Pawned

by Laura Bickle

  But all real evidence of Lily is gone.

  She walks to the walls where her murals were to trail her fingers on the blank yellow. Her boots sink deep into the carpet, leaving footprints on pristine vacuum tracks.

  “You can paint them again,” I say. “Clean canvas.”

  She nods listlessly. She crosses to the closet, opens it. Some of her old clothes are still there, freshly laundered. But a lot of them are gone. Bert has tried to be helpful. There are a couple of purple sweaters hanging there with tags on them, and a bunch of T-shirts with butterflies painted on them that I don’t recognize. Bert’s work.

  She stands back, stares up at the blinding white ceiling. “It’s lovely. But it’s like I don’t live here anymore.” Her gaze falls on the empty corner where her handmade dressmaker’s dummy is missing. I guess I never realized what a big shadow it cast until now.

  You’ll make it yours again, I want to say. Except I’m not sure that’s what she wants.

  I grab her hand. “I have something to show you. Come with me.”

  I pull Lily out of the window, onto the fire escape. We jump across to scramble into my room, fly down the back stairs, to the basement of the pawn shop. I lead her to the trunk Carl and I hid in the corner.

  My hands are sweaty. “Do you still want to go to prom?”

  She shakes her head. “I don’t have anything to wear. It doesn’t really matter, anyway.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Yeah, it does. Close your eyes.”

  She looks at me skeptically, then closes her eyes. I root around in the trunk for that beautiful dress, that dress that’s gotten me into so much trouble. I want it to be worth it.

  I hold it up by the shoulders, careful not to break any of the threads holding the beading. I think about trying to do something suave...like stand behind her, hold it up to her body, and then ask her to open her eyes. But I’m not sure how to do that without looking like a bumbling idiot.

  “Okay. Open your eyes.”

  Lily’s gaze fixes on the dress. Her hand flies up to her mouth, and she gasps.

  Fear stabs through me. “You don’t like it?” I squeak.

  She reached out to touch it reverently, like it’s an artifact. “It’s...beautiful. Oh, my god, it’s gorgeous!” I see some of her old dreams flow back into her eyes for a moment, the old life and light.

  I breathe a deep sigh of relief. “It’s for you. There’s other stuff to go with it in the trunk, but...I...I liked it. I hoped you would.”

  “Where did you get it?”

  “From a theater prop house...it was worn for Chicago. I hope you don’t mind that it’s not new...”

  “Of course not! It’s amazing!” She hugs me.

  The dress is pressed between us. Her breath’s on my neck and her arms circle around me. The beaded fringe rattles around our knees. “Thank you, Raz. This is...the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me.”

  My heart soars. “Sweeter than the white carpet?”

  “And chauffeuring me to school in the ice cream truck. Speaking of which, do you think it’s available for prom night?”

  “God, I hope not.”

  I HELP LILY TAKE THE dress and the things that go with it back up to her room. She reverently hangs the dress by itself on the empty side of the closet, putting the shoes, gloves, hat, and feathered stuff on her dresser.

  I have to say that this is probably one of the best things I’ve ever done. Even though it’s brought me a world of hurt. Maybe this is why my father does the stupid shit he does...

  Feeling a bit more light-hearted, I return to the shop. That mood comes crashing down when I see Pops tossing the place like a rat in a Dumpster looking for a cheeseburger wrapper. His face is red, and his eyes are bright like marbles.

  “Pops!” I stare at the junk strewn around on the counter, at the suit of armor in pieces on the floor. Beyond him, the area behind the counter is a shambles. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Looking for that damn hourglass,” he growls.

  “You can’t do that,” I blurt.

  The old man stops to glare at me. “I have to, son. I can’t let your father fuck up everyone else’s life.”

  “But, Pops,” I say. “We love you.”

  Pops sits in a folding chair behind the counter, presses his hand to his eyes. “I know that, Erasmus. I do. But...we only have so many hours and minutes allotted to us. Your dad is trying to cheat that. It ain’t right.”

