When I was a child I'd sit for hours
Staring into open flames
Something in it had a power,
Could barely tear my eyes away
Twisted FateThanks to having lived here for a while, I manage to reach Los Angeles without Kalista banging down my door right away. That's good. Very, very good. I pass out in the bedroom without so much as kicking my boots off. After about six hours of sleep, which isn't nearly enough to compensate for the hell that lies behind me, I wake up again. Our bathtub is lined with Lulu's collected rubber duckies. She has a thing for finding the ones with little errors in the paint, so not only are all of them cheesy, they also tend to have lopsided eyes. In my state, it looks like an army of drugged little demons is waiting for the moment to jump in and drown me. We've got a corner bath, so there is plenty of space for my assortment of soaps as well as the toy kraken Lulu likes to bathe with.
I pick the kraken up and twist my fingers around its tentacles while hot water streams into the tub. One thing I love about Lulu is how easy she is to spoil. She certainly has her own taste, but it's easy enough to get her presents. Yet when I have to uproot her and leave quickly, she doesn't need all that much. Half of the time she doesn't even pack any clothes except for a hat or two, so I have to remind her that she'll need a couple of dresses, or we go shopping at our destination.
Her fingerprints are all over the house. Hell, even the fact I own a house stems from her. It's oddly comforting to have a place that just waits for you. Like a perfect little bubble preserved in time. When the road is your home, you get used to the fact that cities change each time you wash up there. You're never in one location long enough to witness the transitions happening, you just jump in here and there. I kinda liked that.
Coming here though, to our house, everything is always just the way we left it. Last time we weren't in a hurry. I checked that nothing in the fridge could learn how to walk in my absence, and I cleaned the entire place. It's all neat and proper still, albeit with some dust starting to settle. I both love and hate it here. Being on the road again showed me that. Perhaps neither life is the right answer for me any longer.
The warm water soothes my tangled limbs. I pour in some of Lulu's bubble bath. It's bright green and smells of citrus fruits, of limes and spring. We're heading into summer, so coastal California turns both unbearably hot and humid. In the years we've lived here, I've always taken a trip elsewhere over these months. Last time we crawled all the way up north to Alaska. The landscape was stunning. Somewhat too deserted for me, but Lulu is rarely as happy as when you just drop her in nature.
I'm not. I'm a city man, I guess.
It's hard to tell.
I lie in the bathtub until the water goes cold. Sucks that I can't stay here. It's too obvious with my name on the damn door. T. Graves. Being the good little housewife that I am not, I took my husband's name at the wedding. Lulu has his last name, too. I figured he didn't need it all that much in prison, anyways, and I didn't want my daughter and me to run under different names. Sure, I could have gone back to my old name, but I never liked that one. That's why I took Malcolm's in the first place.
I never put Lulu's name on the sign. It's a precaution. Some of my enemies might not know about her, though I doubt it. Perhaps it's just an old habit.
There's some preserved food in the storage, but I've lived out of tin cans for too long already. It's afternoon by now, so I decide to eat out. After wearing the same shirt for a week, opening my closet feels like heaven. It smells like fresh laundry, like being properly dressed for once. I wonder if I can risk swapping out my entire travel bag, but leaving the dirty clothes would give away that I was here. Instead I pack a new one, leaving enough clothes that my wardrobe still looks fully stocked. I toss the wet towel in the dirty bag and grab a fresh one to take with me. With my style of travel, you lose things all the time, so I happily grab a few of my cosmetic products as well. It's not like you can't get soap or shaving cream everywhere, but there is something about using the same brands as you have at home that makes a man remember who he is, and some of my stuff is the fancy sort you can't buy at roadside convenience stores.
I contemplate taking a few things from Lulu's room, but it feels like I would be jinxing it. Her door is always open, but I still can't bring myself to walk in. I just stand in the doorframe for a few moments and wallow in self-pity.
With a sigh, I turn around and finish my business here. In the bedroom, I set the cheesy day blanket that came with the house and prop the pillows up so the bed looks unused. Then I go back to the bath and wipe away what moisture I can find. Good thing I've done so little here. Makes it easier to erase my tracks.
I've already ditched the car a couple miles out of the city. There's a guy who pretty much just rotates stolen cars for people who're moving in or out of Los Angeles, so you can fake going somewhere. If Kalista is dumb enough to fall for it, she'll think I'm going to San Diego for a couple of days, while I'm helping some petty drug dealer pretend like he's still in town. Us shady folks gotta stick together.
I won't keep this ride for long, of course. Can't be bothered to be dragged into someone else's business. It got me here, and now I retire it on some parking spot in the city centre that I should have paid for. Whoever owned the car once might be happy to find it through the parking ticket. What a nice guy I am sometimes. I take the subway from here.
After running into Vladimir, I feel like losing myself in a loud and jacked up place, so I head for West Hollywood. Although he's in Las Vegas most of his time, Vladimir started out here after leaving New York. He was a proper club kid, one of those weirdos who'll still tell you how fashion forward they were once. He might be working for Noxus Network, but apparently he can't stand being too close to the office, so he started living in Vegas full time around the time when Noxus was establishing its main studios here in L.A., which must be about five, six years back now. Vladimir is one of those guys who likes to be independent and run things by his own nose.
I find a cheap hotel where the reception doesn't ask too many questions, and check in with one of my newer aliases. I've got an ID, two credit cards and even a driver's license on this guy, so I should be good using him for a while. Most important, I don't think I've brought him out since Kalista started chasing me, and I rarely used him before. Some of my aliases have Lulu built into them, so that's the ones I pick up if I want to go unnoticed with her. If I'm lucky, Kalista doesn't track this identity yet. That might buy me another couple of days while I lay out a battle plan.
