by Paula Cox
My happiness is infectious today. Every customer that comes into the store leaves with a smile on their face. Even a stern-faced businessman, wearing an earpiece, who looks as though he hates everything and everyone, gives me a smile as he takes his muffin. I wipe down the tables whilst tapping my feet. I clean the coffee machine whilst humming a tune. I fold napkins while bobbing my head.
We shared. We made love.
I relive last night in my head a dozen times, feeling his hands, his breath, his strength. I feel his muscles beneath my hands, the beads of blood from my eager fingers.
I’ve heard the phrase walking on air many times, but I never knew what it meant until today. It’s like there’s a coat hanger wedged in my mouth; I couldn’t stop smiling even if I wanted to.
But then the coat hanger is wrenched away, leaving me numb. No, I wish I was numb. Terrified is more like it.
It’s the end of the day and I’m cleaning away tables, washing the last few dishes. The store is empty and the kid has gone home. I bend down under the counter to get the keys, and when I rise, he’s there, arms at his sides, eyes wide and bloodshot, seeming bigger and scarier than ever. A huge bear lumbering into the store.
Patrick swaggers in, wobbling from side to side, clearly on something.
“Hey, sis.” His words are slurred, coming out heyis. “How’s it going?” Howsgoing.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
I walk around the counter, hands raised. Why now? Why today? After two weeks of leaving me alone. Oh, yes, he’s on drugs, and people on drugs don’t tend to be too reasonable.
Almost as soon as I’ve done it, I realize walking around the counter was a mistake. He jumps at me, backing me into the corner. I have no choice but to walk backwards. Then I hit the wall and he looms over me, mouth twisted in disgust.
“I protected you,” he says, spit dribbling down his chin in rage. “I protected you, and this is how you repay me.”
“Patrick—”
He lifts his hand, fist clenched, and aims at my face. “Shut up,” he growls. “It’s time for you to learn who the real fucking boss is.”
Jude, where are you? Jude. Panic courses through every nerve in my body. I want to run, to fight, but these are life-old nerves, nerves which have seized up countless times as Patrick hits me.
I close my eyes as his fist sails toward me.
Chapter Thirteen
Jude
And I thought this day couldn’t get any better, I think as Tool explains it all to me.
We sit in the bar—called The Leprechaun ’cause whoever named it thinks of himself as a funny bastard, I guess—sipping whisky. The curtains are drawn, just like they always are, and we sit in dusty beams of sunlight. Photographs of past hitters and hard men hang from the walls and a shotgun is mounted above the bar with the sign circa. 1922 below it.
Tool, a short, squat man who is known in the business for his viciousness with hammers, plyers, wrenches, crowbars—just about any tool you could think of, this man uses as a weapon. He sucks on his cigarette and blows smoke into the room.
“So you’ve been promoted,” he tells me. “You won’t be taking your orders from me anymore, man. You’ll be taking them from the top.”
“The top, as in . . .”
“As in Mickey O’Donnell himself.” Tool nods. “Heard the news last night. He’s damn impressed with the work you’ve been doing, Jude. Damn impressed. We all are, if I’m being honest. You’re fucking legit, man.”
I incline my head. “Thanks, Tool.”
“Boss wants to see you, though, so we can’t sit around here fiddling each other’s ladies’ parts all goddamn day.”
“Has anyone ever told you you’re a bastard, Tool?”
Tool flashes his nicotine-stained teeth. “More times than I would’ve liked, but that’s life, ain’t it?”
“For bastards like you, maybe.”
He grins. “You getting all cocky now ’cause you’re the boss’s new favorite?”
“Nah, just in a good mood, is all.”
“Oh yeah, why’s that?”
I won’t tell him, of course. It’d be a damn difficult thing to explain to a man like Tool what I’m feeling right now. Hell, it’s hard enough to explain it to myself. “Just living life to the full.”
“Yeah? Me too.” Tooth takes a bag of white powder from his pocket. He holds it up. “Want some?”
“Nah, like you said, I’ve got a meeting.” I finish my whisky. “Where’s it at?”
“It’s the boss, man. Where’d you think? Central Park.”
Tool measures out a neat line on the table, leans forward, and vacuums it all up in one quick snort. He shoots back in his chair, letting out an ahh. Winking at me, he grabs hold of his whisky so hard his knuckles turn white. “You’re a damn good hitter, Jude,” he says, voice shaky. “I’ve never met a man as cold as you. You’re like ice, man. It’s like you’re goddamn carved from ice. What’s your secret?” He lets out a low, guttural laugh, coked off his head. “I’ve got to hear it. I need some advice.”
“Shut your face, Tool,” I say cheerfully.
“I know what it is!” Tool cries. “It’s ’cause you never bother with women. I’ve seen you. They throw themselves at you and sure, you take them for the night, don’t you? But I never hear you talking about a girlfriend or—worse still—a wife. You don’t have that complication in your life. That’s it, isn’t it?” He leans forward eagerly, as though he’s caught me in a lie. “I knew it. Right, first thing I’m doing when I get home is telling the wife and kids to get the hell out. I’m going lone wolf, like you.”
