Part 5
COME TO KILL THE ROOSTER
Tijuana, Mexico.
The ice machine started. Deep in the perfect silent existence of night, it buzzed into monotone life, rumbling as ice collected in the freezer. It woke the cat, purring deeply in a dream. Her orange-cream tail whipped around its body lazily, and then she rolled over to sleep on her back, oblivious to anything wrong in her world. Her bushed kittens curled into their fetal positions again, all clinging to their mother's lush fur. One sat at the window and slept in the moonlight. It twitched its bitten nose in discomfort and fell deep asleep. A spilled margarita had been its tipsy dinner and the glass, licked clean, lay beside it. The cherry was half chewed.
The ancient dog rested his bones on the couch, lit partially by cheap store-bought fiesta lamps that were strung across the ceiling by his lonely master. The TV had been shut off long ago, the grill on the patio cooled off, the kitchen mess cleaned sloppily, and the still-wet dishes stashed away. All the usual mannerisms of a middle-aged slob down on his luck in the getaway place of Tijuana. No children's toys graced the floor, no misplaced wedding ring, nadda.
Guy Chare was decorated in credit from years of loyal and inventive service to the L-2 syndicate and for his service; he'd been retired early. A genius and trained in the best collage in chemistry and law, he had been one of the first to join the struggling group. He'd carried through where others had hesitated and consequently been caught. Knew every face in the syndicate, rifled through new talent and picked the best orphans off the street. Even picked the top agents a few times. His gut instinct was in way his gun; he had the precision of a premonition and often could predict to the degree he needed no weapon. Paid off in the end with a fat check to tuck under his belt of accomplishments. Retiring had brought peace to him finally where there had been paranoia. A week after being officially retired at the age of 63 with no marriage or relationships, a quiet place on earth sheltered from the criminality of the colonies seemed like a good place to rest his bones. After meeting up with a few Mexican friends who were just as surprised see him, they set him up with the house of Mesquite Marco, who had been shot in a street fight only a day before. 'Just act drunk every once in a while,' they said, 'and the police and the neighbors won't even notice he's gone!'
'Can do,' he remembered saying with a smile and a beer bottle to his lip.
He lay in his bed, fighting the heat. A fan buzzed like a swarm of bugs in the balcony, almost futile in the overwhelming, swelling humidity of Tijuana that night. He drifted in an out of a troubled sleep, with his other hissy tomcat sulking sourly at the foot of the bed. Suddenly, he flicked his ears and sat staring with deep emotionless green eyes at the dark hall that led to the stairs down to the first level. His sinuous body slipped off the bed easily and silently, trotting down the hallway.
The cat sat at the top of the stairs and meowed. He cocked his head and flicked his whiskers in curiosity.
And meowed again.
"Good kitty…" a man said breathily, raising his gloved hand to soothe its meowing with a scratch behind the ears. "Shhh."
The tomcat meowed again and trotted away, to hide under the couch. The man smiled with an evil hint and lowered his tinted goggles to shield his eyes and also hide them. The last thing he needed was to be recognized, shouted at, and alerted of his presence to the drunken Mexicans who hung like buzzards around all the houses. No doubt they would run to their police or jump in to rescue their friend with broken beer bottles in hand.
He moved up the stairs silently, his footsteps muted by the brown shag carpeting. Mud collected on his boots left an obvious trail of slop leading to open bedroom door. The man paused fearlessly by the creaking wood frame, in full view of his target if he happened to wake up. It didn't matter. Licking his dry lips once, he pulled his gun from his pocket, held the butt and barrel in the cloth of his shirt to silence releasing the safety. He leveled it and was careful to avoid the cat.
Two seconds later Guy Chare stopped moving. His cats screamed a high-pitch shriek and scattered to hiding places on both levels, the kitten by the window scratching at the door to get out. The man hid his gun again and calmly walked back down the stairs. He exhaled a reassured breath and removed his goggles, letting them hang at the back of his neck. He slid the dining room glass door open and let the honey-colored cat dash into the stale night, disappearing behind a trash can. Leaning out, he tested the air. It was thick and sultry, still quiet and undisturbed. He took a few steps out into the dirt until the earth was solid and left no trace of his footprints. Out fifteen yards, he slipped off his muddy boots and exchanged them for fresh ones in his pack. Stashing the old, he circled around the house, opposite of his tracks, and made his getaway down the empty street. The man tucked his goggles under his collar and snatched a half-finished tequila bottle from the ditch and feigned his way out of Tijuana as a drunk.
"Lou... I'm scared. I'm scared shitless. We ain't never been one of those professional kinda people! We're gonna screw it up for Maxy, we's gonna screw it all up for us too!" The Italian rung his hands secretly over his knees, kneading them like bread dough. "He's gonna come back and kick our ass, I know it."
"Since when did you start having this phobia of a fifteen year old, Jeremy?"
"Lou! Who doesn't! He gets sent on all these Tom Cruise secret missions and comes back all bloody, with a look in his eye like he's fucking Hannibal!" Ivy green-brown eyes flashed panic back and forth as the Deuce sunk back in his seat.
"First of all you jack-off," Lou snapped, turning on Washington in blazing neon lights, "life isn't some horror movie, so stop making those stupid references!"
"I was just saying—"
"Fuck off, Jer, I'm talking!" He snapped, turning his head from the road and glaring across the car.
Jer sunk deep into his seat, until the dashboard hid him from the rest of the world and his phobia shined in his eyes as he rung his hands still. He submissively nodded his head, not daring to make eye contact.
"Second of all, how do you know that his missions are so fucking bad, huh?"
"I just assume that…"
"That's right," he snapped, "You assume. It makes an ass out of u and me. Ever heard that piece of crap, huh, Jer? Huh?"
Jeremy shook his head, strangely silent.
"That's right, bitch! You're too stupid, that's why."
"Come on, you're not acting like your usual asshole way. You're acting like a… real asshole."
"Jesus, you're acting like a pussy," Lou stated flatly. "Figlio di puttana."
Jer flashed his greenish-brown eyes over for a second, subdued by his fear so much his lips pursed and he had nothing to react with.
"Did you bring the note?"
The submissive Deuce pulled a crinkled piece of notebook paper graced by their friends jagged and rebellious handwriting. He held it out for his partner to see. Lou flashed his eyes down the paper, reviewing the note again professionally.
"Good," Lou said critically, his eyes shifting to scrutinize the city lights on the horizon. "Gimme. You'll screw up."
As the newly hardened Louis Santarini snatched it out of his partner's hand, he growled and saw the flinching fear in Jer's eyes. Like he'd been locked in the car with a psycho and just spotted the knife in his coat pocket. He intensified it by glaring at his friend like a pile of shit on his seat. He was cranky, that was a given. Pressure resulted in bitchiness for him and the pressure was on like a teakettle on a heated stove. His cork was gonna pop, he was gonna go mad. Maxy had left a single, speedily written note explaining in one note that would require a half-hour report if the leaders found out. An hour if it was Dr. G.
'Lou, Jer. I really need your help on this one, 'kay? I've kinda dug my self into some shit and I need you guys to cover up for me until I get back. Serious shit. I didn't even realize how much until it was already… shitted. Heh, that sounded bad. Anyway, I don't think you need to know the details, it would only hurt you. This one could get ugly, and it'll be even uglier if one of my superiors finds out. Go to my apartment, find Treize. If anything goes wrong, send him to the L-1 airport to do a cover-up. I might be dead by then, but I could be dead any second, you know. Don't get sad over me. I'll probably get my assed kicked anyway, so wish me luck. I stole some guns so if it turns into something hostage, you can use them. Under my bed, in the secret compartment of my suitcase. The big one.
Sorry.
Maxy'
He handed it back to his comrade. Lou turned the black Renault down another road, taking his path in a combination of a written out mental map and tactics to lose anyone who may have followed. The skies slowly darkened until even the clouds were hard to see in the blackness, and the streets were filled more and more with shady characters. Just Maxy's kind of street.
"He'll let us in, right?" Jer asked timidly.
"What?" Lou said angrily and dispassionately simultaneously, eyes not leaving the road. "Who?!"
"Treize, I mean." Jer rang his hands with less fervor.
"Why do you worry so fucking much? Huh?" He glared at his friend. "Why are you so damn TENSE!? HUH?" He was screaming now and catching the attention of a few as his foot subconsciously eased off the gas and slowed it to twenty mph.
"Lou…"
"SHUT UP." Lou gritted loudly through his teeth.
"Sorry." The once-raucous Italian sunk deeply into his seat. Shame flashed his eyes out the window, watching the passing people while his brain kept at what could be so pressuring that would make his laid-back friend so cross. He didn't need to worry for long; five minutes later the black car paused outside the apartment, eyes inside scoping out how many lights were on.
"Jer."
"What?" he asked timidly, folding his arms tight around him.
"You do know which apartment it is, don't you?" Lou asked, craning his head to see back and forth. "I mean, it's in the note, aint it?"