Late afternoon is a calm time in this neighborhood. Part of me wants to go to a club tonight and see what the vibe is like these days, but I'm not sure it's a good idea to get hammered. In the places I prefer, you never really know what's in your drink, and I'm tired enough from the trip here to be knocked off my feet by natural causes. Maybe another night, once I've convinced myself that I can spare a few hours to unwind.
That's the thing, really. Back when Malcolm and I hit the road together, there was always room to get messed up. Now I'm scampered all the time. It sucks. I miss being pissdrunk and waking up in another city. There was a certain charm to those kind of hangovers.
I roam the streets for food and end up with a small, sweaty place that serves giant burritos for a price that makes me doubt the contents. It feels good to use my legs for something other than a gas pedal, so I eat while walking. What would be a messy endeavour for someone else is long from staining my shirt. Clumsy is a word never used to describe me.
It's impossibly sunny still and I'm happy for my hat. As much as I want to feel adventurous, it's good to know that I'll be staying for more than a night. Wandering around with my burrito I probably look like a tourist. In a way I am - I haven't been here enough to feel like a local. The only place I'm a local is the backseat of cars that aren't mine.
Maybe I should steal a motorcycle next. Switch things up a bit. Now that I'm in California, a roof isn't such a necessity anymore and I look good in leather. I continue with my burrito and loop back around so I don't stray too far from my hotel. People are passing me by, eager to get to the clubs. They're too early, the sun is barely setting. Granted the liquor is cheap now, but if they're going to a show, they'll only see shit ones for a few hours. A couple years back, I went to this obscure little bar in Pittsburgh, and man, the drag queens there were dirty. Now, I know West Hollywood can be raw and flirty, but I remember dog masks and furry boots, pure sex served up on stage by men in wigs and studded bras. It was punk and porn at the same time. Proper counter-culture.
Los Angeles is never quite down on its knees where I'd like it. I guess I'm not a city man after all - I'm a dirty alley man, I'm a shady bar man. I'm a stolen car backseat fuck my face or let me sleep man.
Really, why would anyone want me dead? I'm such a delight.
The burito is too much for me to finish, so I throw away the soggy rest where all the sauce collects. Good stuff. Food never fails to make me feel more alive. Food and sex, but alas, one can't have it all. I slide my hands into my pockets and enjoy the fading sunlight on my face for a while. It feels good not to think about the FBI or the guy I'm technically married to, even if only for a few minutes. Naturally my train of thoughts swings back to Malcolm as soon as gay sex and raunchy bars come up. Ah, we had it good for a while.
I come by an old office building. It's pretty unspectacular from the outside, red bricks and tall, blind windows, but I know the address. Back when, this was in use for Noxus Network. The chief editor at the time liked to work from an area that was still awake at three in the morning. We crossed paths a few times. Shady woman, but powerful. She always seemed to know much more about things, including me, than would be healthy for a single person.
What was her name again?
I glance up at the building, but the entire floor is empty and dark. Noxus moved on to more expensive streets and bigger offices. I wonder if they still blackmail journalists into giving up their sources. Fun times, that was. Vladimir and I were in the more superficial side of things, but then again, we were in Las Vegas, so we got our share of soirees with dubious guests.
Now I've been standing in front of the office for so long that the other tourists are gathering around me. They point up at the empty windows, mumbling if this was once an important place. It was, and it wasn't. In our modern age, information is more valuable than money. If you have it, and a channel to expose it through, you're in control over whatever is affected by that information. Noxus Network has always specialized in mindless entertainment, but the political messages they sneak into it are powerful enough to sway governments. Plus, they have the coin now to buy themselves into anything Jericho Swain shows the tiniest interest in.
What got them big was when they messed up a local election a few years ago. One of their reporters, a pretty little minx called Katarina, seduced one of the staff members of the campaign favorite, and because she was running a segment on her own mildly interesting life, it was all caught on tape. The affair escalated into a scandal and Noxus Network was right there to document it all. Packaged into bite-sized episodes, it exploded all over national television and the internet.
Every media outlet at the time was trying to get onto the story, but Noxus kept it under lock. All footage bore their logo, or was sold for triple its value. I remember the same short clips running on every TV station. It wasn't even that big of a deal, if you look at it - the guy wasn't running himself, he was the personal assistant to one of the candidates, and from what I heard behind the scenes, the relationship was genuine, albeit short-lived. Hell, I've met her once or twice and Katarina is one of the smartest women in this godforsaken country. She's got a temper though, and that gets in the way of her ambition. Her own company employs people who can outplay her through patience and strategy.
If she wasn't always a pawn, she made herself one back then by surrendering her private life to television. It's a line Vladimir and I were careful not to cross - we played roles, with silly nicknames and costumes ready. True, Katarina made a couple times our salary with that one show, but she's stuck where I'm not. For years now she's always been the girl who did that guy, and now that his employer is running in the next election, I suppose it's all coming back.
Perhaps I should call up Janna. We haven't really spoken in years, but it sounds like her life got a lot more exciting since I met her in a tiny club in Las Vegas with bad lighting and an overuse of the smoke machine. How impossibly young she was back then. Too young for me, and more so Malcolm, who's three years older. Sweet girl. She does a good job over at Noxus, and probably one of the rare few that aren't bordering on illegal at times. Now I think I should definitely call her up.
I shortcut back to the hotel, avoiding the tourists and early drunks. Even establishments without pay TV have Noxus Network running for free; the channel bought that privilege for a lot of money, and I can't imagine how much it's made back. When I switch it on, some lame game show is running. It's nine o'clock on a weekday, so I'm not surprised. Like pretty much everything Noxus considers half-decent, the show is hosted by Draven, a flashy narcissist who, at this point, is just as famous for his charisma as he is for looking bad in blonde hair.
