“I was impressed with your baseball bat trick,” I say with a genuine laugh.
“I learned from the best.”
“Hm.”
Guinevere takes a deep breath, her mood shifting from jovial to solemn in the blink of an eye. “I’ve always wanted to know what my father does for a living. After tonight… I know for sure I don’t want anything to do with it. I’m sorry you go through it day in and day out.”
“Malloy deserved what he got.”
“I agree, but….”
I say nothing.
She continues, “I know I didn’t show it but… I was nervous, and when Miles and I came looking for you in the card club, I was certain we’d find you dead. A life like that isn’t for me. That kind of fear takes a toll on a person.”
“Listen—”
“No, you listen,” she interjects, glaring at me. “I’m trying to tell you something.” Guinevere steps closer and wraps her arms around me in a tight embrace. “Pierce. I’ve known you for as long as I can remember. You’re like the nanny who raised the kids in all those shows where the parents are horrible people.”
“How specific,” I say, my voice dry and sarcastic.
“I wanted to tell you… I’m leaving and I’m not coming back.”
I return to my silence.
Guinevere releases me and steps back. “I’m getting on the plane, but I’m not going to any of our safe houses or known locations. I’m getting on the plane, and I’m leaving for good. I don’t want to get involved with any of this. My father can handle it and, when he’s done, Jeremy can take over since that’s what he wants anyway. I’m escaping while I still can.”
“You’re not telling your father or mother where you’re going?”
“No. And you shouldn’t tell them either.”
“You know I don’t deny your father anything.”
She rolls her eyes. “I know you have a man-crush on him, but you have to promise me. I’m even ditching my phone—I planned everything out ahead of time to disappear off the grid. Well, not entirely off the grid… just far enough away that my parents won’t find me.”
“Why tell me?”
“Because… I was hoping you would join me.”
I catch my breath, a little confused by her statement. “What?” I ask, like I’m some moron incapable of mulling over the conversation in my head.
“Come with me, Pierce. Maybe not right now. But someday. When my father finally keels over. When you retire. Sometime. You don’t deserve all this. You could do better.”
“You don’t know me that well. I’m just as terrible as any other mobster. You’d be better off by yourself than with some old coldhearted killer.” I regret saying anything. I don’t like talking about myself, and the hurt look in her eye irritates me. If she wants to leave, she should just leave. I know where I’m going to die. If she wants to escape a similar fate, I applaud her.
“That kid we pulled from the card club isn’t a mole,” Guinevere states matter-of-factly. “They’re brothers. We went to save your boy toy’s brother. That’s what we did. Maybe we also got my uncle’s killer, and that’s a bonus, but we also saved some kid simply by virtue of your mercy. Now look me in the eye and tell me you’re a coldhearted killer.”
“That’s different,” I say. “You don’t understand. It’s my lies that got him mixed up in this in the first place. It’s an obligation now.”
“You could bring him with you. When you retire.” Guinevere opens her duffel bag and removes a small index card. She writes out a note with a handy pen, folds up the card, and then passes it to me. “That’s my new number. The one I’ll use once I’m out of state. Give me a call in the future? And don’t give it to my parents.”
“Fine.”
“Good-bye, Pierce. I’m going to miss you.”
I say nothing. She really does have a flair for the dramatic. She says I was her nanny, but in reality I was just some bodyguard. They aren’t the same.
Guinevere turns on her heel and gives me an energetic wave before heading off toward the airport terminals. I watch her go for quite some time before glancing at the card and realize it’s a California area code. She’s been planning on leaving for some time. I sigh. At least I did my job—one kid is safe, two to go.
Her offer weighs on me as I drag my feet back to the vehicle. I won’t leave Nick. But… maybe when he dies…. No. I shake my head. What would I even do? I have no skills other than street smarts. Right? I guess any asshole can flip a burger. But is that what I want to start doing at the age of forty? What a way to go. I might as well blow my brains out.
