Twin Tango

by H Q Kingsley

  Mike had almost exclusively become my main resource. He’d grown up in the same neighborhood as the twins and somewhere along the way had grown to hate them. As far as I could tell, it was mostly jealousy, but I always wondered if there was something more to it.

  The way he raved about them was so passionate, but I couldn’t tell if it was real passion or drug-addled enthusiasm. But he had issues with everything they did, and always thought he could run their operation better than they could and didn't mind telling anyone who would listen. Anyone who didn't have connections back to the twins, though. He wasn't stupid enough to piss them off directly.

  I was always happy to listen. Mike was reliable. He came for his fix like clockwork, and I never had to hassle him about the money. He kept his eyes open and saw what happened on the streets, and I just had to stand there and wait before he started telling me everything.

  It was almost too easy.

  Mike shook his head. "Got a screw loose if you ask me,” he said, continuing his ramble. “But ain't nobody gonna step to him about it, you know. Fucking Tic would kill you before you even got close. Not worth it. But if it was me? I wouldn't be letting my brother run around at craft stores doing paintings or whatever. It makes him look bad. Look weak. That's some old lady shit."

  "I don't think either of the twins are too worried about looking weak," I told him. "They run this city. Like you said, no one's gonna call them on it."

  "Yeah," Mike said. "It's bullshit if you ask me." He spat on the ground. "Bullshit."

  That was how these conversations always ended. Mike called it bullshit, he spat on the ground, and then wandered away with his score. And the cycle repeated.

  I watched him as he wandered off in an energetic, drugged hurry and shook my head.

  Mike's little stories and rants about the twins were all well and good, but they weren't what I needed. I was stuck in a rut. I couldn’t keep peddling on the corner if I wanted this bust. I needed something bigger. I needed to get closer, go deeper...

  I needed more connections. I needed to work my way into the inner circle or catch their attention or something. I needed to make a name for myself, and I needed to do it fast.

  The longer I waited, the less chance I had to make it happen and the more shit the twins peddled into the city. And the more shit they brought in, the more powerful they got. They already had a stranglehold on the city. You couldn't talk to a dealer or weapons pusher without hearing the names Tic and Tok. Everything got back to them, and they had their hand in almost every deal that went down in the city.

  They had eyes and ears everywhere, so I just needed to do something that would catch their attention. Or get bold and ask for a meeting to work with them, but that seemed like too tight a line tote, too obvious. No, subtlety was my friend.

  I started walking. My head was spinning and I needed to process. There were a lot of different ways things could go, and I turned each one over and over again in my mind, waiting for something to jump out at me. I’d been called obsessive a time or two in my life, for sure.

  I’d come to know the city like the back of my hand. I could walk for hours and still find my way back to my shitty apartment from just about anywhere in a fifty-mile radius. So, I let my mind drift as I walked, blindly making my way down the sidewalk, across streets, around corners, until I felt the distinct chill of someone watching me.

  I stilled, climbing out of my head for a minute to observe my surroundings. I was downtown somewhere, definitely off the beaten path.

  I took in slow and steady breaths as I turned in a slow circle, stopping as I noticed slight movements from the shadows down an alley.

  I straightened, staring down whoever was there.

  Five men emerged from the alley, slowing making their way toward me.

  They had a look to them, a look I was all too familiar with. The kind of look you dreaded seeing as a cop. These guys were looking for a fight. And judging by the menacing way they approached me, all five of them circling me like sharks, they weren’t looking for a fair fight.

  I eyed them up and down. They weren’t as big and burly as they seemed to think. It was likely the fact that I was five times outnumbered that gave them their confidence because frankly, they were a little scrawny with the exception of one. He seemed to be the leader, towering over the rest of them, his shoulders broad and his back straight with the confidence of his size. They were undoubtedly all armed—everyone on this side of town was—but he was the real threat. Gun or not, he was the only one who really looked like he could hold his own.

