No Happy Endings

by Angel Luis Colón

  Fantine stomped away from them—an intense feeling of déjà vu increasing her anger. Pete didn’t pursue her. He knew better. Neither did Aleksei or the twins.

  As she climbed down the steps of the nearest subway station, she felt happy. Not happy in the sense that things were okay. Things were absolutely not okay. Still, she eased herself of a burden. Pete had issues bigger than hers—even with her momentary falling off of the wagon. It left her incensed that Pete would place her father in this position—threatened. She could have dealt with him approaching her and begging. There was no guarantee she’d have helped, but it would have been a better scenario than sending his dad in to strong arm her into this.

  And through it all, there was a part of Fantine that wanted to blame her mother. To lay it all on a dead woman’s shoulders. That was bullshit, though. She’d taught Fantine the trade, but she wasn’t the one who pushed her into the life.

  As she walked down the block, Fantine thought about the very first time she cracked a safe. It was a fast food joint she took a part-time summer gig with while she was in high school. By the end of the week, Fantine managed to get enough faith in the manager to help count out all registers and set up the bank deposit bag. Within the month, she was left alone to do it. In two months, she was skimming a few dollars here and there, enough to get some extra clothes every other week. Once she was tired of smelling like French fry grease, she cleaned house.

  It wasn’t difficult. Fantine wasn’t allowed into the safe, but it was a cheap piece of crap corporate provided. She cracked it with a stethoscope—just like in the movies. On top of it all, her night manager had become so comfortable with skirting responsibility he never noticed her using his office the last night to count out the registers. He also failed to check the deposit bag full of newspaper in the safe. She ran off with nearly ten grand and left behind an employee record for one Maggy Yeung—her mother knew a lot of great ID guys. A few months as a blonde and a school transfer made sure she got away Scot free. It also hooked her. That made her serious about pursuing her mother’s career. Jae stood on the sidelines, unhappy but never able to muster the nut to say no to Fantine or her mother, who had by that point become comfortable with her daughter as a partner. They’d never been closer.

  At the time, the only thing Fantine regretted was forgetting the night manager’s name. Now, she felt regret for the whole thing. Manipulating her mother for her own weird needs, for breaking the law without realizing how many people she actually hurt, and most of all, breaking her father’s heart. Any other person would have said Jae was weak—a spineless twit who should have walked away from the insane women in his life—but he wasn’t. He was strong enough to stay, to at least put some effort in redeeming Fantine and her mother. It was a shame he never got to do it for the woman he loved. Now, Fantine was about to ruin the small victory Jae had in pulling her out of the fire, even if he egged her on to tell stories of past victories. She knew that was only because he believed she was done.

  Like her mother always told her, “You’re always going to disappoint the ones you love—it’s how you know they love you.”

  Fantine couldn’t go back to the apartment, not with how angry she was with Pete. She had no idea where she was going to stay for the next few nights. It was one thing to put on the brave face and act like she had a solution in front of Pete, but now, with the streets staring her in the face and the only human being who’d support her living in an old folk’s home, she was up the creek. Fantine shook the worry away and switched gears. She had to get to work. She’d taken the day off to speak with Aleksei, but she could convince her boss to shift it to a half day or just two hours off if she stayed later than normal. It was a good idea; get through the rest of the day and then she could focus on next steps. Maybe she’d ask around at the job. Everyone was cool, even with Fantine keeping most at arm’s length. That was a good idea, she decided. Her mood was light and she didn’t have to worry until later. This was the right mindset.

  No Pete. No Aleksei. No crime. That lifted her spirits even further.

  Fantine figured she could milk maybe ten, twenty minutes of that until she got herself back down in the dumps. Bright side: at least she didn’t want a drink.

  6

  The Twins were leaning on their Escalade as Fantine turned the corner and walked towards the front of her job’s building. She made an attempt to turn, but one of them lifted a paw and waved her over.