Bitterness forgotten, Jer pulled the note back out, uncrinkling it. Lou nervously put the car in park and flashed looks back and forth from the note to the unreadable face of his partner and to the sidewalk. It was a tense moment as he watched Lou's eyes scan left to right, then dart fiercely back to the left like a frenzied typewriter. He pulled the keys from the ignition and stuffed them in his pocket. Jer turned to him, running his hair through his disheveled hair in apprehensive habit. "So," Lou asked. "Is it there?"
"Uh…" He shook his head. "Nah."
"Damn." Lou slammed his fist against the steering wheel. "I didn't come to do a search. I especially don't wanna deal with some smart-assed manager. Check the back, is it there?"
"No," he confirmed. He flipped it back and forth. "Nothing, nadda, shit."
"Shit is right," he muttered sourly. "Well, maybe we can just check the books or something. What's his last name? You gotta know his last name."
"Like hell I know," Jer snapped incredulously. "I've never even met this asshole."
"Just great." Lou drummed his fingers along the leather of the steering wheel. He looked over to his friend. "Just get out of the car. We'll find him. Grab the gun."
The trash-mouthed Italian nodded and reached into the backseat and, flipping back the blanket stuffed in the legroom of the backseat and rustling through metal parts loudly, pulled a desired weapon from the pile. Lou watched him with critical eyes then moved the rearview mirror once. He glanced at it, squinted, and then turned his head to stare through the dirty backwindow. Jer went on obliviously, routinely loading the gun and examining it carefully, humming an old tune. His eyes went wide, then instantly narrowed with suspicion and his hand slapped down on his comrade's arm.
"Lou?—"
"Shhh!" he hissed loudly, pushing Jer violently down in the seat. "Don't move you son of a bitch else I'll shoot you myself!"
"What the hell are you doin—"
"I said quiet!" Lou snapped. He clamped a silencing hand over his friend's overactive mouth forcefully, taking on a glowering look as his eyes darted to the figure of a car slowly passing by. Jer watched in confusion. A small, ordinary looking green car buzzed mildly by; the tinted windows rolled up to keep out the L-2 cold. It paused at the end of the street, patiently waiting for a red light to switch to green on an empty intersection, then turned and disappeared to the right. Lou frowned and watched the empty street a few seconds after it had left. His friend Jer just cocked one eyebrow and turned.
"What's wrong with you, you paranoid mother—"
"What kind of car does Dr. G drive?" Lou's eyes didn't leave the street.
Jer looked at him curiously at first, then it shifted to disbelief. "I don't' know," he said. "But you don't think he'd follow us, ya think? We're his own fucking students! Doesn't he trust us worth shit? Even if he didn't, he'd know Treize's apartment, wouldn't he? He wouldn't think we were sleeping with the enemy or something, would he? After all I though he was the one who organized all the surveillance crap in there." The Italian placed the gun in his lap and stared at his partner.
After a few seconds, Lou looked over to him. "You know what, you scare me when you talk like you have some fucking brains. Swear more. Never really say anything again, okay? It scares me bad."
Jer puckered his bottom lip angrily. "Aw, shit. You know I'm right, don't' you?"
Lou shook his head. "Dr. G doesn't even know about that."
"Why not."
"Maxy did it. You know him. He doesn't like to do things under consent. He always said if something went wrong they killed people that did the wrong thing for them, so if he did it himself, no innocent people would be killed. A depressing hero, ain't he?" Lou put his elbow on the steering wheel. "Maxy found Treize digging into information on our syndicate and tried to kill him. Then he turned him over to our side, kind of secretly. He says he's just there for protection and tells him very little, you know, Mad Maxy's own little thirty-year-old lackey, but—" Lou put his fingers up to his lips causally, stroking the stubble around his mouth. "— I don't believe him."
"Maxy organized all the surveillance stuff?" Jer blinked.
"That's what he says; nobody's ever seen it. For all we know it could be just a TV with four porno channels."
"I's don't think Maxy's smart enough to set all the technical stuff. Placing cameras, hell ya, that's the fun shit, but before he couldn't even set his watch right." The Italian laughed raspily. "Besides, why the hell would he want to? It's not like Maxy to do homework."
"Who knows. It's not like you to think, either, dipshit." He looked over his shoulder again, scanning for more suspicious cars. He turned to his comrade, flashing his eyes in the discreet signal to move in. "Leave the gun. If that's who I think it is, it'll only confirm to him that something backstabbing is going on and it'll lead him to us."
"Eh, Lou, what the hell we gonna do if that guy in the car comes after us, huh? Then we'll be fucking screwed!" He watched the driver get out confidently and slam the door.
"Shut up and come on, Pussy."
Jer's face screwed up with acidity, but no anger at his brother could make him not follow the orders he gave. Despite his excessive swearing, the grimy-faced Italian followed orders to the letter for fear of failure, expulsion, or death. He stuffed the gun back under the blanket, patted it down, and followed Lou onto the sidewalk. He walked in by his brother's side as he leaned in slightly and asked.
"Car locked?"
"'Course, ass! I'm not that fu—" A punishing jab via Lou's elbow cut off his cursing as a man appeared behind the desk. Lou walked up and put on a swagger, putting both elbows down on the counter and staring the beer-gutted, curly mop-topped man in the squinting eyes. The entire area reeked of bad quality beer. His mouth rotated like a goat's, busy with a piece of over-chewed gum. It clearly had no flavor left because the man's breath was just as bad as ever.
"Can I help ya fellers?" he slurred, tossing a generic beer can in to his backroom, while the muted sounds of I Love Lucy continued. "Wanna room? Cheap as hell and qua-lit-y cable TV! Showtime and HBO!"
"No sir—" Lou tried to be polite, but his patient had been spent from the car ride. It showed in his
"If it's because that twerp told you rumors about the cockroaches speaking Chinese and taking bathes in the sink, I can assure you gentlemen they are not true. Why, when that kid gets back I'm gonna duct tape his cake hole shut. He won't bother you two. Promise," the man said with ruddy-cheeked fervor.
"No, no, you misunderstand us," Lou said, taking on uncharacteristically courteous qualities. "We've come to do business with one of your customers. Urgent business I'm afraid."
"Well," the man said, laughingly with a jiggling beer-gut, "that is different, isn't it? You guys work for one of those big corp-o-rations? Wall Street, stock exchange, maybe? You think you could hook me up with a good broker? I've been thinking bout getting my own prop-er-ty!"
"That's wonderful, sir, but no sir."
The man reached up and slapped Lou's shoulder. "There's no need to be so damn stiff with me, mister! Call me Zeb, like it says on that n-ice name plate there." He laughed heartily, with a hint of a wheezing problem that would hit him in a few years.
"Okay, Zeb—"
"Say, I never got you name," he said while playfully pointing a finger. "Mind enlightening me, y'all?"
Lou frowned a tad but didn't let it overcome his emotions. He cleared his throat and replied. "My name is Zachary Atkins and this is my business associate Francis Forsyght. We've come looking for a man named Treize who's been here probably a few weeks now. As I said, it's actually very urgent business and very important business. Life or death, if you will. Corporate ruin or success, in other words. We'd really like to speak with this man, soon."
The man rubbed his grubby chin. "Eh…. Eh… er, um," he mumbled incoherently, looking 'Mr. Atkins' and 'Mr. Forsyght' in the eyes. "Tray, you say?"
"No," Lou said huffily, his patience wearing boldly through his professional, clean-mouthed façade. "Treize. T-r-e-I-z-e! Tall, brunette British man!"
The manager was dumbfounded. He sat and stared like a deer in the headlights. Lou's face wrinkled with fury and he slammed his fist. "You don't understand; a friend of ours will die sooner or later if we don't see him. Immediately."
"Er…"
"Smokes a lot, drinks a lot of tea, hangs out in his room a lot, shady, cynical, tot-al ass-hole! Any of this ringing a bell?"
"No," the man said honestly, tolerant of Lou's brashness. "I'll check the book though. A last name, please?"
Lou flattened his palms and fisted them back and forth on the counter. He breathed out a heavy sigh then finally controlled himself. "I don't know."
"Well, mista, that's notta lotta help here." The book he'd taken out clumsily from under the counter lay unused before the two 'businessmen.'
"I know that."
"Is he here with anyone else?"
A slight look of relieve came over his facial features. "Of course." Lou slapped his forehead. "He's here with a young man, about fourteen, slim build, long hair, very long hair—"
"Oh!" the ruddy-faced man laughed and slapped the counter, shutting the book confidently. "You mean the twerp! Hippie-on-the-Third-Floor, the obnoxious little kid! Why didn't' you mention him before? I'd know that he-devil anywhere! Or she… people are pretty confused when they see that hair! I'll tell ya, he's stolen every single bottle of hair stuff in this freak-en building! Shampoo-trick-or-treating! Maxine or something like that…"
"Yes, yes. He's in the same room as Treize, right?"
"I suppose. I've never heard his name before." The man leaned in, flashing eyes back and forth secretly, like he held some very important information in his head. "Everybody around here calls him the twerp's lover! I doubt after the rumors they're spreading that I'll ever be able to rent that room again!"
Jer's eyes flared wide open, suddenly in tune to every word of the conversation, his jaw about ready to drop open. Lou's reaction didn't stray far from that, but his controlled it and slammed a discreet elbow back into his partner, silencing the gasp. "Uh… thank you, but we'd just like the room number, if you please," he asked politely, as red as hell.