The format is little else than a parade of celebrities, none of which get as much screen time as the host himself, with some mildly embarrassing games chucked their way. In between rounds, the celebrities get to plug whatever their current claim to fame is, and then Draven drops borderline bully comments about it. People like him because he's an ass. It's like that with most of the on-screen talent. I turn down the volume when the laughter and over the top musical score starts to annoy me. Then I grab the information sheet about room service and the check-out times. I turn it around, find a pen with the hotel's logo fading on the grip, and I start making a list.
First, as if to convince myself, I list all my old contacts that Kalista seems to know about. That's pretty much all of them, or at least all the useful ones. I've exhausted most connections already in the last hide and seek. My usual network is off limits. Even if there are some that Kalista hasn't spotted yet, Malcolm would know, and sooner or later it would bite me in the ass to rely on them.
So I set up a second list. I start with Vladimir and Janna, and then go on to name every Noxus Network employee that might still listen to what I have to say. Unfortunately I never crossed paths with Swain and his personal monkey army. Vladimir told me about the new management when it sprung into action. He seemed alright with it, although he doesn't agree with Swain's assistant Darius all that much. What that means for me is mostly that Vlad isn't my way in. If I want to convince someone at a national TV station to help me get rid of an ex-fed, I need the big guns, so I can't rely on a friend who isn't on good terms with the guy who's shooting.
Noxus Network has people in their pocket. People who could help me solve my teeny tiny problem. So I have to get Noxus Network to care about solving my problem, but all I list is camera crew and cable boys. Vladimir pretty much ran the show for us, and we were far away from the main office. The only time I ever went to one of the studios was when we recorded voice over for post-production. There was a woman… that chief editor, all sources went through her. I'd heard about her before, in the circuit, playing the game.
We never had an overlap. Me, I was in it for quick money. Theft and fraud mostly. Gambling. I know Malcolm pulled some stunts before we got together, and I can't say I haven't killed a man, but we traded in simple goods. Mostly violence. Intel, now that's a whole 'nother business. Sure, I knew people in that line of work. Every now and then we needed something off the market, but we rarely had something to offer on it.
But we were close enough to spot the big players. The Black Rose was a whole ring, running operations all along the west coast. Who knows how big they might be now, with Noxus Network writing them checks. LeBlanc, that was her name. She was gorgeous, though a bit short for my taste. The perfect femme fatale. Would have worked on camera, but she prefered the shadows. I guess not everyone at Noxus is crazy to have their face all over everything.
The Black Rose I've seen isn't shy. In fact, they're pretty ruthless. I guess you have to be if you want to make it in the media world. The good thing about cutthroat people is that they're predictable. You always know they might, no, they will stoop low if you don't give them what they want. Really, bad guys are the easy ones to deal with. They also get shit done.
I crumple up the paper sheet and stuff it in my bag. Once I'm back outside, I'll burn it, but there's smoke detectors in the room. I press myself onto the window sill to light a cigarette. Around Lulu, I try not to smoke so much, but alas, I'm not around her. It's getting pretty windy now, and I have a hard time getting the spark to jump over. My mind is racing.
LeBlanc is the one I need. She is the one digging up dirt on half this country in the name of entertainment. Chances are she has something I can use against Kalista - some scandal or inconvenience to slow her down enough that I can reach Lulu. That's all I really need, so it's okay if I cut a loss in the deal. I'll still need leverage, of course. Something of value, something LeBlanc can't get to without me.
This I'll figure out later. I'm a pretty good thief after all, if I may say so myself. Once I've scoped out the situation, I'll find a point of attack for my particular talents. Noxus Network doesn't give a damn about the legal status of their sources as long as they can mask their involvement, and that should work in my favour. I see myself as more of a freelancer anyways.
So, LeBlanc.
Too bad I don't know that one in person.
I fish my phone out of my coat. It's an old one with scratches all over it, but getting a cell that doesn't constantly tell the internet your GPS location has gotten pretty darn hard in the past few years. I usually have a bunch of burner phones for convenience and if I really need to drop off the radar, I just ditch all electronics. The reason I still have this one is because I've saved most of my contacts to the sim card and because it's the number Lulu has. I don't dare calling her and it drives me crazy that she doesn't try herself. Perhaps I taught her too well.
I get the mailbox. It's just past ten, so I guess she's still at work. After a moment of hesitation, I decide to leave a message.
"Hey Janna," I say, "this is T.F., not sure you remember me. I was the drunk guy with the cheesy hat, according to you. Heard you live in L.A. these days. Funny story, so do I. Let me know if you want to catch up sometime."
Only now do I notice that someone tried to call me. I check the time, must've been when I was at home, sleeping. I don't recognize the number and for a moment I get my hopes up, but the area code is from Nevada. Whoever this was tried to get me three times before giving up. Ain't no way in hell I'm calling back. For all I know, this is Kalista tracking me.
She shouldn't have this number - it's old and I gave it to few people - but you can never be too careful. I slide the phone into my pocket and decide not to mind it for a while. Honest to god, I don't even know why that woman is so obsessed with catching me. Sure, there is more than enough reasons why I should be behind bars, but why now? Why like this?
It's not just her endurance, it's the preparation. How she seems to almost be a step ahead of me; I don't appreciate that. The evening fades softly into night. Music from the clubs fills the streets. For a moment, I close my eyes and slip into the boots of my younger self, dancing until the morning light with strangers I called friends. Running into the likes of Vladimir again is a bit surreal because I never expected anything to last. I was a vagabond, hungry for wealth and the world, for the things I couldn't put into words.
