Chapter Seven: Rough Day

Mickey stood by the mound of tires, near the closed garage door. Arms crossed and glaring at the man before him. Sitting on the hood of a banged up Escalade, a tall, thin and lanky, greased up man sucked down a home rolled cigarette. His dirty blonde hair hung partially in his face, having fallen from the loose ponytail. His almost gray eyes stared back at Mickey, regretful. Mickey snorted, shook his head. He looked down at the hood beside of his company. "If you don't fix this, Rex, I swear to fucking Christ," Mickey trailed, saying this with a bitter laugh. On edge.

Rex sighed heavy enough that he made himself cough. After bending forward in a fit, Rex tilted his head back and yelped out his frustration and sore throat, clearing out his lungs. Then took another drag from his cigarette. After his long drag, he blew the smoke up and through his nostrils, glaring back at Mickey now, suborn. "You drove five hours to tell me that shit?" Rex asked, aggravated himself. His voice was light and ambiguous. "To threaten me?" he finished, licking his cracked lips.

Mickey smiled. Stunned at Rex's nerve. But then, he always was. He breathed out a laugh. "Mother fucker," Mickey bit, "your ass should have been in Chicago when I took the hit. The hell's up with you lately?" he pressed, only caring because his balls were on the line and Rex was starting to fuck up too often. Mickey didn't want a new partner. He liked this one; didn't want to do away with Rex like those before him.

Rex raised his brows and shrugged. "My girl's in labor, Mickey," he said, putting his hands out to his sides and flailing them haughtily. "Probably already popped the fucker out and I'm not even there. I'm here, with you on my first day as a father!" Rex nearly shouted, pointing harshly in Mickey's direction. "And," he went on, "I was on my way, I swear to science. But the hospital called, man. What the fuck was I supposed to do?" He threw up his arms, growing heated fast.

Mickey scowled. "Lower your god damned voice," he hissed. Not that anyone was around to hear. But fuck if this guy was going to get in Mickey's face. Mickey wasn't the one who screwed up here. He stepped forward, inches from Rex, who openly stepped up as well, refusing to stand down. One of the many things about the man that Mickey actually liked. Rex, like Mickey was usually unafraid of taking a punch. Hell, the day Mickey first met Rex, he had witnessed Rex fight off a guy just long enough the put the guy's gun against his own skull, and tell the fucker to go on and pull the trigger, to blow Rexs brains out. The guy had pissed himself and Rex's brains had remained intact. Rex had a keen ability to know when someone was bluffing or simply full of shit. Probably why he usually stood his ground against Mickey. Only once had Rex backed up and apologized to Mickey. Only once in four years. Knowing Rex could smell his bluff, Mickey rolled his eyes and relaxed, still standing nearly nose to nose. Rex followed suit and sat back against the car again, crossing his arms, legs stretched out to the space between Mickey's spread feet. Cigarette smoke wafting up between them.

"Look," Mickey began, rubbing his temple, one hand on his hip, "I don't care what you have to do, just get rid of this. Clean up this mess." He turned heel, digging through his pocket for his own packet of smokes. Lit one up, pausing before the side door. He blew out, then looked back over his shoulder. "And in the future," he said evenly, "can you just go back to doing your fucking job, and fucking investigate the idiots you send my way? This happens again," Mickey pressed, voice growing grave, "and I'llhave to clean up. Don't make me do that." He held Rex's gaze, and for the second time since meeting Rex, Mickey saw a knowing fear creep across the man's bird like face. Mickey wasn't joking around. Rex heard the implication behind Mickey's mournful words. Knew what that meant. Knew Mickey would do what he had to. Rex nodded, then Mickey left.

His drive back into Chicago took another five hours out of his already shot to hell day. Halfway there, Rex contacted him and requested for Mickey to send Alice and her kid home. The body was still there, Mickey exclaimed, but Rex said to never mind that. That he was already on his way and would be there shortly after Mickey. Had in fact left not ten minutes after. So Mickey called up Alice and told her someone would be at her house near eleven that night, give or take thirty minutes. Told her to remain calm and keep away from the upstairs floor until told otherwise. Yet even as he said this to her, he knew Alice would not receive another call from him. Or anyone. Because when Rex cleaned up a mess, he erased everything. Everyone.

