No Happy Endings

by Angel Luis Colón

  Pete’s face contorted. “Ew, man. Whatever. You sure the nurse won’t notice you snatch his badge?”

  Fantine frowned and cracked her knuckles one by one. “Maybe, maybe not. I’m not some elite pickpocket, but I have some sleight of hand chops. It’s a risk.” Fantine looked around. The space was large enough to talk freely at a reasonable volume so long as no one was too close. There were also plenty of people milling around: college students, couples poring over brochures and paperwork, and the odd-looking solo men that seemed permanently set to virgin. No wonder Aleksei didn’t give a damn about inviting her here to chat up the job. This was the kind of place that was easy to melt into. Nobody had the nerve to look each other in the eye or they were to wound up with life problems to bother pulling their heads out of their own asses.

  “No telling if the badge has what we need either way.” Fantine grinned and slapped her hands against her thighs. “So what did you tell them about yourself?”

  Pete smiled. Clearly this topic brushed off the awkward feelings. “Oh, man, I said I was an Olympic-level fencer coming out of NYU. My specialty is epee, but I also run with a rapier.” He raised his eyebrows. “I may also dabble in quantum physics.”

  “Ah, real man about town, then?” Fantine snorted.

  “Fancy as fuck. Got my pinky raised when I do anything involving my mouth.”

  “That set up’s too easy, man.”

  “Mister Lorenzo?” A woman with a clipboard approached them. “We’re ready for you.” She smiled wide. Her uniform looked like a throwback to what Fantine always saw in old movies—crisp, clean, and white.

  Pete stood. “Oh, uh...sure.” He looked to Fantine as if she’d offer some kind of solution.

  Fantine only gave him a gentle push. “Go on, sweetie. Step one’s on you. Once we get the sample, I do the legwork.” She stood up and smiled at the nurse. “Can you believe he’s going to help my wife and I have a baby? We only met three weeks ago—such a charitable fella.”

  The nurse stared past Fantine and gave a tight smile. “How nice.” She ushered Pete away and past the doors leading inside.

  Fantine looked over her shoulder to see if the male nurse—was it Placido—had returned. To her relief, he was seated at the station. Hunched over paperwork. That didn’t help. She needed to find a way to get him to stand up. Ideally he needed to walk past her or have a reason to bump into her. How would she accomplish that without it being blatantly obvious?

  Damnit, she knew what she’d have to do.

  Fantine scanned the room and spotted someone sitting by himself. Looked college-aged and incredibly embarrassed. On the top of his head, off-kilter; a cheap trilby. The kid looked like the type who would call the hat a fedora in error. In other words, he was perfect. She rushed over and sat across from him. Leaned in to get his attention and smiled. The young man looked confused for a moment, but then smiled back. She had him. This was the right kind of guy to use for her purposes.

  It was Meryl Streep time.

  Fantine straightened in her seat. Pressed her hand against her chest and gasped. “No, I will not help you with producing a fresh sample, you disgusting prick!” She called out towards the nurse’s station. Felt terrible with what she was about to put this kid through. “Holy fuck, don’t you dare touch me!” Fantine stood up. “Help!” She backed away from her victim. Tried to force tears, but she only made her eyes sting.

  The kid opened his mouth to say something, but couldn’t find the words. He opted to stand up and get a little space between them. He placed his hands out. “Lady, hey...”

  Moving away from her wasn’t going to help. Fantine moved closer to the stranger. “Sir?” She called over her shoulder to Placido. Grabbed her patsy’s arm. “This asshole tried to fucking feel me up.”

  Placido grunted and stood up. He marched towards them. The veins in his neck pulsed and he looked as if he hadn’t slept for days.

  The college kid pointed at Fantine. “You’re fucking crazy.”

  Fantine waited for Placido to get close enough. Once he was within a few feet of them, she lunged at the kid. Grabbed him by the shoulders and screamed curses and gibberish at him. Tossed in few fuck your mothers and piece of shits into the mix. Placido—kind soul that he was—tried to separate them. Fantine swatted at the air. Made sure to brush right at Placido’s chest and hook his badge with her pinky. It slipped off easy and was in her back pocket in time for Placido to finally separate her from the patsy.

