Jackson Stiles, Road to Redemption

by Jo Richardson

  “That was six hours ago.”

  I get one last shrug for the evening. “I had to go find a gun.”

  Nice to know he thought this shit out. I wouldn’t want him making any rash decisions or anything.

  UNEXPECTED EMPATHY

  REDEMPTION IS A PRETTY OLD CITY. Not as old as dirt, maybe, but old enough to have its very own set of fucked-up issues. And big enough to bury them when she wants to.

  On the maps, the borders come together. Kinda like a star, if you look at it funny. That’s what Ma says, anyway. Dad always told us it was more like a badge. Of honor. Get it?

  Yeah, me either. I seriously think he told us things like that to come off like the wise elder of an important family or some shit when really he’s just a bully with no mission but to bend people to his will─no matter the cost.

  Moving on.

  A mile or so inside the border, on the western-most parts of Redemption, is where the homeless have set up camp. Just beyond that are the drug-saturated areas.

  Correction, the drug and arms-saturated areas. Mostly rural.

  So it basically works like this: The gangs run the outer rim of the western half of Redemption, using the homeless as kind of a shield from the inner, more straight-laced parts of the city, AKA, where the police patrol more often.

  Graham Black, the city’s current ass-kissing do-gooder, makes it a point to get his face out into the media on a regular basis, threatening the gangs and promising to “clean up Redemption, if it’s the last thing he does.” The gangs laugh in his face, pushing their drugs through the homeless sections of town; the drugs go into the schools, home with the kids, and into pretty much every well-to-do neighborhood located within a twenty-mile radius of downtown.

  Hell, Black’s own son was busted on more than one occasion with drugs on his person. Selling them, mind you. He was arrested the second time, despite the fact that he’s the mayor’s kid, and charged with possession. He made a run for it, was consequently nabbed, by yours truly, and long story short, his dad doesn’t like me much.

  He’s not the only one.

  Where was I going with that?

  Right. Black’s latest campaign.

  Ready for this? He’s gonna legalize pot so the drug lords won’t have the power they do today.

  I know. Blank stare syndrome. Been there, done that. Many times. But what are ya gonna do?

  All he’s essentially done is make it Thomas Flint’s business to ensure that never happens.

  So, my question is, why would Flint pull additional negative attention to himself at this point in the game? Allegedly, not only did he kill a kid who, according to his brother, was trying to get out of the game, but then he left him in the middle of the street for anyone to find?

  Not that any of this BS is mine to worry about. I’ve got a good gig going with the men in blue, taking on their overflow of shit jobs they can’t be bothered with. Hell, they have an entire line in their annual budget dedicated to yours truly. Why muck it up over one kid who may or may not have been a decent human being?

  Right?

  If I can get Stix out of town quietly, maybe find him some long lost relatives to go stay with, I can say I did my good deed for the decade and get on with my life as we know it.

  “Okay, so, no mom and/or dad is in the picture?”

  Jimmy shakes his head.

  “And you’re sure you don’t have any uncles or aunts lingering around?”

  He grimaces. “Not that I know of.”

  This is going well.

  “We’ll worry about that later. For now, there’s a guy on King Street I want you to stay with.” The kid’s face looks like he just ate a lemon.

  A bad one, at that.

  “What?”

  “Isn’t that over by the old market area that closed up?”

  “Yeah? So?”

  He shuffles his feet around and avoids answering me as he pulls the towel tighter around him. A teenager scheme, I’m sure, to pry some pity out of me, but I don’t have time to dick around here.

  “What?” Usually, I’m a patient motherfucker when it comes to youth, but nowadays, not so much. Especially this particular youth.

  “I mean, that’s like homeless nation.”

  I chuckle at his description. “What, are you scared?” This is, after all, the same juvenile who pulled a gun on me knowing I was slightly more experienced than him.

  A lot more experienced than him.

