Vice Enforcer

by S. A. Stovall

  “Yeah. I’ll be back in a little bit.”

  I nod.

  Miles walks over and kisses me. I don’t protest, but it’s not like our backyard is a bastion of privacy. There are missing fence boards on all sides, sometimes multiple in a row. I can see into each neighbor’s yard, and I’m sure they can do the same.

  “Why’re you in uniform?” I ask him as he turns back for the house.

  “I went to the shooting range this morning.”

  “Hm.”

  Miles disappears inside, leaving me with my failed attempt at a simple life.

  I’m not in the mood for company.

  Jayden and Lacy, Miles’s siblings, are the sole reason we didn’t leave Illinois after I broke away from the mob. Miles wants to help his brother get back on track with his life, and he also wants to get to know his sister more than not at all. They’re also the reason why we rent a shitty house and use a junker as our vehicle of choice.

  We’ll get better things once we’re away from here. Well, that’s the plan, at least. I didn’t leave the mob poor. I took half a million dollars in savings when I left—which is what we live on now. That’ll keep us going for a while without worry, but not forever.

  I return my attention to the dead vegetation and sigh. A small piece of me worries. If I can’t make this simple hobby work, what chance do I have of making a life for myself once the money runs out?

  “Stop crowding them together.”

  I snap my attention to the sound of the scratchy voice. Our neighbor, some old crone, stands on the other side of the fence, staring through the missing fence boards. Her sunbaked face scrunches into a long frown. Given the heavy age lines and sagging skin, I’d say she’s somewhere in her seventies.

  I ignore her and start the process of ripping up all the dead produce. After a few moments, she clears her throat. I stop and return my gaze to her, this time glaring.

  “The soil isn’t ready for planting yet,” she says in the tone of a disapproving grump.

  I’m not in the mood for this bullshit. “Did I ask for your input? Keep to your own business, Grandma.”

  She answers with a huff and holds both her hands on the small of her back. “I’ve been forced to watch you muddle in the mud for months now. If this isn’t a cry for help, I don’t know what is.”

  Everybody’s a goddamn critic.

  With a long exhale, I stand and brush the dirt off my slacks. “I can do this on my own.”

  “Not at the rate you’re going.”

  “What does it matter, you old hag?” I snap, throwing up a dismissive wave of my hand. “You’ll be dead in a couple days anyway.”

  She replies with another huff and then turns away. I wait, watching her hobble into her house before once again returning to my graveyard.

  My phone rings. I groan and answer the thing, way more irritated than I should be with each new distraction.

  “What is it?” I ask, half yelling.

  “Pierce?”

  I recognize Shelby’s voice, and I take a deep, calming breath. “Yeah. It’s me.”

  “I’ve been callin’ you. Have you gotten any of my messages?”

  “I saw. I’ve been busy.”

  “What’re you doing?”

  “Pulling up weeds.”

  “Stop that. I need your help.”

  I focus more of my attention on the conversation. “What’s wrong?”

  “I can’t talk about it right now,” he replies, his voice barely above a whisper. “You need to come see me. I want you to work on something.”

  “Aren’t you in the hospital?” I ask. I figured I wouldn’t be working for the next few weeks while Shelby recovers, but I guess I got that wrong.

  “Yes. The hospital. Come see me in the hospital.”

  “I’ll be there shortly.”

  “No!” he says, stepping on the end of my statement. “Not now. Later tonight. Around 8:00 p.m.”

  The hell? What’s this guy’s problem? “Why?” I ask.

  “I’ll tell you when you get here.”

  Shelby hangs up the phone before I get my two cents in. Whatever. My level of giving a damn is pretty low. I stoop down to the garden box and pull a plastic baggie out from the wood paneling. It’s got a pack of cigarettes and a lighter—they’re the last of my old habit—and I take out a smoke and light it up.

  After one long inhale, tranquility settles over the ramshackle neighborhood. Maybe I should drink more to compensate for not smoking. Obviously I get irritable without something coursing through my system.

