Fixed Parts

by J. A. Wynters

  I piled the books on the floor and resealed the hiding place. Once I had everything I needed, I grabbed the paperwork and sat on the bed. I switched the nightlight on and delved into Tony’s possessions.

  Some days I wish I didn’t start with the pictures—or that I never opened that box—that I just handed everything over to Joe and wiped my hands clean of everything. But then I would’ve been just as bad as they were.

  Except that I already was.

  I kept my head down and mouth shut for years while Tony did this. I knew what he was doing. At least, I thought I did. And now that I could see it with my own eyes, I hated myself even more. He was a monster. But I was just as guilty for not putting a stop to it, for not saying something, or doing something.

  Bile rose in my throat, but no amount of vomit would cleanse my soul. I hoped that fucker was burning.

  After my violent induction to my new home at the garage, I lived in fear. I thought Salvatore was my friend, but he wasn’t, not really. He worked for Tony. He didn’t hesitate for one second to bend my arm and twist it behind my back. I bet if Tony had asked him to tear it out, he would have. So you have to understand, I was a kid. A hungry kid. And warmth trumped bravery, a roof over my head trumped justice, and food…that trumped my humanity.

  I thumbed through the pictures, Tony’s voice pierced my mind and the snap of the belt on my skin echoed around my head, “Mouth shut, head down.”

  I clenched my jaw, my knuckles whitened as I gripped the photo, forcing myself to look. To bear witness, to be held accountable.

  Tony was a twisted, cruel motherfucker. He was a rat and he pulled everyone into the sewer with him.

  He was a resourceful man. He kept his ear to the ground and when he got a whiff of nefarious activity, he sent his hounds sniffing—collecting, entrapping.

  Tony listened. He listened to everything that wasn’t being said. Like when the men around him joked about their wives, how tight they were, how old and used. He pried some more until they confessed their desire to fuck a young blonde, half their age; or when they beat up gay men on the street, he would watch the faces, the eyes as those men cringed internally. He would feed them with drink till they confessed their need to suck a cock; or when he saw the flash of delight in their eyes when they bound, or maimed, or humiliated. He dug into their soul until they spilt their craving to be gagged and lashed. Their secrets were his and they grew in their demands.

  Tony was their fucking fairy godmother. They wished and he made their twisted commands come to life. The more Tony provided, the more they needed, the more brutal they became, the more perverse and cruel.

  These men. They were not your everyday joes. They were men of power and influence. They were judges and politicians, peace makers and influencers, and Tony had each and every one of them by the balls.

  Tony set up their fantasies and recorded each and every one—very scream, every grunt, every horror—and with each tape, he became stronger, more influential, more powerful.

  Tony used those recordings for his benefit. Blackmail. Protection. Control. He turned the city in one large blindspot. He became untouchable. Which is why I never understood why I was hounded after his death, when I should have been given a fucking medal.

  I slayed the king.

  But ‘The Hand’—that twisted bastard—power wasn’t enough for him, not without total control.

  Tony didn't do anything for free. His insidious nature demanded that he held the upper hand, controlled, twisted, and ruled.

  Tony’s business ran on supply and demand. But not just his own, the demand of others. See, Tony wasn’t the only bastard around. Plenty of criminals need protection, a helping hand, a shield of sorts, and Tony was prepared to take anyone under his wing as long as they were prepared to pay the price.

  Turns out money blackens the souls of greedy men, and they were prepared to pay, were prepared to smear their stains on the backs of the innocent.

  Tony took his payment like the greedy pig he was. Payment for which I was a silent witness. I didn’t see. I just heard. The pleading. The screaming. The muted sobs. When I bought the garage, I tore them from the walls. They were raked with guilt and anger.

  These men paid in blood; not their own of course, but that of children. The innocent, first blood that should be reserved for lovers and teenage experimentation. Tony took from them the only precious thing they had—children. Girls, boys…Tony didn’t have a preference, as long as they were available as payment for his silence and help whenever he asked.

