices raised, but I can’t see anything in the shop.
Crap.
There’s a gunshot, the front of the shop window shatters, a torrent of glass spilling to the pavement.
Three people come bursting out of the shop onto the sidewalk.
One of them is Max.
He’s wrestling with a large man in a butcher’s apron, trying to wrangle a shotgun off him.
People scatter as the third man, also in a butcher’s apron, skips around Max and the other butcher. I notice he has a large machete in his hand.
I sit up straight, my heart beating hard. Crappity crap crap.
My flight response kicks in. I’m about to swing into the driver’s seat and take off. He did leave the keys in the ignition, but I can’t do it. I can’t leave him here.
I keep my eyes trained on Max. He brings his elbow down onto the man’s arm and pulls the shotgun away from him, holding it high and firing twice into the sky before tossing the gun onto the road and raising his fists.
Maybe you don’t need to.
The butcher he took the gun from curses and begins to circle him, his right arm hanging loosely. The other lifts his machete higher, circling from the opposite side.
The butchers attack together.
Max ducks the first swing of the machete, spinning and driving his fist into the man’s stomach. The man buckles in two, but doesn’t drop the knife, slashing it downwards and just catching Max’s shoulder.
Max spins around, lightning fast, and takes the man’s wrist, holding him in position while he delivers a series of brutal body blows to the man’s chest, finishing with an uppercut that lifts the man off his feet, the machete clattering to the ground.
The other butcher cries out and lunges for the knife, but he’s too slow, Max steps on it and blocks his path, swinging down into his jaw with a hard right. I hear the sick crunch of it from the other side of the road, the butcher turning floppy and collapsing to the ground.
Max reaches for his shoulder, the back of his t-shirt blooming red. He’s yelling something, running for the car, but I can’t quite make it out.
“What?” I call, lifting my shoulders.
“Down!” he screams.
That I hear.
I see the homeless man stand from the fence and pull out a revolver.
I duck as the windscreen explodes, fragments of glass raining over my head. The driver door opens and Max dives in, turning the ignition and hitting the accelerator with his hand, the car burning off before he’s pulled himself fully inside.
There’s another shot. I hear more bullets slam into the trunk. Max steers, now upright, groaning, waiting until we’re down the street before seating himself properly and hitting the accelerator in full, wrangling the car down the road while he wipes glass from the dash.
I get up from the floorboard carefully, shaking off what only moments ago was the windshield. “I thought that was a homeless guy.”
“He was a lookout dressed like a bum. Fuck knows how I missed him.”
Max’s shirt is soaked in blood around the shoulder. “Jesus, are you okay?”
He glances at it. “It’s nothing.”
I use my dress to clean the seat of glass before sitting down, the engine revving hard. “I take it they weren’t too happy to see you?”
Max looks across at me, still breathing hard, his tawny eyes sharp. “They were not.”
“How you put them down… That was incredible.”
He shrugs. “I should have pumped the second round into that prick’s chest, cleared the world of one more lowlife.”
“But you didn’t.”
“I don’t need that kind of shit storm, and neither does Saul. He’ll be pissed about this as it is. There are lines you do not cross in the crime world.”
“And let me guess, you just crossed one?”
“That’s right.”
“Did you find anything out about Rick?”
Max makes a turn and eases off the speed. “I found the owner in the bathroom down back. He wasn’t going to talk, but a meat hook pressed up against his beanbags soon changed his mind.”
“He told you where Rick is?” I ask, hopeful.
“Not quite. He said last he heard Rick had gone across to Vegas, started working for one of the big dogs over there—the biggest, actually. He was about to spill more, until one of his butchers decided to come in for a piss… and that’s when things got messy.
“So we’re going to Vegas?”
“First flight out tomorrow. But first, I need rest… and a drink. You hungry?”
I realize the last thing I ate was a cinnamon roll for lunch. “I could eat.”
Max nods. “I know a place.”
Max
There’s a drop of mustard on her lower lip. I’m dying to swipe it off, to touch her. She’s so god damn beautiful. It’s a crying fucking shame we couldn’t have met under better circumstances.
She takes another bite of the hot dog, looking out the window of the railway car-turned-diner at the urban sprawl beyond. “You used to live out here, in the projects?”
I put my dog down and point to a building in the distance. “Right there, third floor.” I shift my finger to the left. “The gym I used to train at was over there.”
“Used to?” Dawn queries.
I pick up the dog again. “It’s a long story.”
An older gentleman with bushy sideburns claps me on the shoulder. “How is it, Maximus?”
I cringe inside at my full name. I hold the hot dog up. “You still make the best dogs in town, Marty.”
Marty winks at Dawn. “It’s all in the buns. Ain’t that right, honey?”
She smiles back. “It’s delicious, thanks.”
“Any time.”
Marty takes a seat beside me. “You been keeping yourself out of trouble, son?”
My nostrils flare. “I’m trying my best, but you know how it is.”
Marty nods with understanding and throws a dish cloth over his shoulder. “Yeah, I do.”
“How’s the gym?” I ask.
“The Block?” says Marty. “Shit show. It’s full of cashed-up MMA jerk-offs thinking that by training out here in the badlands they’ll somehow become harder. Throw them into the middle of Birch Street and see how they fare then, I say.”
“I need burgers, Marty!” comes a shout from the kitchen.
Marty directs his attention to Dawn again. “My better half. I’d introduce you, but she’s the jealous type.” He takes my shoulder. “Good to see you, son. Tell Saul I said hi.”
“Will do.”
I press the last of the dog into my mouth. This place is bringing back too many memories, memories I’ve tried
hard to suppress only to go digging them back up now.
“Eat in the car,” I tell Dawn. “We’ve got to get back, rest up.”
“Where are we going?” she asks, her lips still begging to be licked clean. “A motel?”
“My place.”
The sun’s setting. This was Pop’s favorite time to train, ‘the magic hour,’ he used to call it.
Dawn attempts to make conversation again. “This is a nice car.”
I’ve heard Dad’s Lincoln called many things, but never nice. “It’s a shitbox,” I tell her.
“So why drive it around?”
I shrug. “Nostalgia, I guess. It was my father’s.”
“He raised you?”
I nod. “My birth mother wanted nothing to do with me, so Pops took over, just me and him.”
“That must have been hard.” If she thinks this Dr. Phil routine is going to work, she’s shit out of luck, but I answer her questions regardless.
“It was,” I say, hitting the turn signal to make a left. “There were no silver spoons where we grew up. What about you? You’re from Kansas, right?”
She nods, hands folded in her lap. “I think they stopped making silver spoons out there too.”
“Your family was poor?”
“It was just Mom and me, like you and your dad.”
“You never knew your father.”
“No, I did, but I kind of wish I never had.”
“That bad, huh?”
“That bad. He took off when I was eight, left Mom with a pile of debt.”
I stretch in the seat. “Seems to be a recurring them with men in your life.” I know I’ve taken it too far when she doesn’t reply, instead staring aimlessly out the window. “I’m sorry.”
She turns back. “No, you’re right. It’s my own stupid fault for getting involved with a guy like Rick in the first place.”
“We’ll put it right. Don’t worry.”
“A gangster just laid down an ultimatum, people have guns, and they’re fighting, and you’re telling me not to worry?”
She has a point. “It’s business,” I say, reverting back to my go-to line.
“Pure and simple, right?” she finishes.
“That’s right.”
She points to the scar above my eye. “How did you get that scar?”