* * * * *
"Holy fuck, you heard that!" Jer yelped in a hushed voice, his eyes wide and focused on the stony but obviously red face of his comrade. His hand yanked on Lou's jacket, demanding attention.
"Maxy, that Treize guy… Oh good God," he moaned, face taking unnatural tint as if he was hunched over the rail of a ship, declaring his seasickness with his face. "The hair… I should have known! And he shook my hand, Jesus!"
Lou glared over at him. "Shut up, Jer. I'll smack that overactive anus-face of yours."
They clamored up the stairs to the third floor, sacredly alone in the whitewashed cement halls sprayed with graffiti. Hands stuffed collectively in pockets, they trudged faithfully up each twist and flight of stairs. Lou glanced over to his fidgeting comrade, his hair mussed up by nervous fingers. His blue eyes cast down to the dirty floor, lip bit in bold phobia. Jer twitched and jerked like he'd drank fifty thousand cups of coffee. The panicky animal caught his look.
"Jesus Christ!" he shrieked like Tweek and shrunk away. "Don't look at me like that! Sick bastard!"
Lou rolled his eyes. "Come on, you homophobe, don't tell me you believed that pile of shit."
"What?" Jer stopped in his tracks, giving a confused five-year-old look that'd just been given the straightforward answer for 'Where do babies come from?'
The Italian paused as well, nonchalantly, almost casually turning and shrugging. "Typical Maxy technique. He's always trying to get a rise out of someone."
Jer's eyes widened, attaching Lou's words to a sick innuendo in his own head.
"You have a sick mind, you know that dipshit?" He heaved an angry sigh, leaning against the rail. "And if you're worried about our friend being gay, don't worry." The Italian couldn't suppress his urge any more and flipped out a cigarette for a brief smoke.
"… Wha… I'm confused, Jer. You're fucking my head up, you know that?"
"Because you're stupid; that's the only reason why." Lou snuffed at him, flipping back the metal lid on his generic lighter. He lit it and cupped his hand in a rehearsed habit, shaking out the fire and slipping the lighter back in his pocket. A defiant cloud of smoke floated toward Jer and the twitching man shook it jumpily away.
"I happen to know that Maxy's been with this blonde chick for two years. He asks me to cover every once and a while. You know, while's out with her. He's more loyal to that broad than any kid in any high school; says he just wants to be a good boyfriend. " He looked disdainfully over his cig and the smoke it bred. "He's not gay. But I wouldn't blame him… he's got the worse luck. Attracted this chick with eyebrows from hell. Personally, I think he's starting to hate the shit out of her. I would too.
"As for the whole 'lovers' thing, it's just a scheme. They're rooming together; they've got a surveillance system that's in all the important places. Banks, mansions, warehouses. They've no doubt got all Maxy's guns out so he can admire him like the vain bastard he is. Who would bother them, considering the rumors about them? No one would ever come to visit. Thus defecting chances of getting caught."
"Holy shit, you do not know whadda relief that is…"
"Yes, I do and this is enough Rikki Lake, okay?" He dropped his still glowing cigarette with no fear of it burning the concrete floor. "Let's get going. Like I said, little time, motherfucker."
Third floor. Jer glanced nervously around taller, hovering skittishly besides his darker comrade while he was occupied with getting Treize up at this ungodly hour. The darkened hallway lit occasionally down its shag-carpeted length by orange light that flowed through the open doors of unoccupied rooms. Lou's face hardened with patience and anger, and his mind seemed to slip as he knocked again and again. He paused and waited for someone to come walking, answer, anything. They both stood in silence, not bothered by any of the other renters. Jer looked at his brother, then to the door.
"Treize?" Lou asked darkly.
"Hey, it's okay! We's are wit you, you don't have to worry. Mad Max left us a note. He needs you pretty soon pal!" Jer said causally, with a jest to his voice. His hands rested in the bulk of his coat pocket and he shrugged with a tilted smirk. "Come on, wake up."
"Jer…" the taller Italian stated it in sort of a realizing daze. Jer cast his eyes over in a bit of confusion, as his brother unsheathed his short knife and drove it into the spyglass in the door like a spear into the eye of an enemy. He pulled it forcefully out, deposited the glass lens in his palm, and tucked away his knife.
"Now why'd you do that for? Fuck, we're going to have to pay for that!" Jer snapped, rolling his eyes angrily.
"Shut up, would you?" Lou said, turning back toward his younger brother. "Something's wrong and your swearing just distracts you from seeing it. Come on."
The older, grimy faced Italian Deuce lifted his knee in a fluid motion and brought it down with a hellish force, bringing the bulk of the brown door with it. Dust greeted them in a furious swirl, almost enraged that its silence had been disturbed. Lou lifted his hand to keep it from biting in his eye, as the door clattered mutely to the carpet, hinges ripped clean off and rolling around on the floor like beheaded insects from their momentum. Jer recoiled, a bit paranoid, behind his brother's body and peaked out. A sticky, clinging metallic smell clawed at his senses, almost dizzying him. Lou's lips sucked back into his face.
He knew that smell like the back of his hand. Blood. "Stay, you sorry S.O.B.," he said acidly. His muted brother nodded.
Stepping not-so-lightly on the door, Lou trotted in, urging on his gun secretly in his inside coat pocket. The closet pressed the small hallway in the opening of the apartment, and front of the living room obstructed by the old bulky TV, oblivious and blank on its mahogany stand. Lou pressed his back against the dark-colored wall, sniffing deeply. The smell was overwhelming now. He screwed up his face, senses overloaded with the saturation of death. Eyes cast down, and then blinked. A steady stream of blood hooked around the corner, inching steadily toward the door. Lou breathed a sigh of relief and walked around the corner, fearing nothing.
"…Open up, it's me Max—Open up, it's me Max—Open up, it's me Max…"
A second-rate, cruddy-quality tape recorder lay abandoned in the blood at his feet as he stood there, jerking back in cutting repetition from the kick someone had given it in the keys. Out came Maxy's voice, dulled by the monotone repeating. Lou frowned at it and kicked it over and silenced it. The Italian glanced up and his stomach wanted to wrench. He kept his face stony as he rolled over the body of what seemed to be left of Treize. A pale face and the showers of blood surrounding him, pouring out of him, and hardening on him suggested death by bleeding, and sure enough, when he kneeled down and moved his wrist, they were both slit. His attentive blue eyes were glazed and white, rolled half way back. His blue shirt was pocked with multiple shots, the dead flesh underneath it already rotting with infection. The smell was just plain gut busting. Squirming, Lou stood back up and said causally over his shoulder, "Come in, you chicken. He's dead."
Hurried footsteps. Jer came running in, swearing furiously and throwing his arms in the air after seeing the corpse of their elusive Treize. He slammed his fist into the wall and grumbled, exploring the rest of the apartment, screaming for Maxy. Lou left the dead body and went to the window. Just like he'd expected, it was there.
A small dark car pulling around the corner, past their car and swimming out into city lights to be lost. Lou blinked and looked back to Jer. He nodded. "Come on."
He hated white. White meant revival, survival, a redemption of body and soul for those allowed it. And with a grudge, he accepted that he wasn't meant for such things; they were trivial to the normal person, a rare gift from God to him. And he scorned God, so was he ever going to have it? Hell no. Mafia men always said that physical scars may heal but no sweet lord's nurse would ever be able fix the scars on the inside. A good woman could hide them; give them love to make it stop hurting, but where there wasn't that woman on their mind, the scars were. White disgusted him even more nowadays, when he'd read that it symbolized grieving in other societies in some book. It was bad enough before, now it meant pity? He had no use for that.
That's why he hated hospitals. Partially because they smelled like soap, but mostly because they were holistic pity breeding grounds. That's why he was watching the nurse, focusing on her black hair, pale peach skin, and ruby colored lips: to distract him. Asian. L-1 nurse, considering where he was. Oblivious to her conscious patient, she busied around the small hospital monitors. Her naturally slight-set frame was hiding behind her nurse's suit not because of her need for covering her body, but to cover her trained shyness. Maxy never understood why people needed to hide from one another because of insecurities. It was horrible that the confident, holier-than-thou people could let it happen. It took five seconds to sit down and say hello, to show that everybody's imperfect, everybody's human. Maybe he was just trying to make up for his destroyed pure mentality vicariously through others, but damn it, it didn't feel good to be treated like dirt.
The nurse paused over a strange-looking machine dotted with glowing green digits, humming to herself some fluctuating Japanese tune while she held a clipboard. Her long black hair in a ponytail bobbed and glided back and forth across her back, then whipped around her shoulder as she moved over to another, then another, scribbling at each one separately. She folded her arms and tapped a pen to her puckered lips as she read the heart monitor, only a few feet away from him but still unaware. Maxy smiled and didn't move, watching her face squirm as she tried to interpret the heart-readings. The American decided to play.
He watched her big brown eyes from the side dart as he voluntarily sped up his heartbeat then let himself relax, then did it again. Unable to stop smiling, he snorted to suppress his laugher.
