Disclaimer: The only thing I own is an overactive imagination and the ability to misuse time. BDS belongs to Troy Duffy and probably some other folks.
A/N: For the sake of the story, the assumption is that the majority of cops are feeling pretty friendly, making things not quite so hot for the Saints. They will be making their appearance in the next chapter, I assure you. A lot of the plot will be based on my own characters, but I have no intention on sidelining any of the original characters. The first person style won't be constant throughout either. Posting of chapters will be somewhat erratic, for which I apologize, but what can you do? Reviews are, as always, appreciated.
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"Damn it, Chris, don't you ever run out on me again!" I'm yelling, the rage setting off the adrenaline. The blood is rushing through my body; the tips of my fingers are warm. He looks back at me with his faded eyes and I see nothing. No anger, no confusion, no fear - absolutely no emotion.
I suddenly feel very alone. A chill spreads through my body; my fingers are suddenly cold, then trembling, and finally nerveless. The fire of my anger has swept through me and left me empty. I'm shivering now, and his eyes haven't changed. I realize how isolated I am and how much I rely him. I'm concentrating on controlling my shaking limbs, so I don't see it when it comes.
I'm too surprised to even cry out when it hits me. I fall limply to the floor, unable to move because of the pain. I hear a raspy laugh and a heavy boot kicks me in the side.
"Where's my money?" Chris asks. My heart, which had been racing since the moment he walked through the door, stops.
"I ain't payin' til I know this is the right one," a squeaky high voice responds. I instantly envision a mousy little man with sneaky eyes and swallow skin. His brute of a partner kicks me again, this time in the shoulder. I can feel the new scar tissue there tear.
"Fuck you, you fuckin' bastard. I put my ass on the line here. This is the right one." Chris's voice is even, but I hear the edge behind it. I wonder if Squeaky hears it. Probably not.
Squeaky's partner growls and I see his large boot step in front of me. This guy's a giant. His foot is nearly twice the size of my head, and I'm no midget. I hear Squeaky's voice again, trying to sound low and menacing. "We don't want no trouble he- "
There's a flurry of motion overhead. I know that Chris has charged. He's never been one to wait around. Squeaky is cursing incoherently, obviously unprepared. His cursing is cut short and followed by a dull thud. There's a large crash and the giant lets loose what sounds like a roar. There's another brief scuffle, the sounds of fists hitting flesh, and Chris's inert body drops onto my bruised side.
The giant gives us both a couple more kicks and then lumbers off, presumably to look for his buddy. I hear him grunting as he struggles to lift something. After a while the door opens, then closes. For all I know, Chris and I are the only ones left in the room. I lay there, feeling the pain radiate from my shoulder and side. The pain in my chest is threatening to suffocate me. My eyelids don't close, but an impenetrable darkness covers my eyes.
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The jangle of the bell on the bar woke me. Sarah was the first thing on my mind. I briefly remembered Sarah insisting I buy the thing. I told her it was stupid. What did I need a bell for? Sarah smiled her impish grin and asked me what I needed a bar for. That was four months ago. A week after I finally bought the bell, Sarah's fiancé had gone missing. She had sunk into a deep depression, and I had relentlessly called in favors in an attempt to find him. Nothing turned up. Five weeks ago, Sarah herself had disappeared. Now, instead of strangers, I dreamed about them every time I slept, a different possibility every night. Nobody used the bell any more.
I sat up swiftly and instantly regretted it. My head spun while my stomach protested. I closed my eyes and breathed as deeply as I dared, telling myself that it wasn't that bad. Sarah used to taunt me for my hang-overs-that-weren't. "You're so bad at holding liquor that even the thought of it makes you sick." I never told her about the dreams, always vivid and real and usually crime-filled. I didn't mind her laughter, and I let her think it was the money that led me to law school. You do all sorts of things to protect the people you care about.
The bell downstairs continued insistently. Someone was set on talking to me. I pulled myself to my feet and stumbled to the bathroom. The cold water cleared my head and my stomach swiftly canceled its protests. It always worked that way. I grabbed my glasses and examined the face staring back at me from the cracked mirror over the sink. The eyes were bloodshot, the unruly curls were sticking out all over the place, and it was obvious that I hadn't changed clothes since Friday. I looked like hell. Suppressing a sigh, I turned to leave - and ran straight into my visitor.
"Hey there." The voice was tenor, surprised, and familiar. "Oh, here, you might want these." Now he sounded slightly embarrassed. I accepted the glasses and recognized Detective Greenly as I resettled them on my face. I wasn't surprised. He was a cocky idiot who wouldn't think twice about the legalities of breaking and entering. I tried to avoid him as much as possible, but as a mere law student at the DA's office, that wasn't as often as I'd like.
As I led him back down to the bar, I asked him what was up. It seemed the safest question to ask, leaving him no room to wander off the topic or say anything overly stupid.
"This is a nice place you've got." I narrowed my eyes. I knew the bar was nice. Jacob, the old barkeeper, worked hard to keep it that way. His sons, both large men who worked at the docks, kept trouble to a minimum, meaning we could afford "nice" things. I sank into a chair by the fireplace that had given the place its name. I didn't invite Greenly to have a seat.
"What do you want, Detective?"
"Can't a man admire a nice pub anymore?" His overuse of the word nice was starting to irritate me, as was his self-satisfied expression.
"Greenly, you have fifteen seconds to tell me what's going on, or I will bury you under a pile of paperwork." The threat was usually a last resort when dealing with cops, but Greenly would push Solomon himself to the edge.
"All right, all right, you don't have to get so snappy. It's about this case you asked about. Apparently some new information has turned up." I continued to glare at him. I looked into at least ten cases a day. It was my job to know what was going on. He babbled on. "It seems that the kid took responsibility for his dad's gambling debts. Duffy thinks he's probably dead, but Smecker's looking into it."
I blinked. Greenly could only be talking about Chris, Sarah's fiancé. And if Agent Smecker was involved, so was the mob. I knew that Chris's father had been involved in some shady stuff, but this was unexpected. It did, however, explain the unusual silence of my contacts. Nobody wanted to talk when the mob was concerned.
"So," Greenly interrupted my thoughts, "you serve any food here? I -"
"Not to you," I answered sharply. I wanted to think this through. If this was a Mafia job the whole situation changed drastically, and any actions I took had to be carefully considered.
"That's discrimination!" he protested.
"No," I said calmly as I rose to my feet, "that's an owner's right. No law requires me to allow annoying and overconfident cops onto the premises without a warrant. You've got ten seconds to leave before I report you for breaking and entering."
I must have been convincing. He flew out the door without retrieving the keys he'd laid down on the bar. I made a note to myself to have the locks replaced after asking Jacob and his sons who they'd loaned keys to. Then I returned to the issues at hand: Why was Chris paying his father's gambling debts? Why had he disappeared? And how had Sarah got drawn into it?
Four blocks away, the bells of the Catholic church began to ring, calling the faithful to Mass. I'd been raised Catholic, but I'd found it too confining as a teenager. Today, however, I wanted the comfort of ritual. I went back upstairs to make myself presentable.
Before I walked out the door, I resolved to pay Smecker a visit the next day.