The King Brothers Boxed Set

by Lisa Lang Blakeney

  Me: I know I can handle it, but it's really a two-man job.

  It doesn't happen often but the words situation and two-man job have always been code between us that there's a violent situation to deal with.

  Camden: You've got this. I'm not worried.

  Me: What happened to the mantra you've been preaching since Dad died? About not making mistakes.

  Camden: Are you going to make a mistake?

  Me: No, you condescending asshole, but best believe that I'm going to kick your ass when I'm finished with this shit storm tonight.

  Camden: Good luck with that, little brother. Gotta go. Duty calls.

  Me: You're so pussy whipped.

  Camden: Indeed:)

  I don't even bother telling Cam about how I've managed to arrange for us to get paid extra for this job or more importantly about the possibility of us having a long-lost brother. I decide the news of both can wait until I know for sure whether Newman's intel is real, because how could we have possibly missed something as huge as having another brother? I'm pretty sure we couldn't have, but I'm willing to allow this thing to play out however it does.

  "You're not in the shower yet?"

  I try gaining Newman's attention, since all he seems to be preoccupied with as of now is sitting on the edge of the bed and gawking at the gory scene he's responsible for. This guy's head is all over the place. He seemed fine when he was negotiating the price of this fix, but now I think he may falling into shock.

  "Should I cover her up?" He gingerly touches the dead woman's leg. "She feels cold."

  The woman's limbs are somewhat contorted and her chocolate brown eyes are wide open but the color of her pupils are dulling. I'm no CSI expert, but I can pretty much surmise what went down in this hotel room tonight after assessing the scene.

  The two of them probably came here to get high, and they came here to fuck, and my guess is they did it often. But tonight they argued about something. Something that took him completely by surprise and enraged him. Maybe she told him that she couldn't do the whole clandestine thing anymore. Maybe she threatened him by saying she'd tell the wife or tell the press.

  Whatever it was, the look on her dead face and the scratches on Newman's face tells me that she was fighting for her life until the very end. Now that the scotch and OxyContin that he has probably been inhaling all night is wearing off, he seems to be feeling some semblance of remorse and sadness. Almost as if he had genuine feelings for her. Too bad that it's too little too late.

  "Hey, hey. Eyes on me. We don't have time for regrets. She's cold because she's dead, and there's nothing you can do about that now. So do what I told you and get in the shower. It's your ass on the line. I'm going to run out and get some supplies that I'll need for cleanup, and I'll also grab you some fresh clothes so that you can walk out of here easily. And one more thing . . ."

  "Yeah?"

  "Try not to touch her body again if you can help yourself," I say sarcastically.

  "How long will you be?" he asks as a look of dread settles across his face.

  This is exactly why you need a partner at a fix. It's risky leaving clients at a scene by themselves. They might make a mistake or freak the fuck out. Newman is scared, but in order for this fix to work, I've got to make him feel like I've got total control over this thing and over him.

  "Look at me, Newman. I've got this. I can do this all day and night in my sleep. I'm going to get you out of here, I'm going to get her out of here, and I'm going to make it like this never happened. That's what you're paying me the big bucks for. Now where's your cell."

  "Okay, umm, let me find it."

  He starts to scramble around the side of the bed looking for his phone, and finally finds it underneath the other side of the bed. The side she's on. The screen is seriously cracked and the tempered glass looks like an intricate spider web. He must have thrown it at her and it hit the wall or something. What a dick.

  "I'll take that."

  "What for?"

  "You can't call anyone, so I'm taking away the temptation. In fact, I meant to ask if you called anyone besides me after this happened?"

  "No one."

  "You're sure? I need to know."

  "Yes–you can check my outgoing calls."

  I take a look at the cracked screen, click on the home button, and then raise my eyes up.

  "Really?" I show him the screen. "Because whose number did you call approximately thirty-five minutes ago."

  "I d-d-don't know," Newman stutters as his eyes drop to the ground. "I don't recognize the number."

  "You better figure it out." I act like I'm reaching back for my gun.

  "I was high earlier," he blurts out.

  "That's already been established. The question on the table is who did you call?"

  No sooner do I ask then there's a heavy rap at the door. I draw my weapon and point it straight toward the middle of Newman's head. I'm betting that whoever he called is the person on the other side of the door. Making this a bigger mess than it already is.

  With my free hand I bring my pointer finger to my lips, motioning for Newman to keep quiet, as I take a look through the peek hole. There's a rather rotund man, at least three hundred pounds, dressed in a tight-fitting navy blue suit looking rather stoic and extra official.

  I wait for a moment to see if he'll leave.

  "I'm here, Cliff," he says through the door. "Open up."

  I look over at Newman. The stranger called him by name, and it's obvious that Newman recognizes the voice as well, because his eyes are as big as saucers and he's stock still. I motion silently for him to walk into the bathroom, but he won't move.

  "Walk," I whisper angrily under my breath.

  Once we're in the bathroom, Newman sits on the toilet seat and drops his head in his hands. I tap him twice on the side of his head with my gun and give him my "what the fuck" look.

  "I forgot that I called him."

  "Called who?"