But I’m not lone wolf anymore. I think about Emily, about last night, about the amazing sex and the closeness afterward. It was weird, it wasn’t just about the sex, more like the sex was a byproduct of how close we’d become. I never thought I’d be saying this, but I’m actually glad we waited so long to finally do it. It made it sweeter, in a way. Not that my balls didn’t turn ice-blue in the meantime. But I guess that’s the price you pay for really mind-blowing sex.
“You wouldn’t last a week on your own.” I laugh. “First time a mark nicked you, you’d be on the phone to your wife begging to be babied.”
“Ha, ha, ha,” Tool mutters. He nods at the door. “Don’t keep the boss waiting, man. If there’s one thing Mickey don’t like, it’s being made to wait. I remember he was angry for a whole goddamn week once ’cause he had to wait in line at the bank. Drove him crazy. Odd, too, ’cause he’s about the most chilled man in this life.”
I stand up and make for the door.
“He’ll be at the Azalea Pond,” Tool calls after me. “Just like always. With his little bag of crumbs.”
“The most dangerous man in the city,” I call back, “and he spends his time feeding the ducks.”
“Hey, man, appearances can be deceiving.”
As I walk out into the street, I think: Yeah, don’t I know it. Look at me and you see a cold-eyed, cold-hearted, cold, cold man. You see a man who nothing can get to. You see a man made of ice. And then you scratch a little deeper and you find something else. Hell, what am I saying? Emily is the only one who found something else. She’s so beautiful. Dammit, she’s too beautiful. Funny, too. And smart. And brave. I think I’m falling... I force the feeling away. Don’t get ahead of yourself, I think. Don’t blow your wad too early. That road leads to disaster.
As I walk to Central Park, I think about Emily. I walk past businessmen and women, mothers, kids, filling the sidewalk like a swarm of flies attracted to sugar, writhing here and there like one great mass instead of many individual people. The sun is shining and a woman wearing nothing but a bikini top and short-shorts struts by me. She gives me a look with her black-ringed eyes, smiling through heavily-applied makeup. It’s the sort of look I know well. It’s a look that says: I’ve seen you, and I like what I see, and if you want to take me to a motel I’ll fuck you now, today. I don’t even consider it, which is how I know somethi
ng is changing inside of me. I never would’ve second-guessed taking this woman if it wasn’t for Emily. As it is, I turn away from the woman, making it clear I want nothing to do with her.
Why would I want you when I’ve got Emily? What purpose would it serve?
She was so damn cute this morning, I remember as I enter Central Park on the north side and walk across the grass, past families having picnics, dogs being walked, and couples walking arm in arm. I woke to the sound of her whistling from the bathroom. When I went to the bathroom door, I watched her for a while without letting her know I was there. She went about getting herself ready for the day, dabbing on a light layer of makeup and whistling a beautiful tune. It felt like being with a proper woman, nothing like my usual after-morning routine: sneaking out of a motel; hoping the woman’s gone before I wake up; telling her it was fun, but I’ll never be seeing her again.
Finally, I make it to the pond. I skirt the edges, the air filled with the quacking of ducks and the giggling of children from the park proper. I make my way to the south side until I come to a huge leafy tree which throws a giant shadow over the water. Beneath the tree, a man stands, a plastic bag of breadcrumbs in his hand.
If you passed Mickey O’Donnell on the street, you wouldn’t think he was the leader of the most dangerous crime family in New York. You’d be more likely to think he was a librarian. He’s a large, soft man who wears an overcoat which reaches down to his knees and thick walking boots. He’s short and his face is soft-featured. He wears thin-framed glasses and his hair is nothing more than a band of grey revealing a bald spot on top. You’d have to look for the tattoos on his neck to know he was anything more than a kind old man feeding ducks at the park.
I join him, standing just off to the right. He holds up a forefinger. Wait.
I wait patiently, knowing he could be anywhere between five minutes and five hours. I watch as he methodically feeds the ducks, taking the same sized handful of crumbs from his bag every time. The ducks quack loudly as they congregate around him. After around ten minutes, he waves another finger at me. Come.
I stand at his shoulder.
“Sir,” I say.
“Jude,” he replies. His voice is calm and soft-sounding, the voice of a kind old man. “Look at them.” He nods at the ducks. “They’re so easy to please. They live such simple lives. They’re happy with a few scraps of bread and a place to paddle. That’s all they need. You know,” he goes on, turning to me with a frank expression, “I often think I’d like to be one of those ducks.”
“Okay, sir.” I don’t know what else to say.
He shakes his head. “Never mind that. I’ve been keeping an eye on you, Jude. You’re rising fast. From street-level thug to a bouncer to a hitter in less than a year. Very impressive. You’re methodical, fierce, tough, and loyal. And you value money more than most everything else, a characteristic I always respect in a man.”
“Thank you, sir.”
I value Emily more, I think. But I don’t think this unmarried man, this man who is notorious for his lack of interest in sex with anybody, would understand that.