  I sat in a pool of polaroids.

  Naked, bound skin, exposed flesh and harried faces frozen in terror. Their frightened, fearful eyes all looked into mine in paralysed frozen stares. All asking the same question, why didn’t you come? Why didn’t you help? Why didn’t you stop him?

  Head down mouth shut.

  I swept my hands along my face and brushed away the hot tears as they slid down my face. I didn’t cry for myself, I didn’t deserve any tears. I let all this happen. I cried for them, the horror they must have endured, the payment for the sins of their fathers. I understood then, why all those men came to his funeral. They all wanted to make sure he was dead. No one cared for Tony. They just wanted their children safe and their conscious cleared.

  I flipped the pictures over and noted the initials and numbers jotted in neat blue pen at the top right of each picture.

  I scrambled off my bed, grappling with the pictures, stuffing them back into the box. Their existence burned a hole in my soul.

  My breath came in shallow, ragged drags and pushed away the horror. It would have to wait. There was more work to be done, more to uncover.

  I grabbed the first of the books and flipped it open. The faded green cover marked with a fatty hand print, the last trace of Tony.

  As soon as I scanned the first page, I knew it was what Joe was after. I wondered what his crime was.

  The book was divided into columns. In the first, initials. Two letters in rounded blue ink. In the next, a series of letters. Various combinations I couldn’t work out. With no obvious patterns or answers, I moved on to the third column. Each line had a series of numbers. In the same way I had studied the letters, I tried to decipher the numbers searching for patterns. Searching for the obvious first; dates, bank accounts, longitude and latitude. As I ran theories through my mind, they each fell down like dominoes. I looked at the meticulous hand writing, wishing it would explain itself. Frustrated I slammed the book shut and moved on to the next.

  The last book was a poorly disguised book for Tony’s money laundering. Amounts and totals added up to millions. Tony was stealing everywhere, and I needed to get to that money before anyone else would.

  I paced in my room, feeling like a trapped animal. The walls closed in and if I didn’t find answers they would squash me. I needed help, I needed an ally, I needed someone I could trust. A loyal soldier. A good dog.

  My heart slammed in my chest as I dialled his number. It was a gamble, but one I had to take. I forced the air from my lungs as the line rang.

  “What did Tony have on you?”

  “You don’t know yet?” Salvatore didn’t sound surprised.

  “So he had something?”

  “Why else would I have worked for that piece of shit for so long?”

  I took a moment to think about his words, “Who do you work for now?”

  The silence stretched between us, tight and tense.

  “Tell me what you did, and I’ll find a way to release you. I just need your help.”

  More silence.

  “You can trust me.”

  “But can you trust me?” I heard the edge in his voice.

  Could I?

  “I don’t want to force your loyalty.”

  He snickered on the other side of the line, “Then what the hell do you want?”

  Now or never. Leap or walk away, “I want you to help me dig up Tony’s money and hide it.”

  I waited, the cords of my ne
ck pulling taut as I waited for his answer. I could hear the blood as it rushed around my body, my heart chugging. I had just placed my life in his hands. Salvatore may never be my friend, but he could be a partner.

  “What do you need?”

  My entire body deflated at his words, the tension leeching out.

  “Tools. We need to break some walls. And a truck. And a place to hide everything.”

  “Is that all?” I could hear the sarcasm as it spilt from his lips.

  “Can you get it done?”

  “Tomorrow night.” The line went dead and my heart slammed in my chest. Could I trust Salvatore?

  Only time would tell.

  I packed away Tony’s possessions. The need to wash myself, cleanse myself of him, strong and desperate. Instead I reached for a beer, I gulped down the cold beverage and mulled over the letters and numbers in my head, trying to decipher their meaning. In the meantime, I had to survive another day.

  The walls fell away and dust swirled in the air like snow. The wall crumbled beneath the brute strength of the crowbar. My muscles ached and screamed with the effort. It had been a long night, and we still had the entire pizza shop to strip.