  “No,” he insists, a little defensively. “I just… I mean… That’s Flint’s territory, man. What if—”

  It doesn’t escape my attention that he resembles his brother when he gets worried like this.

  “You said Flint didn’t do it,” I remind him.

  “He didn’t. I mean, I don’t think he did.”

  “So?”

  “So, I mean, what if I’m wrong?”

  Jesus fucking Christ.

  “If you’re wrong, it still doesn’t matter. This guy I know, he’s not gonna rat you out.” Tricky’s good people. Well, he’s bad people. But he’s the good kind of bad.

  “Can’t I just stay with you?”

  That’s funny.

  “Um, no.” Okay, that came out a little less sensitive than I planned.

  I’m lying. I don’t do sensitive.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I live the fuck alone, kid.” Is that not obvious?

  “But─”

  “The answer’s no.”

  As in no fucking way. Absolutely the fuck not. And over my dead motherfucking body. I don’t do guests. It cramps my style and makes my ass twitch.

  He’ll be fine with Tricky, who technically doesn’t live in the homeless area, by the way. He’s on the cusp. So, close but no cigar. Besides, if it was Thomas that killed Donnie, that’s the last place he’ll look; and if it’s someone else, they’ll figure he’s a goner in there, anyway. And that’s if they find out where he’s staying.

  Perfectly fine.

  “Let’s go.”

  X X X

  On the way to King and Tenth, I call the Trickster and give him a heads up that I’m on my way with a favor I’m gonna need. He hems and haws with the best of them but eventually agrees to let the kid stay in his back room for a couple days.

  There’s gotta be someone out there the kid’s related to. And if there is, I’ll find them. It’s what I do.

  The only problem? Stix is still soaking fucking wet and that doesn’t bode well for the leather seats.

  Detour time.

  “I’m gonna pick up some dry clothes for you on the way.”

  “Why not just stop by Donnie’s place? I can grab some─”

  “No can do, kid.” Rule of thumb, people: If you plan on leaving town because you suspect someone’s after you, don’t go home. That’s the first place they look.

  Not that I think Stix has anything to worry about. I’m pretty sure the idea of him being in any kind of danger is all in his head, but better safe than sorry.

  “What about all my stuff?” He’s genuinely concerned. It’s obviously the first time he’s actually thought this whole taking off thing through tonight.

  “What stuff?”

  “Like, my clothes for one, and my bed. My Xbox?”

  “Oh, you won’t be seeing any of your stuff again for a while, my friend. Least of all your Xbox.” I’m not trying to be a dick here. I’m simply laying it all out for him. If he’s pulling one over on me, he’ll go home. If not, then maybe he really is concerned for his life.

  He doesn’t push the topic, which tells me there’s a chance he’s on the up and up.

  “Who is it you think you’re running from if it’s not Flint?”

  The shrugs are back. Awesome.

  “Just playin’ it safe, I guess.”

  “Yeah? Safe from whom, Jimmy?”

  He talks to the window. “These cops showed up at the funeral. Asked a bunch of questions. Someone pointed them in my direction. I didn’t stick aroun
d to find out what they wanted.”

  They could have been touching base with Donnie’s next of kin. To be honest, though, I don’t know if I would have stuck around either.

  Maybe I can poke around inside Nick’s head. See if he knows anything about the brother of Donnie Leary. We’ll go from there.

  “I can’t even brush my teeth?” Jesus, this kid. He goes from worried about his life to worrying about his teeth? Really?

  “I’ll get you some essentials when I’m picking up the clothes.”

  “You will?”

  “Why not.”

  “Sweet, I need─”

  “Up-up-up!” I hold a hand up to the kid. “I’m not taking orders here. I’ll get you the basics. The rest you’re gonna have to live without until you’re settled somewhere.”

  He slinks down into the seat and crosses his arms. He kicks the dash with the heel of his boot for good measure.

  Classic pout. A move I previously thought was primarily for toddlers. Clearly, I was wrong.

