Vice Enforcer

by S. A. Stovall

  Tsk. Why do people do that? They should never tell anyone how to get under their skin—it’s the fastest way to unhappiness outside of jumping into oncoming traffic.

  “Listen, I need your statement. Why don’t you tell me what happened, and I’ll write it all down. Then you can go back to whatever the hell you were doing.”

  Ms. Timo opens her mouth to speak, but she catches her breath when a creak sounds from inside the house.

  “Grammy?” I hear a voice ask, the feminine timbre muffled by the walls. “Grammy, where’d you go?”

  Ms. Timo cracks open the front door and calls in, “I’m out here, sweetie. I’m speaking to our neighbor.”

  “That one with the terrible garden you’re always talking about?”

  “The very same.”

  The door swings in to its limit, and a young girl stares back at me. She and Ms. Timo are related—they have the same tan-olive skin, though the girl’s is free from sun cracks, and their eyes are an odd shade of blue that looks closer to the gray of cement than anything found in a fashion magazine. Maybe she’s eleven? Twelve? The same age as Lacy, I’d guess, given her small frame and awkward proportions.

  The girl looks me over, her large eyes honing in on the manila file I have in my hands. “Are you a lawyer?” she asks. The girl walks outside and allows the door to shut behind her. “Is this about my mom and dad? Are they okay? Are they coming home soon?”

  “Shannon,” Ms. Timo says, a strain in her voice. “Why don’t you wait inside and—”

  “If it’s about my mom and dad, I think I should get to know.”

  “This is a legal matter. Not for children. I’ll let you know as soon as anything happens.”

  Shannon, the girl, straightens her bucket hat and throws her braided hair over her shoulder. “I understand legal things. I want to know what’s going on.”

  “This is confidential,” I snap. The girl flinches, like she didn’t expect my anger, but I’m not interested in bullshit. I have other things on my plate, and listening to a grandma bicker with a kid isn’t something I’m interested in.

  Shannon backs up into the house without another word. After she shuts the door, I turn to Ms. Timo. “Well?” I drawl. “Can we get this over with?”

  “Let’s take a walk,” Ms. Timo says, motioning to the cracked sidewalk.

  I’m not in the mood, but I also don’t have much fight in me today. I exhale and follow her away from her house, strolling down our ramshackle neighborhood with little interest for my surroundings. The old crone hobbles like she’s got a bum ankle, and I alter my speed accordingly.

  “I’ve noticed you have children in your house from time to time,” she says, straight out of the blue.

  “How observant.”

  “They seem nice.”

  “Heh. Apparently you’re not too observant. One is fine, but the other should’ve been absorbed by a twin in the womb.”

  “I was hoping that my little Shannon would be able to visit and spend time with a girl her age.”

  “Look,” I say, trying not let my anger take over my judgment. “I didn’t stop by to play Suzy Homemaker. Just. Give me. The damn. Statement.”

  “She’s following us,” Ms. Timo states. She motions with a shift of her eyes, and I glance around, spotting the rustle of bushes one house down. How did I not notice it before? I know why, but I’m still frustrated. A lack of peripheral vision will do that to a man.

  Ms. Timo lowers her voice and steps up closer to me, though her tone and pleasant disposition never change. “Shannon’s father, my son, came home one night and found Shannon’s mother in bed with another man. He called me after he calmed down, and I went over to the house. Shannon was staying with me, so I was the only one who got a good look at the aftermath.”

  I jot down a few notes, thankful she’s speaking.

  “Shannon doesn’t know,” Ms. Timo intones.

  I hold back a sardonic laugh. “So you’re hiding it from her?” I glance into the file and see who the victim is. Yup. McMillian killed his wife in the heat of passion. “Girl might be entitled to know her mother’s dead.”

  Ms. Timo presses her lips together. “Keep your voice down.”

  I stare at the rustling bushes. She’s much too far away to hear our conversation, but I indulge the old woman regardless. “What did you notice when you got to your son’s house?”

  “He was shaking. He had his gun on the table. It holds six rounds, but only one bullet was missing. I didn’t get a good look at the bedroom. Some things you can’t unsee.”

