by W. H. Vega
“Are you blushing, O’Conner?” I ask.
“You’re one to talk,” he shoots back. He’s right, too. I can feel my cheeks pulsing red with excitement and disbelief. This was not exactly how I imagined I’d be spending my Saturday afternoon, thanks very much. I thought I’d be knee deep in paperwork by this point in the day...
“Oh, shit,” I murmur, slapping my palm against my forehead, “I’m such an asshole.”
“What?” Trace asks, taken aback by my sudden change in demeanor.
“I’ve totally blown off all my work today,” I tell him.
“Isn’t it the weekend?” he asks with a laugh.
“Sure,” I say, “But that’s never stopped me from working before.”
“You have a problem,” he tells me, “Always have. Since I’ve known you, you’ve been the worst kind of workaholic.”
“Yeah, well,” I shrug, “We’re none of us perfect.”
“So...I guess that means you need to be getting back?” he asks.
“I’m afraid so,” I say, grinning apologetically, “Not that I’m not enjoying myself...”
“Right,” he smiles, “I could kind of tell.”
“Is your apartment close?” I ask him.
“Nah,” he says, “Totally in the opposite direction from yours. This is probably where we’d part ways.”
“Oh. OK,” I say. I’m actually let down at the fact that we won’t be walking home together. “Well...Goodbye then, I guess?”
“Oof, I don’t like that word,” Trace says, shaking his head, “Don’t say ‘goodbye’. Just...tell me when I can see you again.”
“Well...” I begin, “It’s my birthday tomorrow.”
“No shit!” he crows excitedly, “I should have remembered that. You moved into the Daniels’ the day before your birthday too, didn’t you?”
“Oh...I guess that’s right,” I say. “Yeah, now I remember. Conway left a Hostess cupcake with a tea light stuck on top beside my bed in the morning.”
“Sounds like Conway,” Trace smiles. “But hey...you know what that makes today?”
“What?” I ask.
“It’s our ten year anniversary,” he says wistfully.
For some reason, that simple statement brings the tears rushing back to my eyes. I blink them away hurriedly, swallowing hard. Ten years of lost time...that’s a pretty big hurdle to clear.
“Happy anniversary,” I say softly, doing my best to smile.
“Back at you,” he says. “But hey, tell me I can see you for your birthday tomorrow, huh? Even just for a minute.”
“I don’t know...” I start, “Carly had these plans—”
“Blow her off,” Trace tells me, “Come on. You know she’s probably just going to make you wear a fuzzy tiara and go clubbing or something.”
I let out a bark of laughter. That is probably exactly what Carly has in mind for tomorrow. The question is, what does Trace have in mind?
“Tell me I can see you,” he says again, “Please? It would mean the world to me.”
“Oh...OK,” I sigh, “I’ll try and get as far along in my case as I can tonight so that we can do something tomorrow.”
“Awesome,” he says, “I’ll figure out something for us to do. It’ll be awesome. I promise.”
“No fuzzy tiara?”
“No fuzzy tiara.”
I smile and turn to go, but Trace catches my arm. “Hey,” he says, “I’m...uh...Thank you. For letting me spend the afternoon with you.”
He kisses me quickly on the forehead and hurries off down the path. I wander away from him, feeling dazed and giddy. I have no idea where this is heading, or if it’s even the least bit wise, but I can’t really bring myself to care. This little bubble of hope that’s rising inside of me with every second Trace and I spend together may pop at any second. I simply want to enjoy it for as long as I can.
And now, back home to the task at hand. Here’s hoping I’ll be able to focus on the case once the taste of Trace’s lips has faded from my own.
Chapter Nine
Trace
Nothing Ventured
It’s a miracle I don’t get hit by a bus as I make my way back to my apartment. I’m sure that I’m grinning like a goddamned idiot the entire way, but I just can’t help it. I don’t know what I was expecting when I showed up at Nadia’s door this morning, but this afternoon trumped anything that could have possibly happened. Could we actually be headed down a path that ends with us together? As much as I want to believe it, I don’t dare. Not yet. If there’s anything I’ve learned in this tumultuous life of mine, it’s that hope makes you vulnerable to heartache.
