by Naomi West
“Your father was Crash Collins,” he says, sitting down on the grimy gray floor, spreading his legs out in front of him like a kid. “You can’t sit there and tell me I’ve got that wrong. I’ve been in this business since before you were born, whore. I know how to find out about folks’ names, addresses ... everything. So what exactly are you saying to me?”
“My father was Crash Collins,” I agree, grateful that his hand is no longer anywhere near me, but aware that he could grab me again anytime he wants. I need to keep talking, cast a word spell so that he won’t touch me again. I need to wield my words so skillfully that even he’ll be able to see past his sadism and hear me. I don’t think I have it in me, but I have to push on. “That’s true. But I don’t have access to his fortune. You need to understand that—”
“If you tell me what I need to do ever again,” he says, in a deadly casual voice, “I’m going to split you in half.”
I swallow, my spit tasting like acid, bubbling painfully in my belly. Then I nod. “Okay. I understand. What I’m trying to explain is that my dad wanted me to have a husband and a baby. He wanted it really badly. So before he died ...” I tell him about the will’s conditions.
He listens, nodding, stroking his chin. The light from the single naked bulb in the room casts his fingers on the wall, five shadows which dance like hairless tarantula’s legs. I won’t glance at them, because then I’ll start thinking about all the horrible things he’ll do with those fingers. All at once he leaps to his knees, bringing his face close to my legs. “Do you really expect me to believe you?” he asks. “You tried to play me for a fool in the car. Don’t think I’ve forgotten that. And now you’re trying to play me for a fool again. Your father would rather see you go poor, would he? He’s that desperate for his little slut to open her legs and sprout a grandson? I don’t think so. I know what overbearing parents are like, trust me, I do. But that’s a real cunt move. Was your father a real cunt?”
“I don’t know,” I whisper, voice trembling. He’s rubbing his cheek up and down my thigh, the creepiest, weirdest thing I’ve ever seen. “All I know is that I’m telling you the truth. I swear to you. I haven’t got any money!”
He smooths his face up my leg almost to my crotch, his body tensed up like a malformed dog, his head twisted and his small, mean eyes flitting from my face to my chest. “I can make you sing,” he says. “I’m good at that.”
I don’t know what to do, how to fight this man. I want to get at him some way, hurt him, scare him like he’s scaring me. But it’s hard being the tough girl when my hands are tied behind my back. The zip-ties dig into my wrists so hard that blood beads around them, like garrotes, twisting, tighter and tighter each moment. Then I start thinking about if my panic is going to make my wrists swell, and when my wrists swell the zip-ties will completely cut through my wrists, and I’ll bleed out.
“Wow.” Moretti stands up, smiling from ear to ear. “You’re having a panic attack. Interesting.”
I close my eyes and try to interrupt my train of thought. I need to derail it. But what if I really am going to bleed out here, in some dingy basement under the care of some psychopathic mafia men? What if this really is the end for me?
“What a freak,” he comments, stroking his chin. “I’m going upstairs now, Melissa. Try and get your shit together for when I return. Okay, whore?”
He prances up the stairs, leaving me in the semi-darkness. I strain at the bindings but I’m too weak and my heart is beating too fast.
“Stop it,” I whisper. The voice does not sound like mine. It sounds like a timid, defeated woman: a woman who is going to die today.
Chapter 5
Logan
I barge into the clubhouse, ears ringing with the sound of Cora’s screams, heart beating quicker than it ever has before. I’ve been in this game a decade now and I’ve never felt fear like this. Even when killing men, torturing them, riding from the cops or a rival gang, adrenaline like this has never torn through my body. I feel like I’m breaking into pieces, like each part of me could break away and fall bloody to the floor until only my heart remains, still beating fast even though it’s not attached to anything. I try and focus, try and stop myself from being so goddamn melodramatic. But I keep thinking of Cora being tortured, Cora being raped, Cora being killed.