  “Did he say anything?”

  “He kept saying he wished he could take it back. He shot once and instantly regretted it. I know he didn’t mean it. He lost himself for one second. Just one.”

  Retelling the story obviously unnerves the old lady. She breathes with a choked-up rasp. But I’ve seen one too many corpses to get disturbed over a guy and his unfaithful wife.

  “About what time did this all go down?” I ask, making sure to cover the last few details the attorney will want.

  “Late at night. A little after ten.”

  “All right. Well, I’ll walk over and talk to you if I need anything else. I suspect they won’t take this to trial, but if they do, you’ll be called to the stand.”

  “I’ve been homeschooling Shannon,” she says after a deep breath, like she’s ready to forget that whole conversation even happened. “But that means she isn’t going outside much.”

  The girl, Shannon, shuffles closer and keeps to the shadows. Now that I know she’s there, I can keep track of her movements, but she’s rather quiet and talented at flitting from one early morning shadow to the next.

  “You and your partner are homosexuals?” Ms. Timo asks.

  I slowly pan my gaze over to hers. Did she just say homosexuals like we were on a 1930s radio show? “We fuck each other, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  Unfazed by my statement, she nods. “I want Shannon to have an example of a good relationship before… before I have to explain how one can go so wrong. Her parents argued nonstop. You and your partner seem good for each other. Not like how I was told homosexuals treated each other.”

  I snort and laugh. “Fun fact, true fact—homosexuals come in every flavor nonhomosexuals come in. Bad ones. Good ones. Crazy jealous ones who can’t handle catching their partner in bed with another. Don’t go romanticizing the first instance of something you see.”

  “What I want to ask is, can Shannon visit your little girl?”

  “Ask Miles,” I state. “It’s his decision.”

  “He wears the pants in the relationship, I see.”

  I glower at the woman. “They’re his siblings.”

  “Ah. Then I will ask him about it this evening.”

  “Fine.” I nod to her and then turn on my heel, heading straight home. I really do have other things to deal with, and this witness statement ate way too much of my free time. Shannon hops from her hiding space once I’m a few houses away, and I catch sight of her speaking to her grandmother, a few twigs caught in her long braid.

  I guess it’s none of my business, but I would hate not having the facts straight. Shannon will have to go on not knowing about her father until her grandmother gets her act together.

  “THAT’S NOT the proper form for lifting weights,” Miles says, exasperation in his tone. “You’re going to hurt your back like that. How many times do I have to tell you?”

  I can’t see what’s going on in the back room, but I can picture it clear as day in my mind’s eye. Jayden’s gotta be fuckin’ it up left and right. I’m sure he’ll get it eventually—Miles knows his stuff, and Jayden has a track record of failing before turning it all around—but that doesn’t mean it isn’t funny in the meantime.

  I tune them out and go back to my work.

  With the TV on mute—and set to the news—I read over Shelby’s reports. He seems to have every kidnapping record for the last twenty years, including confidential po
lice records. I’m impressed and confused, but I suppose they’ll come in handy. I was right about the uptick in crime in Noimore—especially kidnappings. People are going missing—which explains the police crackdown.

  “So, uh, do you do anything for fun?” Shannon asks.

  Lacy combs her long black hair with her fingers. “I run track and field. And I play the piano.”

  “Running and piano? Okay…. Do you have a piano here?”

  “No. My brother doesn’t have one.”

  “Right.”

  Silence settles over the kitchen. The two girls avoid staring at each other from opposite sides of the kitchen table, and I lament the fact that I agreed to watch over them while I worked.

  It’s not like I haven’t watched kids before. Big Man Vice had me look after his three kids for years, but they had things to do and toys to play with. Shannon and Lacy sit around like lumps on a log, taking up space and air.

  Shannon stares at me, her gaze unflinching. I rub at my forehead when I turn to her. “What is it?”

  “Your eye is ugly.”

  Lacy’s eyebrows lift, her straight-as-a-rod posture unbroken as she gives a disapproving frown.