“Patrick Ness,” Mickey says. “He’s becoming a real problem. You remember Patrick, don’t you? He’s the man you fought a few weeks ago. A big man. A bear man. I’m growing concerned about his little operation. It’s a small operation, sure, but it’s growing with a vengeance and it seems Patrick and his friends don’t have any regard for the status quo. If there’s one thing that cannot be tolerated in this life, it’s upstarts who have no regard for the status quo. Go through the proper channels, earn your stripes, and then you can start earning some real cash. But don’t…” A flicker of rage touches his features, his lips going flat. He kills it at once and his calm mask returns. “But don’t infringe on my business.”
He pauses, taking a breath. I don’t say anything. That moment of rage is scarier than a dozen men in the fighting pit. I understand why everybody fears Mickey so much. It’s the rage behind the veneer of calm.
“I originally sent you to fight him as a warning, but clearly the big dumb oaf is too stupid to take a warning when he’s given one. There’s one man on his team, Barry O’Malley, who’s giving me toothache. He’s been running a protection racket on one of our laundering operations. He doesn’t know that the general store is one of ours, of course, and I’ve told the owner to keep quiet and play along for the time being. You see, Jude, I want Patrick and his gang taken care of. We can’t allow this.”
He wants me to kill Patrick, I think, with an unexpected jolt of uncertainty. If there’s one thing I’m sure of about Emily, it’s that she’s conflicted about her brother. She doesn’t hate him. Neither does she love him. It’s somewhere in between. I don’t think she’d be too keen on me killing her brother. But I can’t voice these concerns to Mickey. He’d laugh—or worse.
“But Patrick isn’t the real problem. Like I said, it’s his pal, Barry, who’s the real pain in the ass. I’ve done a little research on this man. Some of the things I learned made me shiver, Jude.”
I doubt that, I doubt anything could make Mickey shiver.
“Did you know he tortured and killed a seven-year-old girl? This was up in Maine. He went down there a few years ago to settle the death of his father. Whilst he was down there, a little girl—still in pigtails—went missing. She was found a few days later, tortured, killed, abused in every way you can think of. Barry was arrested. There were witnesses who saw him picking the girl up, and forensic evidence. Mysteriously, all of it disappeared before trial. The monster got away without a scratch. We do bad things in this life, Jude. I won’t pretend otherwise. But none of my guys would ever torture and kill a child just for the fun of it.”
Mickey snaps the last words. I take a surprised step back and then immediately right myself.
“He’s visited New Jersey quite a few times over the years. The disappearance of several children coincides with his stay at nearby hotels. There’s no doubt in my mind that he kidnapped and tortured those kids, too. Barry’s a priority, Jude. I want him gone first. And then the rest of Patrick’s little gang.”
Including Patrick himself. But Emily . . .
Mickey turns back to the pond, takes out a handful of crumbs, and tosses them into the water. Instantly, ducks begin to gather.
“What’s the world coming to,” he muses, “when men can do things like that and get away with it, over and over?”
He’s not expecting an answer, so I don’t give him one.
I turn away and skirt around the pond, all the while thinking about Emily, sweet, strong, smart Emily, Emily who loves her big brother, even though he’s a monster.
Chapter Fourteen
Emily
“When the kids at that fucking orphanage wanted to hurt you, who stopped them?”
My mind detaches from my body and it’s like I see the scene from somebody else’s perspective. I watch as this frail-looking, skinny girl curls up on the floor. I watch as this giant beast of a man rains fists down at her head. How does her neck not snap? I think, watching as knuckles pound into her face. How is she still alive?
He hits her—me—around ten times, but he’s a practiced sister-beater and he doesn’t go too far. He hits me hard enough to make a point, cause two black eyes to sprout on my face, but not hard enough to do any lasting damage. In a way that’s even worse, because it’s not like he’s completely lost control. He knows exactly what he’s doing.
I watch as Patrick stumbles back, staring down at the crumpled-up woman.
Then, slowly, I return to my body. My face aches like I’ve just been thrown into the side of a brick wall. Blood trickles down my cheeks from cuts imbedded within the black eyes. I cough, sputter, and then sit up with a painful grunt.
Patrick sneers down at me. “I’ve always protected you,” he whispers, lips trembling. He looks down at his hands like he can’t quite believe what he’s just done. “Why do you make me do this?” he asks. “I don’t want to. I don’t enjoy it
. But you make me, Emily. Why can’t you just be a good sister? Why can’t you just do what you’re told? Why does everything have to be a long fight with you? Why can’t you just be good for once?”
Because your version of good means not really being a person at all. Your version of good means letting go of everything that makes me a real, living person and becoming a robot. A silently working robot whose only function is to give you money for rent and to be quiet the rest of the time. Never meet people, never have any fun, never have any pleasure. Just give myself to you until when I look in the mirror I don’t recognize the person looking back at me. That’s why, you stupid man.
I can’t say any of that. My survival alarm is blaring in my head and I know if I voice my real emotions, it would only set him off again. He’d beat me until I stopped singing my own tune and started singing his. He’d beat me until I was blood-covered and caked in bruises. He’d beat me until I turned into a mass of pulp and blood. But I don’t feel any fear. Just a kind of detached need for survival. After all, I’m a veteran when it comes to getting beaten up by my brother.