Four
The deal with Brumly hasn't changed all that much. Chris Lewis is running the same old, same old; except on an even bigger scale since I last had dealings with him. He always was a step up from the shit me and my gang used to, more serious about it all. But these days his operation is off the scale. He's got kids dealing on every other street corner out here in Brumly. Then alongside that he's selling knocked-off liquor and cigarettes through that backstreet bar he practically lives in since he took it over. Guns too, if the whispers I've been hearing this last year or so are true. Rumour is he buys most his stuff from some contact out of town, based over near Oklahoma City. And him buying the bar gives him a legitimate front to run all the dirty money through.
And then there's my role. Just another cog in Lewis's underground empire.
I pick my way through the long grass that's overhanging the cracked paving slabs and rap my knuckles against the door.
A dog's bark echoes through from the back yard and a baby starts bawling. Two seconds later a muffled voice yells at one or the other of them to 'shut the fuck up!', but no one comes to the door.
I shift my weight sideways towards the window and try to peer inside, but the glass is filthy and the grubby drapes are still drawn even though it's two in the afternoon. Movement in the corner of my eye grabs my attention, but it's the woman from next door watching me from her own front step, darting back inside and slamming the door tight shut when she realises she's been made. Suppose I should be thankful Lewis keeps most of his money lending confined to this side of town and I'm not skulking around chasing up my own neighbours this way.
Raising my hand, I hammer on the wood once more with no luck. And I'm on the point of considering putting my shoulder against it, when the door finally cracks open an inch or two.
Automatically, I stick the toe of my boot in the gap and rest an arm on the door frame, because people aren't ever so keen to open the door to me a second time once they realise why I'm calling on them.
'What d'you want?' The woman holds the grizzling baby against her bony hip, her stick thin arms looking like they might snap under the weight.
'Think you know the answer to that already, don't you? Deal is, you pay up every Tuesday and then I go away, leave you in peace for a whole 'nother week.'
'No. I usually pay Dave.' She frowns, her mouth a narrow line.
I glare at her, not sure what the hell I'll do if she doesn't pay up. Pushing guys around, getting up in their face and throwing a few punches around is one thing. Hell, it's almost interesting when things get a little bit messy, because at least it breaks up the boredom. But the prospect of having to slap some girl around is a whole other proposition. Though maybe that's what she's counting on, the fact that despite appearances I might still have some kind of moral compass about shit like that. 'Yeah, well there's been a change of plan, so give me the damn cash and there won't be no shouting, no fighting, and best of all, no one gets hurt.'
She pushes a hand through her greasy hair, and juts her chin towards me, and sneers, 'Why? What you gonna do to me if I don't?'
I shove the door open a little wider, step across the threshold, invading her space so there's barely more than a couple inches between us and try not to dwell on what I'd do to any asshole who ever treated Leigh the way I'm carrying on. The air in here's fusty with damp and a quick glance past the broad confirms that I won't find anything much of any value in this house. But there'll be something I can threaten to take, or smash up if she doesn't pay. Because I might not have many standards left but there's no way am I ever sinking low enough to hit some woman. But on the other hand I guess there's no harm in making her think I might, if it settles this now.
'Look, Sweetheart.' I grab her by the elbow, my fingertips digging into her flesh. 'Just find some cash, yeah? Because if you don't pay me, then next time they'll send someone who won't be anywhere near so friendly and understanding as I am.'
'Yeah, yeah, okay.' She sniffs, shakes my hand off of her and pulls a twenty from the pocket of her faded jeans. 'It's all I've got.'
'There, that wasn't so hard was it? See you the same time next week.' Grinning, I shove the money into my own back pocket and saunter back towards my car.