  I sit down in front of him on the floor. “He loves you.” And with a fierce devotion that he’d never displayed toward me. I’m a bit envious of that, if I’m honest.

  “I’m an old man.” Pops places his hands on his knees. “I’ve had a good life. There’s no reason to artificially extend it and cause harm to others. And...” His right hand shakes. In rage. “I can’t believe he did this to you all without even asking me.” His voice breaks.

  I lower my head and take the old man’s shaking hand. I don’t say anything.

  “And for letting you believe you were responsible for your brother’s death? Unforgivable.”

  I swallow. I want to say this. I want to agree. I want to. This is the validation I’ve craved. But if I agree with Pops, I’m signing his death warrant.

  “What do we do?” I say, feeling helpless. I want someone to tell me. I’m tired of making my own decisions.

  The old man’s lips thin. “We find that fucking hourglass, and we give it to the Don. You guys bury me next to my wife.”

  “I thought...I thought you wanted to see the fox woman again?” I mean it as a joke, but it comes out all wrong.

  He smiles. “I will, son.”

  “It’s not gonna be that easy, fellas.” Sid leans in the doorway. I don’t know how long he’s been standing there, listening.

  I feel the blood drain from my face.

  The old man looks him squarely in the eye. “What do you mean?”

  “I think he put the hourglass in a safe deposit box in the vault. He’s got the key on him at all times—hell, I think he sleeps and showers with it.”

  I glance at the vault. “Which box?” If we knew, we could pry it open and be done with this whole ugly business.

  “Don’t know. I just heard him rooting around there. He left empty-handed. The key is on a chain around his neck. That much, I saw.” Sid rocks back and forward on the toes and heels of his biker boots. He does that when he can’t decide if he’s in or out.

  “There are hundreds of locked boxes in there. And we don’t have the keys to all of ’em.” I groan.

  “Yeah. You’re gonna have to get that key away from him,” Sid agrees. “And figure out which among the hundreds of boxes it is.”

  “And you?” Pops asks, in his direct way. “Where do you stand in all this?”

  Sid rocks back and forward a few more times before answering. “I think he’s wrong. Wrong for lying to Raz and for making a deal that the rest of us have to keep. But that said...it’s done. And once the deal is done, I’m inclined to defend our turf and figure out what to do about the deal with the devil later.”

  Pops grimaces at him. “That ain’t the way to do it, and you know it.”

  “Look, I’m trying to be practical. Giving that thing to the Mob isn’t going to erase the blood debt. Carl and Raz and the rest of us are still gonna owe some blood, no matter who benefits. So I say we tell the Mob to fuck off.”

  “That could get somebody killed,” I say.

  “I’m not convinced the Young Don is gonna do much. He likes to burn shit, sure, but he’s not gonna burn down a building with stuff he wants in it.”

  “Did you see the newspaper today?” I yelp. “I think the man is serious.” I bite my tongue before telling them that Young Don showed up at school. That would be a surefire way for me to experience total lockdown. And I still don’t know what I think about what he said.

  “That has nothing to do with us, and besides...once we start down this slippery slope, he may come in with a g
rocery list every week. One day, it’s the hourglass. The next...he wants the blood-drinking sword or the gargoyles. I don’t want to open that door.”

  I understand where Sid’s coming from. Really, I do. And I have an inkling of that slippery slope of which he spoke. But imagining Lily’s mangled and bloody hands on the keyboard of the piano, I can’t be swayed by that argument.

  The bell jangles at the front of the store, and my father, Bert, and Carl come in. They’re in a good mood. I can see their elation over their good work over at the girls’ house and hear my father giving Bert grief about toile drapes. Carl looks on with a smile on his face, probably relieved to get his own room back.

  My father halts in the middle of the room, takes it in. “What the hell happened here?”

  Pops creaks to his feet. “I’ve been looking for that hourglass. I want you to give it to me. Now.”

  My father’s face turns red. “No. The hourglass isn’t going anywhere.”

