Vice City

by S. A. Stovall

  Once clean I exit the shower stall, rub myself down with a towel, and wrap it around my waist. I open the door and flinch back, startled by Miles standing a few feet away. He’s dressed in the slacks and shirt I lent him, holding a plate full of crackers with a side of painkillers.

  “Breakfast?” he quips, an eyebrow raised.

  “You really slaved over this, I see.”

  “It was either this or a jar of olives. I recommend going grocery shopping more than never.”

  I scoop up the pills and throw them back with a cough. Miles hands me a glass of water. He thought of everything. I wash down the clunky medicine and shove a few crackers in my mouth for good measure.

  Miles watches me walk to the closet, his gaze on everything but mine. He catches me staring and runs a hand through his black hair.

  “You weren’t kidding about the scars,” he says.

  I glance down at my body and shrug. “Most of them are from knife fights. A few are bullet scars. This one here on my forearm is from a fucking tin can. Goddamn can burst open when I used a can opener—the lid sliced right through my skin.”

  “You sound like you hate that scar the most.”

  “It’s one thing to get a scar from a fight. It’s another thing to get a scar because baked beans.”

  Miles lets out a laugh and smirks. “All right. I can see that.”

  I drop the towel, grab myself a new pair of boxers and slacks, and pull on a black button-down. Miles watches the entire time—it gets my blood going—but I know I’m not going to be able to perform in my barely awake state. I chortle to myself as I finish up the buttons and fasten on my shoulder holster.

  “What?” I ask. “You’ve never seen a man get dressed before?”

  “I have.” He tears his attention away and stares at the ceiling. “Ya know. The Internet. And occasionally in the bathrooms at this one club downtown. I never touched any of them. I always got to thinkin’ about my dad and older brother. They would… get angry… if they ever found out.”

  I pull on a pair of socks and then my shoes. Miles fidgets for a moment before returning his attention to me.

  “So… did you ever have difficulty telling people about your preferences?”

  “Listen,” I intone. “I almost got shot last night. And a few nights before that. And a few weeks before that. When you live a life on the streets, death is behind every door. I don’t have the time, or fucks, to give about what other people might think of me.”

  “That’s… a good way to live. I’ll keep it in mind.”

  “Good. Because I’m not doling out this advice for my health.”

  We exit my room, and Miles gets introspective. I still can’t believe I asked him into my bedroom. With a shake of my head, I dispel the thoughts. I pull my cell phone and call each of Nick’s children. He has three: Rodger, Guinevere, and Jeremy. Rodger and Jeremy don’t answer—no surprise—but I leave them voice mails about the situation. Jeremy is a done deal—he’ll meet with me tomorrow at his normal spot—but Rodger is a different story. The kid, despite being the oldest, handles himself like an eight-year-old with a no-spending-limit credit card. He could be anywhere.

  I dial Guinevere and, to my surprise, she answers.

  “Hello?” she says, her voice so singsong it deserves to be in its own Disney movie.

  “Where are you?” I demand.

  “Pierce? Is this about my father? I saw the news.”

  “Did he die?” I can’t stop myself from asking. A part of me seizes up with genuine concern. Did he die after I left? Did his own doctor do him in?

  “What’re you talking about?” she asks. “All I saw was that his nightclub came under attack. Why would he be dead?”

  “He got shot.”

  “Really?”

  “Where are you?”

  Her end is silent for a moment. “If it were anyone else,” she drawls, “I would think they were out to get me. I’m at the country club, Pierce. I assume my father wants you to protect me?”

  “I’m going to escort you out of town. Someplace safe.”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  “GIRLS, THIS is Pierce. Pierce, meet the girls.”

  A parade of giggles and hellos greet me as I approach the table. The Noimore Country Club, nestled in the richest district of the city, sits next to a full-sized golf course and Olympic regulation swimming pool. The outdoor seating, beautiful in the glory of the late morning sun, is occupied by Guinevere and her girlfriends. I’ve known her almost her entire life—the women around her are nothing more than this week’s fling. Guinevere doesn’t make long-term friends.