  “Break my dash and I’ll break you, kid. Comprende?”

  He rolls his eyes. I take that as a yes. The rest of the drive to Target is quiet.

  I need a fucking cigarette.

  Where is the damn thing anyway?

  Ah.

  I pull it out and place it between my lips. Relaxation courses through me when I taste the tobacco. It’s a welcome familiarity but it also reminds me of all the reasons I gave up the habit in the first place.

  Pissed at the weakness that continues to creep up on me every once in a while, I take the cig out of my mouth and toss it into the ashtray. That leaves me with one last thing to tackle tonight.

  Target.

  Then I’ll deal with the fact that I’m a fucking nanny now.

  Man-nanny.

  Manny.

  I’m not a fucking nanny.

  I don’t shop for myself, much. When I do, I’m pretty quick about it. Shopping for someone else? This should go well.

  “Stay here.” I lock the doors and remind the kid he needs to stay low. Not that I think whoever’s looking for him will be lurking around Target this time of night, but you never fucking know.

  Inside the store, I head straight for the men’s section, but before that, I pick up a six pack of Stellas because, hellooooo, I need a drink.

  Actually, I need to get the fuck drunk. Pronto. Maybe that will make up for the fact that this day couldn’t possibly get any shittier.

  About thirty minutes into this shopping spree, I’m the self-proclaimed king of mannies. Not only have I grabbed the kid some jeans, socks, and tighty-whities, but I also nabbed him a toothbrush, toothpaste, floss, a thing of shampoo, soap, and a loofa.

  What? It’s better for your skin.

  I maneuver the cart through aisles that don’t have much traffic on my way to cash out because I hate dealing with people in department stores. I’m also doing some math in my head, calculating how much this shit is gonna put me out. In the middle of crunching numbers, I come to a screeching halt when, lo and behold, I nearly run over the genius who’s decided to take a nap in the middle of the home aisle.

  I’m about to lay down the law of department store naptime when I realize who said genius is, and I have to laugh.

  “Fucking Green.” Story of my life these days.

  We meet again. A dark and sinister voice whispers in the back of my mind.

  I’m thankful she didn’t hear me and wonder for a second or two where her other half is. When I don’t spot him anywhere around, I take a closer look at her. It looks to me like she passed out while trying out one of those saucer chairs. You know the ones—fuzzy, round, looks like someone visited us from the fucking sixties and left their shit behind?

  Her ear buds are in and her eyes are closed. I relax against the wall of pillows and watch her for a minute or two while she snoozes.

  With her arms folded and legs crossed, she damn near looks peaceful. Beautiful almost, leaning back, completely tranquil, with no agenda whatsoever, but to get a few Z's.

  Makes her seem… human.

  I take careful consideration of her lips. They come to a small pout as she breathes, slow and steady, and I find myself appreciating the fullness of those lips. I then have a hard time coming to grips with the fact that I’d really like to have them against mine sometime.

  The fuck?

  I shake that shit off.

  That’s crazy talk.

  Right?

  My eyes glide along her body, from the low cut tee she’s sporting today to the loose fitting jeans, stopping at the ankle holster peeking out from underneath.

  Interesting.

  Why would she need that?

  Protection? Or is she undercover? And if she is, who is she undercover for?

  Out of the blue, a loud snort coming from somewhere inside Green wakes her up. I scramble to get the fuck outta Dodge but can’t decide which way to go.

  Her eyes fly open and she sees me standing there. I’m a buffoon, staring at her like some desperate twelve-year-old aching for a boob shot of my neighbor late at night.

  Not that it’s ever happened. But if it did, I’d be a fucking buffoon.

  She seems confused for a second, then embarrassed, then confused again when she comes to grips with the fact that there she is, and here I am, and we’re both in a fucking Target late at night.

  What are the chances of that, by the way?

  I could make a run for it, sure. Pretend none of this happened and spend the rest of the night trying to get the image of Emma Green’s unguarded eyes out of my head. The truth is, it’s too much fun to give the woman some grief.