I kick through into the bar area, where the men are getting tooled up. There’s about fifty of them in all, pumping shotguns, loading revolvers, the sound of metal on metal filling the room. Velcro tears and pops as they put on bulletproof vests. Some of them sharpen knives, the edges glinting from the electric lights. I go to the front of the room where Spider stands, near a table of my gear: a vest, a submachine gun, and a shin-length machete. It’s good to see Spider’s bald head, the spider tattoo covering it, his small mouth and his flitting yellowish eyes, never resting.
“Boss,” he says.
“How’s it looking?” I ask.
“Good, except some of the men ...” He glances up at me. “Never mind.”
“No. What is it?”
“Some of the men’ve been grumbling, well—more wondering why we’re attacking the mafia. They don’t know if it’s for a job or what.”
“Don’t tell me which men.”
Spider nods. I go about getting myself ready. If I know which men were grumbling, trying to stall the plan, I won’t be able to control myself. A job usually means some cash, or maybe some respect, or both, but this job means so much more to me. This job is like a weight on my chest, pressing my ribs into my spine, crushing my heart. Every second my mind fills with worse horrors: Cora spread-eagled on a bed, bleeding; Cora screaming as her tongue is cut out; Cora blood-eyed and gazing at me in judgment, demanding to know why I didn’t save her sooner. I load my submachine gun and look down the sights, and then spot Mom at the back of the room, sitting in the corner with a cocktail and talking with the men. She’s still in mourning; she looks like the Angel of Death come to bless—or curse—today’s business.
Spider leans across to me. “About ten men are making noises about backing out. They don’t see why they ought to—”
“This never woulda happened with the old man,” I mutter. “Can you imagine that? It’s ’cause I’m younger’n half of them, isn’t it? Maybe they see this as their chance to make a bid for my position. Or maybe they’re just chicken-shit.”
I climb onto the table and fire two rounds from my submachine gun into the roof. Plasterboard and wood flakes away, dust particles clinging to the air around me. They sting my eyes but the men are looking at me now. I reckon it’d ruin the effect if I rubbed at my face.
“I need you all to listen to me,” I call across the room. “And listen fucking closely. I reckon you’re all wondering what today is about. Maybe you think we ought to leave off the mafia. Maybe you think we ought to mind our own business if we ain’t doing them any harm.” I spot a few men nodding from the corner. I was right. They’re older, around forty and fifty, gray-haired and white-bearded. “I’m gonna tell you the truth now. There’re two reasons we’re going after these pricks. The first is that they have my fiancée.” I can’t just say girlfriend, or woman, ’cause not many men will risk their hides for a girlfriend or a woman. “They kidnapped your president’s fiancée to try and make us look weak, to try and make us look like fuckin’ cowards. They’re sitting together now, having a fine old laugh about it. What do you think’d happen if we let them keep her? Do you think they’d ever respect the Demon Riders again?” That gets through to some of them, but I read another message on other faces: so what if they have the boss’s girl? That ain’t their problem. “There’s something else, too.”
I raise the gun, watching as the men tense up, wondering if I’m going to fire it again. “Some of you know this man’s name. Moretti. And some of you know what he did to our club back in ’09. He burned this place to the fucking ground. He did that, and he’s still breathing. I would never speak ill of my old man, but I reckon it was a mistake t
hat he didn’t put Moretti in the dirt where he belongs. He should’ve killed that bastard the day he found out it was him who tried to kill us where we drink, where we plan, where we sleep when we’ve had a real tough night of it.” A few of the men laugh at that. I feel rotten for speaking badly about my dad, but it’s the only way to get through to them: replace the old with the new. “What’re we gonna do, fellas? Are we gonna stand here with our tails between our legs, or are we gonna go out there and end this now?”
The old men in the corner harden, their faces going from traitors to followers in an instant. The oldest man turns to the others, nodding, and his friends nod along with him. I jump down from the table and make for the door.
“Logan!” Mom’s voice cuts through the din.
I nod to Spider to lead the men out, and then return to Mom. “What is it, Ma?” I ask.