  Now that I feel more like myself, I kneel back down and snatch up my spade. It doesn’t take me long to tear through all the plant corpses, and I toss them onto the dead grass of the backyard. I keep the little survivor. The radish is tenacious and doesn’t give up. Reminds me of Miles.

  I pick up a packet of spinach seeds, and right before I throw them into their furrows, I stop. I’m crowding them? The soil isn’t right? I need to talk to them? Plants are needy sons of bitches.

  The back sliding door opens and closes with a slam. The sound gets me on edge, and I grab for the pistol I keep in my gardening tool box—but I roll my eyes and release my grip the moment I see who it is.

  Jayden Devonport, Miles’s brother, saunters out of the house with his thumbs through the belt loops of his school slacks. He has a smug grin about him, like he’s thought of something clever, but I return to my task rather than engage him in conversation. The kid’s nothing more than a dumpster fire masquerading as a person.

  “Well, well,” he drawls. “Look who’s been neutered.”

  “Well, well,” I repeat in a mocking tone. “Look who finally got out of rehab.”

  “Is this what you do now? Play the part of a retired geriatric?”

  Yup. Still a dumpster fire. I wish Miles would cut him loose and stop worrying about him. He had the perfect opportunity to let him die when Jayden got shot ten months ago, but maybe I’m just an asshole. I don’t care if Jayden graduates or not. Hell, if Jayden started choking to death right this instant, I might pretend I didn’t notice.

  “You’re even starting to look the part,” Jayden continues. “Do you see those white hairs?”

  I exhale a long line of smoke and stand. Jayden takes a step back toward the house. I glance over and chortle. The kid’s put on some weight. Once upon a time, he and Miles looked like twins. I guess the rehab center didn’t require Jayden to exercise often—his green-and-tan school uniform hugs his protruding midsection a little too tight. The kid even has a pencil-line beard to hide the fact he’s losing any noticeable jawline.

  “Nice facial hair,” I say. “Did your boyfriend draw that on for you?”

  “Hey,” Jayden barks, indignant. Then he takes a moment to mull over my comment and gets red in the face. “And that’s not even a joke a faggot like you can make! You’re the one suckin’ dick!”

  I walk up to him and pat him on the cheek. Jayden stumbles back, startled, almost like he’s afraid I’ll follow it up with a left hook. I laugh and continue into the house without another word. The kid never had much courage—he’s two nuts short of a ball sac, and I wouldn’t be surprised to hear he still wets the bed at night.

  Miles and his sister are at the kitchen table. Lacy, unlike Jayden, isn’t a thorn in my side, but I know her about as well as I know the female orgasm. She sits, prim and proper, with her long black hair straight to the middle of her back. Her nose is buried in a book as Miles prepares her homework across the tiny table.

  “You’re smoking?” Miles asks.

  I forgot I even had the damn cigarette. I take one last drag and toss it into the sink. “Just when things get stressful.”

  “Why not take another nicotine patch?”

  “Fuck it. I hate wearin’ ’em.”

  Jayden ambles in and takes a seat at the table, his face stuck in a frown. He grabs the TV remote and turns on the tiny set located on the far counter. The news starts up—it’s the only chann
el I watch—and I get tense the moment I see a picture of the North Union Rail Yard.

  “—and authorities say some of the kidnappers are still at large,” the newswoman says, her voice filled with a showman’s flair. “The private investigators on the case, from Shelby’s Private Investigations, have yet to comment, but local sketch artists have drawn up representations of the criminals found at the scene. All information should be directed to the Joliet City Police hotline, or directed to your nearest precinct.”

  A photo of the police department flashes on the screen, raising my heart rate. I’m in the picture, walking into the station. Luckily for me, my back is to the photographer.

  “Pierce?” Miles says, staring at me rather than the TV. “What’s wrong? You don’t look well.”

  I grab the controller from Jayden and switch off the television. “I don’t need any fame,” I state. I don’t want my picture all over the news—what if one of my old associates sees me?—and I certainly don’t want those kidnappers to know I’m one of the guys who busted their operation. They weren’t small-time. Even if they know Shelby’s PI firm is behind the investigation, that doesn’t link me. But they might deal with Shelby like they dealt with Davis.