I never committed to anything beyond the next heist. How I ever wound up married, I can't even tell. We don't have rings. We hardly even had a wedding. Perhaps for men like us, between all the lies and forgeries, having legitimate papers is more meaningful than an exchange of vows. I don't think I promised him anything. If I did, well, I guess I'm sorry.
Fuck me, Malcolm's barely out of prison on what feels like the other side of the world, but he's already haunting me. When did I become such a sob? They say fatherhood softens you, but I'm not sure I would have been up for it if I knew it would turn me into a wuss. Ah, who am I kidding?
With what's left of my cigarette wedged between my fingers, I watch the news from my vantage point by the window. Janna's a delight doing the weather, chipper as I know her. She's put on a few pounds in the right places. What a pretty thing. It'll get warmer still, she says. Not sure I like that, but I can deal with a bit of a heat wave as long as I'm not driving again.
Most of the news is pointless to me, but as expected, the vultures start gathering around the remnants of a few first campaign openings for the senate elections. Usually I don't care much for politics, but if I want to get cozy with Swain, I need to pay attention. Jarvan is running again this year. Good. Very good. That's the guy whose assistant got caught up in the whole sex tape thing with Katarina. At least she kept talking about a sex tape on the show - never in shots with him present, mind you - although I don't think the actual video, if it exists, ever made it onto the worldwide web. Noxus Network has had beef with him and his party ever since, and it's a lucrative war for them.
If I can find something, somehow, that LeBlanc hasn't stumbled over yet… But how do I beat her to the punch on her own turf? I'll have to be clever about it. Or, well, get lucky. That's usually my approach after all.
Just as the camera shifts to the sports reporter, my phone beeps with a message. Janna was on air just a minute ago, so I doubt it's her. Much to my disappointment, it isn't my daughter, either. It's the number from Nevada again. I hesitate for a moment, but then I open the text.
TF, it reads, u westbound by any chance? Got sth to sell, help me haggle a price? xoxo Syndra
And just like that, I'm dealt a trump card.
When I was a man I thought it ended
Well I knew love's perfect ache
But my peace has always depended
On all the ashes in my wake
GravesOf course I don't call Kayle. Instead, I pass out on the couch and miraculously wake up in bed. For the rest of the morning, I'm mostly concerned with breakfast and setting myself up for what I suppose is real life. I leave the TV running in the background, and from the corner of my eye, I could swear I've seen the weather girl naked. The remnants of the pizza are still on the table, so I stuff them in the fridge for later.
I've got a whole folder of papers to flip through. The closer I got to being released, the more I felt like prison was turning into an office. Now I've got a bank account and credit card, I've got my driver's license back and the rent is paid for the next three months. My ID is valid and I even got a passport, though I doubt they'll let me on international flights. Might be useful though, with how close Mexiko is.
When I was younger, I worked across the border a lot. Drugs, mostly. Easy to make money for the smugglers. Also easy to get firearms down south. I ran with the wrong pack from an early age but what can I say? There's people from my youth who stayed on the right path, and they're still in the same damn spot. I've seen my share of this country and it's ugly, but still worth seeing. Now I'm itching to get out there again, but I'm not sure where to start. There was this cute little social worker at the prison, far too eager for how shit her job was. Name was Lux, I think. Not from here. Looked rich, too.
Anyhow, that Lux girl went above and beyond to help me "get ready for rehabilitation". Firm believer in guys like me turning it around, that one. I almost hate to disappoint her. There's a lot you can do with ten years. Most who're in for as long as me, they pick up something. Get an education. I'm a highschool dropout who isn't much for learning. A couple of months in, a guy from the jobcentre came by to discuss my options. Wanted to know what I thought qualified me for work. "I don't ask questions." Didn't like that answer much.
That's how I've always been. I don't give a fuck why you're hiring me, as long as the pay is right. Not even a decade in the dullest place on earth can make me a scholar. Sure, I took a course here and there, but mostly for stuff I thought would bite my ass later if I didn't. They had a few on IT, for example. Damn how easy half of my job is with all the fancy tech today, and damn how hard the other half has become. You can find every goddamn son of a gun in a minute on the internet.
Except for T.F., of course. I tried. Seems like he stayed in Vegas for about a year at some point. Gave up the game and charmed gamblers with some card tricks. Why anyone would want to film that is beyond me, and it made me sick to even try and watch it. Friend of mine did and said there was nothing that would help me find him, except perhaps through people. Wrote down the credits for me. Good kid, that one. Won't be out for another three years. I promised I'd buy him a drink once he does.
Connections are everything in my business. I suppose in any business, really. Can't trust anyone, but you don't have to as long as you know their price. So that Lux kid, she got me a phone. Went on and on about the different contracts and what I thought I might need. All that really matters is that I can call people. Ten years means numbers change, but that's what the internet's for I guess. Of course they keep tabs on everything you do in prison, so I had to wait until now. Clever little Lux got me internet on the phone, too.
It's not like I can just google my old crew, but not all were as deep in the mud as me. Some parts of the business rely on being easy to approach. Buyers and sellers, scaremongers. They leave a trail of breadcrumbs. You know their keys, you find 'em. It takes me a bit less than an hour of searching people to unearth one of my old, way old contacts.
Sarah Fortune was little else than a kid running errands back then. I think she replaced me pretty much, when I was old enough to fire a gun and moved up to a footsoldier. From what I can gather, she went clean a couple of years after I did. The thing with the mafia is, you gotta be in it for the long haul. Stick around and you get so caught up in their feuds that they own you. I didn't want to be owned.