I throw myself into the driver’s seat with a heavy exhale. Miles and Jayden are in the back, bickering. They silence themselves as I shut the door. It’ll take another two hours to drive back to Noimore from Chicago. There isn’t much evening left.
“Pierce,” Miles says, breaking the silence. “Can we take my brother home?”
Jayden sits forward. “We can’t go! I told you already—Dad kicked me out. I’m not allowed back. Where am I even going to go?”
“We can get your things, and maybe Mom will—”
“Mom wants nothing to do with me! How many times do I have to tell you? You know it. You should’ve just let me stay with Malloy and Santiago.”
Those two won’t make plans, not acting like siblings.
“Where’s your father?” I ask Miles.
He half smiles. “Do you know that trailer park on the east side of town? Little Trees Trailer Village?”
“I know the place.”
“That’s where he lives.”
THE LITTLE Trees Trailer Village is the type of trailer park with mobile manufactured homes rather than trailer homes that hitch up to the back of a vehicle. It’s nicer than I expected, but still a white trash stereotype straight out of the movies. The streets are narrow, the houses ramshackle, and the vegetation lacking—which is ironic, given the name of the trailer park. I see more broken-down cars than I do people, but that might have something to do with the time of day. Dawn is approaching, though the sun isn’t yet visible.
The unpleasant silence of the vehicle gets to me. The radio is off, and the two brothers seem content to stare out opposite windows. I wonder what Miles is thinking. I don’t have any brothers or sisters, so his dedication is foreign to me, but it’s yet another trait I admire. He didn’t choose to have a brother, but he took up the responsibility of caring for him nonetheless. Anyone willing to take on extra responsibility is a hard worker in my book. Which reminds me of something Nick said: with hard work you have a garden; without hard work you have weeds. So it is with people.
“That’s it,” Miles intones. “The one next to the tree.”
The tree is a black, twisted oak, long since dead. It’s a corpse, nothing more, nothing less.
I pull the vehicle up and around, parking so the passenger door faces the front door of the trailer. Miles and Jayden go stiff at the sight of the house—it’s like they both stop breathing for fear they’ll stir something within. The home is a faded blue thing with steps leading up to the rickety front door. A porch light attracts all sorts of insects, and the trash piled up the side covers a few windows. Reminds me of my own home growing up.
I glance back at Miles. He stares at me and then looks away. “You can… wait here.”
“This has nothing to do with me,” I say.
“Okay. Good. We’ll be right back.”
They exit, straighten their clothes, and walk together up to the front door. Jayden takes the steps and attempts to go in, but the door is locked. He pounds on the flimsy entrance, almost knocking it off its hinges, until it flies inward. A man steps out—tall, muscular, wearing a shirt and jeans—too young to be their father, but they both respond to him with familiar tones.
“Lawrence,” Miles says. “Where’s Dad?”
“What’re you two doin’ here?” Lawrence asks, his small eyes shifting between Miles and Jayden. He has the complexion of ma
yonnaise, but his nose and face are similar to the men in front of him. If I had to guess, I would say he’s their older half brother.
“Where’s Dad?”
“He doesn’t want to see you two ever again. Beat it.”
Another man emerges from the trailer—fatter than the rest and just as pale as Lawrence. He has a two-week beard, a balding head, and a gut that holds most of his weight out in front of him. The man walks with a fighter’s confidence right up to Jayden.
“I told you that I didn’t want you here again!” the older man shouts, waking the neighbors. “If you want to act like an ungrateful piece of shit, I’m going to treat you like an ungrateful piece of shit!”
Classy.
“I just want my stuff, Dad,” Jayden says, crossing his arms over his chest. “Just give me my stuff so I can leave.”
“That’s my stuff now, boy. I took you in under my roof for all those years, and you never paid rent. All that stuff you left—I’m no storage unit! It’s mine!”