As Mickey drove back to his hotel, that boy's, David's, face bore into his mind. Tiny hands pressed against a window and fat tears strolling down screaming cheeks.

He got back to his hotel room ten minutes after eleven, and tried not to wonder too much on what Rex was about at the moment. Rex was even more apathetic than Mickey, or at least that's what Mickey's former partner had said.

Mickey plopped down on the end of the bed and stared straight ahead, counting the dents on the dresser. For all of his driving, Mickey wasn't sleepy. Was, in fact, restless. His stomach grumbled. Mickey pressed a hand against his middle, and looked over to the mini-fridge he had purchased and plugged in near the doorway. He already knew what was in there without going to look. Week old pizza and coffee creamer. An ice bag and pack of sliced deli meat. Mickey usually ate out. Usually at that damned cafeteria. When he did eat, that was. Mickey tended to eat about twice a day at most, and only one of those times did his meal consist of more than a snickers bar and iced-coffee. Maybe an energy drink in between. Sometimes he replaced the candy with slightly healthier Pringles chips. He'd had a sandwich this morning with his chips, while waiting on Alice's neighbors.

Chewing his bottom lip, Mickey stared at the mini fridge as though he were offended. Then stood quickly. He needed some air to quell his slow to simmer temper. So he picked up the scarf he had discarded on his way in, wrapped it around his neck, and left his hotel room close to eleven thirty. Getting food would be a problem in the neighborhood, given that most places except for bars closed up by now. Bar food had never been one of Mickey's favorites, so he figured he would just hoof it into the heart of Chicago and have at some fast food or some shit. A walk would help clear his mind some anyway.

Once outside, Mickey noted that his hotel room was the exact temperature of outside. Close to forty degrees, by Mickey's guess. He briefly considered just sleeping on the El tonight, given how cold it was. At least the El was a little warm. Tomorrow he was just going to switch rooms. Maybe even hotels. Maybe even neighborhoods. Mickey was getting a little sick of stepping on a homeless person every time he walked out of his door. Plus he missed Detroit. Going back there to speak with Rex had made Mickey homesick. Today just wasn't his day.

Hands deep in his pockets, Mickey stared straight ahead, ignoring almost every crosswalk light unless cars were coming faster than he could jog across. His stomach growled as he rounded a corner, taking the fastest way to the close by McDonalds. He stopped near a busy intersection, waiting for the cars to clear. When they did, Mickey had a clear view of everything across the street. The cafe lights were on and Mickey found this odd, given that the place should have been closed an hour ago. He knitted his brow and crossed, slowly walking closer to the shithole. He stopped a few feet away from the sidewalk, staring, frowning and deep in thought. There in front of the window, a too large, mans' jacket draped over her scrawny shoulders, was that fucking prostitute. Bruised up with a busted nose or lip; it was hard to tell. Ian sat across from her, refilling her glass with water. His pointy elbows propped up on the table as the redhead sat aside the pitcher of water. He looked worn out. Rested his chin flat on the table and clasped his hands over the back of his freckled neck. Mickey wasn't sure how long he stood there watching the prostitute cry to Ian. Just knew that he stood rooted to the streets, fixated on Ian's apparent opened kindness, until a guy on a bike zipped by. The honk startled Mickey back to reality. He jumped forward, out of the way, and turned around, screaming a curse at the lunatic. When he looked back at the cafe, he immediately wished he hadn't. His stream of curses had been louder than Mickey had anticipated. The whore and Ian were both watching him through the window. The whore looked away quickly and casually, uninterested, blowing her nose into a wadded up napkin. But not Ian; Ian held Mickey's gaze. Mickey tried and failed to pull his eye away. His cheeks felt hot and he had no clue why he suddenly felt embarrassed. Why it suddenly felt awkward standing around. Mickey wanted to turn tail. But somehow that felt even more awkward. So instead of turning to leave Mickey nodded and hoped Ian would just look away first. Of course the fucker didn't. A friendly grin swept Ian's face. Weak and sad, but honest. Troubled. Mickey sympathized. He felt kind of burdened down at the moment as well.