  “Hello,” I say. My ears pulse with pain, and my headache has yet to fully recede. I spot their mimosas and contemplate grabbing one, but I decide against it.

  Unlike Jeremy, who hit every stick as he fell out of the ugly tree, Guinevere inherited her mother’s poise and her father’s commanding aura. She sits at the head of the white table, a large-brimmed hat covering half her face and a tight sundress sculpted to fit her body.

  “You got here quick,” she says, not bothering to stand. “And you brought company. Who is he?”

  The women at the table turn their collective heads to face Miles. It makes the man uneasy. He goes to open his mouth, but I want this over with as fast as possible. Knowing him, he’ll shake each of their hands, address them all by their last name, and take a seat for a spot of tea.

  “His name is Miles,” I say. “Are you ready to leave?”

  “Miles? I don’t remember a Miles being on my father’s payroll. Tell me—is he your newest squeeze?”

  The question, though audacious, is exactly what I would expect from Guinevere. She’s always been fascinated by my sexual proclivities and has no filter for her thoughts. The other women, dressed in similar fashion to Guinevere and in every pastel color that Easter has to offer, whisper among themselves and coyly point between myself and Miles.

  “I’m showing the kid the ropes.”

  She smiles. “I miss your last fling. He was so… bulky. Muscles to be proud of. Miles needs more meat on his bones. He’s just wiry. Perhaps you’ll take him to the gym as a part of showing the ropes.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind. Now can we go?”

  “Aren’t these your father’s enforcers?” one shrill woman asks Guinevere. “Don’t they have to do whatever you say? Why is he ordering you around?”

  Another woman gives a hmpf and nods. “He’s so rude. Brunch isn’t even over yet.”

  “He’s so tough,” the smallest of the group says with a giggle.

  I roll my eyes. They think they’re safe in the country club, but I’ve known men who have gone missing from the golf course on more than one occasion. If some Cobras thug wanted to kill Guinevere, he wouldn’t have much trouble scaling the fence and shooting her. Doesn’t she understand she’s in trouble? This is all a waste of time.

  The woman closest to Guinevere holds up her mimosa. “Order them to make out,” she suggests, her voice slippery with alcohol. The surrounding gaggle clap, nod, and giggle in delight.

  I need to nip this bullshit in the bud. “I don’t make out with my flings.”

  “Tell that to drunk you,” Miles quips.

  I wheel on him, and he flinches back. “Not another word,” I mouth through clenched teeth. He offers a half smile and a nervous laugh, but I just glare. I’m not here to discuss anything about my life—Miles needs to learn to keep personal things private.

  Guinevere laughs into her hand. She stands, silencing the group. “Excuse me, ladies. Pierce isn’t a patient man. I’d hate to see what he’ll do if you continue to pester him.”

  Despite her jovial tone, the women at the table grow pale and ever quieter. So Guinevere told them about my preferences and my history of violence. I’m surprised they had the testicles to try my patience at all. Eh. I don’t care. I’m in no mood for anything—entertainment or violence. I just want the job done.

  “Good-bye, Guinevere,�
� one lady murmurs.

  The others nod to the sentiment, but their attention remains on me. Guinevere flips back her black hair and waves, not even bothering to address any of them by name. Miles holds out his hand, and Guinevere takes it. “I’m Miles Devonport,” he says, gently squeezing her knuckles. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Vice.”

  She lifts an eyebrow and gives him an amused smile. “I like this one, Pierce. He’s more articulate than the last.”

  “Doesn’t have a six-pack, though,” I drawl, taking Miles by the shoulder and pushing him toward the door. He glances back at me with a confused, somewhat indignant expression.

  “Don’t fool yourself, Pierce,” Guinevere says, taking my arm and walking toward the entrance. “If you wanted abs, you would still be with the meat machine you were with years ago. I think you like a little repartee.”