  Placido eyed them both. Then concentrated a hard stare on the kid. “Did you touch this woman?”

  The kid shook his head. “No. She’s a fucking psycho, man. Came up to me and went off for no reason.”

  Fantine remained quiet. They already had the attention of what few people were in the clinic. She saw Pete standing by the double doors he’d been ushered through moments before. Fantine lowered her hand to her hip and made a motion to let him know it was time to get the hell out of there. In the time she took to make the motion, she looked down for a fraction of a second. When she looked back up, Pete was gone, the door leading to the back still swinging. Perhaps it was safer back there, or maybe he really did want to get intimate with a piece of plastic. It didn’t matter. Fantine had to get the hell out of there before anyone noticed this entire scene stunk on wheels.

  “Miss, did this man harass you? Are you okay?” Placido asked. The delivery was stilted, as if he didn’t expect to believe her answer. The recognition in his eyes was immediate and apparent.

  Fantine snorted. Pushed past her nerves suddenly going haywire at the look Placido was giving her. She threw her hands in the air. “Fuck this. I don’t need this shit. Nothing but a bunch of perverts in this place.” Time was up. Let Pete jerk off in a dingy room—at least, that’s how she imagined it. Fantine backed up and made a bee-line to the door.

  “Miss!” Placido called behind her.

  “Fuck all of you.” She broke out into a jog, both middle fingers held high in the air. Outside it was a full sprint. What she’d pulled off was high comedy—dumb and completely amateurish. Hell, she figured, she was no professional. Locks were her game, not working a room. There was still more work to do. She needed to get to the Bronx and then gear up. Afterwards, she’d get ready. Pete could take care of himself—mostly. Let him call his father. Not like he wasn’t used to doing that. Poor little rich boy would have to learn to handle big boy things on his own. Today was as good as any for Pete to start learning.

  Fantine made her down into the subway at Bowling Green. Passed signs about interrupted service with the coming storm. She rolled her eyes. People seemed to lose it over rainstorms now. Late October meant maybe, at worst, some snow. She opted to catch a 4 train uptown and made a mental note to catch a transfer at 125th Street to the 6 train to avoid ending up near Kingsbridge on the other end of town. It would only be a few stops and she’d be able to hop off the Bronx El and walk down a single flight of stairs to the bank. She also remembered there was a decent restaurant a few doors down that she hadn’t been to in ages. Her stomach gurgled at the thought of red beans and rice. It would be best to pick something up to eat. A treat before things got too involved. There was no telling where she would end up if things didn’t go her way.

  10

  Fantine sat on the couch back at her apartment. A half-eaten plate of rice, beans, and ox tails on the coffee table. She sipped on her papaya smoothie and sighed. Pete wasn’t home when she got back. She figured he was lurking somewhere in embarrassment or was spending time with his asshole father doing whatever it was assholes did. The bank trip had been uneventful. They let her take everything in the box without any issue—her name had been on the account. She eyed the leather satchel that she took away from the safety deposit box—still unopened. Every time she reached for it, she pulled back. It wasn’t fear so much as it was guilt. Fantine wasn’t sure she was ready to face her mother again—even if it was a box of her possessions.

  The TV got attention instead. Fant
ine couldn’t remember the last time she actually had an opportunity to sit back, feel fat, and enjoy garbage television. Pete always sucked up the tube time with his bullshit videogames. It was a refreshing change of pace. Something she could get used to: solitude.

  She flipped channels and landed on the news. A ticker beneath an overly made up news anchor was storm-focused. Fantine sat up and read. “Fuck me.” The gist of it was clear as day. State of Emergency. She dug into her pockets and fished her phone out. Dialed Aleksei.

  He picked up in a single ring. “Yes?”

  “You see this craziness about the storm?”

  Silence. “I told you about that before,” Aleksei said.