  “Goddamnit,” she muttered under her breath before walking over. “I thought I didn’t have to see you two for the rest of my day.” How did they know she was going back to work? Were the following her? Aleksei was a smart man, he bet she would go to work rather than the apartment and it paid off. Fan wasn’t fond of assholes who bet against her.

  “Change of plan. We need you to come now,” said the Twin with what looked to be lighter hair. Fantine really needed to sort the two of them out.

  Fantine didn’t have time for this silliness. If Aleksei wanted to offer more details, he should have remembered to do it on his own time, not hers. “I sort of have to work, so, that’s a big no.” She turned and walked to the entrance of her building.

  “Do they know about your past too? Do they know your real name?” one of them called out.

  Fantine winced and her shoulders slumped. Of course this would come up. There hadn’t been much of a chance for Fantine to get a job that paid a livable wage, so she maybe, kind of, sort of, did a little lying on her application and license—also social security card. The people at Advanced Security Innovations may have also known her as Abby Kim. There were about as many Kims in the world as Parks, so if things went to hell, it would be easy to disappear while getting a job in the same neighborhood. With Peter gabbing away with his father, there was little chance this was a missed subject of conversation.

  Fantine didn’t turn around. “Can you let me go in and tell them I have an emergency? I sort of have a real, adult, non-criminal life to account for.”

  There was laughter behind her. “Fifteen minutes.”

  “Fine, great.” She walked into the building. Fought the urge to tell Ross at security that two lunk-heads were harassing her. Inside, she passed the empty security desk—how absolutely perfect—and entered an elevator. She watched the little TV above the elevator control panel. The weather ticker said something about a storm hitting over the weekend, but she mostly ignored it. Fantine was more surprised that it was a Friday. “Damn,” she said to herself, “I need to get my shit together.”

  The elevator opened to her floor—a cramped cubicle farm spread out before her. Fantine walked to her cube and logged into her computer. She set her out of office message and then wandered over to her boss, Craig’s, office.

  She peeked her head in. “Craig?”

  Craig was a forty-something nobody. Doughy, glassy-eyed, and weak-chinned—all the hallmarks of the type who peaked at middle management. He hastily swiped his mouse to the right and clicked. Fantine imagined he was looking at those forbidden websites the rest of the employees were blocked from accessing. Well, not her. She figured out the firewalls here in two days. It wasn’t much of a surprise that a company that sold security to others was at best amateurish at maintaining their own. It was the same way at Empire City. It was the cost of allowing the men in charge to know as little of the day to day as possible. Operations and logistics became magical—an illusion—and the further rubes believed it, the more open access became.

  “Hey, good morning, Abby.” Craig smiled and fidgeted in his seat. “What can I do yah for?”

  Fantine gave a wide smile and waved before awkwardly walking into the office. “Well, I logged in to work the rest of the day, but now I sort of need to leave. Had a bit of an emergency with my dad as soon as I walked in. I’m sorry; I know it’s been a trend lately.”

  Craig sat up straight. “Is he alright?”

  Fantine sighed. “General mental health issues. They found him wandering outside naked.” She felt guil
ty to paint her father into a corner like that. Age wasn’t treating his body very kindly, but his mind was doing just fine—better than hers.

  Craig winced. “Always tough to see that happen. My dad got a little loopy towards the end. They thinking of medicating?”

  That made Fantine feel worse. Lying about something Craig had to actually deal with. “Sounds like it, so they need me to come in and sign a bunch of garbage. I might be able to make it back after one or two hours, if that works. I’m hoping to hold onto as many PTO hours as I can, you know?”

  Craig shook his head. “No, no, please—take the rest of the day. It’s fine. We’ll schedule time to talk with Gretchen about FMLA and all that good stuff next week.” He typed a moment. “There, just sent the invite. Besides, it’s better you take care of this now, before the storm this weekend.”

  Again with that. “Is it supposed to be bad?” Fantine scratched at a callous on the palm of her left hand—built thick over the years to hide small pins and picks. Her mother told her Houdini started the practice. All Fantine knew was that it worked. Also, it hurt like hell.

