Then again, my mind grinds to a halt on the fact that someone in the Cobras doesn’t want me dead. Why? Maybe it’s because they want to do it themselves….
“Did you kill Malloy?” Santiago asks, ripping me from my thoughts.
“You know I did,” I reply. “Why bother asking?”
“We haven’t found his body. You never know for sure until then.”
“Yeah, well, I threw him in the river while he cried like the bitch he was.”
“Fine. I didn’t like him much anyway. Now, tell me, where’s Rodger gonna go?”
I shake my head. “Why’re you so concerned about Rodger? He’s barely involved in reality, let alone gang politics.”
“That’s the wrong answer.”
Santiago busts me good in the side. I yelp and whimper, unable to curl my body around the injury. He hits like he’s aiming to get to my heart through my stomach—he says he’s not going to kill me, but I may die regardless if he keeps that up. Even with his off-arm, he’s a force unto himself. With gasps for air, I wait for another hit. It doesn’t come. Santiago lets me recover a bit…. He’s done this before.
“Where’s Rodger gonna go?” he repeats.
“I don’t know,” I answer, earnest in every regard. It took me forever to find him in the first place. He could be anywhere. I didn’t even get the chance to talk to him about his future plans or the fact I was supposed to take him to the airport so he could ditch town. I’m at a loss in regards to his whereabouts, no matter how hard Santiago hits me.
Perhaps he can tell I’m truthful—he seems to take the information and contemplate other questions.
“Where’s Guinevere?”
What? Why would he be asking about Guinevere? Why’re they so concerned with the Vice kids? Especially the two who are the least involved?
“Don’t you mean, where’s Jeremy?” I ask.
Santiago rotates his shoulder and strikes me hard across the left side of my head. He busts the skin open over part of my eye socket and blood weeps in streams down my face, neck, and chest. I’d be worried about my eye if he had struck the right side, but my cataract eye doesn’t do anything for me anyway. I might go blind on that side, but I expected it to happen at some point.
With the room spinning, I hang my head and attempt to gather my thoughts. Santiago hits me again, this time at the base of my ribs. Agony flares through my gut and into my spine. My vision goes black, and I attempt to count my breaths. Everything hurts. I can’t think straight. Hot blood dribbles across my mouth. The urge to vomit is strong.
Santiago says something, but I can’t distinguish the words from the white noise buzzing in my ears. He starts yelling and I go limp—my full weight suspended on my wrists.
“—that it?” I hear him ask, his voice fading into my consciousness. “Out already?”
I crane my head up and stare with my one good eye. “I’m still here….” I take in a deep breath and regret it. Inhaling is painful. “You might as well finish it,” I drawl. “I don’t know where the damn kids are… and I need the rest anyway.” I spit blood onto his T-shirt and jeans, half doing it to provoke him and half doing it to get the copper taste out of my mouth.
Santiago offers me a smile before turning to the other two goons. “Take his toy and secure him with the others. I’ll take care of this myself.”
The thugs, dejected, turn on their heel and take Miles along with them. For a moment Miles struggles, but they overpower him and continue. I’m glad—there’s no reason Miles should get involved in the situation—and once the door shuts I feel myself relax despite the ongoing ache radiating from my injured ribs, organs, and face.
Santiago reaches into my pants pocket, and I grit my teeth.
What the hell?
My heart rate returns to normal the moment he withdraws my cigarettes and lighter. He pulls out a single stick and places it between my bloody lips. I offer a restrained smile as he clicks on the lighter and holds it out. With unsteady movements I lean forward and inhale.
The familiar taste and pleasure eases my pain. Maybe he’s doing this to make the next punch hurt even more, but I don’t care. I savor the tobacco and exhale smoke through my nose.
For an extended moment, we sit in peace. I regain enough of my strength to stand back on my tiptoes and take the weight off my wrists. Using my lips I rearrange the cigarette and glance up at the other man.
“What is this?” I ask, my voice just above a whisper.