  “Well, yeah, but it didn’t seem that bad before. I mean, should we go tonight?” She reached over and scooped her mother’s bag up. Placed it on the coffee table in front of her. The distraction helped her get over the apprehension. She unlatched the front clasps and began emptying the satchel’s contents. A manila envelope, three knives, a lock-picking set, and a Taser. Beneath all that, another envelope with a wad of hundred dollar bills. Fantine left that alone—the amount didn’t matter.

  “Tonight?” Aleksei snorted. “Are you ready?”

  “Not really.” Fantine sighed. “Besides, I needed Pete here to go over the floorplan one more time. Can you tell him to head over soon?”

  “I have not seen him.”

  Typical. They were down to the wire and the little bastard responsible for it all was missing. “Has he at least called?”

  “No.”

  “You’re a real fucking help, Aleksei.”

  “Listen, you little cunt. This attitude, this poor imitation of your mother, it stops.”

  “Whoa, there...” Fantine sat up. She wasn’t about to let this asshole start tossing around those kinds of words her way.

  “Whoa nothing. This is a job you are going to do regardless of the help. Understood? I want my money. If I do not get it, your father dies and then you die—slowly.”

  She hung up. Didn’t have the time to deal with this bullshit macho crap. Fantine dialed her father next.

  No answer.

  She tried the nurses’ station.

  “Hello?” She recognized the voice, it was the friendly one.

  “Hi,” Fantine skipped her name. All the stress had her forgetful. “I was trying to call Jae Park. Is he around? Can you let him know his daughter is calling?”

  “One moment.”

  Fantine dug through the manila envelope. Inside were multiple fake IDs and bank account documents from multiple places. Some were even international. Different IDs for her mother, her father, and Fantine. This must have been her mother’s escape route for the family. She was smart enough to be prepared to get them the hell out of town as soon as shit went pear-shaped. Considering the bag was never used and the means of her mother’s demise, Fantine wondered if that kind of preparation was truly worth it. There was a small envelope at the bottom of the pack addressed to her father.

  Fantine opened the envelope and pulled a piece of yellow legal paper folded in four from within. It was her mother’s handwriting, though she was surprised to see how deliberate it was—so carefully written. The letter was to her father. “In case anything happens to me...” it read like a will. She apologized for getting into the life, for continuing it even after they’d squared off what Jae owed. Wait. Owed? Fantine didn’t understand. Did her mother get involved in this life for Jae? Why didn’t he tell her? What the hell did they even owe anyone? The rest of the letter apologized for teaching Fantine the ropes and letting her get into the business.

  “Miss Park?”

  Fantine forgot she was on the phone. She almost dropped it. “Oh, crap. Sorry. Um, yes?”

  “It looks like your father was signed out earlier today for an overnight visit.”

  Fantine froze. “That’s impossible.” The anger began to melt away—gave in to a cold, sudden panic. “He’s supposed to be accompanied. Who signed him out?”

  The shuffling of papers. A slow exhale of breath. “This is weird. It says you did.”

  Fantine threw the phone across the room. The movement uncontrolled. She felt her cheeks burning as she ran through the possibilities of what might be happening to Jae at this moment, and then felt a renewed fury. Aleksei. He did this. This was his insurance; where his boldness came from. The only question was what she would do next. Fantine eyed the knives and Taser on the table.

  No. She knew that path led to something worse for her father. Everything about this situation was stupid. The threats, the actions, and especially the plan. It went with the territory, though. Like her father told her, nobody became a criminal because they were smart. Sure, they got good at it, but repetition made masters of anyone—especially when it came to stealing. At the end of the day, people stole out of desperation or because it was easier than facing the real world with every other schmuck in the universe. Unfortunately, desperation never led to rational judgment.

  Fantine gathered everything. The best course—in her eyes—was to go to Aleksei now and hash everything out. She could swear loyalty—promise to get the job done. Maybe she could negotiate with what she had left over from Empire City. It was a small comfort to have that backup, even though it hurt to even think about parting with that money but if it meant Jae lived, it would be worth it. All she demanded was her father brought back to where he belonged, safe and sound. Hell, the money didn’t matter.

