A/N: Getting to know a bit about Mickey's psyche in this chapter. Get ready, because you're gonna see a side of him that's crazier than a shit-house rat.
Also, I think the Black Keys are forever what I'll listen to while I write. So if you'd like to listen to the song making me tick through this one, check it out. It's Too Afraid to Love You by, of course, The Black Keys.
Chapter Two: Dial Tone
Two things Mickey noticed right off the bat since moving to Chicago: the people were a lot friendlier than in Detroit, and almost everyone in the neighborhood he'd moved knew one another. Both strange and foreign concepts to Mickey. He disliked both facts. Together that was a dangerous recipe for a man in his profession. Eventually someone would ask too many questions, stick their nose too far into Mickey's business all on account of being neighborly. The people in his apartment complex fucking gossiped like queens. Which was why he was skipping out on his current lease and was now finding some place to stay in a slightly dumpier, seeder side of the city. He figured if people were going to get to know him, the persons may as well be the type to not turn him in to the police, should they start suspecting what he did for a living. Unfortunately, he had used most of the money from his last hit to get his former place, and had only a few hundreds floating in his pocket. Hardly enough to live anywhere. Especially given that Mickey had now given up on the idea of having any sort of permanent residence. Now he had his eye set on living in hotels until he tired of Chicago. But he would need that money. Mickey had no clue when his next job would be, and the money he had so stupidly paid to have an actual place of his own was a necessity to pay up the hotel he'd picked in advance. Knowing this, Mickey ventured into a local gym and rented out a locker. He stuffed his only bag into it and then left. Headed back to his previous apartment's office to get back his money. By force, naturally.
It was almost lunchtime, which meant only the douchebag of a landlord was hanging around the office. Mickey walked in, the bell giving away his entrance. Another aspect Mickey loathed.
During his walk over, the sky had opened up and poured snow all over him. Mickey shook himself, wet shoes squeaking across the linoleum as he headed down the hallway toward the main office. When he reached the door, he heard the landlord speaking with someone on the phone. Mickey exhaled, aggravated because now he was going to have to wait. Having the cops called on him was no something Mickey liked thinking about. He read over the plaque on the door. Large silver letters spelling out Mr. William Phillips. And heard lard ass bubbling over with laughter. Mickey balled up his fists, tugged his scarf looser around his neck, and licked his teeth, mulling over his options. Deciding, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of gloves. He slipped them on.
Mickey loathed waiting more than most things. His father had always told Mickey he had no patience and that it would be the death of Mickey some day. So far the abusive asshole had been wrong. In fact, Mickey's impatience helped out a lot of times.
"Eh, fuck it," Mickey muttered to himself, then reached out and pushed the door open with one hand, knocking curtly with the other. Unnecessarily, given that he'd already stepped in.
Sitting in his red leather chair, Phillips spun around, round sweaty face startled, the annoyed. His body quite literally spilled from the sides of his seat. "Sir," he began, practically panting and out of breath just from speaking, "I will assist you in a moment," he continued, lisp prominent, "Please step back into the waiting area."
Mickey gave a slight grin, already looking forward to giving this rich hog a shake down. He stared at the beads of sweat pouring down the man's brow and building up above his sausage like lips. The waste of air even had a short stubbed nose. Truly fitting his place in life. He was also bald, and had few strands of blonde hair sticking up on his splotchy head. Disgusting, really. Probably had a cork tail hidden in his pants. Scratching his cheek, Mickey stepped fully in and closed the door behind him. Mr. Phillips sputtered, staring at Mickey with angry, beady eyes. All was quiet. Mickey could hear the faint harping coming from the receiver Phillips held by his ear. Popping his knuckles, Mickey leaned back on the door, watching Phillips with a blank yet serious stare. He crossed his arm. The heater was on in this office, and honestly Mickey's coat and scarf was becoming a little much. He left them on, though, since he needed to be quick about this. Before the rest of the stoop troop came back into their fancy little offices to sip their booshy water, pinkies up.
Knitting his brow, scowling, Phillips pressed the phone against his face, looking up at Mickey as he spoke to whoever was on the other line. "I'm going to have to call you back," Phillips said, disgruntled, "some nut job just stalked in and set up camp in my office."