His heart jumped, skipped a beat when Ian turned his attention to the whore. The redhead leaned forward, spoke, then scooted out of the booth and walked toward the door. Mickey felt a rush of heat hit him. His stomach tightened as the cafe door opened and Ian stood there, holding the knob and blinking over at Mickey, curious.

"Want some coffee?" Ian asked, voice uncertain.

Mickey frowned. Shook his head, still standing on the edge of the sidewalk. The wind blew, ruffed his scarf, gave him a chill. Blew Ian's bangs about. "I'm good," Mickey said, kind of gruff. His way of saying no thanks.

Ian let go of the handle and crossed his arm, pulling into himself from the cold. "I mean," he began, voice a little too elevated for Mickey's liking, "if you're just going to stand there being a creeper, you might as well come in for something to warm you. It's really fucking cold out here."

The wind blew again. Mickey stared, said nothing for a minute, then walked forward. The cafe was closer than McDonalds anyway. As they stepped in, Mickey looked over at the whore, who was turned around in her seat, watching him and Ian. Her nose was red, her eyes were puffy, she looked high on top of it all. The locked clicked and Ian walked around Mickey, going toward the kitchen. Fast, Mickey's attention left the whore and followed Ian until the kitchen door closed. Even then, Mickey stared at the door until Ian came back out, cup of coffee in hand. Mickey could see the steam rolling off the top of the mug. He took the drink from Ian as the redhead sat back across from the whore. Looking down into the coffee, Mickey was aware that both of them were watching him now. He knitted his brow. "I hate hot coffee," he said, cocking a brow, still gazing into the brown liquid. The steam warmed his chilly, stiff face.

The whore went back to blowing her nose, eyes still on Mickey. Really the whole situation was getting rather bizarre. Mickey figured his whole existence was pretty loony, though. So actually this made sense.

Ian rolled his eyes, chewing a piece of gum Mickey hadn't noticed until now. "It taste the same, hot or cold," he said off handed, then scooted over in the bench, looking up at Mickey expectantly.

Mickey pulled a chair out from a near by table. Scooted it over. It screeched on the floor. He sat in it backwards, a few feet away from Ian and the whore. As Ian watched him do this, a look of being offended, confused, and yet understanding washed over his face. He shrugged at Mickey and went back to looked over at the whore.

"He's gonna kill me," the whore sighed, a voice of acceptance, sniffing hard and pushing gripping the snot rag hard. "Ian, Rodney's gonna kill me and your mama," she went on, shaking her beaten face, "Specially your mama."

Mickey furrowed his brow, listening, eyes trained on Ian's reaction to whatever the fuck they were talking about. Clearly something to do with the pimp. He took a sip of the hot coffee and pulled a face.

Face drooping, eyes down cast now, Ian crossed his arms on the table top and rested his forehead. Said nothing for a long while. When he finally did speak, Ian didn't lift his head, so his voice was muffled into the groove of his arms. Mickey stared at Ian's crown while the kid spoke. "Shatera," Ian began, "which one of you really stole it? Be honest." His voice didn't hold anger of any sort. It was upset, but in a much more depressed way.

"Your mama, baby boy. Your mama," Shatera said, dabbing at her blood face with the filthy napkin. "She ain't thinkin right."

"When is she ever," Ian stated, this time his voice held harshness. It quickly disappeared, and the next words were gravely. "Where is she now?" he asked.

Shatera shook her head, running a hand over her braids. "Ran off with that dike truck-driver. Says she's in love," she said, trepidacious. "They gonna sell it for a place to stay a while."

"Fuck," Ian breathed.

"I told him I took it," Shatera said, reaching across the table and touching Ian's elbow. Ian lifted his head only enough, eyes damp but face strained to stay strong. Shatera stroked Ian's elbow, gave a pathetic looking grin, then motioned to herself. "Look here," she said in reference to her face, "he believes it."

Ian scowled, shook himself, then swallowed hard enough that Mickey saw his adam's apple bob. The redhead looked at the whore with regret. "That doesn't help anything," he said, then dropped his head again.

"I'm sorry," Shatera breathed, holding Ian's elbow again. "She'll be back. Monica always comes back."

Mickey sat there and watched as Ian fell asleep in that position. As Shatera joined him. Until the sun came up.