Chapter Thirty-seven: Chrissy

Mickey walked out of the jailhouse, shrugging on a jacket he had taken from a cellmate over the black tank-top he had been wearing upon his arrest two months prior. They had given him all of his belongings that had been on him that day. So naturally, even Mickey was feeling a little dirty in the old shorts and top. They were rank with stale beer smell and musk. The shirt was actually kind of stiff. Mickey tried to ignore this as he walked through the gates, a free man. Free from the law but not Julio. The first thing crossing his mind was whether or not he should actually go to Christopher's. Here he was, stuck in Indianapolis, afraid to go back to his storage and find his wallet. Unable to simply stowaway on the bus because it was early daytime. Didn't really want to wait around the city like a sitting duck. Nowhere to fucking go, and eyes probably watching him right now.

So, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jean shorts, Mickey licked the corner of his mouth and marched on, no destination in mind yet. They weren't going to gun him down. He knew that much. Not because Julio and his crew were afraid of being seen in the broad daylight or because they didn't want to kill Mickey, but because Brenda had been by to visit him a few times since the first, promising Mickey that Julio just wanted to talk. Mickey was no fool, though. He knew that, while he wasn't going to be shot on the sidewalk, he was a dead man if he actually went to see Julio at Christopher's. He wasn't sure what Julio had up his sleeve. He didn't want to find out. But as he rounded a corner, waiting for the street sign to given walking permission, Mickey figured he didn't have much of a choice.

The man waiting on the other side of the street grinned at Mickey and walked across quickly, hand on the inside of his jacket, ready for Mickey to run. The light had not even turned green. Mickey stood there, terrified but not willing to show it. He would die with dignity, god damn it. He would die seemingly unafraid. Mickey swallowed hard and the tall, slender man stepped up to him.

Crooning down at Mickey, his beak nosed nostrils flaring in anticipation, the man used his free hand to comb over his sleeked back, jet black hair. His green eyes bore into Mickey, daring him. He smiled, friendly.

Mickey nodded. "Chrissy," he greeted. "Julio having you play fetch?"

Christopher laughed and rubbed his nose, sniffing in defiance. "No," he said, still smiling, "that's. . .was your job."

Mickey faltered, staring now at Christopher's tucked away hand. He thumbed his bottom lip, still staring. Not meeting Christopher's gaze. Finally he spoke, his voice tight and his teeth bared. "You going to fucking shoot me or stand around holding your dick all day?" he snarled. "Get on with it, already!"

Christopher laughed and let lose the object in his jacket. He folded his hands ever so smugly in front of his lap. "Just making sure you know not to try anything," he said, winking once Mickey looked up at him. He cleared his throat and pointed to the car parked across the street, all to itself. "Come on, Mickey," he said, suddenly serious. "Let's get on with this." he grabbed the back of Mickey's shirt and held it firmly as mickey walked toward the car, jaywalking.

Mickey's heart raced as he neared the passenger door. He forced himself to keep breathing as Christopher opened the door and slammed it once Mickey was inside. After Christopher got in and began the long drive back to his place, Mickey closed his eyes and rested back in the seat, preparing himself for things to come. He tried to slow his breathing after being startled by Christopher blasting the radio with no warning. Watching the buildings go by, Mickey tried to picture everything he had done with his life up until this point. He hated what he saw and decided to stop. Finally Christopher stopped the car. Mickey furrowed his brow when he looked out of the window and saw that the stopping place was not Christopher home. He turned to the Italian and looked him over. Christopher was gripping the wheel, frowning deep enough to break his jaw. Mickey wondered briefly if maybe Christopher was just going to shoot him. A mercy killing, maybe.

"Get out," Christopher said, sudden and guarded.

Mickey reached for the handle, still watching Christopher. "What are you doing, Chrissy?" Mickey asked, or rather, growled.

Christopher turned his sharp eyes at Mickey, and licked his upper teeth. "Don't fucking make me repeat myself," he said. "I might just change my mind."

Confused, Mickey popped open the door and stepped out. He left the door open and looked back in at Christopher. Who wasn't moving. But was studying the dashboard, looking torn. His heart beat slowly now, then fast, then slow again. Mickey wondered if he was having a heart attack. Finally Christopher looked back out at Mickey. Without warning, the other man reached over and slammed the door closed once more. He fingered the automatic lock by his window until the passenger window was down. Mickey staid in place, unsure of what the hell was going on. Was he maybe going to be done away with execution style? Run over? He swallowed hard as Christopher opened his mouth and said, "Julio wants back what's his. We found your storage. The stuff wasn't there. Where is it, Mick?"

Mickey stared at Christopher, eyes wide, mouth a gape. "I don't have it," he said.

"Julio kind of figures, since there was a dead guy in there, maybe he tried to take it. Maybe you hid it somewhere else after you offed him," Christopher said, wishy-washy.

Mickey snorted and put his hands on the car, leaning back into the window. "What the fuck is this, Christopher?" he barked.

Christopher leaned back in the seat and let go of the wheel. He wetted his lips and stared straight ahead. "He wants to torture it outta you, Mickey," he said. "You know Julio. He doesn't give a rats ass about that heroin, not no more. It's the principal, now."

"So what? What the hell is this you're doing?" Mickey asked, face scrunched, angry and confused. Wishing this was over.

"You're like a brother to me Mickey," Christopher said, leaning toward Mickey's window. He gripped the sill, hands beside of Mickey's. "I figure, you're gonna die," he said, looking at Mickey straight on, "you might as well die unafraid."

Mickey knitted his brow, more confused now than ever. He opened his mouth, but never got the words out as Christopher grabbed his arm, twisted it over, and flicked a hidden razor blade down Mickey's forearm. Instead, Mickey gasped, slipped a little to his knees and stared at Christopher in shock. Still holding onto the man's arm.