The good thing about Sarah is that we kept in touch, but we were always on opposite sites of the States doing entirely different jobs. Although we never had any issues, we just didn't end up working with each other. What that means is that up until I went to prison, she wasn't a contact for T.F., she was one of mine. I need those now.
T.F. and I met gambling, but we came from different places. He'd been born to some Roma horse farm that played it wrong with local law enforcement. Still in Texas, I'd been the minion to an east coast mafia clan. We had different networks, and for most of it, we shared them. Never had a reason to withhold anything. If we got caught, we got caught together. Or at least that's what he had me think. Sarah simply never came up.
Apparently she's gone freelance, and she's on the good side of the law, too. Might just be a cover. Some people can juggle playing it straight and still running the circuit. I sure as hell can't. One look and you'd know what I am. No point in hiding it. I dial the number I think is Sarah's and get the mailbox. Half an hour later, she calls back from a different line.
"Why, good Sunday Miss Fortune," I greet her with a chuckle.
"Didn't know they let you out of the pen Graves."
I can hear the grin in her voice. Sarah's a sly one. Charming, perhaps too much so for her own good, but she knows how to use it. Most women get run over in the game, but Sarah is one you shouldn't cross.
"Been free since yesterday," I tell her, "but I ain't one for wasting time."
"Surely not. And I assume you're not just calling for old time's sake. What can I do for you?"
Ah, brave little Sarah. Doesn't fuck around. Should've kept her closer, but that would've probably ended bad. Not that T.F. was any better. Thinking about it, they're awfully similar in some regards.
"Just some pointers. Got a head to blow off, but nowhere to start."
"Gotcha."
I hear the clicking of a computer mouse, typing.
"I assume this is about your old partner? Can't say I know where that one's hiding."
"Leave the bastard to me," I assure her. "Might have a lead."
"Damn Graves, you work fast," she laughs.
"More like getting lucky."
"Ah, we all do sometimes. Which state are you in, Texas?"
"Yup."
More typing, and soon Sarah is listing people who can get me back into the circuit. She's based in Florida herself and keeps saying I should swing by, but I'm no fool. Sarah wraps you around her finger and boom, you're working for her pretty little ass the next five years. Maybe once this thing is settled, but I don't think I can be bothered.
"I owe ya one," I promise when she's finished equipping me with email addresses and phone numbers.
"Don't worry about it," she chimes, but I know she'll get back at me. Damn, I hope she does. I don't like keeping open tabs within the circuit. This a big one, too. Sarah's given me a couple of people right in my area, and a few more all across Texas. From what she told me, she's out of organized crime and into some sort of bounty hunting these days, so I know whenever she wants this debt repaid, it'll be dirty work. Ah well, it is what it is. I don't exactly have leverage.
The first step is transportation. I can get around town on bus and subway, but there's no way in hell T.F. is hiding right in my grasp. The place where I'm staying is a trailer park on the outskirts of town, ragged and dirty, but it's a good start. Towards noon, the sun comes out, so I take a stroll around to get a feeling of my little base of operations. It's a pretty dead neighborhood. A couple of streets from me is the supermarket I went to yesterday, and it's a small one. Next to it is a tobacco store and a laundromat. That's about it for shopping. I spot a taco place that reeks of grease and beans gone bad even through the closed door and a butchery that smells just about as bad.
There's no schools, but a playground that I assume is mostly populated with teenage potheads. No pubs. A kiosk here and there, and they all look pathetic. Towards the city it gets less bleak, but all the dirtier. Oddly, this is my kind of place: The kind you really don't want to stay anyways.
Probably the most interesting thing I come by is a junkyard. Surprisingly, the owner lets me snoop around on a Sunday afternoon. Trundle has a face like a Neanderthal, but he seems to know his stuff. In another life, I might have worked with mechanics. God knows if our ride ever broke down, T.F. wasn't the one fixing it. For all his fancy finger work, the man didn't know shit about machines. Plus he wasn't one for getting down with oil and gasoline.
Sometimes I wonder what I kept him around for. Certainly wasn't the sex, we were partners long before we became... whatever you want to call it. Ah, who am I kidding? As useless as he was in some situations, he was the guy with the plan. Too bad that plan included selling me out.
Ten fucking years, and it wasn't a walk in the park either.
It's easier to think about that out here than on my couch. Easier to get angry when you can grab onto steel and pull or push or kick. Trundle looks over with his bushy ginger brow raised a few times, but soon I'm out of earshot. He's got some pretty decent stuff here. Nothing that won't need a ton of work before I can kill a guy with it, but hey. Can't have everything. Sarah gave me an address for a gun.
I loop back around to the front where a row of cars is parked. I need a ride more than anything.
"Any of 'em still drive?" I ask, and Trundle nods to a couple of rusty carcasses. There's an old van, similar to one I had ages ago, a surprisingly pretty Chevrolet, a cabrio. Of course the good ones are too suspicious. I'll need it painted because only scum like me drives shit cars, and I can't really work with an oldtimer. Not too shabby, not too flashy, nothing people will look at twice.
"How much for the pick-up?" I ask. Trundle eyes the car first, then me.
"Two thousand without papers," he suggests.
"Pah," I snort, "I'd be surprised if it's worth half that."
Feels good to try and strike a bargain. Too bad Trundle knows his stuff. Fixes the cars up himself, that guy. Apparently the tachometer doesn't quite work, but I ain't one for driving by the limit. Somehow Trundle's picked up that I'm the shady sort, so he's calculating how much he'll charge for the pain in the ass this might become. No clue how he figured me out, but who am I to fool the man?