“You didn’t kill Caesar or Rio,” Santiago states. “You could’ve. It wouldn’t have taken much.”
That’s all he says, and I give him a halfhearted nod. The two guys in the bathroom of the card club got lucky—I didn’t feel like wasting them even though I should have. I guess it’s to my good fortune, but now I know why Santiago sent the others away. He doesn’t wanna look soft. He had to throw a few punches while everyone watched so they’d think I’d get it worse once they left.
He returns the cigarettes and lighter to my pants pocket. I like Santiago. He’s a good man.
After a couple seconds, he motions to my left eye. “What’s up with your thing?”
I force a single laugh. “My body hates me. Maybe it’s hereditary.”
“It’s not a scar?”
“Nah.”
“My boys on the street say Big Man Vice took a piece of your eye for failing him big.”
“Your boys on the street make up bullshit because they’ve got too much free time on their hands.”
He relaxes a bit and chuckles.
“Why aren’t they going to kill me?” I ask, hoping the man will have loose lips.
Santiago shrugs.
I guess I’m out of luck. “Thanks for this,” I say. Miles has rubbed off on me. Thanking people always felt cheap before—now I associate it with his good nature.
“I can’t wait till this turf war is over,” Santiago says with a heavy sigh. “Then we can all start doin’ real business.”
I nod along with the statement but stop once the words sink in. He wants the turf war to be over… so we can all start doing business? If the turf war ends, doesn’t that mean one of the competing factions got the shaft? We can’t all do business if one side is dead.
Despite the contradiction in his statement, I remain silent. Maybe he’s speaking generally, or maybe he knows things I don’t. Either way, arguing with the man is low on my agenda. Instead I enjoy his quiet company and nurse my cigarette until I get down to the butt. Santiago pulls it from my mouth and stomps it out.
“Time’s up,” he says. “You’re gettin’ locked up with the others.”
“You gonna punch me one more time for good measure?”
“Yeah. And rip up your shirt a little.”
“This is an expensive shirt.”
“It’s already got blood on it.”
I force an awkward shrug. “Fair enough. Get it over with quick.”
Santiago telegraphs a heavy swing. “I suggest you lean into it.”
SANTIAGO HIT me so hard I forgot cursive.
I wake with a pounding in my head worse than any hangover I’ve experienced, and my lips stick together with dried blood. With each passing moment, I realize more and more of my body is on fire—everything hurts and even the slightest of movements triggers a domino effect of agony. I groan and shift around in my seat. I’m tied to a chair with coarse rope, my hands behind my back and my head unsupported.
My neck has a crick in it that runs as deep as Lake Superior. I straighten my back and stare out ahead of me. I’m in a room, a smaller space with old electronics, desks, and empty boxes. The dim lighting is terrible for my vision, but I overlook that the moment I realize I can still see from my right eye. Santiago may have punched me hard, but he didn’t completely mangle my sight. It gives me a small bit of relief despite my situation.
The windows have thick blankets hanging from the curtain rods, blocking out the natural light. It makes it hard to know where I am in the city.
I perk up at the sound of Miles’s voice. “Yeah?” I say, my throat sore.
“Are you okay?”
“I’ve had better days.”
Someone grips my hand and squeezes down. I stiffen and force myself to take stock of the area. Miles is tied to a chair behind mine, our backs to each other, and our hands secure in the same location. He strokes my knuckles with his own, but neither of us can turn out of our chair due to the restraints.
I spot Donny on the other side of the room. He’s handcuffed to a desk with half his face busted up and a hole in his arm—most likely a stabbing, but I’m not close enough to say for sure. He takes in long, deep breaths as he situates himself up against the wall. I’d say he looks a mess, but it’d be hypocritical, considering the state I’m in.
The door to the room busts open, and I jerk my attention toward it, regretting the movement mere fractions of a second after. I soldier through the pain to get an eyeful of the newcomer.
“Jayden,” Miles gasps. “What’re you doing here?”