“Was that true?” She clasps her black-painted hands together, staring at me with wide eyes, the sort of eyes which are desperate to believe. “What you said about that girl being your fiancée, is that true?”
I watch her face for a moment, the aching emotion in it, the trembling lips, the eyes which are always a second away from brimming with tears. Her hands tremble and though her fingernails are painted skillfully, they are bitten and jagged. She stares at me like a child, desperate for me to give her some hope. But then, I don’t want to tell her something now that might not turn out to be true. Maybe Cora and I will get married one day. I’m surprised to find that the thought doesn’t seem absurd to me. But not like this; I won’t be one of those saps who’s forced into a relationship because it makes his mother happy.
“I had to tell them something,” I say. “I had to make them listen to me and follow me. No, she ain’t my fiancée. But I care about her a whole lot. I care about her more than I’ve ever cared about any other girl. I reckon that counts for something.”
“It does,” Mom says, squeezing my shoulder. “I can’t wait to meet her.”
“Then I better go save her.” I swallow, turning away. With my back to her, I say: “I’m scared, Ma. I’m scared of what’s going to happen if I don’t save her. But I’m also scared of what’s going to happen if I do. She’s a real amazing woman, the sort of woman who deserves better than me. I’m just an outlaw. She’s so much more than that.”
“I don’t want to hear that,” Mom snaps. “You’re my son, and you’re a good man. Now get out of here and stop this self-pitying nonsense.”
I nod to her, thankful. Then I rush outside and jump on my bike. “The boys found the place?” I ask Spider.
“Just got word,” he says. “It’s nearby.”
“Knew it. Let’s roll out.”
Chapter 6
Cora
After five or so minutes, Moretti and ten men come stomping down the stairs, all of them with their own bottle of whisky, all of them swaying a little as they walk, all, that is, except for Moretti, who is stone-sober and stone-cold. Moretti retreats to the back of the room, hiding in the shadows, watching with his mean, squinted eyes. A man with a bulging belly and a comb-over approaches me. The other men give him a wide berth and I guess he’s high up in the mafia. A comb sticks out of his suit pocket, and there’s a yellow stain on his collar. He smiles down at me.
“So the boss has told us what you said about not having the cash, and that seems quite funny to me, little lady. Really damn funny, in fact, since we happen to know who you are. Do we look stupid to you? Is that it? Well? Answer me! Do we?”
“No,” I mutter, leaning back as far as I can in the bindings. “None of you look stupid.”
Energy teems between these men, the type of energy I imagine teems between men before they unleash their primal side on a woman. Take the right combination of alcohol, peer pressure, one-upmanship and lust and it doesn’t take much to knock men over the edge. Comb-Over smiles at his friends and then smiles back at me.
“Aren’t you supposed to be this tough punk woman? That’s what your sort are called, aren’t you? Punks. I think that’s what my grandkid calls them. Or is it emo?”
“I think it’s emo,” a man from behind puts in.
“Maybe it’s emo, then.” Comb-Over shrugs. “But look at you. Shivering and scared. A real coward.” He kneels down, which takes about thirty seconds because he has to contend with his gut, and then places his hand on my knees, looking up at me. His lips and his eyes are moist, both as moist as each other, and his nostrils flare like a bull’s do before it charges. The men mutter amongst themselves, getting keyed up, getting ready. “I used to know a girl like you, back in high school. She had dyed hair and all that shit and everyone thought she was a freak, which she was. But I’ve always been a nice man. I showed her some attention.” All the men snigger. Several of them take drinks from their bottles. From the back of the room, Moretti smiles. “She was so grateful. She opened for me like a flower. That’s how you know it’s all just an act, because once you get punks—emos—whatever, once you get them home, they’re all the same.”
He slides his hand an inch up my leg. “I wonder what you feel like.” His tone creeps me out as much as his actions. It’s musing, as though he’d cause irreparable damage to me just for the sake of it. His meaty sausage fingers stick to my pants. I feel the moisture on my skin, seeping through.