  “You know how it is; most of those storms lose their gusto once they get around the city.” He canted his head to the side. “Like the one last year. I think. Can’t really remember.”

  “Sure.” She faltered by the door. “So, I’ll be on my way?”

  “I’m sorry, sir, you’re not allowed...hey!” someone said from outside Craig’s office.

  Fantine’s stomach sank. She turned to see the darker-haired Twin—and decided right there to call him Mr. Black—stomping towards her.

  “It is past fifteen minutes.” Mr. Black reached out and took her arm. “Aleksei wants you now.”

  She was genuinely shocked. No subtlety, no hiding the absolute shadiness of this entire picture. Was Aleksei flat out in late-stage dementia? How had he gone from being a professional—one of the best—when her mother worked for him to a bullying psychopath?

  Fantine turned to Craig. “Um, Doctor Aleksei. He’s insistent that my father get the best care he can.” She smiled and leaned into Mr. Black’s grab. Drove an elbow into his side. If the blow accomplished a damn thing, he didn’t show it.

  Mr. Black grunted. “We must leave.” He had a black attaché case in one hand. Shoved it at Fantine. “The papers you need to go over.”

  Fantine’s eyes widened. These guys had to be snacking on lead chips. What the hell would compel him to do this in front of her employer?

  Craig watched them. His look telling Fantine all she needed to know—she’d been caught in her lie. “All right...” he said and waved, “Hope your father feels better.”

  Mr. Black pulled at Fantine as she nodded and waved. “Thanks.” They walked arm in arm down a row of cubicles, Fantine stopping short and holding her ground like a mule in front of her area. “Give me minute. I need to get my bag and jacket.” She injected sickly sweetness into her voice. Tried to smile through it, even if she had to fight every urge to stab Mr. Black in the eyes with pens. “You couldn’t wait five more minutes?” This time she took charge. She ducked into her cube and grabbed her jacket and bag. She flung open her drawers and blindly snatched up external hard drives and notebooks.

  “Let’s go.” There was no time to double check her haul. This is what she’d have to make do with. She grabbed Mr. Black by the arm and guided him towards the stairs.

  Of course, the office asshole, Matt popped out of his cubicle a foot before they could get past. “Abby, hey, quick question for you.” He nodded to Mr. Black. “Sorry to interrupt.”

  Fantine sighed. “I’ve got a thing, Matt. You think you can email my private address and I can get back to you in a little bit?”

  Matt wasn’t the type to take the brush off, and true to type, stood fast. “Well, I’ve got the meeting in a few minutes, and I really needed to get your buy in on a few of the bullets I had on this deck. I wasn’t sure if...”

  Mr. Black interrupted Matt’s sentence with a head-butt. He then grabbed the poor schlub by the collar and drove his fist into Matt’s face multiple times. Each blow made the sound of a wet towel against a tile floor.

  Matt finally collapsed and curled into a ball—a move that was probably more instinct than plan. He yelped incoherently, like a beat dog.

  Fantine jumped back. “Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck. Ohmigod.”

  Things went from shit to storm as a conference room door opened across the way in time for six fellow employees to see Fantine, Mr. Black, and a bleeding Matt rolling around the dirty carpet and moaning.

  “Uh, Abby?” Craig was behind her.

  Commit, she thought to herself. Fantine swept up everything else she needed and turned around. She smoothed the front of her jacket with her hands—professional-like. “Sorry, Craig, all these issues coming up. I regret to say; I’m resigning without notice.”

  Craig’s eyes widened.

  Fantine stepped past him. “I know, completely unprofessional. I’m totally sorry. I won’t use you guys as a reference if that helps.”

  Matt continued to moan. “What the fuck, man?” He found the will to get up onto his feet. It was slow-going—had the look of a drunken baby learning to walk.

  Craig marched over to Matt. “Matt, let’s talk to HR first and we can sort this all out.” He eyed Fantine. “I’m going to call the police too.”