  “If you’re gonna insult someone,” I say, “at least be clever about it. Otherwise you’re making enemies, and lookin’ stupid while doin’ it. A terrible combination.”

  “I wasn’t insulting you. It’s a fact.”

  “Don’t you have any homework?” I ask with a long exhale.

  Shannon rolls her eyes. “My grandma assigns me worksheets out of a textbook, but that’s no fun.”

  “You haven’t finished your homework for the day?” Lacy asks, aghast. She gets out of her chair and scoots it over to Shannon. “I’m going to be a professor one day. I’ll help you.” Her pomp and patronizing tone almost gets me laughing, but I hold back. Whatever keeps them busy, I suppose.

  I stare at the television. The new deputy police chief of Noimore gives some sort of speech. Isn’t he the one cracking down on crime? He’s an intimidating guy. Skin so pale he looks like he’s been dead for weeks—the red of his blood filters through and gives his balding head a pinkish sheen—and he’s got muscles that threaten to rip the seams of his clothes and force all the veins out of his body.

  Not a guy I would want to take a back-alley beating from, that’s for sure.

  Much to my surprise, I spot Rhett in the crowd of police officers standing around the podium. Apparently they’re all getting awards for lowering the amount of crime around Lake Michigan. The numbers on the screen say muggings, robbery, burglary, and prostitution are all on the decline. Maybe they’re not concerned with human trafficking. But why?

  “This is all wrong,” Lacy says, breaking my focus.

  I slide my attention over to the girls. Shannon rolls her eyes. “It’s dumb, anyway. Who cares?”

  “You should try your hardest. This is terrible work.”

  “What do you know?”

  “More than you.”

  “Hey,” I bark, cutting them off before this turns into a prissy little passive-aggressive fight. “Let me see it.” I hold out my hand, and Shannon passes over the paper. The workbook assignment is juvenile at best and labeled “geometry.” The directions say name the shapes with a bunch of multisided scribbles all down the middle. Under each one, Shannon wrote things like “Amy,” “Bob,” “Snoopy,” and “Jamison.”

  Well, she did name them.

  I chuckle, and Shannon gives me a slight smile. Then I glare at one of the shapes. “This really is a stupid assignment,” I say. “What are these? These aren’t circles and triangles. And isn’t this one just a diamond?”

  “It’s a rhombus,” Lacy says, matter-of-fact.

  “How the fuck is that different from a diamond?”

  “Well, a diamond is a rhombus. Any parallelogram with equal sides is, technically.”

  I laugh once and toss the paperwork back. “Yeah, that’s useless. You can forget that right away.”

  “It won’t be useless as an adult,” Lacy pipes up, indignant.

  Shannon snickers.

  “Unless you live on the set of Jeopardy!, you’ll use that knowledge exactly zero times as an adult. Trust me. I know.”

  Lacy crosses her arms. “Well, of course you’re not using it. You’re a criminal and a drug dealer. I meant when I become a proper adult.”

  The atmosphere of the kitchen gets tense as I sit up in my chair. Both girls go silent. I can’t help but feel a cold rage in my system after hearing that. I have a goddamn lieutenant breathing down my neck—trying to find something that proves I’m who he thinks I am—and here I have some girl who’s going around telling people that I’m a criminal?

  “Who told you that?” I ask, attempting to keep my voice neutral, but I know I must sound like a murderer on the edge of sanity.

  “Jayden,” Lacy replies, her voice lower than before. “He told me to stay away from you. And that… and that you’re not treating Miles right. That you force him to be with you.”

  I grind my teeth to stop myself from getting out of my chair and running that dumpster fire down. I hate the fact he knows who I once was. And he obviously can’t keep his fat mouth shut about it.

  “Is it true?” Shannon whispers, engrossed by the conversation and glancing between me and Lacy.

  I force a laugh and rest back in my seat. “Of course not.”

  “That’s what Jayden said,” Lacy repeats.

  “And you think Jayden is a credible source of information?”

  “Well, yes. He’s my brother.”

  “Jayden!” I shout, my anger fueling my volume.

  “What?” he yells back.