She turned and her eyes locked on him. They widened, a congenial shade of dark amber, and then closed as she broadly smiled. "Hi!" she piped. Her voice was laden with an accent, but sort of a cute, innocent accent that rolled off her tongue. "So… you're awake finally."
Maxy laughed and put his hand to his hair, which had been unbraided and caped down the pillows. "Yeah, I am. I wouldn't be talking now, I guess, would I?"
The nurse smiled. "Guess not."
He looked around at the bleak whiteness of the whole room. He looked up again. "How long have I been asleep?"
"Not long. It's 9:25," she said, pulling his watch out of the drawer near his hospital bed. "You're… very fortunate to be living."
Maxy wedged himself up with his arms. He squinted for a window and ignored her last comment. "A.M.?"
"Yes."
"Are you serious?" Maxy brushed it off. "Nevermind. There's no reason for you to trick me, right? I must be getting paranoid or something," he said, rubbing his knotty hair.
"Paranoid or not, you're very lucky," she commented.
"Oh yeah?" He smiled and tilted his head on the pillow. "How so?"
She pulled up a chair, finished with writing and putting the clipboard down. "Don't you remember what happened? I would remember being in an explosion, wouldn't you?"
"Actually, I've been in more explosions than I can count. Not a big deal for me. What, did I blow out the windshield? I'm not cut or anything, am I?" He laughed nervously.
"You were thrown out the window and strained your ankle. Second degree burns on your thighs and torso, third degree on your lower right arm and hand. Some internal bleeding and a few scratches."
"Oh… is that all?" he said offhandedly.
Her lips made an odd movement as she stared at him, summing up him as some maniac probably, shrugging off the fact he'd just been in a car explosion like it was tripping on the street curb. Maxy assumed this, but didn't ask her. He met her big brown eyes, big doe eyes, and offered a half-faked smile to hide his nervousness at her stare but only ended up emphasizing it in his hesitant grin.
"Uh Miss, could you get me some water please?" Maxy felt better now changing the subject and her judging look turned to a courteous smile.
"Sure," she said, stepping out of the room on the flight of clicking heels. "Be right back. Don't move too much, you'll tire yourself out."
"Thank you!" he yelled after her. Once the sound of her shoes left his range, the young Deuce settled back into the feathery depths of his pillow. He tried to find sleep somewhere in there, but only got as far as closed eyes. His insomniac mind was up and running and leaving him behind with bold bags that he knew were there. He flipped a few strands out behind him on the pillow and tried stubbornly to sleep. He was so tired… but his body just wanted to be a bitch to him. Making a few not-so-subtle position changes in the rustling sheets, he finally just lay back and huffed defeat. Closing his eyes, he thought he'd just relax… not get worked up, not yet.
Struggling against the unseen demons of insomnia, he didn't notice the new person standing in the doorway; her shady ways clear in her mannerisms. Her almost soulless blue eyes watched the boy snort into his pillow, smack it once or twice, then try again to sleep. At the back of her neck her stunningly long blonde hair was pulled into a tight, jagged bun. Her seventeen year old body was feminine and smoothed out, unlike her boyfriend's gaunt and contradictorily muscular one. Maybe that was why she kept up this half-feigned sexual infatuation with him… opposites attract, they always say. Her hand was around the glass of water she'd intercepted from the nurse, pressing it to her collarbone and letting it cool her off.
Watching him, oblivious to her, made her smile. It gave her a sort of demonic, teasing control over him. She could stand here for hours and judge him; he'd never complain. She could watch his attractive body turn in the sheets; he'd never shoot her a screwed-up face and demand eye contact. Now he was a child, like he should be. Right now he wouldn't order her to stop with her sexual deviance, or depress her with his occasional, out-of-character rants about uselessness in the world and just how he was supposed to deal with it. Right now, he was perfectly innocent… and pissed off.
The blonde girl pursed her lips in a shallow, faked smile and walked up to the boy, silently watching him. It was funny catching herself calling him 'the boy'. It made it sound like he meant nothing to her: a tree in the woods, a fart while skydiving, or a holey umbrella on a blue-bowl day. Perhaps it was that way. Maybe he was just… unimportant to her. Without him, her life lived on like birds fly after a storm. With him, the skies she flew darkened with oppressing thunder and beautiful lightning. He may have the greatest body, the greatest smile, and the best damn sex she'd ever been graced with, but he was a walking, talking, and happy bomb. She barely could stand his almost schizophrenic outbursts of anger and depression. He used to be happy. Maybe that's why she had fallen for him in the first place. When he had stopped feigning happiness, she could barely stand him. And he could barely stand her. She'd stay in it for the sex as long as she could. If he wanted love, he should find his own miserable lover…
And with that, she poured the water onto his lap.
"EEEEEeeeeeee!" The boy bolted up in bed.
"You're up, honey," she said nastily. "Breakfast is waiting, sleepy head."
Maxy, now freezing, steadied himself and glared at the face that hovered over his bed.
"Dorothy, what the hell are you doing here? Can't you leave me for one second?" he asked angrily, folding his arms to stop shivering. "I'm gonna be outta here in an hour so just keep your legs closed, 'kay?"
"Oh, so now it's 'what the hell are you doing here?' A few days ago you were the one making booty calls, desperate for attention. You turn around really fast. Bad day at work? PMS, maybe Maxy?" Cocking one forked eyebrow up, she smiled and shook her head gently. "You hurt me… you know, you really do," she cooed.
"Don't bullshit me."
"Don't swear at your girl," she said, her finger waving.
"You're not my girl. You're more a demon than a girl."
Dorothy closed her eyes and did a catty sigh. "I suppose your right… then what would you be, to me? An asshole? Or a schizophrenic bastard who needs a bj to relax?"
His expression soured. "Listen, I'm honestly not ready to fight with you, okay? Like the nurse said, I've just been blown out my car and I'm dead tired. When I get out of bed, I'm going to get you a restraining order for glasses of any cold liquid, and then I've got to go have my ass kicked by Dr. G. If you don't want to take my place, don't fight with me now. Not yet. Are you okay with that?" he asked. He sat Indian style as his girl didn't break eye contact.
"So… you don't love me?" she said innocently, with the sarcasm clear in her voice. "Not even a little, Duo Maxwell? Not even enough for a flower?"
"Hey, watch the name!"
"Duo. That name?"
He rolled his violet eyes. "Yes, that one!"
The blonde sat down on the counter besides the hospital equipment, folding her legs delicately and brushing out her orange dress. "Does it insult you, Duo Maxwell? I know you gave yourself that name, so why would it insult you? Are you psychotic?" she said innocently. "No? You could have fooled me, Duo."
The boy shot her daggers in his look, losing all his charisma in another ball of rage she always seemed to provoke in him, along with the stresses of his life. He gritted his teeth once. "I knew it. I should have never told you that name… I knew from square one you wouldn't respect it and you didn't deserve to, either. I should have kept it a secret, like it was meant to be. Jesus, why was I so stupid…"
"Because of this." Dorothy tugged the dress back on her right thigh.
"Slut." He said finally, after a moment of consideration.
"You're the one who's not above needing the slut," she said dispassionately, almost causally, while she rolled down her dress again.
"I'm trying… I will." He said it softly to himself, almost confirming its truth. He smiled oddly, almost manically. It didn't disturb the blonde girl sitting on the counter; she'd seen it before. When he was killing sometimes… and she was sure that it was her face he plastered on the one of his victims, imagining her scream when they died. Maybe he had had a fling for her, but their conflicting personalities quickly sent it to hell on a bullet train. She stoned her face up and her annoyance with him was easy to remember and keep it that way. If she weren't careful, he'd go and catch her eye for one second and be so vulnerable looking… Well, she didn't know if she could control herself if he did. The thought of domination was exciting to her.
'Maybe I should have been in politics,' she thought to herself. 'Or adult entertainment.'
"Why did you come here?" he asked, his voice neutral. It snapped her out of her reverie like the glass of water had woken him up. "I know you Dorothy. You may bullshit me, but you don't take bullshit from anyone. Who sent you and what for? A gang? Some psycho stalker? Another hit and run? Assassination? I don't do those anymore." When she paused for an answer, he blinked. "Don't tell me you came here just for me. That would mean you care. And I'm pretty damn sure cold water in the crotch isn't the most romantic thing."
"Why do you bastardize me so, Duo Maxwell?"
"I don't. You take care of most of that yourself."
She shook her head flirtatiously with a catty smile. "You sound like you lost your faith. Is that why you have such resentment at the world? No, you sound like God shoved a metal pole up your ass."
"'Don't swear at your man,'" he taunted.
"You're not my man. You're more a demon than a man. More a demon than a boy, even."
Duo's violet eyes narrowed at her, accenting his incredibly sour expression. "Listen, I'd love to just gut our relationship now and leave it to just puss in the sun, but I don't wanna make a scene." He rubbed his temples. "What did you come for?"
Her soulless blue eyes searched his, almost searching for his as well. It wasn't there.
"Come on Duo." She slipped off the counter, dispassion in her voice. "When the nurse comes back, get your clothes and leave. The engine will be running."
Watching her leave, disappearing down the sterile white halls, he shouted. "You still haven't told me what for!"
