Vice Enforcer

by S. A. Stovall

  Miles gets up and leaves me on the couch. I can’t help but feel like something is wrong, but what am I going to say? He returns with a second towel and a pair of tweezers. He kneels next to me, and again, tilts my head to get a better look at my swollen eye.

  “Which officers came to look for your sister?” Rhett asks Jayden.

  “Which officers? What do you mean?”

  “Their names, son. What’re their names?”

  “Uh, Chal—or something. And Jones. I think.”

  “Challon and Jones?”

  Rhett gathers up a few pages of his paperwork and walks over to Miles. When he flashes his information, Miles gets tense, his expression hardening. I don’t need to see it to know what’s going on. Both officers are on our guilty-as-fuck list.

  “Stay here,” Rhett commands, looking at me and then Miles. “I mean it. I need to turn over this evidence without delay, and after that I’ll return.”

  “What if your buddies come to the house looking for said evidence?” I ask.

  Rhett freezes midway through gathering up his paperwork. “Stay at a hotel,” he answers. “Somewhere in town. Somewhere close.” He drops the keys to Castor’s vehicle on the table. “Use this. I called a colleague to come get me. I don’t need it anymore.”

  “What about Lacy and Shannon?” Miles asks. “What’re you going to do about them?”

  “I’ll send officers to deal with it. You two are to wait to hear from me.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t go looking for them yourselves,” he states, a definitive tone to his words.

  Miles nods once.

  Rhett leaves. Before I can say anything, Miles grabs my chin and holds me in place. “Don’t move,” he commands.

  Jayden walks over, his eyes wide, and I feel agitated by his presence. What is Miles doing? I’m not reassured when I see Miles pick up the tweezers and angle them toward my face. I close my one good eye. Miles grabs the twisted contact protruding from under my eyelid and pulls back, his movements slow, and the flimsy contact scrapes across my eye. The gradual pain builds with each drawn-out moment. Fresh blood runs the length of my face.

  “Sonofabitch,” I hiss. I have to hold myself back from punching the source of my agony.

  The moment he pulls the contact from my eye, everything is better. The pain subsides, and I bring a hand up to quell the bleeding. The swollen eyelid still won’t open, however.

  Miles uses the towel to wipe up the blood.

  “That was sick,” Jayden says. “I should’ve recorded it.”

  Once the blood is gone, Miles leans down and kisses me—his mouth gentle against mine, like he’s fearful of hurting me. I enjoy him close like this. I didn’t even realize I craved it.

  “Uh, seriously?” Jayden continues. “This is what you’re into, Miles? A guy who’s so messed up he’s practically half beef jerky? You know women are pretty, right?”

  Miles pulls away. “Weren’t you defending Pierce a second ago?”

  “Hey. He can be a good guy, or whatever, and still be a gross dude with an eye problem. You didn’t have to make out with him now. You could’ve waited. That’s all I’m sayin’.”

  “Jayden.”

  “Uh, yeah? I was just joking.”

  “Forget it. I want you to go get Ms. Timo.”

  “Get her?”

  “Bring her here. We’re going to a hotel.”

  “O-okay.”

  Jayden jogs out of the house and into the dying storm. Although I would say I like him a little more than I did yesterday, I still prefer silence over his commentary. The quiet that follows his departure is welcome.

  “They wouldn’t take two runaway girls to jail,” Miles comments, his voice so neutral it borders on uncaring. But I know that can’t be the case.

  “If they found them,” I say.

  “Let’s pretend they did. Where would they take them?”

  “The Vice family is the one moving people, right? They’d take them there. For packing.”

  “And you would know where that is?”

  “I haven’t been in the loop for a while,” I drawl. “But I know a few people. I could find out.”

  “Then that’s what we’re going to do.”

  I hold the towel over my eye and mull over the statement. Miles isn’t talking to me like he usually does. It worries me, but I know for certain he’s worried about his sister. Perhaps this is his way of not panicking. Unlike Jayden, who also had problems, Lacy is young, not yet a teenager. She shouldn’t be left in the care of gangbangers for any length of time.