  But, if I could avoid a fight with any of them, that was the route I preferred to take.

  I stepped forward, trying to keep on my path, and they fanned out to block me.

  "Hey, you," one of them called, a little guy measuring up at five foot seven at best and weighing maybe 150 pounds. "I think you're a little lost," he said.

  I nearly rolled my eyes; even his voice was too high-pitched to be threatening.

  "I don't think so," I said. "Just headed home. Not looking for any trouble." I eyed one of them as he walked into my path.

  He grabbed my arm and yanked me around to face him. "Too bad, pretty boy. Trouble found you.”

  He smiled a toothy grin and I arched an eyebrow. “If you’re trying to scare me, calling me pretty isn’t exactly going to do it. I’m flattered, but you’re not really my type. That one over there,” I said, jerking my head in the leader’s direction. “Maybe, but you’re a little tiny for me.” I patted him on the shoulder and tried to step around him again.

  And he tightly gripped my wrist. “You think this is a game, blue eyes?”

  I snickered. “Seriously, dude. I really can’t tell if you’re trying to threaten me or take me home. You’ve really got to work on being menacing.”

  His grip tightened on my wrist as his face flamed red and his buddies laughed.

  “I was just going to rob you,” he said, fishing in his pocket with his free hand. “But now, now I’m going to slice you six ways to Sunday, you smart-mouthed piece of shit!”

  A sharp click echoed through the air as he flipped a knife out of his pocket. He moved to jab the blade at me and I twisted my wrist out of his grip and slammed my palm hard into his chest.

  He let out a loud ‘oof’ as he flew backward, tripping over himself to flatten on the pavement.

  A flash of movement out of the corner of my eye made me whirl around, catching one of the guys as they attacked from the left with a quick jab to the stomach.

  The last two hesitated before they rushed me, giving me a moment to anticipate them. I took one out with an uppercut and the other with a roundhouse kick. I’d always been good at hand-to-hand combat. People like me always did. People who weren’t afraid to die. It let us take risks others wouldn’t. It left us completely free on the battlefield.

  I turned, waiting for the leader to take his shot, but he went for the gun at the back of his jeans instead. I was quicker than he was, drawing my weapon first and aiming it at his head.

  “Uh-uh,” I said, holding out my hand. “Give it to me.” I impatiently flicked my fingers, waiting for him to hand over his weapon. He hesitated and I sighed. “Come on, man. Please, don’t make me shoot you. I’ve had a long fucking day, and”—I squinted, moving to aim my gun between his brows—“putting one right between your eyes probably isn’t going to make it better.”

  His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed before he slowly pulled his weapon out with his fingers and handed it to me.

  “Good. Thank you,” I said before swinging the butt of my gun around to clock him as hard as I could across the head.

  He dropped like a sack of potatoes, and I made a circle to survey the damage. Everyone still seemed to be breathing—probably pissed later, but breathing—which was good enough for me.

  1

  Patrick

  Sunlight slanted into the warehouse from the high windows, and I stood and watched the movement of our workers from the
level above.

  They looked like ants, scurrying here and there, moving boxes and crates and calling to each other. Slingers came in through the side doors getting their pick-ups of guns and drugs for the month, enough that they could take it to various corners of the city and sell them, keeping a small cut for themselves and giving the rest back to us.

  It was a thriving business, relying on buying and selling and the steady heartbeat of the city to keep it going.

  Well, that and the predictability of humans. Everyone wanted to be better than they were, and no one had the stamina to actually do it. They all wanted the same cycle of things—drugs, sex, money, notoriety—and I gave them what they craved. Each one of them. That was my gift. I read people. I could see right into them, see what they wanted and know exactly what they were willing to do to get it.

  It was how we’d made a name for ourselves. It was how we became Tik and Tok, the emperors of the city. We owned the ports, we ran the slums, and we regulated the hills. There was no borough we couldn’t touch. There was no reach we couldn’t see, and there was no item we couldn’t get our hands on.