COME TO KILL THE ROOSTER
Tijuana, Mexico.
The ice machine started. Deep in the perfect silent existence of night, it buzzed into monotone life, rumbling as ice collected in the freezer. It woke the cat, purring deeply in a dream. Her orange-cream tail whipped around its body lazily, and then she rolled over to sleep on her back, oblivious to anything wrong in her world. Her bushed kittens curled into their fetal positions again, all clinging to their mother's lush fur. One sat at the window and slept in the moonlight. It twitched its bitten nose in discomfort and fell deep asleep. A spilled margarita had been its tipsy dinner and the glass, licked clean, lay beside it. The cherry was half chewed.
The ancient dog rested his bones on the couch, lit partially by cheap store-bought fiesta lamps that were strung across the ceiling by his lonely master. The TV had been shut off long ago, the grill on the patio cooled off, the kitchen mess cleaned sloppily, and the still-wet dishes stashed away. All the usual mannerisms of a middle-aged slob down on his luck in the getaway place of Tijuana. No children's toys graced the floor, no misplaced wedding ring, nadda.
Guy Chare was decorated in credit from years of loyal and inventive service to the L-2 syndicate and for his service; he'd been retired early. A genius and trained in the best collage in chemistry and law, he had been one of the first to join the struggling group. He'd carried through where others had hesitated and consequently been caught. Knew every face in the syndicate, rifled through new talent and picked the best orphans off the street. Even picked the top agents a few times. His gut instinct was in way his gun; he had the precision of a premonition and often could predict to the degree he needed no weapon. Paid off in the end with a fat check to tuck under his belt of accomplishments. Retiring had brought peace to him finally where there had been paranoia. A week after being officially retired at the age of 63 with no marriage or relationships, a quiet place on earth sheltered from the criminality of the colonies seemed like a good place to rest his bones. After meeting up with a few Mexican friends who were just as surprised see him, they set him up with the house of Mesquite Marco, who had been shot in a street fight only a day before. 'Just act drunk every once in a while,' they said, 'and the police and the neighbors won't even notice he's gone!'
'Can do,' he remembered saying with a smile and a beer bottle to his lip.
He lay in his bed, fighting the heat. A fan buzzed like a swarm of bugs in the balcony, almost futile in the overwhelming, swelling humidity of Tijuana that night. He drifted in an out of a troubled sleep, with his other hissy tomcat sulking sourly at the foot of the bed. Suddenly, he flicked his ears and sat staring with deep emotionless green eyes at the dark hall that led to the stairs down to the first level. His sinuous body slipped off the bed easily and silently, trotting down the hallway.
The cat sat at the top of the stairs and meowed. He cocked his head and flicked his whiskers in curiosity.
And meowed again.
"Good kitty…" a man said breathily, raising his gloved hand to soothe its meowing with a scratch behind the ears. "Shhh."
The tomcat meowed again and trotted away, to hide under the couch. The man smiled with an evil hint and lowered his tinted goggles to shield his eyes and also hide them. The last thing he needed was to be recognized, shouted at, and alerted of his presence to the drunken Mexicans who hung like buzzards around all the houses. No doubt they would run to their police or jump in to rescue their friend with broken beer bottles in hand.
He moved up the stairs silently, his footsteps muted by the brown shag carpeting. Mud collected on his boots left an obvious trail of slop leading to open bedroom door. The man paused fearlessly by the creaking wood frame, in full view of his target if he happened to wake up. It didn't matter. Licking his dry lips once, he pulled his gun from his pocket, held the butt and barrel in the cloth of his shirt to silence releasing the safety. He leveled it and was careful to avoid the cat.
Two seconds later Guy Chare stopped moving. His cats screamed a high-pitch shriek and scattered to hiding places on both levels, the kitten by the window scratching at the door to get out. The man hid his gun again and calmly walked back down the stairs. He exhaled a reassured breath and removed his goggles, letting them hang at the back of his neck. He slid the dining room glass door open and let the honey-colored cat dash into the stale night, disappearing behind a trash can. Leaning out, he tested the air. It was thick and sultry, still quiet and undisturbed. He took a few steps out into the dirt until the earth was solid and left no trace of his footprints. Out fifteen yards, he slipped off his muddy boots and exchanged them for fresh ones in his pack. Stashing the old, he circled around the house, opposite of his tracks, and made his getaway down the empty street. The man tucked his goggles under his collar and snatched a half-finished tequila bottle from the ditch and feigned his way out of Tijuana as a drunk.
"Lou... I'm scared. I'm scared shitless. We ain't never been one of those professional kinda people! We're gonna screw it up for Maxy, we's gonna screw it all up for us too!" The Italian rung his hands secretly over his knees, kneading them like bread dough. "He's gonna come back and kick our ass, I know it."
"Since when did you start having this phobia of a fifteen year old, Jeremy?"
"Lou! Who doesn't! He gets sent on all these Tom Cruise secret missions and comes back all bloody, with a look in his eye like he's fucking Hannibal!" Ivy green-brown eyes flashed panic back and forth as the Deuce sunk back in his seat.
"First of all you jack-off," Lou snapped, turning on Washington in blazing neon lights, "life isn't some horror movie, so stop making those stupid references!"
"I was just saying—"
"Fuck off, Jer, I'm talking!" He snapped, turning his head from the road and glaring across the car.
Jer sunk deep into his seat, until the dashboard hid him from the rest of the world and his phobia shined in his eyes as he rung his hands still. He submissively nodded his head, not daring to make eye contact.
"Second of all, how do you know that his missions are so fucking bad, huh?"
"I just assume that…"
"That's right," he snapped, "You assume. It makes an ass out of u and me. Ever heard that piece of crap, huh, Jer? Huh?"
Jeremy shook his head, strangely silent.
"That's right, bitch! You're too stupid, that's why."
"Come on, you're not acting like your usual asshole way. You're acting like a… real asshole."
"Jesus, you're acting like a pussy," Lou stated flatly. "Figlio di puttana."
Jer flashed his greenish-brown eyes over for a second, subdued by his fear so much his lips pursed and he had nothing to react with.
"Did you bring the note?"
The submissive Deuce pulled a crinkled piece of notebook paper graced by their friends jagged and rebellious handwriting. He held it out for his partner to see. Lou flashed his eyes down the paper, reviewing the note again professionally.
"Good," Lou said critically, his eyes shifting to scrutinize the city lights on the horizon. "Gimme. You'll screw up."
As the newly hardened Louis Santarini snatched it out of his partner's hand, he growled and saw the flinching fear in Jer's eyes. Like he'd been locked in the car with a psycho and just spotted the knife in his coat pocket. He intensified it by glaring at his friend like a pile of shit on his seat. He was cranky, that was a given. Pressure resulted in bitchiness for him and the pressure was on like a teakettle on a heated stove. His cork was gonna pop, he was gonna go mad. Maxy had left a single, speedily written note explaining in one note that would require a half-hour report if the leaders found out. An hour if it was Dr. G.
'Lou, Jer. I really need your help on this one, 'kay? I've kinda dug my self into some shit and I need you guys to cover up for me until I get back. Serious shit. I didn't even realize how much until it was already… shitted. Heh, that sounded bad. Anyway, I don't think you need to know the details, it would only hurt you. This one could get ugly, and it'll be even uglier if one of my superiors finds out. Go to my apartment, find Treize. If anything goes wrong, send him to the L-1 airport to do a cover-up. I might be dead by then, but I could be dead any second, you know. Don't get sad over me. I'll probably get my assed kicked anyway, so wish me luck. I stole some guns so if it turns into something hostage, you can use them. Under my bed, in the secret compartment of my suitcase. The big one.
Sorry.
Maxy'
He handed it back to his comrade. Lou turned the black Renault down another road, taking his path in a combination of a written out mental map and tactics to lose anyone who may have followed. The skies slowly darkened until even the clouds were hard to see in the blackness, and the streets were filled more and more with shady characters. Just Maxy's kind of street.
"He'll let us in, right?" Jer asked timidly.
"What?" Lou said angrily and dispassionately simultaneously, eyes not leaving the road. "Who?!"
"Treize, I mean." Jer rang his hands with less fervor.
"Why do you worry so fucking much? Huh?" He glared at his friend. "Why are you so damn TENSE!? HUH?" He was screaming now and catching the attention of a few as his foot subconsciously eased off the gas and slowed it to twenty mph.
"Lou…"
"SHUT UP." Lou gritted loudly through his teeth.
"Sorry." The once-raucous Italian sunk deeply into his seat. Shame flashed his eyes out the window, watching the passing people while his brain kept at what could be so pressuring that would make his laid-back friend so cross. He didn't need to worry for long; five minutes later the black car paused outside the apartment, eyes inside scoping out how many lights were on.
"Jer."
"What?" he asked timidly, folding his arms tight around him.
"You do know which apartment it is, don't you?" Lou asked, craning his head to see back and forth. "I mean, it's in the note, aint it?"