  Nor should Shannon, for that matter.

  “Didn’t Rhett tell you not to do anything about it?” I ask.

  “I don’t care,” Miles states, anger finally in his voice. “I know we can find her faster. You know everything about the Vice family. And even if your knowledge is a little out of date, you know all their friends and associates like the back of your hand. We have to do this.”

  I nod. “If that’s what you want. I’ll do it.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  IT FEELS like an eternity ago that I stood in the Grand Noimore Waterfront Hotel. I glance at my phone and groan. 11:35 p.m. Fuck. It’s still the same day as the gala, despite everything I’ve been through. Time sure does crawl when you’re getting your ass beat.

  Miles and I walk out of the Economy Motel and head for our car—well, Castor’s car, but ours for the time being. He jumps for the driver’s seat with enough energy for three men. I force myself to sit in the passenger’s seat, my whole body protesting my every movement. I have my gun, but I know I’m going to be terrible in a fight. I touch the patch bandage over my eye and grimace.

  At least the rain has stopped.

  Before Miles peels out of the parking lot, Ms. Timo hobbles out of the motel. I roll down my window, and she stops once she can place a hand on the car door.

  “Are you going to look for Shannon?” she asks.

  The old lady has been crying for hours. Her voice is hoarse and her eyes bloodshot. You can’t speak to her without the woman getting close to hysterics. I understand her concern, but it’s hard to comprehend the level of panic, considering I’m not a father. Still, I feel for the crone, especially when her hands shake with every word.

  “We’ll be back,” Miles replies. “Stay with Jayden. The police will call him when they find something.”

  “It’s all my fault,” Ms. Timo mutters. “I should’ve spoken to her sooner. I should’ve—”

  “Save it,” I say, curt.

  She frets for a moment. “I came to say I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “Lacy’s a good girl. She never would’ve run off if it weren’t for her concern for Shannon. I didn’t mean to harm your family.”

  Miles offers her a smile. “Everything will be okay. I’m sure the police will find them soon, and we’ll all laugh about this later.” He delivers the pep talk with an edge of genuine optimism. Ms. Timo doesn’t know about the corrupt cops or the dubious plan to sell lowlife criminals and runaways to the body trade, so she accepts the reassurances without a second of thought.

  “You’re right,” she murmurs. “You two hurry back. It’s late.”

  I roll up the window, and Miles drives the vehicle out of the parking lot. The clouds part, revealing the starry night, and it’s enough to remind me of my fatigue. I lean back in my seat and rest my uninjured arm over my face to block out what little light surrounds us.

  “Where should I head?” Miles asks.

  “Do you know the bar on South Street called Copper Town?”

  “In Noimore?”

  “Yeah.”

  “No, but my phone does.”

  I chuckle. “Head there. I know a few guys who frequent the place.”

  Miles nods as he pushes the gearshift into place. I guess he knows how to drive a manual as well. My mind dwells on the fact as I close my eye and drift into sleep.

  “PIERCE. WAKE up. We nee
d to find Lacy.”

  I jerk to the side and take in a ragged breath. Grogginess clouds my thoughts. I sit up, my head buzzing, and glance over at Miles. He zips up his jacket, concealing his shoulder holster and firearm, and he gives me the once-over.

  “I need to find Lacy,” Miles repeats, his voice hushed. “Here.” He hands me a bottle of water and a Snickers bar.

  When did he stop to get these? I must have been out like a light. No matter. I guzzle the water and consume the Snickers without thought. My gut grumbles a bit, but everything stays down.

  I look at my phone. 12:05 a.m. That’s record time. Miles must’ve been speeding like a lunatic.

  With the last of my water, I splash my face. “All right,” I say. “Let’s go in. And let me do the talking.”

  “I don’t want one night to go by with Lacy in their hands. Please, Pierce. We need to find out where they’re keeping people, and we need to do it tonight.”

  There’s no urgency in his tone—he sounds as calm as they come—but his words convey everything. I don’t look like hot stuff, and he’s worried I might blow this. Funny enough, I’m more comfortable handling this than I would be taking proper witness statements.