  “I decide whether I live or die, and I’m telling you to hand it over. You had no right to make decisions that affect all of us.”

  My father shakes his head. “It’s not a matter of the right to do it. It’s about doing what’s best.”

  Heat crawls up my neck and warming my cheeks, all the way into my shaved scalp. “What’s best? Really?”

  All eyes fall on me.

  My fists clench. “Like it was the best thing to let me believe I was responsible for Zach’s death?”

  “Erasmus, it wasn’t intentional.”

  “Sure it was. You lied to me. And you killed him. To give Pops a few more years of life, sure. I just don’t understand...how you could do that to your own sons.” My throat closes over the last words.

  “You were too young to understand.” My father says it flatly—cold, emotionless. The gold chain glimmers under his collar, holding the key to all our futures.

  “You let me carry that around with me. You killed him and let me believe I did it. And now you want to do that all over again.” My fist hardens as I advance on my father. “I won’t let you.”

  And as hard as I can, I swing my fist at my father’s face.

  CHAPTER 21

  I’ve never really been in a knock-down-drag-out fight before. Not really.

  I got into a couple of shoving matches on the playground when I was in middle school, but Carl usually stepped in before anyone got hurt or the teachers saw. I don’t recall ever starting something. I’m more the wallpaper kid who wants to fade into the background.

  Not now.

  My father’s face is before me, red as a target. Wrath seethes through me, through my arm and my fist. In that moment, I hate everything he’s done. I hate the lies, the manipulation, the lack of concern for my welfare. He killed my brother and paid nothing. If there’s one thing I’m learning from my dealings with the Mob, it’s that every death demands an answer.

  My fist connects with the side of my dad’s head. It hurts my hand, a jolt hammering up through my shoulder. Adrenaline sings in my veins. I expect him to fall down in a used-up heap. I want to stand over him, victorious. I want an apology, at least.

  That’s not to be.

  My father stumbles back from the blow, but doesn’t fall. He turns his face back to me, and there’s a red mark above his jaw where my knuckles connected. Disbelief flits across his face. Of course he can’t believe his son would have the insolence to hit him.

  Rage consumes his expression. A pang of fear thuds deep in my chest.

  My dad balls up his fist and swings right back at me. It’s so fast, I barely see it coming. It lands in my gut, and I double over. The wind’s knocked from me, and my breath comes in a thin, high whistle.

  I flail. At least, I think I must be flailing my arms like windmills, but dad’s sneaker slams into my ribs. I fall to the floor, curling up in a ball. Another blow lands on the back of my ribs. Over the ringing in my ears, I can hear my granddad shouting at my father, “Don’t kill him!”

  I cover my head. It’s a dumb, cowardly reflex. There’s scraping, scuffling above me. Through a blurry eye, I see Sid with his arms around my father, hauling him off me.

  “That’s enough,” Sid growls. “He’s your son.”

  My father’s face burns with rage. His eyes narrow, and he spits at me, “Don’t you ever lift a hand to me. Don’t you ever...”

  I shut my eyes. I can feel gazes on me, hear a door in the back slam.

  A warm, reptilian hand presses against my forehead. “It’s okay. He’s gone.”

  I swallow. I don’t want to cry. I don’t want to cry. It’s not the pain as much as the humiliation.

  I will never be out of my father’s shadow. It will always be cold over me, and I’ll never be able to fight back.

  I LIE IN MY OWN EMPTY bed that night and stare into the dark.

  I listen to the dark. I listen to my father arguing with Pops and Sid downstairs. I listen to the creak and pop of the beams above me, to the squeaking and skittering of the mice. I always assume they’re mice, but there are probably also bats up there that the cats haven’t found. There’s some scraping and digging, trills and purrs of a mother raccoon chattering at her young. She nudges two small raccoons out of the nest, and the three of them shimmy down the gutter drainpipe outside my window.

  She’s a good mama. So are the alley cats. I don’t know why the hell I don’t deserve the same treatment. It sounds childish, but I miss my mom. I wish she were here to protect me from all this.