Bitterness forgotten, Jer pulled the note back out, uncrinkling it. Lou nervously put the car in park and flashed looks back and forth from the note to the unreadable face of his partner and to the sidewalk. It was a tense moment as he watched Lou's eyes scan left to right, then dart fiercely back to the left like a frenzied typewriter. He pulled the keys from the ignition and stuffed them in his pocket. Jer turned to him, running his hair through his disheveled hair in apprehensive habit. "So," Lou asked. "Is it there?"
"Uh…" He shook his head. "Nah."
"Damn." Lou slammed his fist against the steering wheel. "I didn't come to do a search. I especially don't wanna deal with some smart-assed manager. Check the back, is it there?"
"No," he confirmed. He flipped it back and forth. "Nothing, nadda, shit."
"Shit is right," he muttered sourly. "Well, maybe we can just check the books or something. What's his last name? You gotta know his last name."
"Like hell I know," Jer snapped incredulously. "I've never even met this asshole."
"Just great." Lou drummed his fingers along the leather of the steering wheel. He looked over to his friend. "Just get out of the car. We'll find him. Grab the gun."
The trash-mouthed Italian nodded and reached into the backseat and, flipping back the blanket stuffed in the legroom of the backseat and rustling through metal parts loudly, pulled a desired weapon from the pile. Lou watched him with critical eyes then moved the rearview mirror once. He glanced at it, squinted, and then turned his head to stare through the dirty backwindow. Jer went on obliviously, routinely loading the gun and examining it carefully, humming an old tune. His eyes went wide, then instantly narrowed with suspicion and his hand slapped down on his comrade's arm.
"Lou?—"
"Shhh!" he hissed loudly, pushing Jer violently down in the seat. "Don't move you son of a bitch else I'll shoot you myself!"
"What the hell are you doin—"
"I said quiet!" Lou snapped. He clamped a silencing hand over his friend's overactive mouth forcefully, taking on a glowering look as his eyes darted to the figure of a car slowly passing by. Jer watched in confusion. A small, ordinary looking green car buzzed mildly by; the tinted windows rolled up to keep out the L-2 cold. It paused at the end of the street, patiently waiting for a red light to switch to green on an empty intersection, then turned and disappeared to the right. Lou frowned and watched the empty street a few seconds after it had left. His friend Jer just cocked one eyebrow and turned.
"What's wrong with you, you paranoid mother—"
"What kind of car does Dr. G drive?" Lou's eyes didn't leave the street.
Jer looked at him curiously at first, then it shifted to disbelief. "I don't' know," he said. "But you don't think he'd follow us, ya think? We're his own fucking students! Doesn't he trust us worth shit? Even if he didn't, he'd know Treize's apartment, wouldn't he? He wouldn't think we were sleeping with the enemy or something, would he? After all I though he was the one who organized all the surveillance crap in there." The Italian placed the gun in his lap and stared at his partner.
After a few seconds, Lou looked over to him. "You know what, you scare me when you talk like you have some fucking brains. Swear more. Never really say anything again, okay? It scares me bad."
Jer puckered his bottom lip angrily. "Aw, shit. You know I'm right, don't' you?"
Lou shook his head. "Dr. G doesn't even know about that."
"Why not."
"Maxy did it. You know him. He doesn't like to do things under consent. He always said if something went wrong they killed people that did the wrong thing for them, so if he did it himself, no innocent people would be killed. A depressing hero, ain't he?" Lou put his elbow on the steering wheel. "Maxy found Treize digging into information on our syndicate and tried to kill him. Then he turned him over to our side, kind of secretly. He says he's just there for protection and tells him very little, you know, Mad Maxy's own little thirty-year-old lackey, but—" Lou put his fingers up to his lips causally, stroking the stubble around his mouth. "— I don't believe him."
"Maxy organized all the surveillance stuff?" Jer blinked.
"That's what he says; nobody's ever seen it. For all we know it could be just a TV with four porno channels."
"I's don't think Maxy's smart enough to set all the technical stuff. Placing cameras, hell ya, that's the fun shit, but before he couldn't even set his watch right." The Italian laughed raspily. "Besides, why the hell would he want to? It's not like Maxy to do homework."
"Who knows. It's not like you to think, either, dipshit." He looked over his shoulder again, scanning for more suspicious cars. He turned to his comrade, flashing his eyes in the discreet signal to move in. "Leave the gun. If that's who I think it is, it'll only confirm to him that something backstabbing is going on and it'll lead him to us."
"Eh, Lou, what the hell we gonna do if that guy in the car comes after us, huh? Then we'll be fucking screwed!" He watched the driver get out confidently and slam the door.
"Shut up and come on, Pussy."
Jer's face screwed up with acidity, but no anger at his brother could make him not follow the orders he gave. Despite his excessive swearing, the grimy-faced Italian followed orders to the letter for fear of failure, expulsion, or death. He stuffed the gun back under the blanket, patted it down, and followed Lou onto the sidewalk. He walked in by his brother's side as he leaned in slightly and asked.
"Car locked?"
"'Course, ass! I'm not that fu—" A punishing jab via Lou's elbow cut off his cursing as a man appeared behind the desk. Lou walked up and put on a swagger, putting both elbows down on the counter and staring the beer-gutted, curly mop-topped man in the squinting eyes. The entire area reeked of bad quality beer. His mouth rotated like a goat's, busy with a piece of over-chewed gum. It clearly had no flavor left because the man's breath was just as bad as ever.
"Can I help ya fellers?" he slurred, tossing a generic beer can in to his backroom, while the muted sounds of I Love Lucy continued. "Wanna room? Cheap as hell and qua-lit-y cable TV! Showtime and HBO!"
"No sir—" Lou tried to be polite, but his patient had been spent from the car ride. It showed in his
"If it's because that twerp told you rumors about the cockroaches speaking Chinese and taking bathes in the sink, I can assure you gentlemen they are not true. Why, when that kid gets back I'm gonna duct tape his cake hole shut. He won't bother you two. Promise," the man said with ruddy-cheeked fervor.
"No, no, you misunderstand us," Lou said, taking on uncharacteristically courteous qualities. "We've come to do business with one of your customers. Urgent business I'm afraid."
"Well," the man said, laughingly with a jiggling beer-gut, "that is different, isn't it? You guys work for one of those big corp-o-rations? Wall Street, stock exchange, maybe? You think you could hook me up with a good broker? I've been thinking bout getting my own prop-er-ty!"
"That's wonderful, sir, but no sir."
The man reached up and slapped Lou's shoulder. "There's no need to be so damn stiff with me, mister! Call me Zeb, like it says on that n-ice name plate there." He laughed heartily, with a hint of a wheezing problem that would hit him in a few years.
"Okay, Zeb—"
"Say, I never got you name," he said while playfully pointing a finger. "Mind enlightening me, y'all?"
Lou frowned a tad but didn't let it overcome his emotions. He cleared his throat and replied. "My name is Zachary Atkins and this is my business associate Francis Forsyght. We've come looking for a man named Treize who's been here probably a few weeks now. As I said, it's actually very urgent business and very important business. Life or death, if you will. Corporate ruin or success, in other words. We'd really like to speak with this man, soon."
The man rubbed his grubby chin. "Eh…. Eh… er, um," he mumbled incoherently, looking 'Mr. Atkins' and 'Mr. Forsyght' in the eyes. "Tray, you say?"
"No," Lou said huffily, his patience wearing boldly through his professional, clean-mouthed façade. "Treize. T-r-e-I-z-e! Tall, brunette British man!"
The manager was dumbfounded. He sat and stared like a deer in the headlights. Lou's face wrinkled with fury and he slammed his fist. "You don't understand; a friend of ours will die sooner or later if we don't see him. Immediately."
"Er…"
"Smokes a lot, drinks a lot of tea, hangs out in his room a lot, shady, cynical, tot-al ass-hole! Any of this ringing a bell?"
"No," the man said honestly, tolerant of Lou's brashness. "I'll check the book though. A last name, please?"
Lou flattened his palms and fisted them back and forth on the counter. He breathed out a heavy sigh then finally controlled himself. "I don't know."
"Well, mista, that's notta lotta help here." The book he'd taken out clumsily from under the counter lay unused before the two 'businessmen.'
"I know that."
"Is he here with anyone else?"
A slight look of relieve came over his facial features. "Of course." Lou slapped his forehead. "He's here with a young man, about fourteen, slim build, long hair, very long hair—"
"Oh!" the ruddy-faced man laughed and slapped the counter, shutting the book confidently. "You mean the twerp! Hippie-on-the-Third-Floor, the obnoxious little kid! Why didn't' you mention him before? I'd know that he-devil anywhere! Or she… people are pretty confused when they see that hair! I'll tell ya, he's stolen every single bottle of hair stuff in this freak-en building! Shampoo-trick-or-treating! Maxine or something like that…"
"Yes, yes. He's in the same room as Treize, right?"
"I suppose. I've never heard his name before." The man leaned in, flashing eyes back and forth secretly, like he held some very important information in his head. "Everybody around here calls him the twerp's lover! I doubt after the rumors they're spreading that I'll ever be able to rent that room again!"
Jer's eyes flared wide open, suddenly in tune to every word of the conversation, his jaw about ready to drop open. Lou's reaction didn't stray far from that, but his controlled it and slammed a discreet elbow back into his partner, silencing the gasp. "Uh… thank you, but we'd just like the room number, if you please," he asked politely, as red as hell.