Still though, even I have to admit that things are looking up with Nadia. And good thing, too. With her gorgeous face running through my mind, I don’t have time to think about how empty my apartment is. Or the fact that I still don’t know what I’m going to do for work, now that I’m back in the states. Or that I haven’t been able to sleep through the night without having agonizing flashback dreams about the things I did overseas. Thinking of her keeps the rest of those hard truths at bay.
I get hopelessly turned around on my way home. All of my foster homes were on the outskirts of the Chicago city limits. I never really learned how to navigate the city proper. Even once I was out of juvie and running drugs for Skidmore and his crew, I had specific instructions to go on. I feel like a little kid again out here. Only there’s no one to take me by the hand and lead me home again. Not that there ever was, of course.
Briefly, my mind swings toward thoughts of my parents. The last time I saw them was right before I shipped off for my first tour. I’d wanted to visit them to say my goodbyes. I was scared shitless at the idea of heading off to the war, and part of me seriously thought that seeing my mom and dad would put me at ease. What a crock that turned out to be. I’ll remember that day for as long as I live, whether I want to or not.
I’d hunted down their address from social services and cleaned up nice and neat for my visit. They’d probably heard all about my latest stint in juvie, but part of me still wanted to impress them, or something. By then, they were living in a studio apartment in one of the worst parts of town. Even I felt out of place walking up to their front door there.
No one answered at my first knock. Or my second. Or third. I was just about to turn around and leave when three locks snapped open on the other side of the door. I turned to see a bloodshot, bleary eye peering out through the crack in the front door.
“Hey Dad,” I said, drawing myself up.
“Well. If it isn’t the convict,” he cackled, opening the door all the way.
The sight of him had turned my stomach at once. When I was a kid, my dad had been thick and brawny. His warehouse job had kept him trim and fit. But all that healthy muscle had melted away once heroin and coke became his primary food groups. The man who stood before me that day was nothing but a sack of bones held together by protruding veins and papery skin. I don’t know if I would have recognized him if I’d passed him on the street.
“Who the hell is that?” called a voice from within the darkened apartment.
“It’s the kid,” my dad called back, his eyes struggling to stay focused on me.
“What kid?” cried my mom.
“Our kid, idiot.”
I stood rooted to the ground as shuffling footsteps advanced on the front door. The shell of my mother appeared at my father’s side. For a long moment, I swear she didn’t even know who I was. But comprehension dawned on her lined, haggard face at last.
“Trace, baby!” she squealed, pushing past my dad to wrap her arms around me. “You’re home! You’re back home!”
I turned my face away from her, appalled at how rank she smelled. It was like she hadn’t bothered to shower in two damn weeks. I’d seen her pretty low before, but they were at a whole new level of piss poor now. How could I possibly have come from two people as broken as this? Did that mean that I was destined to break as spectacularly as
they had?
Or maybe, I had already.
“Well, what the hell do you want?” my dad asks, scratching at his concave stomach.
“I wanted to say goodbye,” I told them. “I’m shipping off tomorrow. For Afghanistan.”
“Afghanistan?” my mother asked, her face screwed up, “Is that the one with that Saddam Hussein guy?”
“Not quite,” I told her.
“Well shit,” my dad said, “What are you going over there for?”
“To serve my country,” I told him, standing tall.
“Bullshit,” my mom cackled, falling back against the hallway wall.
“What did you say?” I asked.
“You ain’t doing it for the country,” she laughed, “You’re doing it ‘cause you got nowhere else to go. After what you did to that poor foster daddy of yours—”
“He deserved exactly what he got,” I growled.