  We come from nothing, straight from the dirt, and now...now, we were kings. And we would remain kings until the day we died. I would make damn sure of it.

  I folded my arms and nodded, pleased with what I saw as I lorded over my subjects.

  "This is good," I said. "Profits are up this month, and our enemies are at a minimum. Our suppliers are happy, our ports are busy.” I smiled as I looked down at the lower level. “God, look at us, brother. Did you ever think we’d get here? From corner hustling and eating ramen to this? We’re fucking gods, man.”

  I looked over at my brother when he didn’t respond.

  “Paddox!” I shouted. “You listening to me?”

  “Mmhmm,” he hummed distantly. He was engrossed in something on his phone, a million miles away.

  My nostrils flared in irritation.

  I loved my brother, more than anything in the world. We had a bond that was stronger than most people. We weren’t just brothers, we were twins, connected by a shared womb. I’d die for him without a moment’s hesitation, but he sure knew how to piss me the fuck off. We shared the same face, but we had very little in common.

  He was my teammate, my partner in all the shit, but most days, it was like I was running things on my own. He was in his own world as if we hadn’t clawed and scraped to get where we needed to be. As if someone would never come along and try to take it all away from us. He lived in a world where he could space out and “have other interests,” and maybe it was my fault. I’d coddled him damn near our whole lives, and now, he didn’t understand the importance of what we’d accomplished.

  "Paddox," I growled.

  "What?" he asked, not looking up. “I said, I’m listening.”

  I glared at him, waiting for him to actually give me his undivided attention, and when he didn’t, I reached out and snatched his phone from his hands, having half a mind to throw it down to the floor below and watch it shatter. He could afford another one because of the business.

  "What the fuck?" he demanded, climbing to his feet and snatching the phone back from me. "Don't fuck with my stuff, Patrick."

  "Then pay attention," I snapped. "I'm standing here talking, and you're not even listening."

  "It's not like you're saying anything new," he retorted, rolling his eyes. "You’re a fucking windup toy, Tik. Blah, blah, blah, we run the city. We're on top, blah, blah, blah. I already know." He settled back into his seat. “Get a new narrative.”

  I crouched down to get in his face, my anger boiling into rage. "You're on my last goddamn nerve," I spat.

  He didn't back down, straightening and bucking right up to me. "Feeling's mutual."

  I stood there, staring into my brother's eyes, almost daring him to make the first move, throw the first punch. The tension was like ants under my skin, and I couldn't tell if I wanted him to do it or not. It would turn into a fight, and I'd win. I always won. Patrick was delicate, another side effect of my constantly fighting all of his battles for him. But he was also emotional, and the win was never worth all of the aftermath. I knew that somewhere in the back of my mind, but my rage always seemed to cloud my logic, and despite everything telling me to back down, I clenched my fists at my sides.

  The door to the warehouse boomed as it burst open.

  "Boss!" Someone shouted up to me.

  Paddox didn't move, he stayed with his eyes narrowed as if he was just as ready to fight me as I was him. The thing about Paddox was, although he was delicate, he never seemed to realize it until he was pinned and crying.

  I let out a breath. “We’ll talk about this later,” I said, defusing. We were a unit, a dysfunctional as hell unit, but we couldn’t show the dysfunctional part to people. They’d see it as weakness, see it as a thread they could pull to try to take what was ours.

  I turned to see Derrick, one of our lead shippers, on the bottom level looking up at me, waiting for a response.

  "What is it?" I asked, making my way down the stairs to hear him out. Paddox and I could use the space anyway.

  "You still screening guys for more security?" he asked, clicking a pen against the clipboard in his hand.

  I folded my arms and nodded. "Yeah, but real guys,” I said, knowing how these conversations went. “Just cause your baby momma’s brother’s best friend’s cousin needs a job doesn’t mean—”

  Derrick chuckled and shook his head. "No, none of that, boss. This is something legit,” he said.