We barter for a while, as is custom with these things. I've got a budget to get me started. Most of my bank accounts were frozen when they put in me in prison, but they didn't discover them all. I had two or three left, one of which I shared with T.F. for whatever dumb reason we had at the time. That one's empty. Bastard took all that was on it a couple years back. Still, I had some backed up. I ain't wealthy by anyone's standard, but it's enough for me not to worry that Trundle guy might pull me over the table.
And it's a good car for what I need it to do. I like having a high seat for long drives, and it's the kind of truck you have to climb into. Three seats, so there's room for me to crash. It looks like crap of course. Trundle asks if I have a big trip planned. I damn well do. Not sure where yet, but I wouldn't be surprised if I had to hike all the way up to Alaska to drag out that son of a bitch.
Good to get a truck, really. I faintly remember the winter we had to abandon a car we actually paid for because it just wouldn't get us through the snow. It was miserable, really. Got stuck on some dead track and had to walk seven miles for a service station. Never had a better coffee. The stuff was so thick you could stand up a spoon in it, and hot enough to burn my tongue. T.F. took it worse than me. Guy likes owning things.
Considering how far I'll beat the truck, Trundle's advice is to have it checked before I hit the road. If I had the equipment, I could probably do it myself, but alas, I don't. Shit, I'll have to buy a lot of stuff, don't I?
There's a giant workshop attached to the junkyard. Trundle owns it, but doesn't have much time to work there. He's got two boys running it, and they get the place on Sundays "for their lil' hobby projects", so they're actually in to look over the truck. I drive it the short way across the junkyard. Feels fine. Tiny bit jumpy to start perhaps, but I don't mind. As long as the brakes work, I'm good.
Turns out the boys are on Sarah's list, actually. Saves me one trip, then. Rumble is the scruff, lanky sort, with hair that was meant to be dyed some funky color, but has since faded to a muddy grey-brown. He's all over the car right away, tools hanging from a wide belt over dirty denim jeans. Can't be much older than twenty. Once I drop Sarah's name, he starts talking code. I don't need much except for paint, and apparently he won't go much further anyways. Apparently having Sarah Fortune know you doesn't mean you're fixing trunks to hold a hostage quite yet. Good that I don't need that.
It means that his buddy, Ziggs, isn't as much of a source as I was hoping, though. He's hunched over some electronics in the back of the workshop. Sarah said he sells guns, and sure enough he does, but he wants to see my license. Ain't got one. Not fresh out of prison.
He shows me his merchandise anyways. Damn me, he's got some crazy things. Not sure I like my guns tinkered with that heavily though, so I'll have to see. We have a good chat while Rumble's busy with the car. Firearms is one of those things you can't really educate yourself about in prison, at least not if you don't want the guards watching you twice as sharp for a month or two. Ziggs gets me up to speed on what's what these days. According to Rumble, I can pick up the car tomorrow. I still don't have a gun, but at least I've got an idea of what I should be looking for.
I pay Trundle and give the boys a good tip, then I roll off the junkyard. Trundle says I still need to register the car, but I think we both know I won't do that. There isn't much gas in the tank, so that's the first thing I do. Second is get out my phone. Sarah had a few names for guns, but if the first already didn't work out, I'm not screwing around. There's one girl on here who I know for a fact is shady, shady material.
Jinx was really damn young when I cut ties with the mafia. I'm not surprised that child got sucked into the family. She had a crazy look every time I passed her, pickpocketing in the streets. It frustrates me to even dial her number. The mafia is long, long behind me. Owing Sarah a favour is one thing, but them? Gotta make sure I get out clean, and fast. Then again, if I want to get back in the business, that's a surefire net of contacts right there.
I'm lucky - that Jinx chick is in town, not up in Chicago, where I don't really feel like going. I doubt T.F. is dumb enough to hang around a city that my old clan's at, anyways. I might not be shooting for them any longer, but family's family to those people. Jinx recognizes that, too. She seems to remember me from the old days. Asks to meet me in a couple of hours.
Good. So I've got a car and probably a gun. I've also got a favor owed to Sarah fucking Fortune and the mafia. Not so good then.
Now I need that lead I'm speculating on. I head home so I can call Kayle from the comfort of my own kitchen. The office is closed, but she gave me her private number, and she picks up pretty much right away. Doesn't sound happy to talk to me. Can't really blame her.
"Mr. Graves," she informs me, "we had a bit of an incident earlier with Lulu. After yesterday, we are watching her closely, but she tried to run away again."
"She's a fucking kid," I chuckle, "can't be that hard to ground 'er."
"Well this isn't prison Mr. Graves, I thought you of all people would know the difference."
I can't help but laugh at how dryly she delivers her line. This Kayle's a feisty one.
"Damn you woman, you got me there."
She doesn't seem to approve of my humor. Not surprised.
Kayle sighs.
"I may or may not have promised her you will come to visit. Are you free later this afternoon?"
"I ain't", I grunt. Got a tiny little thing with a mafia chick. Happy days.
"Pretty busy for a man in your… situation."
"You spend ten years behind bars and tell me you don't wanna live a little after."
"Touché."
There's a short pause while she flips through a calendar. I guess the kid has school. Or is it vacation time already? Can't really tell. Summer lasts for fucking ever down here.
"Just let me know if you find the time," Kayle admits her defeat. "As much as I disapprove of this, Lulu seems quite attached to you. She's been upheaved a lot lately. I'd do almost anything to see her happy, if only for a bit."
"So you're down to call up the criminal who doesn't know 'er?"
Another pause.
"I realize you've never met, but Lulu thinks of you as a father."
"I ain't nobody's father."