“Sure he did,” my dad said, “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
“You have no right to judge me,” I said, my voice guttural, “Look at the two of you! How can you possibly live like this? You’re filthy. You’re pathetic.”
“But at least we’re not killers,” my dad said.
“That’s a whole other kind of low,” my mom put in.
“And now you’re off to fight some war,” my dad pressed on as my heart began to tighten. “You’re off to kill some more people, and why? Just because you can? Maybe some people are just born to be killers. I don’t know.”
“I’m not a killer,” I said, fighting to keep the hurt from my voice. “Don’t...you can’t call me that. You’re my parents. You’re supposed to be on my side.”
“We’re not your parents, boy,” my dad said, “We’re just the people who couldn’t pay to abort you in time.”
In one swift motion, I cocked my fist back and grabbed the front of my dad’s grimy shirt. My mother let out an agonizing scream, but my dad just grinned at me with stained blackened-yellow teeth. He was daring me, begging me to strike him. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. As horrible as those people had been to me, I still thought of them as my parents. I’d still do what they needed of me, to prove that I was a good son. And I hated myself for it.
I let go of my dad roughly, sending him knocking against my mother’s scrawny form. Looking over them with distaste and pity, I said, “I just wanted to say goodbye. I probably won’t be seeing you again. I might get killed over there. You never know. If I do, though, I don’t know if they’ll bring my body back to you. If they do...I’d prefer to be cremated. There’s a little park with a pond, over by the Daniels’ old place. I’ve never been happier anywhere else in the world. That’s where...never mind. Just, if you can be bothered, if the time comes, that’s what I’d like. I think it’d be the least you could do.”
And with that, I turned on my heel and walked away from them. They made no move to stop me. I wasn’t even surprised by then, or even hurt. Just numb.
By the time I’d returned from my second tour, word had finally come to me that my mom and dad had died. They’d overdosed together on a batch of coke that was cut with rat poison. They’d probably been so high when it happened that they didn’t even notice.
If I’m honest, I wasn’t even broken up when I heard the news. If anything, I was relieved to be free of them. Even though their deaths meant that I was totally alone in the world, it was still better than belonging to them. Because now, I’m my own man. At last.
The sun is already starting to sink in the sky by the time I get my bearings in the city. Having not slept last night, my body is aching for a little rest. I turn onto my street and feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention. I know this feeling all too well. It’s the feeling that comes over me whenever something bad is about to go down. The question is, what terrible thing does tonight have in store for me?
I spot a looming figure lingering in front of my apartment building. Instantly, my body goes into self-defense mode. Like an idiot, I neglected to bring my mace or switchblade with me with me when I left the house this morning. But I’ve learned ways to bring a man down with my bare hands, if I have to. Who ever said that the Marines doesn’t provide practical life skills?
“Hey,” I say sternly, approaching my building, “You live here buddy? These are people’s homes, you know. You can’t just—”
“Calm down, Trace,” says a smooth, familiar voice, “Can’t a guy welcome an old friend home from battle?”
The man on my stoop turns to face me, stepping out of the shadow of the building. As tall as I am, he’s still got a couple inches on me. His olive skin and nearly-black eyes are sharp against his newly-graying hair. His body is broad, muscular and well-padded. This is not a man who has to fight his own battles very often. He’s got others to do his dirty work for him. Other people who are forced to take the fall when something in his business goes wrong. I should know—I’ve been one of those other people before.
“What are you doing here, Skidmore?” I ask. “You shouldn’t be here. I thought I told you, I was done with—”
“Man. The Marines has really got you wound up tight,” my old boss laughs. Though the air is still fairly warm, he’s sporting the same old leather jacket he always has. That jacket has always made me uneasy. It’d be damn easy to conceal just about anything inside it.
“I just like my decisions to be respected,” I tell him. “I thought we had an understanding, is all.”
“Well, I thought I might come around and try to change your mind. Make you see reason,” Skidmore smiles. “Can I come in?”