  “Tell me what a rhombus is!”

  The quiet that follows is thick with confusion. Regardless, he eventually answers with “It’s a tiny robot that vacuums your floors. Why?”

  I give Lacy a smirk. “Your brother is so detached from reality that he doesn’t even know what the fucking question is, let alone the right answer.” With unfiltered sarcasm I continue, “He’s definitely my source of information. Right alongside the National Enquirer and that drunken hobo I pass every morning on my way to work.”

  Shannon stifles a long line of laughs as she buries her head into the crook of her arm. Lacy’s frown deepens, and with a sheepish tilt of her head, she hides most of her face behind her long black hair. I guess I should be thankful for Jayden’s general incompetence.

  I stand up and head for the back room. Lacy holds up a hand, and I stop.

  “I’m sorry I called you a criminal,” she says.

  There isn’t much I can say, so I leave without replying. A few short steps later and I’m with Jayden and Miles in the back room. We have a shitty workout bench, and Jayden lies back on it, propped up on his elbows. Miles stands nearby, fitting on the last of his academy uniform.

  “You’re leaving for class?” I ask him.

  He nods. “Yeah. In a few minutes.”

  Maybe Miles is flaunting for me, but he examines his dark blue shirt and decides against it. He pulls it off, tosses it in the hamper, and walks over to the closet, his bare skin and taut muscles a sight for sore eyes. I see Jayden and Lacy have hung their clothes inside, but Miles still keeps all his weird academy clothing in the corner. Apparently he needs to wear nice shoes, specific pants, and a belt that carries all their practice weaponry.

  Miles throws on a new shirt and then walks over to me, a slight smile on his face like he knew I watched him like a hawk. “I’ll be back.”

  “Come home right after,” I say. I don’t want Rhett talking to him any longer than necessary.

  “Right after?” Miles repeats, a mischievous look about him. “You gonna miss me?”

  “Ugh,” Jayden groans. “Don’t do this.”

  “I’d prefer you be here,” I say. Miles still takes it as a flirtation—rather than the jealousy it is—and nods. I watch him go, which leaves me and Jayden alone in the room.

  The
space is tiny. There’s two twin-size beds that take up a good portion of the room, one dresser with a TV on top of it, and the cumbersome workout bench. No room for walking around, that’s for sure. Despite that, I maneuver my way over to the bench and give Jayden a reverse nod—jutting my chin out in a quick gesture.

  “Let’s see how much you can lift,” I say.

  Jayden shivers at the sound of my coarse voice. “Uh, maybe some other time.”

  “Lie down,” I command.

  He visibly frets, tapping his fingers along the seat. After a long moment of internal debate, he leans back and scoots himself under the bar. Altogether, counting the weight of the bar itself, he has seventy pounds.

  “Was your sister in here last?” I ask, motioning to the weights.

  “Shut up,” Jayden mutters. “I was in the hospital for a while. I got shot, remember? I’m working up to higher weights.”

  “Let’s see you do a set of ten.”

  “Ten?”

  “You heard me.”

  Jayden watches me with a frown, and he doesn’t like it when I get behind the bench and stare down at him.

  “I’m gonna spot you,” I say.

  “Right,” he mutters.

  He picks up the bar, and with a nervous jitter to him, he completes a single rep. I watch him, unblinking, and he avoids looking at me straight on.

  “You know what you remind me of?” I ask him. “One of the pedestrians who walks out in front of traffic. You know the ones. They’re not even in a crosswalk—they just walk out, like they don’t give a fuck, because they know the drivers will stop.”

  Jayden gives me a perplexed stare as he continues with his reps. His breaths release in controlled exhales, but I don’t care if he’s doing his workout properly or not.

  “You know why the drivers stop?” I continue. “Because they have a life, and they don’t want to mess it up by killing some random fuckstick. They have things they want to get home to. People they want to see.”

  Around rep seven, Jayden starts to slow. It’s kinda pathetic how weak he’s gotten.

  I offer him a half smile. “So, Jayden, when you go around flippantly telling people that I’m a criminal, that’s the equivalent of walking right out into traffic.”