  “Lose your apartment?”

  I smirk. It’s funny.

  Green doesn’t think so. A scowl appears across her face as she groggily pushes herself up and out of the saucer.

  “Ass.”

  “Boyfriend kick you out?”

  She flips me the bird, and I stifle another laugh.

  “He’s not my boyfriend.” She insists.

  “Really? ’Cause ya could have fucking fooled me.”

  She yawns. “And you care because…”

  Good question. “I don’t.”

  Green gives me a groggy yet triumphant look. “Could’ve fucking fooled me.”

  I don’t have a comeback for that one.

  Dammit.

  “Why were you standing there watching me like that anyway?” She checks to make sure all her shit is still where she left it. “It’s creepy.”

  “It was like a horror film; it was freaking me out but I couldn’t look away. Plus, you know, I didn’t wanna get too close.”

  She gives me a look that clearly asks, what in the hell are you talking about? And I point to my still slightly bruised lip from the other day. As a courtesy reminder of her Ninja skills.

  Realization hits her. She bows her head and busies herself by rummaging through her purse, but I see the smile she’s trying to hide. It’s friendly.

  Weird.

  Instead of grilling her more about why she prefers to spend her time snoozing at the back of a Target store, I ask her something else I’m curious about.

  “Why are you carrying?”

  Her head snaps up and she appears surprised that I noticed. But come on, how could I not notice that shit? She’s lucky it was me that stumbled upon her and not security.

  “What?” she huffs out a nervous giggle.

  “Right leg.” Right handed. “Black leather holster. Probably nothing more than a handgun. You look like the Ruger type.”

  She blinks. Then blinks again. “I… how did you…”

  I lean in toward her and tap the side of my temple. “Private eye. I’m extremely observant.” I point at her. “I hope you know how to use that thing.”

  “I’ve taken lessons,” she assures me. “And have a permit.” Then she throws her purse strap over her shoulder and starts to leave. To which I follow her with my cart full of teenage items.

  She pe
eks into the cart then back at me.

  “New wardrobe?”

  I shake my head. “Client.” No idea why I feel the need to explain.

  This raises an eyebrow. Literally.

  “Anyone I know?”

  “Doubt it.”

  She takes another look and spots the skinny jeans, then inspects what I’m wearing. “A teenager secured your services?” She thinks it over. “Her parents know about it?”

  She’s baiting me. She’s knows this shit is male clothing.

  “Low blow, Green.”

  She giggles. “Hefty price for investigative services.”

  I walked right into that one, I guess. So, I step the fuck away from this particular conversation.

  “Stop trying to divert the topic at hand and explain to me why a tabloid reporter needs to carry.”

  “It’s a free country.” She reaches out to feel the fabric of some tops we pass. Clearly there’s more to this story. And she’s not planning on sharing it.

  So, I nod.

  “Ex-marine?” ’Cause that’s hot. But when her ears lift, I know she’s smiling even though she’s no longer paying me any mind. She’s on to glancing up at the banners hanging from the store walls.

  So no-go on the ex-military. Bummer.

  “Assassin?” Still hot, although a little scary.

  “Oh, my God.” She side-eyes me and shakes her head.

  Okay, we’ve crossed off all the bad-ass reasons for the gun. I narrow my stare and breathe in some hefty curiosity about the woman I barely know but find myself interested in all of a sudden.

  When I open my mouth to make another guess that’s more realistic, she asks, “Why do I need a specific reason, anyway? I mean this is America, right? I do have the right to carry a weapon for no reason whatsoever, right?”

  Ah.

  I see.

  She’s playing this off like it’s no big deal. But it’s definitely a big deal. Otherwise, why not just tell me?

  Clearly I need to get my Sherlock Holmes on for this one.

  “You take some sort of classes for work related purposes and think you’re Dirty Harry now or something?”