  Salvatore looked as if he had been in a blizzard. His jet-black hair covered in white plaster particles that coated his face and clothes. They attached themselves to every surface and orifice. I suspected I looked much the same.

  The plaster board fell away with a thud, and the room filled with a puff of white particles. Salvatore and I got to work.

  The money had been stored in vacuum packed bags, just like in all the other hiding places. Being so well packed made them easy to remove. In the darkness, we loaded the bricks into the back of the waiting trolley and wheeled them outside to the waiting truck. It was already mostly filled with the rest of the loot. We knew we only had one night to make this money disappear. We pushed ourselves beyond our physical limits to get it done. This was the last stop.

  We got in and drove in silence, the headlights slicing the dark road.

  The car slowed as we approached a derelict building in the industrial part of the city. Salvatore pulled up to the curb, the engine idled as we sat there. I’m not sure what I was waiting for, but then Salvatore exhaled a long, resigned breath and started to talk.

  “I was just a kid, like you. I was seventeen. We went to a party, things got out of hand. A fight broke out, punches were thrown,” his breathing became faster as if he was back there, reliving the nightmare, “It was just an accident, but there was a fucking security camera that recorded the whole thing, and then there was the dead kid…”

  Remorse and anger filled his voice, his knuckles whitened against the steering wheel, “It was just a fucking accident.”

  He brushed his face with his hands and for a second he didn’t look like a man in his thirties, but an old, haunted man that’s lived hundreds of lifetimes.

  “Tony stepped in to help,” he scoffed and shrugged as if the rest was self-explanatory.

  I don’t know why he talked, maybe it was the endless silence, maybe his body was in so much physical pain, it let down the barriers inside his mind.

  I remained silent, letting him sink into his own guilt. Thing was, I didn’t have to say anything. We had both just put our lives in each other’s laps, and it was up to us to cradle the other if we were going to come out unscathed on the other side.

  The building was a shell of what it may have been in another lifetime. Grime and dirt clung to the concrete walls that reeked of piss and vomit, and were decorated with crud graffiti.

  “How did you find this place?”

  “Tony used it.”

  “For what?”

  “Do you really want to know?

  I shook my head, fine powder falling from me like fresh snow, “Who’s is it?”

  “This building belongs to Judge George Crabb.”

  The name rang a bell in the back of my mind. A fine line of text flashed in the back of my mind.

  Hon GC

  ML. P. PTA.

  548548747

  I searched the recesses of my mind, wondering what those letters could mean. Just like before it came up empty.

  “What are we doing here?”

  “We’re going to hide the money here, and tomorrow you are going to get the judge to sign this building over to you.”

  I stood there with my mouth falling open, “How do you expect me to get him to do that?”

  “Blackmail.”

  I stared at Salvatore, who was already loading money onto the trolley. My brain as tired as the rest of my body, “I haven’t figured everything out yet, I don’t have anything on him.”

  “He doesn’t need to know that,” Salvatore shrugged and threw another stack of bills onto the trolley.

  “If I go to him, I’ll confirm that I have what they want.”

  Salvatore dropped the brick of money and straightened up. He looked at me, his face tired and drawn, “They know what you have. They’re playing games, buying themselves time, giving you a chance to make it easier on everyone.” He shrugged, “You’ve already poured gasoline everywhere, you might as well flick that match.”

  We worked in silence, offloading the money from the truck and piling it up in the basement. Salvatore installed a lock on the door, and we drove away into the breaking dawn.

  I barely slept.

  The scalding shower washed away plaster, paint and my dirty deeds. I looked haggard, my face drawn and hair limp. I was already feeling the lack of sleep and food catch up with me, but there was too much work to do.

  Salvatore was immaculate. Dressed in his black suit and a crisp, white button-up shirt. He looked me up and down when I opened the door. I wore my best cheap suit. He scratched his chin as he appraised me, “Ready?”