  Eventually, the voices drain away. Footsteps ring heavy on the stairs. I squinch my eyes shut and pretend to sleep when a hand jiggles the doorknob to my room. A thin shaft of light comes from the hallway and stripes my bed. I don’t know who it is. Maybe it’s Sid, come to check on me before going to man the night window. Maybe it’s my father, feeling guilty.

  The door closes again, leaving me in darkness.

  I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. My ribs are sore. There’s a cut above my left kidney that Bert put a Band-Aid on. A Superman Band-Aid, left over from a clumsy childhood. He offered to let me sleep in his room. I didn’t take him up on it, but maybe I should’ve.

  Doors creak shut, and the crack of light under the door is switched off. All is silent.

  I bury my face in the pillow. My face is in good shape. My dad, for all his anger, is smart enough not to touch my face much. It’s quite possible a teacher at school might notice that. I toy with the idea of telling someone, but I’m pretty sure that would make things worse for me. I asked for an ass-kicking. I got one. Simple as that, I guess.

  I think about the money in the closet, stuffed in the guts of the broken clock. I could go away. Not with Carl, but with Lily. I could leave all this behind. Maybe go someplace out of Young Don’s reach. Some place not even Hoodie can find us.

  I think about who I’d leave behind: Carl, Pops. Carl wants to be here, though I’m pretty sure he doesn’t know the danger he’s in. And Pops...much as I love him, he’s old. He’s an adult, and he can make his own choices.

  My hands lace around my sore ribs. Maybe I can get the hourglass, give it to Young Don. Then leave. That would be the most honorable thing to do. The girls would definitely be safe from the Mob then. Not that I have much honor, courage, or anything else involved in the U.S. Navy’s core values. Maybe I’m just a loser, and the best I can do is escape. Nobody would miss me.

  I’ve nearly drifted off to sleep when I hear scraping outside. I chalk it up to the mama raccoon returning with her babies, but I don’t hear claws ascending the downspout. I turn over, wincing, and try to pull the pillow over my head.

  Except the light’s not right. I squint outside the window. There should be a light outside in the alley. It’s outside the back door, colored yellow to avoid drawing bugs, and it spills into the gap between the shop and the girls’ house. It emanates a low buzz, one I can usually ignore. But I’m not hearing it. Or seeing it.

  I slip out of bed, bare feet curling against t
he cold floor, to peer out the window. It doesn’t feel right. It’s too dark down there. I should tell someone the security light’s burned out or at least check to make sure the security system’s on.

  I slip on my shoes and tiptoe down the hallway. Sid should still be up, since it’s his turn to work the night window. I pass Pops’s room, hearing snoring, and ominous silence behind my father’s door. A light flickers under Carl’s—he’s probably playing video games with the volume turned off.

  I’m halfway down the stairs when I hear breaking glass below me.

  Sid’s shouting at someone to get the fuck away from the window.

  I hesitate. I don’t like that about myself. I should be fearless, plunging toward danger. Creeping down the stairs, down the back hallway, I tell myself it’s probably a bum breaking a forty-ounce bottle against the outside wall. It’s happened before. But at the core of my being, I know something is terribly wrong.

  The hallway before me is dark. I plunge into it, away from the red light of the Exit sign, toward the floor of the shop. My breath snags in my chest as the light crackles out behind me and before me on the shop floor.

  The silhouette of a man stands before the night window, brandishing a shotgun at someone out on the street. There’s a crack in the bulletproof glass of the window.

  “Sid!” I yell.

  “Get back upstairs!” he roars.

  And the glass shatters all around him, like a sheet of ice breaking.

  The thing that most people don’t understand is that bulletproof glass isn’t really bulletproof. It can withstand a shot from most small-caliber guns by dispersing the force across a larger surface area. It cracks, stopping the bullet. But the surface is weakened and will break under a continuous assault.

  Like a hail of bullets.

  Sid hits the floor. Shadows of men try to crawl in through the broken glass, ripping the remains of the sheet away.