  Girl knows me too well. I blame Nick. He doesn’t trust any of his other enforcers to protect Guinevere—and it has everything to do with me fucking men instead of women. I’ve watched Guinevere since she was a kid, and now she thinks she knows everything about me. It gets insufferable at times.

  “Do you have a vehicle here?” I ask her.

  “I have one of my father’s tactical cars. He insisted. It’s parked in the club’s garage.”

  “Perfect.”

  Miles opens the door for Guinevere and me, which gets her smiling wider. “Why are we changing cars again?” he asks.

  “You gotta avoid recognizable patterns if you’re gonna work the streets,” I say. “You don’t want the cops to catch on, you don’t want the Cobras to know your routine, and, most of all, some missions require vehicles with protection.”

  “Oh good, another chance to get shot at. I was disappointed I missed out on the last time.”

  “Smartass,” I mutter, unable to think of a retort in my current state of headache.

  I’m sure Guinevere is amused, but I trudge on, unconcerned. The country club workers hover close by. They don’t get too close, not while I’m around, but Guinevere is a high roller—they don’t want to disappoint her. They have orders to see to her every whim. When we near the garage, the lanky security guard stands at attention.

  “José,” I say to him.

  José relaxes and nods. We walk through the door and into the multicar parking facility.

  “Do you know everyone?” Miles asks. “I swear you seem to know everyone’s name….”

  “You should remember people’s names. It’s a simple sign of respect. They’ll be a lot more copacetic and reasonable, then.”

  Guinevere tilts her large hat to the side and glances up at me. “Wow. You’re not just showing him the ropes; you’re training him to be a little gentleman.”

  “Everything I’ve taught him is just basic information he needs if he’s going to be working for the Vice family.”

  “You never answered that meat locker of a man you were dragging around before.”

  “That’s because he was more a trained dog than a man. He couldn’t string four words together without losing his train of thought. Remembering people’s names? I’m surprised he knew his own half the time.”

  The “tactical vehicle” Nick provided his daughter isn’t as nice as a limo, but it’s damn close. The windows are tinted, the siding is reinforced, and the insides are skinned in all the most expensive and comfortable animal hide one can obtain. I hold my hand out for the keys. Guinevere hands them over and heads for the back door. Miles opens it for her.

  “Ma’am,” he says.

  “I hope you stay with the family,” Guinevere replies as she gets situated in the back. “I appreciate a man with class.”

  Miles shuts the door, and I grab his collar before he walks around to the passenger side. He stops and stares at me, confusion in his stance.

  “You fuck women?” I ask.

  “N-no.”

  “Then don’t make it look like you’re sniffin’ around Big Man Vice’s daughter.” I pull him close. “You’re mine for now. Got it?”

  His honeyed skin grows red. He forces a laugh. “Right. Of course. I said I’d do whatever you say.” He leans in close, hesitates for a fraction of a second, then nibbles my neck, getting my blood hot the very next moment. I’m ready to stop everything and take him, but the feeling is fleeting. I quickly regain my senses.

  Miles pulls away, still flushed, and I let go of his shirt. I guess I shouldn’t be too surprised with his brazen moves—he is the one who rewarded me with a blowjob without asking. Neither of us has had a chance for relief, apparently. I’m gonna get a case of blue balls unless I fuck him soon.

  Burying my lustful thoughts for later, I open the driver’s door and get in. If I take Guinevere to Chicago, she can take one of the family planes to Canada. She can stay in a hotel—plenty to choose from—and change every few nights, at least until everything here blows over.

  I pull out of the garage and speed out of the country club, despite the protests of the staff. The heavy-duty car—some sort of Ford—handles surprisingly well. I swerve through traffic without the tiniest hint of trouble. The downtown area is packed, as always, and I steer us down some back roads to avoid the traffic. Guinevere lights herself a cigarette, and the smell gets me jonesing for the same thing. I light myself a smoke.

  Within seconds the car is filled with the sweet, sweet cloud of cancer. Miles wrinkles his nose but doesn’t complain. His discomfort grates on me, however. I snuff out my cigarette and roll down the window. He gives me an odd sideways glance but, again, says nothing.