Miles’s brother walks into the room with a newfound swagger he didn’t have the last time I saw him. He also has a dreamy quality to his eyes, like he’s not focusing correctly, and even in my fucked-up state, I can tell he’s high. Jayden crosses his arms over his chest and juts his head up high.
“Well, what do we have here?” he says. “The guys were right. You did come along with Pedo-Enforcer.”
Three muscle-bound meatheads lumber into the cramped room after Jayden. They don’t leave the proximity of the door, but they make their presence known with a tap to their knuckles and the jingle of wallet chains. I don’t recognize any of them, but I suspect they’re low on the totem pole if their assignment involves working with Jayden. Most of them look high as well—they’re goons of the worst kind, easily controlled by substances and lacking any real skill.
“Jayden, what’s going on?” Miles asks.
Jayden ambles over, his stride wide and his smile wider—the look doesn’t suit him. He’s the kind of guy who revels in whatever little power he’s given, and it comes off as a pretentious attempt to be a tyrant. I’d laugh, but I think I’m physically incapable at the moment.
“Things are different now, Miles,” Jayden says. “Surprised to see me?”
“Where have you been? I’ve looked all over for you.”
“Why? So you could take me back to Mom?”
“Listen, I think—”
“No, you listen!” Jayden draws a gun from a side holster, and the Cobras in the room chortle at the confrontation. “I don’t want you to help me, got it? I can take care of myself.” He waves the handgun around with a weak grip and an unsteady wrist. I doubt he knows what he’s doing.
Miles sighs.
Jayden uses his other hand to pull his cell phone out of his pocket. With a giddy laugh, he shuffles through the contents and then flashes the screen at Miles. I get a fleeting look and see a handful of the pictures on display. They’re not pleasant—a half-second glance and I could see blood in every photo—but I recognize the area in the background.
The Little Trees Trailer Village… where their father and half brother, Lawrence, make their home.
“You keep telling me stay in school and go back to Mom, but what good will that do me, huh?” Jayden asks, his question rhetorical and his tone condescending. “Who gives a fuck about school? School didn’t help me get back at Dad and Lawrence for all the terrible shit they gave us. But now look! C’mon! Get a good look!”
Miles remains quiet as he turns away from the phone. I can’t see his face, but in my mind’s eye I see him upset by the imagery. He’s never been one for overt violence and heavy brutality. He’s got too much empathy for that.
“The Cobras did that,” Jayden says, holding his gun sideways like a “gangster” and pointing it down at Miles. “Why aren’t you looking?”
“Jayden… how could you?”
“They deserved it! C’mon, look!”
He plays a video clip, this time zooming in on his gut-heavy father and out-of-control half brother. Lawrence, though large and fighting like an untrained junkyard dog, is beaten by a group of men until he hits the ground. They stomp on him afterward, laughing the entire time until finally exhausting themselves.
Jayden smiles. “We busted up Dad’s house and took all the drugs he’s been cookin’. We hit him hard and where it hurts.” He ends the video and tucks his cell phone away. He’s the literal definition of smug as he says, “They’re not gonna fuck with me anymore, Miles. Not me. Not ever again. Don’t you get it? I have everything I want.”
“Really?” Miles asks. “Don’t you realize you’ve turned into Dad? Is that really everything you wanted? To be just like him?”
Jayden catches his breath on his next word and goes silent. The audience of Cobras sits idle, watching the spectacle with keen eyes. I suspect they want to see someone get hurt bad—especially someone who can’t defend themselves—but I don’t know for sure. Their grins are a little too sadistic to be waiting around to help someone, that’s for sure.
All I want is for everyone to be quiet. Every word yelled is another word drilled into my head, thanks to my splitting headache. I swear I can feel the reverberations of the slightest noise right down to my spine.
“Y-ya know what?” Jayden says, regaining his voice. “Fuck you, Miles. You’re just some doormat who doesn’t get anything from life. No one wants you. No one wants your shitty life advice that even you don’t take. You think you know what’s best for me? You’re just trying to hold me back!”