* * * * *
"Holy fuck, you heard that!" Jer yelped in a hushed voice, his eyes wide and focused on the stony but obviously red face of his comrade. His hand yanked on Lou's jacket, demanding attention.
"Maxy, that Treize guy… Oh good God," he moaned, face taking unnatural tint as if he was hunched over the rail of a ship, declaring his seasickness with his face. "The hair… I should have known! And he shook my hand, Jesus!"
Lou glared over at him. "Shut up, Jer. I'll smack that overactive anus-face of yours."
They clamored up the stairs to the third floor, sacredly alone in the whitewashed cement halls sprayed with graffiti. Hands stuffed collectively in pockets, they trudged faithfully up each twist and flight of stairs. Lou glanced over to his fidgeting comrade, his hair mussed up by nervous fingers. His blue eyes cast down to the dirty floor, lip bit in bold phobia. Jer twitched and jerked like he'd drank fifty thousand cups of coffee. The panicky animal caught his look.
"Jesus Christ!" he shrieked like Tweek and shrunk away. "Don't look at me like that! Sick bastard!"
Lou rolled his eyes. "Come on, you homophobe, don't tell me you believed that pile of shit."
"What?" Jer stopped in his tracks, giving a confused five-year-old look that'd just been given the straightforward answer for 'Where do babies come from?'
The Italian paused as well, nonchalantly, almost casually turning and shrugging. "Typical Maxy technique. He's always trying to get a rise out of someone."
Jer's eyes widened, attaching Lou's words to a sick innuendo in his own head.
"You have a sick mind, you know that dipshit?" He heaved an angry sigh, leaning against the rail. "And if you're worried about our friend being gay, don't worry." The Italian couldn't suppress his urge any more and flipped out a cigarette for a brief smoke.
"… Wha… I'm confused, Jer. You're fucking my head up, you know that?"
"Because you're stupid; that's the only reason why." Lou snuffed at him, flipping back the metal lid on his generic lighter. He lit it and cupped his hand in a rehearsed habit, shaking out the fire and slipping the lighter back in his pocket. A defiant cloud of smoke floated toward Jer and the twitching man shook it jumpily away.
"I happen to know that Maxy's been with this blonde chick for two years. He asks me to cover every once and a while. You know, while's out with her. He's more loyal to that broad than any kid in any high school; says he just wants to be a good boyfriend. " He looked disdainfully over his cig and the smoke it bred. "He's not gay. But I wouldn't blame him… he's got the worse luck. Attracted this chick with eyebrows from hell. Personally, I think he's starting to hate the shit out of her. I would too.
"As for the whole 'lovers' thing, it's just a scheme. They're rooming together; they've got a surveillance system that's in all the important places. Banks, mansions, warehouses. They've no doubt got all Maxy's guns out so he can admire him like the vain bastard he is. Who would bother them, considering the rumors about them? No one would ever come to visit. Thus defecting chances of getting caught."
"Holy shit, you do not know whadda relief that is…"
"Yes, I do and this is enough Rikki Lake, okay?" He dropped his still glowing cigarette with no fear of it burning the concrete floor. "Let's get going. Like I said, little time, motherfucker."
Third floor. Jer glanced nervously around taller, hovering skittishly besides his darker comrade while he was occupied with getting Treize up at this ungodly hour. The darkened hallway lit occasionally down its shag-carpeted length by orange light that flowed through the open doors of unoccupied rooms. Lou's face hardened with patience and anger, and his mind seemed to slip as he knocked again and again. He paused and waited for someone to come walking, answer, anything. They both stood in silence, not bothered by any of the other renters. Jer looked at his brother, then to the door.
"Treize?" Lou asked darkly.
"Hey, it's okay! We's are wit you, you don't have to worry. Mad Max left us a note. He needs you pretty soon pal!" Jer said causally, with a jest to his voice. His hands rested in the bulk of his coat pocket and he shrugged with a tilted smirk. "Come on, wake up."
"Jer…" the taller Italian stated it in sort of a realizing daze. Jer cast his eyes over in a bit of confusion, as his brother unsheathed his short knife and drove it into the spyglass in the door like a spear into the eye of an enemy. He pulled it forcefully out, deposited the glass lens in his palm, and tucked away his knife.
"Now why'd you do that for? Fuck, we're going to have to pay for that!" Jer snapped, rolling his eyes angrily.
"Shut up, would you?" Lou said, turning back toward his younger brother. "Something's wrong and your swearing just distracts you from seeing it. Come on."
The older, grimy faced Italian Deuce lifted his knee in a fluid motion and brought it down with a hellish force, bringing the bulk of the brown door with it. Dust greeted them in a furious swirl, almost enraged that its silence had been disturbed. Lou lifted his hand to keep it from biting in his eye, as the door clattered mutely to the carpet, hinges ripped clean off and rolling around on the floor like beheaded insects from their momentum. Jer recoiled, a bit paranoid, behind his brother's body and peaked out. A sticky, clinging metallic smell clawed at his senses, almost dizzying him. Lou's lips sucked back into his face.
He knew that smell like the back of his hand. Blood. "Stay, you sorry S.O.B.," he said acidly. His muted brother nodded.
Stepping not-so-lightly on the door, Lou trotted in, urging on his gun secretly in his inside coat pocket. The closet pressed the small hallway in the opening of the apartment, and front of the living room obstructed by the old bulky TV, oblivious and blank on its mahogany stand. Lou pressed his back against the dark-colored wall, sniffing deeply. The smell was overwhelming now. He screwed up his face, senses overloaded with the saturation of death. Eyes cast down, and then blinked. A steady stream of blood hooked around the corner, inching steadily toward the door. Lou breathed a sigh of relief and walked around the corner, fearing nothing.
"…Open up, it's me Max—Open up, it's me Max—Open up, it's me Max…"
A second-rate, cruddy-quality tape recorder lay abandoned in the blood at his feet as he stood there, jerking back in cutting repetition from the kick someone had given it in the keys. Out came Maxy's voice, dulled by the monotone repeating. Lou frowned at it and kicked it over and silenced it. The Italian glanced up and his stomach wanted to wrench. He kept his face stony as he rolled over the body of what seemed to be left of Treize. A pale face and the showers of blood surrounding him, pouring out of him, and hardening on him suggested death by bleeding, and sure enough, when he kneeled down and moved his wrist, they were both slit. His attentive blue eyes were glazed and white, rolled half way back. His blue shirt was pocked with multiple shots, the dead flesh underneath it already rotting with infection. The smell was just plain gut busting. Squirming, Lou stood back up and said causally over his shoulder, "Come in, you chicken. He's dead."
Hurried footsteps. Jer came running in, swearing furiously and throwing his arms in the air after seeing the corpse of their elusive Treize. He slammed his fist into the wall and grumbled, exploring the rest of the apartment, screaming for Maxy. Lou left the dead body and went to the window. Just like he'd expected, it was there.
A small dark car pulling around the corner, past their car and swimming out into city lights to be lost. Lou blinked and looked back to Jer. He nodded. "Come on."
He hated white. White meant revival, survival, a redemption of body and soul for those allowed it. And with a grudge, he accepted that he wasn't meant for such things; they were trivial to the normal person, a rare gift from God to him. And he scorned God, so was he ever going to have it? Hell no. Mafia men always said that physical scars may heal but no sweet lord's nurse would ever be able fix the scars on the inside. A good woman could hide them; give them love to make it stop hurting, but where there wasn't that woman on their mind, the scars were. White disgusted him even more nowadays, when he'd read that it symbolized grieving in other societies in some book. It was bad enough before, now it meant pity? He had no use for that.
That's why he hated hospitals. Partially because they smelled like soap, but mostly because they were holistic pity breeding grounds. That's why he was watching the nurse, focusing on her black hair, pale peach skin, and ruby colored lips: to distract him. Asian. L-1 nurse, considering where he was. Oblivious to her conscious patient, she busied around the small hospital monitors. Her naturally slight-set frame was hiding behind her nurse's suit not because of her need for covering her body, but to cover her trained shyness. Maxy never understood why people needed to hide from one another because of insecurities. It was horrible that the confident, holier-than-thou people could let it happen. It took five seconds to sit down and say hello, to show that everybody's imperfect, everybody's human. Maybe he was just trying to make up for his destroyed pure mentality vicariously through others, but damn it, it didn't feel good to be treated like dirt.
The nurse paused over a strange-looking machine dotted with glowing green digits, humming to herself some fluctuating Japanese tune while she held a clipboard. Her long black hair in a ponytail bobbed and glided back and forth across her back, then whipped around her shoulder as she moved over to another, then another, scribbling at each one separately. She folded her arms and tapped a pen to her puckered lips as she read the heart monitor, only a few feet away from him but still unaware. Maxy smiled and didn't move, watching her face squirm as she tried to interpret the heart-readings. The American decided to play.
He watched her big brown eyes from the side dart as he voluntarily sped up his heartbeat then let himself relax, then did it again. Unable to stop smiling, he snorted to suppress his laugher.