“Give it back to him so we can leave,” Miles says. “We don’t want any trouble.”
Lawrence pushes Miles and Jayden back away from the front of the house, blocking their ability to get inside. “Dad already sold it. You don’t have anything here. Now leave.”
“You sold it?” Jayden asks in disbelief. “My clothes? My things? You sold them?”
“Some of it,” their father states. “The rest I’m keepin’. For everything you owe me.”
Miles shakes his head and tenses.
His father glares. “Whatta you gonna say, boy? It looks like you got some spare cash. What’s that you’re wearing? A fancy suit? You never paid me rent either, ya know. Where’s my cut?”
“I don’t have any money,” Miles says through gritted teeth. “And this isn’t about me. Jayden wants his stuff. He doesn’t owe you a damn thing.”
“Why, you’re a lyin’ sack of shit,” Lawrence says, his enunciation the exact opposite of eloquent. He grabs Miles by the arm and shakes him—he’s at least twice Miles’s size in muscle, someone Santiago would be proud of. When he slams Miles against the trailer, I feel my blood pressure rising.
Lawrence rummages through Miles’s pockets. “You have money. Look at you!”
Jayden sits, passive, as his brother is groped for cash. The look on his face… it’s like he’s glad it’s not him getting assaulted. Miles offers no resistance and, true to his word, he has no money on him regardless. His half brother ends up empty-handed.
“No wallet?” Lawrence asks. “You’re keepin’ stuff from us, aren’tcha, faggot?”
“You were always the most ungrateful,” their father says. “You think you’re better than us? Do ya? That why you brought Jayden here? To tell him he’s entitled to his shit back? He’s not.”
Lawrence slams a fist into Miles’s gut, taking him by surprise and causing him to double over in pure unmitigated pain. Miles bites back a yell as he hits his knees. Jayden, flinching back, says and does nothing.
I’m done with this.
I step out of the car and walk around the front. I pull my firearm and tap it across the roof of the vehicle, the metal-on-metal clacking drawing everyone’s attention. They see the shiny silver of my handgun long before they take me in. I lean back against the car and shake my head.
“I’ve had enough of this,” I say. “I’ve got a schedule keep, and I don’t have time for an impromptu episode of Jerry Springer. Let the kids take their stuff.”
“Who the hell’re you?” their father barks, the fat of his gut jiggling with his outrage.
“I’m the guy with the gun.”
Lawrence takes a step away from Miles, his hands in the air. Jayden snickers to himself and runs into the mobile home, leaving his family outside to fend for themselves. Miles staggers to his feet and follows in after, but not before giving me an odd sideways glance.
I pull my pack of cigarettes and light one while I wait. Lawrence and his father keep their eyes on me, but eventually relax back into their default hostile postures. Lawrence even gets bold enough to walk a few steps toward me, always managing to stay at arm’s length. Technically I don’t have any bullets, but I’m certain I would win if it came down to a fight. His skin is a little too smooth and his hair a little too neat to be someone who gets into regular brawls.
Good-lookin’, though. He’s the kind of guy I’d love to show who the alpha of this situation is. I bet he’d be a lot more docile with a dick up his ass.
“What’re you starin’ at?” he asks.
I blow smoke in his direction. “Trash.”
He sneers and goes to say something but stops when he notices my bad eye. “Can you even see with that thing? Where’d you even get that?”
“Your mom. She’s a scratcher.”
Every verbal jab, no matter how obvious or stupid, gets him just a little angrier and just a little closer. I want him to try it. I want him to throw the first punch. I’m half tempted to just start the fight myself, but I rein it in. I’m thirty-six years old, and I should probably act like it.
The door to the trailer opens. Miles and Jayden walk out, Jayden holding a black trash bag filled with miscellaneous goods—some hard and some soft, judging by the protrusions. They both avoid looking at their older half brother and father as they jog over to the car. Miles takes the front passenger seat, and Jayden takes the back.