  There's increased knocking at the door. Shit, this guy's not leaving.

  "I panicked."

  "Understandable in this situation," I say through gritted teeth, "but I need to know who's on the other side of that door before I can handle it, Newman."

  "He's . . . FBI."

  I knew he looked official.

  "What are you talking about."

  "He's my sister's husband."

  "Is he cool? Will he protect you?"

  "He's on the management track at the bureau, so he's completely by the book. I doubt that he's just going to let this go."

  "So why the hell would you call your by the book brother-in-law to a murder scene? Are you insane? Did you buy your law degree off of the Internet? You're the district attorney. You're supposed to be smart."

  There are another few hard knocks at the door, and then Newman's cell starts ringing. This guy won't quit.

  "I think I can get rid of him."

  "You think or you know, Newman, because you look petrified right now."

  "I'm remembering bits and pieces. I think I may have left Rick a short message about needing his help." He firmly pushes into his temples with pads of his fingers. "Dammit, I didn't actually think he'd come. We're not even that close."

  The knocking has stopped which I hope means the fed has given up, but what it probably means is that he's left to get security to grant him access into the room. I could go now, and leave Newman on his own, but that's bad business. Newman is a client, and a contract is a contract. Risk is part of the deal. So I re-evaluate the scenario.

  There's a dead body on the bed.

  Newman is covered in blood.

  My prints are all over the room.

  It looks incriminating for the both of us, so I make the only decision that I can live with.

  "You're going to have to get rid of him. There's no other way for this to play out without anyone getting hurt. You aren't paying me enough to assault a federal agent, and that's what I'd have to do if he comes inside this room."
>
  "I don't want anyone else getting hurt. Especially Rick. My sister would never speak to me again. Tell me what to do."

  But it's too late.

  Someone is sliding a key card into the lock.

  And that's when it hits me. I forgot to engage the safety latch on the door.

  The door bursts open to angry commands.

  "On the ground now! Hands behind your head!"

  I slowly lower myself to my knees. Hands clasped behind my head. All I can see through my peripheral vision is the barrel of a gun pointed at me, and the very wide orthotic shoe belonging to a man I can only assume is Rick. There's no one else with him, not even hotel security, which is a good thing.

  "Is that a dead woman on the bed, Cliffy?" he asks Newman.

  "It was an accident."

  "Did he do this or did you do it?"

  "Calm down, Rick," Newman says nervously. "It was an accident."

  "I am calm, but you need to start talking, man, because this looks really bad."

  "I know and I'll explain, but first let my friend get up. He's here to help."

  "Help you do what?"

  "Fix this."

  "Fix this?" Rick begins walking around me. Sizing me up. Judging me as most official tightly wound guys like him usually do. Cops, feds, and other official types see my size, my tats, and the way I handle myself as a threat. It's always been like that. It probably will always be that way.

  "Nah, I don't think so," he objects. "Not until I get a better understanding of what happened tonight."

  Exactly like I thought.

  "I'm standing up now, Rick," I say coolly. Sick of kneeling.

  "Stay right where you are."

  My eye is twitching.

  "I had nothing to do with the girl getting hurt," I explain calmly.

  "Stay right where you goddamn are!"

  "Get your man, Newman," I warn but decide to acquiesce by staying low to the floor for now.

  "Rick, please," Newman pleads. "He's only trying to help."

  "No fucking way. Both you and him can stay right the hell where you are until you explain what went on in this hotel room."

  I sigh to myself. This isn't going to end well for Federal Agent Rick. I hate involving innocent people in my fixes, but there's only so long that I'm going to tolerate a gun in my face. I don't mind a good bar fight, but there's something about a gun in my face that I fucking hate.

  While still crouched low, I make my move to end this. I extend my right leg and spin around on the ball of my left foot. Swiping the fed behind the knees and forcing them to buckle. Unfortunately, I don't use enough power, or the guy is heavier than I thought, because he doesn't fall like timber. Instead he catches his balance and takes a hard swing at me which lands right against the back of my head.

  Then we start fighting.

  We're going blow for blow for about twenty seconds, while Newman cowers over in the corner. It's an unfair matchup, because I'm actually really good with my hands, so I try holding back. I don't want to kill the dude. I just want to tire him out a little. That is until Rick lands a lucky right-hand jab above my left eye and slices it open.

  Blood quickly starts to drip down my face.

  I wipe my cheek and stare at my bloody fingertips.

  Now I'm mad.

  When I see my opening, I take two of my fingers and jab them straight into the fed's windpipe. His hands quickly claw at his throat, and when he gasps for air, I pull out Benny and aim it right at his fat head.

  "It's not fun having a gun pointed at you is it," I say snidely as he continues heaving.

  "Listen, jackass, you better–" He tries speaking but can't finish his sentence.

  "Still talking shit, huh?"

  Whap!

  I knock him out with the butt of my gun, before he can finish his idle threats. I've had enough of playing nice with Federal Agent Rick.

  "What have you done?" Newman cries out. Probably afraid that his brother-in-law is dead.