  “You don’t think there’s a chance I’ll be taken, do you?” Lacy asks, turning to Miles.

  Miles offers a shrug. “Just stay close. I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

  “Way to cheer her up,” Jayden interjects.

  I walk over to the table and lean my weight on the back of a flimsy chair. “You don’t have to worry,” I tell Lacy. “They don’t target girls like you.”

  Jayden glares. “Why? Because she’s part Asian?”

  I shake my head and offer the kid a sneer. “Do you think scumbags like them give a shit about your racial makeup? No. They want easy targets. Not kids who go to prep school—who have people around them at all times—or kids who have parents who would contact the authorities within minutes of their child’s disappearance.”

  “Then who do they go after?”

  “Teenagers hooked on drugs. Runaways. Prostitutes. People who don’t have someone who cares about where they are. It’s easier to drag some homeless druggie off the street than it is to raid a school with cameras and walls. You and your sister aren’t in danger.”

  Jayden sits up straight. “Me and Lacy? You think those guys would try to take someone like me?”

  “Maybe to harvest your fat organs.”

  “Tsk. Fuck you.”

  Miles gives me a half-lidded stare, and I stifle my chuckles. Then I remember Shelby’s phone call.

  “You want to go with me to the hospital later?” I ask Miles.

  He nods. “Sure.”

  “Good, because I have business to take care of.”

  I DON’T like hospitals. All I can think about is catching a cold or disease from someone else nearby, like the air is filled with sickness and each breath gets me closer to infection. And it’s not like you can physically fight or shoot a sickness—which is how I’ve handled everything else trying to kill me in my life.

  The Joliet Saint Joseph Medical Center, however, is clean and quiet. The place doesn’t seem to get much traffic, or maybe it’s because the building is huge.

  “You worried someone will recognize you?” Miles asks as we walk down the wide corridors of the fourth story. “Is that why the news bothered you?”

  “Yeah,” I reply, keeping my voice low. “Some cop already asked me too many questions. If some goon came looking for me, it would only add to my problems.”

  “And you think guys will come calling for Shelby?”

  “I’m willing to put money on it. If he dies in this hospital it won’t be an accident, no matter what the papers say.”

  The nurses and technicians give us quick glowers. It is 7:53 p.m. and visiting hours end at 8:00 p.m. I’m sure none of them want random people mucking up their jobs by getting in the way.

  I walk by a mirror and slow for a moment to get a better look at my hair. I don’t have many white hairs, just a few at my temples. That’s normal. Completely reasonable for my age.

  “Checkin’ yourself out?” Miles asks with a chuckle.

  “I’m not so narcissistic,” I say, turning away from the mirror and continuing along with Miles.

  “Worried about your appearance? You shouldn’t. You’re a good-lookin’ man.”

  Worried about getting old is what I want to say, but I keep it to myself. Nobody wants to hear a guy talk about regretting how he spent his youth. That bullshit is for daytime dramas or sappy, emotionally manipulative memoirs.

  “Hey,” Miles says, tapping me with his elbow. “Look. Rhett is here.”

  I glance ahead and freeze. Lieutenant Walker stands in front of Shelby’s room, his gaze on a file filled with paperwork. Miles hustles over before I can stop him.

  “Hey, instructor!”

  The lieutenant glances up from his work and smiles a perfect white smile. “Miles,” he says, a pleasant surprise to his tone. “How are you?”

  “Excellent.” Miles stands next to the man and places his hands in his pockets. “What’re you doing here in the hospital?”

  “I came to speak to the private investigator linked to my special assignment.”

  “Shelby?”

  “That’s right. Do you know him?”

  “We’re here to see him as well.”

  “We?”

  Miles motions me over with jerk of his head. I hesitate—half tempted to leave and come back once this guy is gone—but the lieutenant sees me before I can make a break for it. His sudden tense stance and hard gaze tell me that he remembers who I am.