“Wait,” I say. I need to show them that I’m tough. I need to show them that I won’t take this shit. Most of all I need to stop his hand from sliding up my leg before it’s too late. When the first domino falls, the rest will soon follow. It will be fair game then. The savor of anticipation will be spent and the men will no longer see any point in fighting their desires. They will fall on me like beasts. “Wait,” I repeat, voice firm.
Comb-Over pauses. “We’re waiting.”
“You want money? I’ve got money.”
“Where?” he asks.
“In my pocket. I’ve got a check in my pocket.”
“What good will a check do us, darling? This ain’t the Bank of America.”
“Get the check,” Moretti says.
“Fine.”
Comb-Over reaches into my pocket, taking his sweet time about it. Each movement makes me want to throw up. I feel the morning sickness rising again. With an effort I beat it back, but my cheeks feel too warm and there’s too much saliva in my mouth. I swallow repeatedly but my mouth just fills up again. He rubs his sausage fingers against my leg through my pocket, and then takes out the paycheck.
“How much?” Moretti asks in his ice-cold voice.
“Let me see.” Comb-Over squints at the check. He laughs. It starts quiet and then gets louder and louder and louder until it fills the room like the booming of a broken speaker system, hacking and coughing as well as laughing. “Eighty-nine dollars!”
The men break out in laughter, throwing their heads back and gripping their sides. One man drops his whisky bottle on the floor and doesn’t try to pick it up, just leaves it there as the rust-colored liquid spills onto the floor. I let them laugh, making no move to stop them. I’m too busy trying to fight back the sickness which continually creeps up my throat. I keep thinking about the poor baby inside of me, hiding in my belly, oblivious that his or her mother is going through this right now. Surely this could do some damage to it. Surely this is not healthy. Surely this is not something a baby should be subjected to. I can’t be sick; that’s the thing. If I’m sick, they win. If I’m sick, they’ve taken away all my strength, all my hard-won self-reliance. I’m supposed to be a shield-maiden, a warrior, a fighter, a Viking.
“Quiet.” Moretti doesn’t raise his voice, but his men fall silent at once. It’s a startling effect, all these chunky scary men going silent like they’re kids and Moretti is the teacher. “Do you think that’s funny, whore? Do you think we’re here for eighty-nine dollars? Do you think this is some kind of game? Do you think this is some kind of joke? Do you think we’re here for—” He stops, cutting off his speech as anger enters his voice. “Rough her up a little, ge
ntlemen. Show her what we think of her pathetic joke.”
They don’t hesitate. The next two minutes are probably the worst of my life. Comb-Over leaps on me, grabbing me by the shoulders and tipping the chair onto its side. I land with a thump, the force rattling through my body, causing my teeth to chatter. Then their hands are all over me, thumping me in the chest and the legs and the belly. The belly is the worst of all, but there is nothing I can do but take it. Tears sting my eyes, tears unlike any I have ever wept. They are acid, eating away at my face. I will my body to protect the little baby, praying to any god who’ll listen that he or she’ll be safe, that he or she can withstand this punishment. I fight the sickness for a while, but then the punishment is too much. I vomit all over myself, down my chin, onto the floor and onto my shirt, coughing and retching and then dry-heaving when there’s nothing more to choke up. Blood drips down my forehead from where one of their rings cuts me. I feel my eye already starting to swell.
Finally, Moretti claps his hands, and they haul me back up.
For a long time—at least it feels like that to me—I just sit there, assessing my injuries. My belly feels tight, but not fatal, not like there’s a life dying in there. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking ... The worst of it is my throat, which burns like molten lava, and my forehead, which pulses as blood drips into my eyebrows.
“Was that really necessary?” Moretti asks. “Was your little joke worth that? And this is only the beginning. So I will ask you again. Where is your money, Melissa Collins?”
“I’ve told you,” I whisper. “I don’t have it.”
“You’re going to force me to set my men on you again,” he says. “Do you understand that? Is that money really worth your life?”
“No,” I answer. “It isn’t. And if I had it, I would give it to you. But I don’t. I wish I did. Really, I do.”