Chris Lewis is sat at his usual table, deep in conversation with a couple of guys I haven't seen round here before. Their voices are low, and the only words I catch are 'delivery' and 'schedule'. Maybe 'payment'. But it's clear from their expressions that this must be something important, and their accents don't sound local, so I ain't keen to overstep and piss Chris off by blundering headlong into business that ain't none of my concern. So instead I settle at the bar, order myself a drink and wait. Eventually, after about another twenty minutes, two more rounds of shots and a series of handshakes, they leave.
Back so soon?' Chris claps me on the shoulder as they disappear out the door. 'You run into a problem? Need some help with someone? Told you, you need to be tough, not let their little sob stories about their brats going hungry get under your skin—'
'Nah, it was. They all paid up.' I fish the wad of notes out of my back pocket and hand it over, along with the notebook detailing all the payments against the outstanding debts buried under the crippling interest Lewis charges them.
He flips through the pages, then counts the notes, separating them into two piles on the bar.
'I'm impressed, Shepard. Getting all this lot to cough up in two days.' He gives me the book back. 'You got a head for figures?'
'Yeah, I guess.' Don't tell him that way back in junior year of high school I was top of the class in math, or that I probably would have been when I graduated—if I'd bothered to show up on a regular basis, that is.
'Cool. Well you take on managing this lot, and you get thirty per cent of whatever you collect.' He slides one of the piles of cash towards me. 'Starting with this.'
'Seriously?' I ask, trying to sound casual, like he hasn't just handed me well over half of my old weekly wage for less than two days' work.
'Yeah. I like to reward a job well done, keep my guys loyal.' He knocks back the remaining contents of his glass. 'It ain't gonna be a problem is it? You being one of the guys instead of giving out the orders?'
'Course not. Told you the other day, I'm happy doing whatever you need me to do to earn some cash for my family. I'm not interested in being the boss these days, Chris. Got too much to lose.'
He studies me for a few seconds, then laughs, gestures for the barman to pour us a couple of whiskies. 'Glad to hear it, Tim. Just keep doing what you're doing and I reckon you'll do fine.'
The house is quiet when I eventually get home. I pause outside the kid's room, and peep in at them through the crack in the door. Grace is curled up tight, her hand dangling through the bars of the cot, while Tony's sprawled on top of the covers with that hideous-looking blue stuffed bear Curly won at the summer carnival gripped tight under his arm. Both of them look so peaceful, contented. Not like that other kid, earlier. Push down the guilt that maybe he's crying himself to sleep hungry because of me, 'cause it ain't my fault his mother thinks borrowing money off of a shark like Lewis is a hot idea.
'Tim?' Leigh calls from our bedroom. 'Is that you?'
Turning, I catch sight of her through the open door, perched on the end of our bed as she brushes her hair. My breath catches for a second, and I stride across the hall to her.
'Hi, babe.' I rest a hand on her hip and pull her in to a kiss. The heat of her body, still warm from the shower, radiates into me. But she twists her head so my lips miss hers and graze against her cheek instead. 'Sorry. I got held up with a few of the guys. You know how it is.'
'Yeah, sure,' she mutters with a shrug.
The baby-blue satin robe clings to her still-damp skin, accentuating the soft swell of her breasts. Despite the obvious warning signs, my hands wander beneath the silky fabric as the success of my day working for Chris Lewis—combined with the alcohol I've sunk—makes me over-confident, and I push my luck a little further.
'Spent the whole damn day wishing I was here, with you,' I whisper into her hair, breathing in the sweet scent of coconut shampoo. 'Kids are sound asleep, so maybe we could—'
'Seriously, Tim?' Leigh grabs my wrists, lifting my hands away from her and snapping me back to reality with a jolt. 'You come rolling in here, three sheets to the wind, and expect me to be okay with that?'
'Look, I'm sorry. But work ran late, then—'
'No, Tim,' she interrupts again. 'Enough with all your bullshit and lies. I know you haven't been at the factory this past week. So why don't you start over, explain why in hell you didn't tell me?'
A/N: Huge thanks to everyone who's been reading so far :)