  Fucking perfect.

  I walk over to Miles and give the other guy a curt nod.

  “This is my boyfriend, Pierce,” Miles announces, patting me on the shoulder.

  I cringe at the word boyfriend. That’s not the terminology I’m used to. Nobody in the Vice family mob wanted to hear about men having boyfriends or girlfriends. You had your bitches and your hoes, your fuck toys, your flings—admitting you had an emotional attachment to someone was unacceptable. It was weak. It invited trouble.

  Lieutenant Walker glances from Miles to me, and then back to Miles, looking at him like he’s seeing him in a whole new light. “Miles, you never told me about…. Well, I didn’t know this about you.”

  Miles lifts an eyebrow. “Is this a problem?”

  “No,” Lieutenant Walker says, fast enough that he practically cuts off Miles’s question. “Of course not. You’ve just never mentioned him before.”

  “I’m pretty sure I have.”

  “Trust me,” the lieutenant replies with a one-sided smile. “I would have remembered if you had.”

  The way he says that irritates me. I know what he wants. I can see it in the way he looks over Miles with renewed interest. My dislike for the man only intensifies as he pats Miles’s upper arm.

  “You scored a hundred percent on your last test. I mean, not that that’s unusual, but with your new score, you’ve solidified yourself as top in your class.”

  Miles rubs at his neck, a slight flush to his face. “Thank you.”

  “I expect great things from you in the future.”

  “I don’t know what to say. That’s a real honor coming from you.”

  I’m not into this.

  I throw an arm over Miles’s shoulders and pull him back a few feet. “Sorry, Lieutenant,” I drawl. “We’re pressed for time.”

  “Call me Rhett,” he says, narrowing his gaze as he meets mine. “And I’m sure we’ll be seeing more of each other in the future.”

  I really don’t like the way he says that. Without any further commentary, I guide Miles over to the appropriate hospital door. Before I open it, Miles pulls me close.

  “Hey,” he says under his breath. “Do you mind if I stay out here while you talk to Shelby? I want to ask Rhett a few questions about academy stuff.”

  “Why?” I ask, my tone curt.


  “I don’t usually see him outside of class. Plus, he’s a really important and accomplished police officer. I have a lot of questions that I think he could—”

  “Fine,” I snap. “Don’t take long.”

  Miles tilts his head like he wants to ask a question, but I slam into Shelby’s room without giving him the opportunity. It’s probably for the best that Miles talks to Rhett without me. Rhett’s distracted by Miles now, but that might not be the case once he’s thinking straight, and then he’ll want to question me.

  And what kind of name is Rhett? Everything about the man—every little thing—gets under my skin.

  “Pierce!”

  I turn to find Shelby sitting in a hospital bed. Despite wearing a bulletproof vest, he still took a considerable amount of damage in the rail yard. He doesn’t look half-bad, though. He sits up on his own, and his skin isn’t pale or drained of blood. Besides the bandages, he looks fine. Doctors can work miracles.

  “Thank you for coming,” Shelby continues as he waves me over to the side of his bed. “I need someone I can trust.”

  I walk over and exhale. The sterile room is soaked in cleaning chemicals that burn my nose. “You don’t have anyone else you can trust? What about your wife?”

  “We divorced twenty years ago.”

  His ring finger is still adorned with a gold band. I always thought he was married, but I guess he hasn’t moved on.

  “What do you want?” I ask.

  Shelby motions me closer. I lean down. “I need you to go to my office,” he mutters. “And I need you to continue this case.”

  “What case?”

  “The case we were working on. These scumbags can’t be allowed to go free. I’m so close.”

  “Are you talking about the human traffickers?”

  “Of course. Who else would I be talking about?”

  “No,” I say. “I’m not going to do that. Do you remember what happened just a few days ago? This is a suicide case. Leave it to the police.”

  “I can’t,” Shelby hisses. He grabs the collar of my jacket and pulls me closer—to the point his two-day-old stubble scratches my ear. “They’re in on it.”

  “What?” I ask.