by Zahra Girard
“That’s not the kind of answer I want to hear, chica. Maybe you should go get him.”
I leave my eavesdropping spot and get up to the front desk before someone ends up dead. Not that I’d mind. Hell, I’m half ready to kill these guys myself, except it’d be bad for business.
I round the corner and slow my stride, forcing myself to look casual.
Two cops, blue uniforms and donut-guts and all, stand in the front room.
One’s considerably more fit than the other. Probably because he looks about ten years younger than the other guy and hasn’t had time to grow into his full fat-cop pants yet. He’s tanned and looks like he at least tries to get some exercise in between making his ass grow while stuffing his face with donuts.
None of that helps his punchable face, though.
The other guy? He’s got the balding, middle-aged white guy goatee, sunglasses, and double-chin look down.
Arroyo Fall’s finest.
“Can I help you officers?” I say, moving to stand right beside Ana Maria, who is about as tense as a firing-spring.
The two men share a look.
“Who the fuck are you?” the older one says.
I put my hand out. They each shake it, the younger cop trying to pull some macho shit by squeezing my hand like it’s a stress ball.
I grin extra-wide to him and squeeze right back hard enough to make him flinch.
“Luca Moretti. I’m part-owner of the gym,” I say.
“Jose didn’t say anything about having a partner,” the older guy says. “Is that old bastard around? He should be expecting us.”
I shrug.
“I’m not his secretary. There something I can do to assist you officers? You know, there’s a place two blocks down, serves some nice bearclaws and a decent espresso, if that’s what you’re looking for.”
“Fuck off,” the younger cop says.
I get the feeling he ain’t much for words.
The older cop twitches an eyebrow, then puts on a smile slimy enough that it makes me want to wash my hands.
“We’ve got business with Reyes. A longstanding arrangement. If he ain’t here, we can talk to you, providing you cut the shit attitude. You ready to put on some big-boy pants and do some real work, Luca?”
I put on an ingratiating, “fuck you” smile. “Follow me, officers.”
I lead them across the gym to the back office.
More than half the guys on the floor shoot dirty looks at the cops. I doubt any of them know these particular police officers, but their type isn’t the most popular among the guys who frequent Reyes Boxing.
I shut the door behind us.
Right away I lose the friendly, forced politeness. Loud, wet pops sound from my knuckles as I clench my fists.
“What the fuck do you two want?”
The young cop folds his arms and relaxes back against the door. While the older cop does this fake-casual shit, resting one hand on the desk and leaning on it.
I see both guys shift their hips slightly, putting the gun side forward like they want me to know that they’re armed.
Typical, wannabe tough guy bullshit.
If they knew how many thousands of times I’ve seen that act in my life and how it wasn’t even impressive the first fucking time some shitheel from the wrong side of the tracks thought his ‘Saturday Night Special’ bought him some respect.
Most of those guys wound up dead.
“Three thousand dollars, like usual,” the older cops says. No hesitation, no shame.
This guy’s as dirty as they come.
“Look, Officer…”
“Dillingham.”
“Alright, Officer Dillingham, you and your partner…” I squint at the younger cop’s badge, which he’s turned away slightly in a piss-poor attempt to hide his name like he still has some bit of shame left despite the fact that he looks more than happy to be here collecting a bribe. “You and your partner, Officer Fletcher, can go fuck yourselves.”
The two men chuckle.
This isn’t the first time they’ve been told to go fuck themselves. Probably wouldn’t be the first time they’ve done it, either.
“Look, Lucas —”
“Luca,” I correct him.
“Jose and I have an arrangement. He pays us, and we keep certain people off his back. Like agencies that might ask about his immigration status, or the status of some of his customers or family members.”
I’m fuming inside, and when I let out a carefully controlled sigh — because I know these two guys could raise some serious fucking trouble without much effort — I’m half surprised it doesn’t come out as steam.
“Three thousand?” I say.
That number sounds high, but both men nod and neither of them — even the young guy, who looks like he’s got an itchy trigger-finger — seem like they’re bluffing.
“Wait outside. I’ll get your fucking money.”
There’s an old safe behind Jose’s desk, hidden behind a filing cabinet that’s overflowing with papers and pictures and general clutter.
The two cops leave and I take my time counting out the cash. This isn’t the first or even the fiftieth time that I’ve paid off the police, but this is the first time that I’ve truly felt fucked over doing it.
Not so much that I have to bribe them — or even what they’re offering — but that I didn’t even know about the arrangement until today.
Jose and I are going to have a talk later.
I come back out of the office and hand over the money.
“We’ll be seeing you around, Luca Moretti,” Officer Fletcher says.
“Keep your nose clean, kid. We’ll have our eyes on you,” Dillingham says, sneering. Then he hands me a small card with just a phone number scrawled on it. “But, hey, if you ever need some work of your own done, you give us a call.”
I pocket the card.
“Take care, officer,” I say.
As soon as they leave, I nearly break my fist punching the wall. Usually, it helps, but even though blood’s dripping from my knuckles, I still feel ready to kill someone.