Like I have a choice, I think, stepping around him to open the door. We head up to my apartment and I let him inside, begrudgingly. Skidmore whistles as he takes a look around my modest abode.
“I just got back,” I inform him defensively.
“I see. And what are your plans, going forward?” he asks, crossing his arms.
“Not sure yet,” I shrug, heading for the kitchen, “Thought I’d see if any garages are hiring. I’m good with my hands.”
“What you’re good at is selling drugs,” Skidmore replies. “I don’t know why you’re so dead set on denying your skill set, my friend.”
“Maybe because it’s illegal?” I offer.
“Oh please,” Skidmore laughs, “That never used to give you pause.”
“I never used to have a choice,” I tell him, snatching a beer from the fridge.
“And I suppose you think that’s changed?” he says, sounding amused.
“It has,” I say, popping the bottle cap off against my tabletop, “I’ve turned things around. I’m a veteran now. People respect a veteran.”
“Even if he’s a murderer and a drug pusher?”
“I’m not a murderer,” I say, my teeth gritted, “And I don’t appreciate being insulted in my own home.”
“I’m not trying to insult you,” Skidmore tells me, “I’m simply trying to help. Perhaps Garrick told you about my good fortune, lately. I’ve moved up in life, you see. I’m one of the big players now. Back in the day, you were nothing but a mule. But now...I could really get you a slice of the pie. Do you know how much money is out there, just waiting for people like you and me to capitalize on it?”
“I’m not like you,” I tell him, “Never will be.”
“We’ll see about that,” he smiles, “I can be very persuasive, Trace. You know that. Your buddy Garrick knows it even better.”
“Stay away from him,” I say, before I can stop myself. I don’t want this guy knowing my weak spots, and Garrick is certainly one of them.
“Maybe you should be telling him to stay away from me,” Skidmore suggests, zipping up his coat. “Anyway. I must be going. I’m glad to see you back in town, Trace. Why don’t you think a little about this conversation and we’ll chat again soon?”
I don’t reply as Skidmore trudges out of my apartment. Shaking, I slam the door behind him and do up every lock. I take a long swig of beer, trying to calm
myself down. I thought that I’d left that chapter of my life good and finished when I left for the war. Why do I always trick myself into thinking that the past will ever stay put?
Heart racing, I pull out my phone and punch in Garrick’s number. He answers on the fourth ring, sounding carefree as ever.
“Did you tell Skidmore where I live?” I demand.
“Whoa, of course not!” Garrick replies, startled. “He showed up at your—?”
“I don’t want any part of this,” I tell him, “Garrick, seriously—”
“Just stay strong, man,” he says.
“Funny. I was gonna say the same thing to you.”
“We don’t have to get wrapped up in this again, OK?” he says quickly, “You’re right. We’re better than that now. We’ve got other options.”
“Yeah,” I say, gazing around my threadbare apartment, “Options.”
“Hey,” Garrick says, “Dude, how the fuck did it go with Nadia?”
“Shit...” I breathe, “I think...we might have a date tomorrow.”
“You crazy son of a bitch,” Garrick cackles, “Leave it to you.”
“Yeah,” I sigh, “Leave it to me.”
Chapter Ten
Nadia
Happy Birthday to Me
The alarm on my cell phone starts to blare after just two hours of sleep. At four this morning, I forced myself to finally catch a few hours of shuteye. And though the sun has barely begun to lighten the sky, I roll back out of bed. I’m so close to getting a handle on this case that I just can’t stop digging now. I laugh to myself as I rub the sleep from my eyes.
“Happy birthday to me,” I sigh, glancing over at my desk. The entire surface is covered with reports and files, my walls are bedecked with sticky notes and scribbled observations. Even though the whole thing looks like a total mess, I’ve got a very clear method to my madness. I’m creeping closer and closer to a lead with every passing glance at the evidence. Soon, I might be able to identify some of the key players in this drug ring. And from there, I can start to think about how I’m going to take them down.