Fear is a cowardly fucker, crawling into your bones and gnawing at the marrow while you sleep, seeping into your blood and turning it cold. Terror…terror is much braver than that. The gut, the esophagus, the lungs…these are the places that it nests, exploding out of you like a forgotten land mine that you got just a little too close to.
Bobby had never heard the sound of his own heartbeat before. It pounded hypnotically inside his ears; sheer terror alone prevented him from being lulled to sleep by the metronome like beats. Every inch traveled was one inch less between his dinner and the back of his throat, and the ancient car lurching at every stop sign only served to tumble his stomach more. He didn't know where he was going. And if he didn't know where he was going, then maybe they didn't know where he was going. And if they didn't know where he was going…oh god.
CloseCloserClosingclosingclosing.
The headlights fade to black, leaving one vigilant streetlight to do the job. The brakes squeak a tiny protest as the car slows to a stop in front of the Vietnamese restaurant. Red paper lanterns bob and float in the breeze on invisible twine, and Bobby is sure he's the only one that sees them dancing. He adjusts the knot on his cheap tie, a loud pattern set against an unreasonably tacky shirt. His long legs bend and fold, carrying him out of the car and up a flight of stairs, behind a companion half his age and twice as weathered. Seth taps a quick pattern on the door and Bobby's heart follows his lead. Instinctively, he ducks his head while passing through the frame. He would laugh, if his throat hadn't suddenly taken on the texture of grave dust. Seth ducks and dodges through several rooms, tapping hands and fists this way and that. A small kitchen rests at the back of the apartment. It's the kind of room that only exists to reassure you that you've acquired a real place to live, in a city of studios and lofts and half apartments with toilets to be shared amongst 5 units.
You got the stuff, man?
Where's my shit, dude?
Hey, where's my end pal?
Bobby loses touch with his companion's voice as it introduces him to the figure seated at the table. He sees the tattoo first. Beginning at the inside of one elbow, and snaking up the arms and across the back to rest at the other elbow is a Chinese dragon. He almost thinks that the painfully detailed scales are glittering beneath the lone bulb in the ceiling fixture, before he realizes that it's beads of sweat. Vu Phan extends a hand to Bobby, his eyes narrow and suspicious. Bobby returns the gesture and invites himself to a seat across from the younger man. He plops the duffel bag on the table unceremoniously, his posture much more languid and relaxed than he feels. Phan paws through the bag, flipping through each stack of strapped one hundred dollar bills carefully. Once satisfied, he drops it on the linoleum floor and kicks it behind him, the fabric making a dull thud as it hits the wall. Bobby holds out his hands, palms up, on either side of him.
"Hey, where's my end pal? My place opens in an hour."
Half of Phan's mouth turns up in a smile, the other half remaining flat and unamused. He stretches one arm out, yanking on the handle to the freezer door, and begins dropping gallon sized ziplock bags on the table. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. All there, and all bursting at the seams with bright pink tablets. The image of the Playboy Bunny head etched into each pill seems to wink at him a thousand fold, as he picks up each one and pretends to examine it. Bobby lets forth a chuckle that he hopes sounds satisfied.
"You know, I gotta lot of honeys lined up outside my joint right now," another laugh, louder and more breathy "that are gonna be loving you once I pass these little fuckers out."
Phan joins in his laugh "Maybe you'll be…considerate…and send a few my way. Call it…a return on the discount I gave you." The two erupt into raucous laughs, Seth joining from his corner opposite Bobby. His mind reels, he's sure he's sweating buckets.
Honeys.
Honeyshoneyshoneyshoneys.
Godammit, I said it!
He was screaming now, inside his head, the wails echoing off the walls of his skull. Right about the spot where the standard issue Glock was pointed. And suddenly, the little apartment is filled with the blessed sounds of footfalls and cocking pistols and shouted threats. Relieved, he stands slowly, placing both hands behind his head and lacing his fingers together. Both suspects are face down on the ground, so neither of them notices that he's performed this action without being told. The cuffs circle his wrists, cold steel meeting sweaty flesh. He follows his Captain downstairs, shouting threats and lobbing curse words at every officer he passes. He struggles half heartedly against the hold his Captain has placed on his shoulder, perhaps twisting and flailing a little too much. They reach the bottom of the steps and round a corner, to an alleyway two buildings down from the restaurant. His stomach drops as the cuffs click open, fearful that one of the suspects heard the tiny sound among the sirens and shouts. Bobby rubs each wrist slowly, his eyes never meeting those of his superior officer.
"Pretty good for your first job kid." The older man fumbles with Bobby's tie, careful and impatient at the same time. "I told you not to fuck with this mic, rook. We almost didn't catch the go word."
Bobby kicks the ground. "S-sorry boss." He just wants to go home. Get out of these cheap clothes and wash the stink of cologne away. His Captain mumbles a few more congratulations, mingled with scolds, before stalking away and rejoining the scene.
When he's sure that his boss is gone, he glances nervously around the filthy alley. Bobby walks to the nearest trash can and vomits.