  Right as I pull the car onto the corner of the red-light district, I catch sight of a man and slam the brakes. Miles and Guinevere lurch forward, their seat belts trapping them in place.

  “Pierce?” Guinevere shrieks. “What was that?”

  “Shh,” I hiss, pointing. Miles follows my gesture, and he sees it too.

  Across the street, heading toward the hotels, is a scrawny guy in a heavy coat and boots. He’s unremarkable in every regard but his neck. The ugly tattoo, which I can see despite a bad eye, is of a gnarly set of tits, the head of the woman up by the man’s ear. He walks with a gang of four others, laughing and talking.

  Guinevere cranes her head to get a better view. “Who is that?”

  “The guy who shot Mikey at the Getaway Inn.”

  “Uncle Mikey?”

  “Yeah. Uncle Mikey.”

  She sits back and takes a drag of her cigarette. “Well? What are you waiting for? Sideswipe the fucker. No one kills a member of the Vice family and walks free. Kill him, Pierce.”

  I chuckle. The car could easily plow the man over and keep going. I bet it’s even designed to do so. We could always shoot from the windows, for good measure. This part of town doesn’t have many cops, and all the cameras are blacked out or ripped down thanks to the prostitutes, not to mention our tinted windows block a good view. We could probably get away with killing the guy in broad daylight. Him and the rest of his crew, if I angle the car just right.

  The man and his gang turn down a narrow road, putting themselves even farther away from prying eyes or crowds.

  Cars honk behind me. I pull forward and stop at the nearest red light, keeping an eye on my target. Miles stares for a long moment, tense and silent. Once the light is green, I flip around in order to get a good long running start….

  Miles grabs the wheel and jerks it to the side, throwing the car into a small side street. I pry his hand away and, again, slam on the brakes. He meets my gaze as though he’s seen a ghost.

  “What the fuck was that?” I ask. “Start talking.”

  Guinevere glares at me through the rearview mirror. “Pierce. What’s going on? Is your protégé having second thoughts about serving the Vice family, or is he just suicidal?”

  Miles exhales. “It’s my brother,” he murmurs under his breath, low enough that I suspect Guinevere can’t hear. “He’s here.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  I BITE back a slew of choice words. B
itching isn’t going to help us.

  Guinevere narrows her eyes, waiting for my explanation. Miles offers nothing more—he doesn’t even look at me—he just stares down at the floorboard. It’s on me to solve this whole situation.

  I face Guinevere. “Miles has a point. He said we shouldn’t risk getting run down by Cobras gangbangers. They infest this area, obviously. If we’re reckless, they might swarm us. Even chase us down in their cars.”

  In reality I suspect if we did a hit-and-run, there wouldn’t be anyone to follow us, but there’s technically a chance that it could happen. All I need is to convince Guinevere of a different plan that doesn’t involve killing Miles’s idiot brother.

  “And?” Guinevere snaps. “What’re you trying to say? What’re you going to do about it?”

  “We’ll follow them from a distance,” I say, cutting off Miles before he gets a word in edgewise. “Do some recon and then get the guy when he drops his guard.”

  “Sounds like a waste of time.”

  “Your father was never prone to making rash decisions. I submit to you that it worked for him.”

  She mulls over the comment and nurses her cigarette. “I suppose I’m not really involved in the family business. You would know best. Very well. We’ll do recon.”

  “We?” I repeat.

  “Yes. I’m invested now. Before I go running out of town, I want to see this man brought to justice.”

  The mention of justice gets me thinking. “Miles. Call the detective. We’ll follow the gangbangers and report their location to her. We can make some bullshit up about them having drugs and guns—they probably do anyway—and get a whole nest of Cobras at once without getting our hands dirty. If Detective Ambers doesn’t ask for your assistance after that, I don’t know what will convince her.”

  Miles gives me a pleading look as he says, “But then they’ll all go to prison. I mean, some of them could have just been released and, if they go back, they’ll be there for years.”