I’ve gotta get out of here and calm down.
Fortunately, I know just the place to go.
* * * * *
I pull into the parking lot of Turner Hardware and instantly, I sense something’s wrong.
Even though I’m out of the business, now, I was in it long enough to have a nose for these things.
Plus, it doesn’t take a genius to tell that the kind of van hanging out by the loading dock is not a delivery van. And the guy sitting in the drivers seat it is definitely not a delivery driver.
It also doesn’t take a janitor — even a part-time one like me — to tell that the guy in the van is a grade A piece of shit.
Stephanie, what the hell are you mixed up in?
I watch them for a bit.
The guy gets out of van, leaning back against the driver’s side door while he smokes a cigarette.
Judging by the tattoo’s, the sallow skin and the way he carries himself, he’s Russian. Or Eastern European at least.
I’m half surprised he’s not wearing some kind of track suit. That’s their usual uniform.
I wait until he leaves, keeping out of sight and fighting to keep myself from doing anything stupid and winding up in jail.
This whole thing with Stephanie just got a lot more complicated.
When he’s gone, I head inside. The same, cheerful young girl from the last time — Sabrina, I think her name is — perks up the second she sees me.
“Hi Luca,” she says, in a voice that’s almost sing-song like.
“Hey Sabrina,” I say. I can’t help but smile back at her, the girl’s grin is contagious. “Your boss around?”
“Ms. Turner?”
I nod.
“She’s in the back office. Maybe give her a minute, though. She’s having a rough day.”
I ignore her. The girl’s well-meaning, sweet, but there’s no way in hell I’m wa
iting. I’m already heated coming in here from the shit that’s gone down at the gym, and now I have to think about some Russian sleaze messing with the woman that I can’t get out of my head.
I burst into her office and immediately I have to cool my attitude. She’s got her back to me and is face-down against her desk, shoulders shaking. There’s no noise — I can’t hear her crying — but I know she damn well is.
“Stephanie?”
She straightens up and takes a second before she turns around, wiping her hands across her face.
“What do you want?”
There’s an edge to her voice. I can’t deny it, it’s hot; even when she’s obviously upset, she’s still got fight in her.
“Are you all right?”
I try and sound concerned, to hide any of my anger that is still seething beneath my surface at seeing an obvious criminal stalking around her place. But I’m not too good at it.
She frowns.
“Is that what you came all the way over here for? To ask if I was ok?”
Yeah, even I know that’s a shit excuse. But I can’t really tell her the truth: that I’m so pissed off from paying a forced-bribe to some dirtbag cops that if I didn’t see her and calm myself down that I’d pretty likely end up doing something stupid and getting myself thrown in jail.
Fortunately, I’m a pretty good liar.
“I wanted to tell you that some more time’s opened up in the next couple weeks. If you wanted some extra lessons.”
That perks her up a bit. Not that she smiles or anything, but some of that fear and depression in her eyes gets replaced by determination.
“And you couldn’t just call and tell me that?” she says.
“I wanted to see you in person.”
That much is true. She’s beautiful.
A smile — faint, small, but still a smile and oh so fucking worth it — flickers for a second on her face.
Now I’m feeling better.
“Oh. That’s great. Thanks,” she says after a moment. Then, blinking, she seems to get her thoughts together more. “How much more time?”
There’s that edge again. It’s desperation. There’s something definitely wrong with her.
“Enough. Being owner has it’s benefits. I’m sure you get that.”
She flinches, and I feel like I’ve stepped in it, somehow.
“I’m not actually the owner. My dad is. I used to be a nurse,” she says.
Hot and a nurse? Be still my fucking heart.
“Used to be?”
Her delicate shoulders move upwards in a shrug. “Until six or so months ago, yeah. I quit.”
This woman is not a quitter. A quitter wouldn’t blow her wrist out and still keep attacking the punching bag like it’d murdered her kitten right in front of her.
My eyebrow curves upward and she takes it as a prompt to keep going.
“My dad got hurt,” she says. “He broke his hip. So, I came home to help out until he gets better.”
The story seems believable enough, but it doesn’t explain why she’s got red-rimmed eyes and looked like she was in real pain when I came in here.
“What about that stronzo with the van I saw around back?”
I can’t keep my voice steady thinking about that asshole.
“Stronzo?”
“The asshole. The guy with shitty ink, who looks like he lives off fucking vodka and cabbage.”
She flinches again, and I feel thick, burning bile rise in my throat. My fists clench and muscles up and down my arms become corded, tightened knots. I knew that guy was a problem.
“He was just delivering some stuff I’d ordered. The guy’s a bit of a creep, but that’s all. Don’t worry about it. Please.”
I hate being lied to just about as much as I hate being forced into a relationship with dirty cops, but it’s not like I’ve got any grounds to ask Stephanie for more information. I’m here because I want to spend some more time with her while she’s in some skin-tight yoga pants and in a clingy shirt.
Yeah, I’m not on the moral high ground. Not that I’d know what that actually felt like.