She turned and her eyes locked on him. They widened, a congenial shade of dark amber, and then closed as she broadly smiled. "Hi!" she piped. Her voice was laden with an accent, but sort of a cute, innocent accent that rolled off her tongue. "So… you're awake finally."
Maxy laughed and put his hand to his hair, which had been unbraided and caped down the pillows. "Yeah, I am. I wouldn't be talking now, I guess, would I?"
The nurse smiled. "Guess not."
He looked around at the bleak whiteness of the whole room. He looked up again. "How long have I been asleep?"
"Not long. It's 9:25," she said, pulling his watch out of the drawer near his hospital bed. "You're… very fortunate to be living."
Maxy wedged himself up with his arms. He squinted for a window and ignored her last comment. "A.M.?"
"Yes."
"Are you serious?" Maxy brushed it off. "Nevermind. There's no reason for you to trick me, right? I must be getting paranoid or something," he said, rubbing his knotty hair.
"Paranoid or not, you're very lucky," she commented.
"Oh yeah?" He smiled and tilted his head on the pillow. "How so?"
She pulled up a chair, finished with writing and putting the clipboard down. "Don't you remember what happened? I would remember being in an explosion, wouldn't you?"
"Actually, I've been in more explosions than I can count. Not a big deal for me. What, did I blow out the windshield? I'm not cut or anything, am I?" He laughed nervously.
"You were thrown out the window and strained your ankle. Second degree burns on your thighs and torso, third degree on your lower right arm and hand. Some internal bleeding and a few scratches."
"Oh… is that all?" he said offhandedly.
Her lips made an odd movement as she stared at him, summing up him as some maniac probably, shrugging off the fact he'd just been in a car explosion like it was tripping on the street curb. Maxy assumed this, but didn't ask her. He met her big brown eyes, big doe eyes, and offered a half-faked smile to hide his nervousness at her stare but only ended up emphasizing it in his hesitant grin.
"Uh Miss, could you get me some water please?" Maxy felt better now changing the subject and her judging look turned to a courteous smile.
"Sure," she said, stepping out of the room on the flight of clicking heels. "Be right back. Don't move too much, you'll tire yourself out."
"Thank you!" he yelled after her. Once the sound of her shoes left his range, the young Deuce settled back into the feathery depths of his pillow. He tried to find sleep somewhere in there, but only got as far as closed eyes. His insomniac mind was up and running and leaving him behind with bold bags that he knew were there. He flipped a few strands out behind him on the pillow and tried stubbornly to sleep. He was so tired… but his body just wanted to be a bitch to him. Making a few not-so-subtle position changes in the rustling sheets, he finally just lay back and huffed defeat. Closing his eyes, he thought he'd just relax… not get worked up, not yet.
Struggling against the unseen demons of insomnia, he didn't notice the new person standing in the doorway; her shady ways clear in her mannerisms. Her almost soulless blue eyes watched the boy snort into his pillow, smack it once or twice, then try again to sleep. At the back of her neck her stunningly long blonde hair was pulled into a tight, jagged bun. Her seventeen year old body was feminine and smoothed out, unlike her boyfriend's gaunt and contradictorily muscular one. Maybe that was why she kept up this half-feigned sexual infatuation with him… opposites attract, they always say. Her hand was around the glass of water she'd intercepted from the nurse, pressing it to her collarbone and letting it cool her off.
Watching him, oblivious to her, made her smile. It gave her a sort of demonic, teasing control over him. She could stand here for hours and judge him; he'd never complain. She could watch his attractive body turn in the sheets; he'd never shoot her a screwed-up face and demand eye contact. Now he was a child, like he should be. Right now he wouldn't order her to stop with her sexual deviance, or depress her with his occasional, out-of-character rants about uselessness in the world and just how he was supposed to deal with it. Right now, he was perfectly innocent… and pissed off.
The blonde girl pursed her lips in a shallow, faked smile and walked up to the boy, silently watching him. It was funny catching herself calling him 'the boy'. It made it sound like he meant nothing to her: a tree in the woods, a fart while skydiving, or a holey umbrella on a blue-bowl day. Perhaps it was that way. Maybe he was just… unimportant to her. Without him, her life lived on like birds fly after a storm. With him, the skies she flew darkened with oppressing thunder and beautiful lightning. He may have the greatest body, the greatest smile, and the best damn sex she'd ever been graced with, but he was a walking, talking, and happy bomb. She barely could stand his almost schizophrenic outbursts of anger and depression. He used to be happy. Maybe that's why she had fallen for him in the first place. When he had stopped feigning happiness, she could barely stand him. And he could barely stand her. She'd stay in it for the sex as long as she could. If he wanted love, he should find his own miserable lover…
And with that, she poured the water onto his lap.
"EEEEEeeeeeee!" The boy bolted up in bed.
"You're up, honey," she said nastily. "Breakfast is waiting, sleepy head."
Maxy, now freezing, steadied himself and glared at the face that hovered over his bed.
"Dorothy, what the hell are you doing here? Can't you leave me for one second?" he asked angrily, folding his arms to stop shivering. "I'm gonna be outta here in an hour so just keep your legs closed, 'kay?"
"Oh, so now it's 'what the hell are you doing here?' A few days ago you were the one making booty calls, desperate for attention. You turn around really fast. Bad day at work? PMS, maybe Maxy?" Cocking one forked eyebrow up, she smiled and shook her head gently. "You hurt me… you know, you really do," she cooed.
"Don't bullshit me."
"Don't swear at your girl," she said, her finger waving.
"You're not my girl. You're more a demon than a girl."
Dorothy closed her eyes and did a catty sigh. "I suppose your right… then what would you be, to me? An asshole? Or a schizophrenic bastard who needs a bj to relax?"
His expression soured. "Listen, I'm honestly not ready to fight with you, okay? Like the nurse said, I've just been blown out my car and I'm dead tired. When I get out of bed, I'm going to get you a restraining order for glasses of any cold liquid, and then I've got to go have my ass kicked by Dr. G. If you don't want to take my place, don't fight with me now. Not yet. Are you okay with that?" he asked. He sat Indian style as his girl didn't break eye contact.
"So… you don't love me?" she said innocently, with the sarcasm clear in her voice. "Not even a little, Duo Maxwell? Not even enough for a flower?"
"Hey, watch the name!"
"Duo. That name?"
He rolled his violet eyes. "Yes, that one!"
The blonde sat down on the counter besides the hospital equipment, folding her legs delicately and brushing out her orange dress. "Does it insult you, Duo Maxwell? I know you gave yourself that name, so why would it insult you? Are you psychotic?" she said innocently. "No? You could have fooled me, Duo."
The boy shot her daggers in his look, losing all his charisma in another ball of rage she always seemed to provoke in him, along with the stresses of his life. He gritted his teeth once. "I knew it. I should have never told you that name… I knew from square one you wouldn't respect it and you didn't deserve to, either. I should have kept it a secret, like it was meant to be. Jesus, why was I so stupid…"
"Because of this." Dorothy tugged the dress back on her right thigh.
"Slut." He said finally, after a moment of consideration.
"You're the one who's not above needing the slut," she said dispassionately, almost causally, while she rolled down her dress again.
"I'm trying… I will." He said it softly to himself, almost confirming its truth. He smiled oddly, almost manically. It didn't disturb the blonde girl sitting on the counter; she'd seen it before. When he was killing sometimes… and she was sure that it was her face he plastered on the one of his victims, imagining her scream when they died. Maybe he had had a fling for her, but their conflicting personalities quickly sent it to hell on a bullet train. She stoned her face up and her annoyance with him was easy to remember and keep it that way. If she weren't careful, he'd go and catch her eye for one second and be so vulnerable looking… Well, she didn't know if she could control herself if he did. The thought of domination was exciting to her.
'Maybe I should have been in politics,' she thought to herself. 'Or adult entertainment.'
"Why did you come here?" he asked, his voice neutral. It snapped her out of her reverie like the glass of water had woken him up. "I know you Dorothy. You may bullshit me, but you don't take bullshit from anyone. Who sent you and what for? A gang? Some psycho stalker? Another hit and run? Assassination? I don't do those anymore." When she paused for an answer, he blinked. "Don't tell me you came here just for me. That would mean you care. And I'm pretty damn sure cold water in the crotch isn't the most romantic thing."
"Why do you bastardize me so, Duo Maxwell?"
"I don't. You take care of most of that yourself."
She shook her head flirtatiously with a catty smile. "You sound like you lost your faith. Is that why you have such resentment at the world? No, you sound like God shoved a metal pole up your ass."
"'Don't swear at your man,'" he taunted.
"You're not my man. You're more a demon than a man. More a demon than a boy, even."
Duo's violet eyes narrowed at her, accenting his incredibly sour expression. "Listen, I'd love to just gut our relationship now and leave it to just puss in the sun, but I don't wanna make a scene." He rubbed his temples. "What did you come for?"
Her soulless blue eyes searched his, almost searching for his as well. It wasn't there.
"Come on Duo." She slipped off the counter, dispassion in her voice. "When the nurse comes back, get your clothes and leave. The engine will be running."
Watching her leave, disappearing down the sterile white halls, he shouted. "You still haven't told me what for!"