I know the words hurt Miles, even if he doesn’t admit it through his actions.
I lace my fingers between his. No matter what anyone says, I have his back. I want him. If everyone else is too fucking stupid to see his worth, it’s their problem, not mine.
Miles curls his fingers around mine and remains quiet.
“What?” Jayden asks. He throws his arms up wide and postures like a punk. “You got nothin’ to say? Of course not.”
“Are you done?” I ask, cutting into the conversation and eliciting chuckles from the men by the door. “We get it. You’ve got a short-man’s complex and unresolved daddy issues. We’ve all got troubles, kid. You ain’t special.”
Jayden shifts his full attention to me, even going so far as to walk around to the front of my chair and wave his gun in my face.
“What’s that?” he asks, his words slurred with emotion and exaggerated through drugs. “Look who’s handcuffed now. Look who’s gonna get what’s coming to him.”
“It’s a small convoluted world,” I quip.
“I don’t gotta take anything from you.”
He smashes his heavy handgun into the side of my face. I lose a second or two of reality before regaining my composure. Everything spins. I’m pretty sure the words Colt Rail Gun are imprinted on my cheek, but I don’t give a shit. Dazed and light-headed, I offer the kid a smirk.
“Maybe you should get one of your buddies to handle this—ya know, just like you did with all your other problems.”
He hits me again, this time twice as hard and three times as reckless. I feel a tooth go loose as blood gushes from my broken gums and lip, but I spit out what I can and ignore it. I’m numb from the pain and on the verge of full-blown shock. Anything to get him away from Miles—this kid isn’t worth all the effort and trouble Miles has offered, and I’ll be damned before I see Jayden hurt him further.
Jayden points his gun at my forehead, and I close my eyes. I don’t doubt he’ll pull the trigger.
I hear the sounds of a scuffle and open my eyes to see the Cobras thugs fighting amongst each other. They rip the gun from Jayden’s hand and push him back.
“What did we say?” one guy shouts. “No one’s supposed to shoot him.”
“He’s a creep and child molester!” Jayden yells. “Kill this sack of shit! Kill him!”
The other guys shake their heads and point to the d
oor. “Get out. He’s supposed to be alive for Diver. You’re not helping anything.”
“What about my brother?”
“What about him? You wanna shoot him instead?”
Through my pain I ice over. Would Jayden shoot Miles? He’s not thinking straight. I don’t know what he’s on, but it’s enough to mess with his head. He could reason himself into the situation—all addicts have their own twisted logic that makes zero sense to the sober.
“I want him in the Cobras,” Jayden says.
My body settles back into its state of torment as I realize the situation won’t turn messy. The Cobra thugs shrug and continue to shove Jayden toward the door, even as he gestures to his brother.
“You know the rules,” one guy says. “Take it up with Diver.”
“He’s my brother. He should be in the Cobras.”
“We heard you. Take it up with Diver.”
They exit the room, slamming the door behind them once everyone is out. It’s just me, Miles, Donny, and a whole host of discarded junk. I’m incapable of formulating a plan—Donny and I are half beaten to death anyway—and I wonder what this Diver guy has to say to me.
Diver?
The name rings a bell, but my brain is scrambled from the myriad of blows to the head. I focus on my lap and concentrate. Behind me Miles struggles with the restraints, but I push all distractions from my mind.
Diver….
I remember and smile to myself. Malloy mentioned the name in the middle of our interrogation. Diver is the man who receives all the insider information from the Vice family turncoat. Which is how they knew where Mikey would be the night of his murder….
The more I ponder the situation, the more I realize a lot of crazy bullshit is starting to add up. The Vice family and the Cobras have been exchanging blows at a rapid rate. It’s not just someone in the Vice family feeding information—it’s like there’s someone in the Cobras who’s also leaking info. But why? Are the two informants independent of each other, or are they both working to destroy the organizations from within?
Vice City Page 19