  Fantine gave herself one more go-over. She slipped each of her mother’s knives in a separate pocket. The smallest one went into her bra. If luck—and the prudishness of anyone she would have to stab—were on her side, she’d have a trump card. She had to laugh. The only time she’d ever used a knife for anything other than slicing food was to unscrew the back of something that needed batteries. There wasn’t much comfort in the idea of stabbing someone. Wasn’t much comfort about a damn thing. One more go over of the apartment to ensure she hadn’t forgotten anything important. With everything happening, she couldn’t shake the feeling something was missing—loose. She tried to breathe, to let herself believe that Jae was fine and that Aleksei was just doubling down to make sure she was on her best behavior. The man talked a big game, sure, but he couldn’t go that far, could he?

  Fantine continued rationalizing how and why Aleksei would kidnap her father as she got out of the apartment and locked up. She heard the footsteps behind her too late. She felt cold metal press against the nape of her neck. The Twins? Maybe Pete—some kind of weird, last ditch triple cross. She reached to her belt where the largest of her knives was holstered. A hand wrapped in cloth came into her view. It clamped over her mouth and nose. Her eyes and sinuses stung, but the discomfort didn’t last long—not when the world was too busy swimming away.

  11

  Lemon-scented cleaner. It was the first thing that hit her when she came to. The scent was strong—right at that level where something goes beyond “smells like” and shifts into “reeks of.”

  Fantine’s eyes stung. Her temples ached—an alternating beat pounded from the outside and into the very center of her head. The inside of her mouth was dry. She licked her lips—sandpaper against cracked skin. She blinked. Leaned forward. Her stomach let her know what a terrible idea that was by sending its contents onto the floor and over most of her sneakers. Now she regretted that treat from earlier.

  “Chloroform will do that to you. For that, I apologize,” the voice was familiar, “I did not have a reason to believe you would come along willingly or without difficulty and it was a long trip.”

  Fantine took a deep breath. Held back more vomit. She pulled her head up.

  The nurse, Placido, smiled down on her. “You are a terrible pickpocket, you know?”

  She laughed. “Fuck me.” Closed her eyes and settled into the hard, metal chair she was seated in. “At least you didn’t tie me up. That would have been some cartoon level crap.”

  Placido chuckled. “I have a gun. A bullet
to the leg will suffice if you try to run.”

  “Why not a bullet to the head? If you’re pissed at me for bumping you, I figure you’d end this and not scoop me up from my apartment.”

  Placido leaned towards her. With a look of disgust, he wiped the corners of Fantine’s mouth with the plastic gloves he was wearing, and quickly pulled them off into the nearby garbage. “My reasons are irrelevant, Miss Park. It is your reasons that interest me.” He stood straight and dragged another chair over. Seated himself in front of her. Slipped a .45 from his waistband and held it pointed at the ceiling. “I have so many questions.” He grinned. “A small word of warning before we begin—I also have an...anger management issue.”

  That explained his intensity. Especially when she called him by name the first time they’d met. “I got no place to go, so shoot.” Fantine rolled her eyes. “Poor choice of words. How about, ask away?”

  “I am glad you are being cooperative.” Placido undid the safety on the gun. “First, I would love to know who decided it would be wise to try to rob me.”

  Fantine watched the gun. All this time and she couldn’t remember a moment when someone pulled one for the distinct purpose of hurting her. It may not have been pointed at her there and then, but it deflated something inside of her all the same. Her brain told her to fight—to rail against this new idiot in the ever-present parade of assholes that was her life. “There are a few of them.”

  “Names. Please.” He brought his lips to her ear. “I recommend clarity and accuracy. You are not the only one in danger here.” Placido nodded to Fantine’s left.

  She turned her head. There was a small, two-seater couch. Her father, Jae, sprawled out on it. She let out a yelp. “Oh my God. Oh my God.”

  Placido shushed her. Placed his free hand on her thigh. “Easy, easy.” He gave her a smile. “Provide the information and he will be fine. I am not the type to hurt an enfeebled, old man.” He waved his gun at her, a “go on” gesture. “Please answer me. I am a man of my word.”