  I step out of the vehicle and walk up to the bar. It’s a simple building painted black and wedged between two larger businesses, practically at the end of an alley. The windows, plastered in neon signs that flash and blink, are covered from the inside with thick blackout blinds. I like this place. It’s private. Not many people outside Noimore even know it exists.

  Miles and I enter. A cloud of smoke wafts out into the night as we cross the threshold. Despite the fog, there aren’t many individuals in the joint. The bartender, Sammy, doles out drinks at a slow rate, serving the three at the bar with no haste in his movements. The other four patrons—men I don’t know and don’t care to know—eye me and Miles as we stroll in.

  “Where’s your buddy?” Miles asks.

  Having one eye makes it hard to glance around and my neck aches like a bitch, but I eventually get everything. The copper accents on the bar, tables, and chairs sparkle under the dim overhead lighting. My old associate, James “Chronic” Ward, is nowhere to be seen. I head straight back to the bathroom, certain he’s there. I’m also certain Sammy won’t like the fact we aren’t ordering a drink, but I don’t want the man to recognize me.

  I get two steps into the men’s room and spot Ward leaning against the sole sink. He’s hard to miss, what with his tight black leather pants and open jacket. The guy sports a whole host of tattoos, and I suppose he wants to show them off, which is why he opts out of wearing a shirt. Despite his thuggish appearance, he smiles wide, a cigarette clamped in his teeth.

  “Hey, friends,” Ward says, a slick manner to his speech. “Lookin’ to relax?”

  I step up close to him, and he straightens his posture, his smile disappearing.

  “Pierce? Is that you?”

  “Last I checked,” I say.

  He grabs my upper arm and pulls me to him, half smiling. “Shit, really? I heard you were dead. And then maybe you were alive again. I haven’t seen you in ages.” I enjoy the smell of the smoke he exhales—it’s my favorite brand of cigarette.

  “I need to speak to you.”

  Ward tilts his head. “Me? Heh. All right. Let’s get some privacy.”

  All of us walk out of the bathroom, and once again, we’re given odd glances by everyone in the room. Sammy and Ward exchange a quick nod, and I know we won’t be hassled by the bouncers while we’re outside.

  We step out into the cold, and Ward rounds the corner of the building, standing a few feet away from the grimy dumpster. There aren’t any homeless druggies milling about, and I know why. Everyone’s doing their business behind closed doors now.

  “You wanna smoke?” Ward asks, withdrawing a cheap cigar from his pocket and twirling it around. I sneer. All the guys in this area empty those cigars and fill them with weed—and add their own “flavors.”

  I shake my head.

  “You sure? It’s got some embalming fluid.”

  “Like what you soak dead people in?” Miles says, interjecting himself into the conversation.

  “He means it’s got PCP,” I reply. “Forget about it.”

  Ward stares at Miles for a moment before returning his attention to me. “What’s this? Ya got yellow fever?”

  “I’m not here to bullshit, Ward. I’ve been out of it for a while. I need information. I know you still work for the Vice family. This is your side gig.”

  “Yeah,” Ward says. “Okay. What did you want to know?”

  “What’s Jeremy been doing since I died? Where’d he hole up?”

  “Oh, wait, you want to reconnect?” He laughs, throwing his whole back into it. “Seriously? D’aww, you must miss him! That’s adorable.”

  I wait for Ward to collect himself before continuing, my expression never changing. “Where is he?”

  Ward chuckles once more. Then he says, “Man, I dunno. Operations have gotten weird since he got outta jail. He changed things up. Started spendin’ money.”

  I suspected his time in jail had been the game changer. Jeremy must’ve spoken to Worldwide Decurion and then the crooked cops of the Noimore system.

  “What about spending money?” I ask.

  “On properties. He owns a lot of empty lots and such. I guess he’s going to build stuff, like his old man, but now he also owns a bunch of trucks and boats and junk.” The guy squints and smiles, like he’s holding back another round of laughter. “Want me to give you Jeremy’s number? I got it from one of his enforcers. You two could sext each other. Wouldn’t that be cute?”