  I nodded, leaning in again. “Okay, you’ve got my attention.”

  “Apparently, this guy took out five slingers last night. Rodney’s crew, all of ‘em, by himself. They were armed and everything. Mothafucker even took Rodney’s gun. Whole east side’s been talking about it.”

  “Interesting.” I pursed my lips, stroking at the brambles of my five o’clock shadow. “And he’s one of our guys?”

  Derrick shrugged. “Guy seems to have come out of nowhere, but he’s got mad street cred right now.”

  I nodded. “Okay. Bring him in," I said. "I want to talk to him."

  2

  Paddox

  I was still pissed when I arrived at my apartment.

  It was the kind of anger that fizzled under my skin and wouldn’t go away no matter how many deep breaths I took. I needed to punch something...or paint something. I had to work it out. Art was my outlet...so was hitting people, but I couldn’t hit Paddox.

  As much as I wanted to clock him in his fucking face, I couldn’t actually bring myself to do it, and not just because I knew he’d kick my ass. We’d gotten into enough brawls as boys for me to know better than to think I couldn’t honestly beat him up. And over the years, he’d only gotten stronger, angrier.

  I stepped into my apartment, and it soothed me a bit. There was no trace of Patrick inside. It was my safe haven. Simple and cozy. It always irritated the piss out of him that I didn’t live in a flashy high-rise, but my quaint loft was all I wanted. It kept me zen.

  I liked looking out over the city, especially at night when it was all lit up, but I didn’t need to do that from the top floor of an insanely expensive building. I could do it from right there in my tiny third-floor loft.

  My easel was still set up in front of the biggest window in the little living room space where I'd been painting earlier.

  I could see things I wanted to change, mistakes I'd made, and I let those thoughts take over. it didn't make my anger go away, but it pushed it to the back of my mind, making it easy to focus on other stuff while I worked through being mad at my brother. Something that was becoming all too routine.

  The only reason I was still in the business was because of Patrick, and I think on some level, I resented him for it. I kept trying to push it down, kept trying to find the joy in it that he did, but we were just so different.

  Patrick got off on control. Running the business with an iron grip on the boroughs fed his ego like
a Thanksgiving meal. He loved that people feared us; he loved that people answered to him; he loved playing god, isolated on his throne. But for me...for me, it just felt lonely. I didn’t feel powerful. I didn’t feel in control. I just felt...alone.

  Sometimes, I thought about walking away. Taking my savings, packing my bags, and flying somewhere where nobody had ever heard of the Henderson twins. I’d turn my back on all of it and start over again. I could paint and go see art shows and meet other people who liked the same things I did. Maybe even get a decent date for once.

  There was so much potential in that fantasy.

  But walking away meant turning my back on Patrick, and that wasn't something I could do. Womb to tomb. We came into this world together, and we'd go out the same way. That was how it had to be. We'd made that promise to each other over and over again through the years, and I wasn't going to be the one to break it.

  My whole life all I'd had was Patrick. It was the same for him, but he liked it that way. He didn't trust anyone the way he trusted me, and he didn't feel like he needed anyone else.

  Family was everything.

  And yeah, I got that. I loved my brother, asshole that he was, but sometimes I wanted more. Sometimes I thought it'd be nice to have someone to curl up with at night. Someone to wake up to in the morning. Someone I could take to art shows and show my pieces to when they were done. Someone who understood me.

  Or at least appreciated me.

  With a frustrated sigh, I yanked my shirt over my head. I felt too pinned in. I tossed it over the couch and then kicked off my shoes and jeans. It was my loft. I could be naked if I wanted to.

  I stepped up to my easel and grabbed the paint pallet I'd left there, eyeing the colors. None of them felt right anymore. Whatever mood I'd been in when I’d started the piece, I wasn't in it anymore. It was too soft, all light, floaty colors, and right then I was feeling darker. I was feeling angrier.