“Well, if you need someone to have a chat with him, I can do that. We’ve had to set plenty of guys like him straight at the gym.”
“Leave it alone. Ok?”
I shrug. “I’m just trying to help. But have it your way. I’ll give you some space.”
Even though she looks torn, like she wants to say something else, I can tell this isn’t going anywhere and I start to leave.
I’m halfway out the door and into the power tools section when she calls out “wait”.
I freeze.
“How much do you know about hardware?”
Chapter Ten
Stephanie
He looks startled enough that I almost think I could laugh. It’s such an odd expression on him.
“What?” is all he says.
“How much do you know about hardware?” I say again.
He takes a second before he answers.
“Some. Why?” he says.
I can work with that. Even though when most guys answer in that vague way, they’re lying and hoping you won’t call them out on it.
I can’t even count the number of times customers have said “they’ve got everything under control” or “it’s just a simple job” and then come into the shop a few days later wanting help because they installed their water heater backwards and ended up flooding their whole basement.
So, even though Luca has an almost deer-in-the-headlights look, I keep going.
“Would you be able to help me out around the store? I can’t pay much, but there probably won’t be much to do, to be honest. It’s just, one of my employees, Frank, he keeps calling out sick and I need someone around to help the few customers that show up.”
That, and I do not want to be alone right now.
I don’t so much say that out loud, but I can tell from the way he looks at me, he hears it.
His expression softens.
“I can do a couple hours each day, sure.”
That makes me feel a bit better. Aside from being easy on the eyes, there’s just something about Luca that makes me feel safe. The way he moves — smooth and self-assured — and the fact that I’ve seen cadavers that get more rattled than him.
I reach into one of the drawers in my desk and pull out a dark green apron with “Turner Hardware” embroidered over the chest, and toss it to him.
“You start now,” I say. “And I promise I won’t make you do any janitorial stuff.”
I try and crack a smile at that last part.
He shrugs and slips it on over his head. The muscles in his arms and shoulders ripple and flex as he reaches behind his back to knot the apron.
Yeah, I stare. Hard.
He winks at me.
“Careful, boss. Those kind of looks are an HR department’s nightmare.”
“Lucky for me, I am the HR department.”
Apron or not, wearing a tight black t-shirt and form-fitting dark jeans, he looks more than a little out of place. Hardware store guys are supposed to be cut from the same mold; it’s like one of nature’s laws that they have to wear loose-fitting Wranglers and flannel shirts and look like ‘Al Boreland’ from Home Improvement.
But damn, the man looks good.
“Time for your training,” I say, getting up.
I lead him to the front of the store.
Sabrina’s jaw drops seeing Luca in his apron. Or maybe it’s at seeing the smile on my face. I’ve got this panty-melting man dressed in an apron and at my beck and call. Either way, I start right in with the explanations.
“Sabrina, Luca’s going to be helping us out part time,” I say. “Front of the store is Sabrina’s domain. She’s the queen of the register, so don’t worry, you won’t even need to know how to work them. You have any questions and I’m not around, she’ll be able to help you.”
He nods. “Got it, boss.”
“Even though I
am your boss, I’d prefer you not call me that. Call me by my name, or, that other thing.”
“You mean bella?”
“If there’s no customers around,” I say. I can’t hold back a smile when he says it.
I motion for Luca to follow me further back into the store and start showing him around the inventory.
“Your main job is going to be helping people find what they need, giving them a hand carrying lumber, that sort of thing. So take some time to have a look around the store.”
“That’s it?” he says.
This whole time he’s been looking at me instead of paying attention to the stuff on the shelves. It’s flattering, and if I didn’t actually want his help with this place, it’d be great.
But I really do need someone to help out. I can’t manage everything by myself. This isn’t a game. If this store goes under, I have no idea what I’ll do.
“That’s the job,” I say.
I try and sound serious, like an actual boss.
“Seems easy enough,” he says, with a slight shrug of the shoulders.
No, he’s not taking this seriously at all.
I clench my jaw and look him right in the eyes.
“Luca, why are you really here? Seriously. If you think this is just a game, you should just do us both a favor and go back to your gym. This store is a part of my life, part of my family’s life. This is important.”
An intense look comes across his face, wiping out his smile and I’m starting to think I misjudged him.
“I’m not fucking around. Let me tell you something. Nearly a year ago, this kid came into the gym. He was mixed up in some serious shit, the kind of stuff that usually ends up with you lying on a cold slab of steel while a mortician pokes at you.”
Luca is staring right back at me and I can not look away.
“This coglione had some serious anger problems, along with a whole host of other shit — mostly of his own creation. But Jose didn’t give up on him. I didn’t give up on him. He’s doing all right, now. Left that stuff behind and, most days, he’s not a total disgrace. Seeing him turn his life around taught me you don’t think twice about fighting for the people you care about. You have my full fucking attention.”
There’s maybe an inch between us and I can feel the heat emanating from him. I’m not sure if he’s going to attack me or kiss me or what. But I know I misjudged him.