  I glare at him. “Shut the fuck up. I’m not here to talk to him. I want to know where he stores things. Which one of these new properties has traffic going through it?”

  Ward takes a long drag on his cigarette as he mulls over the statement. As he exhales he digs into his pocket and pulls out a half-used pack. “Want one?” he asks, shaking the pack of cigarettes.

  “No,” I say.

  That’s not true. I want one, but I shouldn’t take it. Now isn’t the time.

  “You’ve changed,” Ward mutters as he puts his pack away. “And not like you did with Jeremy, where you got ruthless. I mean, you’re the shadow of Pierce. Some old man with one foot in death’s door.” He chuckles. “Or maybe you went face-first, huh?” He points to my eye and gets another solid laugh.

  “Where does he keep things?” I repeat. “And then you can get back to your business.”

  “I dunno, Pierce. You’re messin’ with my livelihood. I don’t get much from backroom dealin’. I need Jeremy if I’m gonna keep up my lifestyle choices, if ya get what I mean.”

  “A choice of bedpans is gonna be your next lifestyle decision if you hold out on me, Ward. This isn’t up for discussion.”

  “Big talk for a guy with a busted face.”

  I grab Ward by his jacket and pull him close. “I’m the guy who was dead eight months ago, remember? I’ve got more than one card to play.”

  He jerks out of my grasp and glares. Before he says anything, he brushes himself off and slicks back his greasy hair. “Why’d you come to me? I don’t want no part of this.”

  “You keep to yourself, you deal to all using members of the Vice family, and I’ve never had issues with you before. I’m not looking to put Jeremy out of business. I’m looking to get something back from him, and he’ll never suspect you pointed me in the right direction. Everything works out, right?”

  Ward finishes his cigarette and snuffs it out under his boot. “What’s in it for me? Or is your threat my only incentive?”

  “Not his threat,” Miles says. “It’s mine.”

  He steps around me and slams Ward up against the wall of the bar. Unlike Miles, who has the cut of muscle to show for all his exercise, Ward is more a lithe guy with long limbs and scrawny legs. He reaches for something tucked into the belt of his pants, right on the small of his back,
but Miles beats him to the punch and grabs Ward’s .22 handgun. When Ward goes to take it, Miles decks him across the face, the genuine crack of knuckles on skin echoing throughout the alley.

  “Hey,” I bark. “Calm down!”

  I don’t go to intervene. Either Miles will listen or he won’t. No need for me to get roughed up on Ward’s behalf.

  “Whoa, whoa!” Ward pleads. “Stop!”

  “Are you going to talk?” Miles growls, his teeth practically clenched shut. He eases up a bit but keeps Ward pinned to the wall.

  “You’re lookin’ for trouble if you ask around like this.”

  Miles cocks a fist. Ward flinches.

  “All right,” Ward says, his hands up. “Jeremy keeps stuff in lots of places, but I assume you want the bodies, right? He keeps his bodies in an old ambulance dispatch station before shippin’ them out of town. The dispatch station’s set up for keepin’ people alive before a long trip, ya see?”

  “Where, specifically?” I ask. The ambulance dispatch center rings a bell. And then I remember. It was on Shelby’s list of locations. That’s a good sign—there’s a good chance Ward is telling the truth.

  “On School Street and Oakwood Ridge,” Ward replies. “It’s next to an old retirement home. Both of them are closed, okay? Whole damn neighborhood is abandoned.”

  Miles goes to release him, but I stop him with a wave of my hand.

  “What else?” I ask. “You’re not telling us something.”

  Ward lets out a long exhale. “The place was abandoned. Jeremy uses it for storage. And his weird games. Guy’s a kook.”

  Ah. The place will be swarming with hired guns. That could be a problem, but then again, we have surprise on our side. People underestimate what surprise can do for them.

  I motion for Miles to let the guy go. He does so, and Ward jumps away.

  “Can I get my gun back?” he asks.

  Miles pockets the weapon. Smart kid. We don’t want to risk Ward getting weird and shooting us in the back.

  “What’s Jeremy’s number?” I ask as I walk up to him.