  "New plan. We've got roughly ten to ten minutes to get ghost. I already have a cleanup crew coming here to take care of the body, and I've got a car coming that's going to take you to a safe house. There's no phone there. No Internet. Just a TV, a bed, and a kitchenette. Don't do anything but sit in there and watch some Law & Order reruns or go to sleep. We'll figure out how you're going to make the wire and file transfers later. Understood?"

  "But–"

  "Am I fucking understood?"

  "Yes, but what about Rick?" Newman asks reluctantly. His eyes fill with panic. "Is he going to be okay?"

  "Don't worry about Rick," I assure him. "I've got this."

  Eight

  Sloan

  "So how much do you need?"

  "Five hundred."

  My mouth is agape. Sometimes I forget just how cavalier seventeen-year-old girls can be, but then again, why am I surprised? It's my baby sister. This is what she does.

  The day got away from me, so I ended up meeting Dawn for a late dinner instead of lunch at a restaurant that’s walking distance from my office.

  "What do you need it for?"

  "For prom."

  "For prom? Ask Dad for it."

  "Daddy doesn't have it."

  "Dad doesn't have five hundred dollars? I seriously doubt that. What's more likely is that you've already asked him and he said no, or you haven't even bothered asking him at all. Why ask him when I'm around, right?"

  My sister, Dawn, stares me down with a mixture of disdain and the totally judgmental look of an entitled teenager. She thinks because I'm dressed in designer clothes, and that I have an expensive handbag fetish, that I should willingly serve as her own personal ATM machine. As if I owe her something. As if I don't work my ass off every day for the things I have. We're close to nine years apart, and sometimes I think her generation is totally a lost cause, and she's their poster child.

  Sometimes, though, I think I understand her.

  She's angry.

  She was the love child of my philandering father and his "soul mate" of the year. Dawn's mother Marsha. Unfortunately I was the one who ended up growing up with my father in the house (because my parents were married and still are), and all she got were infrequent phone calls and birthday money in the mail. So of course she's angry about that.

  What she doesn't understand, or maybe the better word is believe, is that living with our father was no day at the beach either. In many ways she probably dodged a bullet, because I'm pretty sure being raised by him has ruined any chance I have of ever being in a normal relationship with a man.

  "I couldn't ask Daddy for the money."

  "Why?"

  "He's away in Boston on business and evidently cell phones don't work in Boston," she says sarcastically.

  "So you're saying that Dad didn't return any of your calls? Did you leave him a message?"

  "The first thirty times I did."

  "Really, Dawn? Thirty times."

  "Okay, maybe not that much, but I definitely called him like three or four times and left a message."

  I send my father a quick text. My father's cell phone is practically attached to his hip and always has been. It's out of character for him not to respond. Hopefully he'll see my message, because he knows how to handle Dawn and her drama a lot better than the rest of us.

  "Well maybe he didn't call you back because he knows all you want is money. That's all you ever call him for anyway."

  "And so what if I do? He probably owes me thousands of dollars in back child support. How does someone who has made millions of dollars in his lifetime never have any money?"

  Funny how I often ask myself the same thing.

  "Listen I have things to do tonight," I say in the middle of a forced yawn. "I don't have time to discuss everything that's wrong with our father. That could take all night. I just need to know what you need this money for before I give it to you."

  Dawn's eyes start to dart all around the room in an obvious attempt to avoid eye contact with
me. I am quite familiar with this aversion tactic. Except when I did it, I was only seven years old.

  "This isn't about prom is it. Jesus Christ, Dawn, are you pregnant or something?"

  "Uh, no and why is that the first thing you assume about me?"

  I openly sigh.

  "Can you please stop trying to act like you're some sort of vestal virgin. You and I both know that there is always a possibility that you could be pregnant. Not using birth control and ditching the gynecologist appointment that your mother made for you last month widens the likelihood of that."

  I already know that Dawn is having sex and isn't on any birth control. Her mother has called me several times crying and begging for me to use my so-called "sisterly influence" to get her to stop spreading her legs. As if anyone could stop a hormonal teenager from getting their rocks off.

  Marsha's got a lot of nerve anyway. My father's one-time mistress has little room to judge anyone about their sexuality. She slept with a married man (my dad) for over a year, then sued him publicly for paternity when she was barely twenty-two years old herself, but I guess you see things differently when it's your kid.

  "I told you that I'm not putting synthetic hormones into my body only to make the pharmaceutical companies rich when I get cancer twenty years later."

  A not so subtle jab at what I do for a living.

  "Fine–you don't want to use birth control pills? Well last time I checked, there's no capitalist conspiracy around the sale and use of condoms."

  "I'm allergic to them."

  "You sound ridiculous. Did your boyfriend tell you that, so you wouldn't ask him to use a condom? Latex allergies aren't even that common."

  "I'm not pregnant, okay. Let's stop talking about my sex life."

  I wish she'd just spit whatever it is out then. I'm obviously going to help her no matter what she tells me. I always do. I'd just like to know the details before I do. The last thing I feel like doing is pulling teeth to get the answers though.

  "I need to get going so–"

  I pull out my Tokyo Tea colored matte lip creme and apply it liberally to my lips. Checking my reflection in the butter knife on the table. It's the only pop of color I allow myself on my otherwise nude makeup look.