She doesn't try to call after I hang up.
Jinx is summoning me to the other end of the city. It takes ages to get there by train and bus. Nobody minds me, nobody knows, or guesses. I still feel like an inmate, hunched on my seat, eyes drawn to every little piece of cityscape that passes by. In the beginning, I had a couple of transfers, but then I served the rest of my sentence in the same facility. You get so used to what's around you that you start forgetting, forget about all the rest of the world. Part of me hopes it'll take a while to find T.F., just so I have an excuse to take a peak again.
As if to answer some cliché, Jinx is meeting me in the harbour. I arrive a good bit ahead of time. The smell is almost too much for me. I haven't been around open water so long that I'm kinda shocked by how vast it is. Suddenly I want to go to a beach. Never been a beach type of person. Or a mountain, or a forest. Anything big and landscape-y. Anything not man-made, not steel and concrete and the stench of piss.
I light a cigarette and the wind almost blows it out. Love it. The prison was so far inland you hardly noticed how bullshit coastal weather is. For a while, I feel like the man I was ages ago again. A man with too much time on his hands and too little ambition to do something useful. Could've made it far as a henchman, but no, I had to drop out. Mine ain't a stable career, but the mafia is as close as you can get.
Nah.
That would have been the easy way.
And look where not taking it got me, in prison for a decade and then right back to 'em. Fucking T.F. has a lot to answer for.
Jinx finds me before I can look for her. Can't say I would've recognized her - she was ginger at some point, but now her hair's bright neon blue and she's, well, not seven. I guess she grew up pretty, though not my type. She's short, with a flat chest and skin so white I wonder what weird jobs she does for whatever boss holds the reigns right now.
"Same old pooper, huh?" she grins, revealing bleached teeth. Should've worn braces as a kid, one of her canine's sticking out like a vampire tooth.
"What can I say," I grunt, "I try my best."
She cocks her head, as if considering a thought. Her outfit is bland enough, plain jeans and a leather jacket, but I can't imagine the hair works well for our business. One day she'll learn that the hard way. You wanna make it, you gotta find the right balance between blending in and sticking out.
"Fine," she finally says. "Got a bit of an issue, thought you could help."
Oh dear, here we go.
I need another cigarette.
"What sort?"
"Hm, the not so chatty sort."
She makes a fist from long, slender fingers.
"Turns out I'm not so convincing."
I flick my lighter against her fist. She catches it easily.
"Who knows kiddo, ya might just yet grow a bit more," I joke and she makes a pouting face. How old is she again? She looks sixteen at best, but I know she's over twenty. That much math I can do.
"I hear you're a punchy type," Jinx informs me. "So, up for some punching?"
The warehouse she leads me to isn't exactly deserted. There's evidence of dockworkers everywhere, but I guess Sunday evening isn't a heavy shift. Jinx walks in as if she owns the place. She doesn't, I'm pretty sure, but people decide to look the other way as we pass by. I'm doing my best to make Jinx look even tinier than she is. I'm not all that tall, but I'm big. Broad shoulders like a farmer or something. In prison, you get so bored even the laziest nerds starts working out.
Turns out Jinx has a guy tied up in a back office of the warehouse. I want to laugh at how stereotypical the whole get-up is, but then again, she's only just starting out. Plus she seems to like the dramatics - as soon as we close the door, she picks up an assault rifle from the desk. The guy's twice her size, but he reeks of sweet, sweet chloroform. It's a subtle smell, but one you learn to notice.
His head lulls from one side to the other. He's pretending to be more drugged than he is.
"Told you I'd find us a friend," Jinx announces. "See, the boss is big on having you unharmed, bla bla bla, but don't you worry, I'm up for putting a hole in you, if it helps."
"This is my good shirt," I warn her. "You ain't gettin' me bloody today."
"Oh, I'll give a warning."
Her grin is disturbing, because it pinches her big round eyes into an odd, almost feline shape.
"I always give a warning. Or not."
With slow steps, I circle around the guy. He's bound to a simple office chair, but it looks like the ropes are tight enough. Jinx twisted his feet at an angle to make it harder for him to sit, and I can see his fingertips going blue from a lack of blood supply. She must've kept him here for a while.
Ah, I always liked pulling the tape off someone's mouth. All the sweeter when they have a beard. He gasps, choking down what might have been a scream.
"Alright buddy," I grunt, "what's she want from you?"
He spits at me - poor aim, he hits my chest, not my face - so I grab his hair and yank back.
"I ain't the patient kind," I hiss, "you try that shit again, you'll be spittin' sideways."
Behind me, Jinx giggles. I can hear her tap her boots together. The rifle clicks in her arms. Hope that isn't mine - way too big, too hard to stash somewhere. Too obvious to carry around. Maybe that's what she's going for: Looking so out of place you don't even want to know.
"He's got a bomb. Boom! I want it."
"A bomb, huh. And he ain't telling you where?"
I know she's shaking her head from the rustle of her clothes, the soft crack of leather that's too stiff to move properly.
"How rude of him," I mutter, twisting my fist in his hair. It's sweaty and disgusting, but hey, who am I to judge.
"She'd blow up a city if I let her have the explosives," the guy grunts. Cute, tryin' to get me on his site.
"But not your city, silly!" Jinx complains. "So what do you care?"
I think I get the jist of it. Back when, I got with the mafia from smuggling drugs. Made my way over to firearms, which was a hot market at the time. Kept on changing the supply routes. Sometimes, a package or two gets lost. Bosses tend to want that back.