  I nodded solemnly, scrapping a hand through my hair, unsure if I would ever be ready for what needed to be done. I knew I wasn’t prepared. I wasn’t ready. But I was out of time.

  Tick, tock.

  My knee bounced up and down as we drove. The jumping limb incapable of hiding the tension I held. The silence gnawed at me, clamping its hands around my throat. When we finally parked, I had a lump the size of my fist in my throat, and I struggled to swallow it down.

  “Are you sure this is the way it has to be done?”

  “That depends, do you want to live?”

  I sighed and pushed against the car door, forcing it open, “Ok, let’s go.”

  Even though we parked down the street, we closed the doors with a muted thud. We needed the element of surprise, or we were fucked. I would be fucked. Salvatore might still have had a way out, and I wasn't entirely sure how quickly he would be willing to throw me under the bus if it all went wrong.

  We walked the short distance in silence, the air buzzing around me.

  The house was a two-storey colonial building. White walls and a perfectly manicured lawn. It was all too perfect, a facade to hide the savagery that lay beyond the walls.

  A single car was parked in the driveway. Salvatore and I exchanged a look and walked up to the front door.

  Salvatore used his elbow to ring the doorbell. It chimed heavily in the house.

  A moment later the door swung open, and a petite woman appeared. She was unremarkable in every way, the only memorable feature was her too-bright red hair that came out of a bottle and stained the skin around her forehead.

  “Can I help you?” Her feline eyes assessed my face, then shot over to Salvatore, who gave her a friendly smile.

  “We’re here to see Judge Crabb,” I said with all the confidence I could muster.

  She cocked her head and sneered, “His Honour is at his office, call his secretary and make an appointment like everyone else.” She attempted to close the door, but Salvatore rammed against it with his shoulder. The impact made a loud thud as it bounced off the back wall. The woman screamed as she tumbled backwards, landing in a tangled mess on the floor.

  In seconds, Salvatore was on her. He s
lammed his hand on her mouth, shutting her up. I closed the door behind us as I stepped inside, mesmerised, petrified, and exhilarated.

  Salvatore pinned the woman, pushing her head onto the cold marble floor. One of her high heels had fallen off in the struggle, the other heel scraped the floor as she tried to regain her perch. She struggled and cried against Salvatore's grip.

  He remained calm, just holding her, watching her face as large, fat tears rolled down her reddening cheeks.

  “Shhhhh,” he calmed her, the sound filling the hallway with unease. Her struggle seized.

  “We are not going to hurt you. Nod if you understand,” her head bounced against the floor as she bobbed.

  “Good,” Salvatore continued. “Is there anyone else here with you?”

  She shook her head her eyes widening.

  “Excellent.” Salvatore kept his hold on her, “We’re just here to talk to your husband. Do you understand?” She nodded again.

  “Now, I'm going to release you, would you like that?” She nodded; her tears pooled on the marble. “But if you scream, I’ll hurt you. Real bad. Do you understand?” She whimpered her understanding. Salvatore smiled and released her. Her body sagged against the floor and she sucked in deep breaths, heavy tears rolling down her cheeks.

  “What do you want?” Her voice was hoarse and she rubbed her neck.

  “Like I said, darling, we just want to talk to your husband,” he offered her his hand, “Stand up.”

  She ignored his hand and pushed herself up against the wall, squaring her shivering frame. He smirked at her bravery.

  “Let’s go sit down. Why not show us your lovely dining room?”

  She turned to walk away when Salvatore slid his arm into hers. Her back stiffened but she didn't fight him as she hobbled through the hallway, her single heel echoing on the marble. We walked into a modern dining room. It felt sterile—white and cold—everything felt uninviting, jagged and sharp. Uncomfortable steel seats surrounded a shiny, white table that looked more plastic than wood. Salvatore nodded over to the floor to ceiling windows. I approached each in turn and closed the curtains. They were heavy and didn’t seem to belong in the room.