“You’re stealin’ my things,” their father says as I walk around to the driver’s door. “I’m gonna call the cops. I’m gonna see you’re prosecuted. I’m get my due whether you little ingrates like it or not.”
I’d like to see him try.
I start up the car and peel out onto the street, more tense and angry than I realized. I release the gas pedal from my death stomp and return to driving like a sane person. Miles and his brother, silent like they’ve been for the entire ride, remain that way. That’s fine. I don’t want to talk about their deadbeat father or abusive brother. The moment I saw Miles struggling to fight for his brother’s safety, I figured their life sucked. Assholes will be assholes. What’re you gonna do about it?
FOR ONCE in ten years, I’m happy to see the front door of my flat. The sunshine, however, is a different story. It’s too late—early?—for all this bullshit. In a few short hours I need to meet with Jeremy, and just thinking about it gets me agitated.
“Where are we?” Jayden asks, holding his black trash bag close. “I don’t want to be here.”
“Don’t make a scene,” I say.
Miles holds his brother close. “It’s an apartment. Calm down.”
I unlock the door and shuffle inside, sore and ready to bury myself in bed. Miles mutters things to his difficult little brother as I flip on the lights and throw open the refrigerator door. Nothing but a jar of olives. Fuck.
“I can get something from the corner store,” Miles says, tracking my movements.
I pull my wallet and toss him a stack of bills—way too much for a bag of food—but I don’t care. I want something to eat. Anything will do.
Jayden glances around my apartment with greedy eyes. I see him stare at my television, take stock of my sound system, and crane his head to glance down the hall toward my bedrooms. The kid might have a drug problem—druggies are always lookin’ for things to pawn in order to get quick cash.
I walk over to the hall closet and rummage through a box on the floor. I pull a pair of handcuffs as cold as the wind outside. Miles watches me finger the cuffs, and he flushes hard. I stifle a laugh.
“They’re not for you,” I mutter.
“What’re they for, then?” he asks, his tone indignant.
“I don’t trust your brother. I’m gonna lock him in the guest room.”
“You didn’t do that to me.”
“Yeah, well, when I met you it was different. You were weak and injured. When I met your brother, he was shooting at me with a gun.” I motion to my arm. The bullet grazed my bicep, leaving a long slash through the skin and muscle.
“He almost got me. You understand why I don’t trust him, right?”
Miles relaxes. He flashes the money and shrugs. “I’m gonna get some food. Hopefully my brother isn’t too difficult.” He hustles from the apartment, and I suspect he’s hungry as well. I probably should have stopped to get something to eat when we drove through Chicago….
The front door slams shut, startling Jayden. I stare at the kid and then motion to the back. “I have a spare room.”
“You do?”
“Yeah. You’ll sleep there and we’ll deal with you tomorrow.”
I guide the kid back. He holds his bag close, and I let him keep it. We walk into the spare bedroom, and Jayden takes everything in. It’s nothing special—just a bed, a nightstand, a dresser, and an empty closet. The dresser has a collection of sex toys and lubricant—hopefully the kid doesn’t get too curious.
I shove him into the bedroom and swing the handcuffs around my index finger. The frightened animal look in the kid’s eyes is unexpected. He gulps down air and backs away from me, shrinking into himself and bunching his shoulder around his neck.
Uncertain of his fright, I walk over and push him toward the bed. He throws his bag at me and jumps up onto the mattress, stuffing his back into the corner of the room. “Get away from me!”
I can’t stop myself from chuckling. What’s this kid’s malfunction?
“Get down here,” I say. “Put your hand by the headboard.”
“Fuck you!”
I’m really not in the mood for games. I exhale, grab his leg, and yank back. He kicks and thrashes as he falls back onto the mattress, landing one mild blow to my chin. I grit my teeth and wrestle him to the headboard, taking the cuffs and fastening one around his wrist and the other to the metal post.
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