"I ain't got all night," I tell the guy, and before he can say anything, I smack him right across the face. Jinx applauds me. It takes a bit more than that, of course. I like what Jinx did with the ropes because it means I can pretty much throw the entire chair with the guy still on it. We kick him through the room a couple of times.
He's panting in the corner, blood streaming from his nose. So much for my shirt, then. Jinx is watching him like she's at the zoo, the kind of curious fascination a child has for a chimpanzee. Like she sees the similarities, but the glass is telling her who won in the rat race called evolution. Our monkey is holding up pretty well. I light another cigarette. Pack's almost empty, shit.
Pushing Jinx back to her desk and rifle, I kneel in front of the guy and blow the smoke in his face.
"We can keep doin' this, y'know."
I'm not one for putting out my cigarette on someone else's skin. Always thought it was kinda pointless. Other ways to hurt someone that won't give 'em a scar to hate you by. Let 'em forget yer face, I always say. Leave a few things for the next guy to do.
Break a rib, not a bone. Subtle things, right?
"Or you just open that ugly mouth of yours before I punch too many teeth out to understand what the fuck you're tryin' not to tell us."
As if to prove my point, he spits out one. I pick it up and stuff it back in his mouth, pressing two fingers just far enough down his throat that he gags, but won't puke yet.
"Y'know, I got better things to do," I hiss, "I just got out of prison. Ten years, ya know what that's like? And yer the lucky bastard, really. First asshole I get to fuck up."
I could bet Jinx is swooning at this point.
A good ten minutes later I got the guy talking. None of the names he mentions ring a bell. Who's betraying who at this point, I couldn't care less. Not my world. But Jinx is satisfied.
"Such a good boy", she coos before hitting the guy's temple to knock him out cold. She wipes her hands as if there's dust on them, visibly pleased with her - and by extension my - work.
"Thanks, Mister Graveyard! Love how quick this went."
Quick still means well over an hour. It's midnight by now, and I'll have trouble getting a train back to my trailer park. Fuck me I guess.
"Pleasure's mine, really."
I want to say this didn't feel good, but I suck at lying. The thing about prison is, everyone kinda hates each other. Some of the people I was in with, they put each other there. So in a facility like mine, we're all a time bomb. Ticking down to the next fight in the yard. But there's always some guard at hand. You get a minute or two when really, you just need to let it all out and beat the living shit out of… something. Anything.
I've always had a temper. I've built a career on having a temper. Other boys, they learn to control themselves, but I found people who'd pay for me to get angry. I'm the Hulk of corporate America's crime scene.
"Okay then," Jinx chimes. "You needed a gun, right?"
She pulls out a suitcase from underneath the table. It's a big one, the kind you get for moving overseas. Or for T.F.'s boot collection. My knees go weak as she opens it.
One of the foam cutouts is empty - that one's for the rifle. Next to it, cushioned and polished, is a handgun, underneath it the long barrel of a shotgun. In the corners there is room for two, three hand grenades, though she seems to have used them up for something I don't want to know the details of. The other half of the suitcase is laid out in foam as well. It holds ammo cases for each of the weapons and the parts of what must be… a rocket launcher?
Damn, this girl is batshit crazy. I spot a box of tampons cramped into one of the empty grenade pockets, and a can of soda in another. Living out of a suitcase, then. Sounds like me.
I could do with the handgun, but Jinx grins at me as she reaches into the suitcase.
"You had one of those, right?" she recalls as she lifts the shotgun from its pocket. It's a damn beauty. Heavy in my hands, and even asleep as it is, I can almost feel the recoil. From the barrel, I guess it's a 12 gauge.
"She doesn't like me," Jinx pouts.
"I betcha," I chuckle. With her small frame, this is an awkward weapon to carry, made for hunting. Good thing I'm planning a hunt, then.
"No, she really doesn't like me," Jinx repeats. I turn the shotgun around in my hands and she sticks her tongue out at it. "And guess what, I don't like her either!"
"What shells do I need?"
Jinx bends back over the suitcase and passes me a small box.
"Twelvers. Boring. I got a couple of buckshots left."
"Perfect," I mumble. This ain't the gun to give a warning shot. It's the gun to rip a man apart. Can't wait to pull the trigger. I start rolling numbers around in my head. "How much do I owe ya?"
Jinx shrugs.
"A favor. Itsy-bitsy one, after tonight."
"Sure," I grunt. If I want the gun, I'm back in the pocket of the mafia. Guess I made that choice about an hour ago, so I might as well roll with it. This is my way of doing things. Got in through the mafia way back when, might as well try that a second time. There's worse places to start.
Jinx gives me a bag to disguise the shotgun in and drives me to the station on a run-down motorbike. She has about as much respect for traffic lights as I do for her. It helps, though, because I just about catch my last train. The cart smells like cheap beer and cheaper teenagers. I slump down somewhere in the back, which still isn't far enough not to be annoyed by the raging hormones throwing a private party by the door. I'm too old to get mad at them, but the music they blast far too loud from their shitty phone speakers serves as a good reminder of why I travel by car. In a way, trains are convenient, because all you need to do is get on before whoever's after you does. But fuck, I hate people sometimes.
I almost nod off despite the noise. No idea how I got this tired. For some reason, I feel bitter. Sure, I got what I needed, but I've also got two crazy women that'll get back at me some day. Two days out and I'm right back in the mud. Guess that was to be expected. I think of the little social worker and her fancy phone. If she could see me right now, knuckles bruised and a gun hidden on my lap, she'd probably regret all the hours she poured into my case.
Shoulda known, little lady.
Men like me don't change.
We only get worse.
All you have is your fire,
And the place you need to reach
Don't you ever tame your demons,
Always keep them on a leash…
Arsonist's Lullabye, Hozier