  Matt fished his phone from his pocket. He fumbled with the buttons. ‘I’ll call them now. I’ll sue.”

  “Ugh, whatever, I’ve wanted to do this from day one.” Fantine walked over to Matt and cold-cocked him across the jaw. There wasn’t a deep-seeded motive for hitting him. Matt annoyed her and she needed someone to take her anger out on. It was a piss-poor reason, but at that time, worked perfectly. Matt dropped to the ground again; his phone following and the screen displaying that a call to 9-1-1 was connected. She turned to find Mr. Black, but he was gone.

  “Go fuck yourself, Matt.” Fantine called over her shoulder. Guilt sat in her stomach, heavy as a Smiths song. She ignored it, played the part of the aloof asshole.

  Now there was a timetable and she was going to be wanted—great. She hurried to the stairwell and bolted downstairs. She could separate from the Twins for now. They would buy her time to run away and hide out back home. Luckily, she was not dumb enough to use Pete’s address on anything official for work. Any cops looking for her were going to be combing Queens for a 68th Avenue address that didn’t exist connected to the dummy bank account her salary was deposited into that then funneled money to two other checking accounts. Fantine set up a final, “safe” checking account under her mother’s maiden name with a Staten Island address as the place of residence. It was a smaller bank and she used a single ATM in Brooklyn to pull money out as needed. Never debit, always cash. She was fastidious and while it was annoying to trek into Brooklyn every Saturday to pick up her pay, it was worth it. Once the cops were smart enough to dig up other details about her, it was off to Staten Island for them. They’d slow down then. Nobody wanted to go to Staten Island if they didn’t need to be there. Her mother taught her well.

  Fantine spotted a few parked cabs. She hurried to one that was on duty and got into the backseat. “Eighty-sixth and Lexington, please.” Out of the way, but this was another funky breadcrumb for people to follow. She had the time, so she decided to have fun with it.

  7

  Fantine stared at the floor plans from the attaché case Mr. Black provided. From childhood, she loved puzzles and little brainteasers, but this was beyond her reach. It made sense on a basic level—this room was here, this room was there—but the other bits, the random hallways, what appeared to be a duct. There were even rooms that didn’t look to have doors. This was all too much. What she could figure out, though, was they’d be breaking into an abnormally large area three floors below the waiting area. There also appeared to be only a single stairwell leading down there while the other two only went upstairs. There was a single elevator too. It was housed far away from the
normal bank of elevators people would use on a daily basis. It bothered her not to have any floorplans for the upper floors, but maybe that was a little too much information. Not like she was an architect.

  She had no idea how Aleksei expected her to do this alone. It was a fucking suicide run. A team—getaway driver, muscle, inside man, anyone with an IQ over seventy—felt completely necessary. Was this cost cutting? If the product was worth this much, then Aleksei should have been willing to part with ten to fifteen percent of the take. Fantine sighed and studied the documents again. She tried her best to ignore the mounting pressure behind her eyes.

  “You busy?” Pete knew better than to walk into her room, but he did because he was a dick.

  Fantine kept her back to him. She could smell the skunk weed he probably just kicked in the living room waft into her bedroom—an annoyance she always complained about. Fantine wrote some notes on the margin of the floorplan and went back to researching her work files for any contracts with the sperm bank. So far no results. “We’re definitely not on small-talk terms. Business or get the fuck out.”

  Pete ran a hand through his hair. He grimaced as he inspected his hand. “I get it, I fucked up. I don’t have to be run over the fucking coals all day.”

  Fantine raised her hand and counted off with her fingers. “One: of course you do. That’s how you learn. Two: this is not business talk. Three: it’s ‘raked over the coals,’ stupid.” She lowered her hand and inspected a folder that turned up when she searched for the address of the sperm bank. She narrowed her eyes. The lease and assorted licenses were owned by a company called King of Pl. Holdings. “PL?” she muttered to herself. “What does stand for?” She closed the file window. She was only clinging to superfluous details to avoid Pete.