Mickey snorted, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. His gaze followed Phillips's hand as he hung up the phone. Harshly. His knuckles white as he gripped the phone still, glaring at Mickey. Unafraid. Mickey chuckled because that would change real quick. When Phillips let go of the receiver, cleared his throat obnoxiously, and began standing, Mickey tilted his head, amused. Phillips's chair scratched hard against the floor. Apparently the wheels couldn't take his large body anymore than Mickey's eyes. As the man stood, Mickey licked the corner of his mouth, uncrossed his arms, and wagged a finger. "Sit back down, dumb-shit," Mickey said, sarcastically polite, smiling wide.
"Excuse me?" Phillips barked. "Who the hell are you?" he asked, openly aghast.
Mickey uncrossed his arms, shrugged, and walked over to the desk. He stood there, barely a few inches away, and stared down as Phillips slowly lowered himself back into the seat. It bowed as he situated himself. Creaked. The clock above the doorway ticked. Besides those sounds, the room was eerily quite. Every once in a while, Mickey sniffed because the cold was getting to his sinuses. Only a few moments were necessary for Phillips to be overcome with a knowing look. The fucker glanced back at his phone. Aware now that he should probably have not gotten too big for his britches. Oh wait. Mickey caught himself grinned at his own thought process, and squashed it immediately. He fucking hated when he did that shit. Face going blank again, Mickey rolled his shoulders. The left one popped loudly. Ached for a second.
"I—'' Phillips tried speaking, but Mickey held his hand back up, cutting him off.
"Did I ask you to speak?" Mickey said, raising both brows, serious. "No," he went on, "I didn't." He cupped a hand to his ear, mock listening, looking off to the side. Mickey then leaned down, palms flat on the desk, and placed his face very close to the land lord's. Who smelled fucking worse than burned dog shit. Mickey wrinkled his nose, but tried not to give much of a reaction besides that. He was too busy fucking with the guy. A wicked toothy, crooked smiled plaid Mickey's mouth. He turned his neck, looking behind him. Fast he jerked it back to Phillips and cocked a brow. "You hear that?" he asked, still smiling.
Phillips shook his head, eyes gone wide. Sweating out of fear now.
"No," Mickey said, voice even, "you don't hear a god damned thing. Know why?"
Phillips swallowed hard, holding his chest now and breathing out of his mouth. Making the stench worse.
"Because you're alone, William Phillips," Mickey said, serious. "Everyone's out to lunch!" as he said this, Mickey stood back straight, put his arms out open by his sides. "You're alone," he said this bluntly, face dropping all hints of play. He put his arms back by his sides and went meeting Phillips's eyes.
"Who are you?" Phillips repeated, pressing back in his chair, obviously wanting to retreat.
Mickey sighed heavily, pushing one hand deep in his pocket. "I live here," he said, then corrected, "lived. I'm moving out today. This place fucking sucks." He pointed to himself with his freed hand. "Mickey. Mickey Milkovich. You remember," he finished, indifferent.
Phillips looked back to the phone, hand wound tightly against his chest now. "I don't recall that name," he murmured.
Snapping his fingers and rolling his eyes, Mickey pressed his lips thin and fake tapped himself on the forehead. "Right," he chuckled, then rubbed his chin, "I gave you a fake name. Fake ID and all that. It's Darren," he said, nodding for no particular reason other than to weird out fatso. "Darren Folsom. I think. I loose track sometimes," he said, no real emotion behind his words, eyes looking at Phillips, but not really focused. Lost in his own thoughts. Finally, Mickey looked behind himself to the chair in the corner. He turned his attention back to Phillips, thumbing in the direction of the lonely looking seat. "Mind if I sit down?" Mickey asked, already walking over to the chair and pulling it forward. He sat down, sprawled out sloppy, hand cupped in his lap, one leg propped up on Phillips's desk. Mickey wetted his lips after another brief silence. He watched Phillips as the man kept sending longing glances to the phone.
Phillips finally cleared his throat. When he broke the silence, his voice was scratchy and nervous, jumpy. Much different from earlier. Mickey mused inwardly at how funny it was, the way people changed tune so quickly under Mickey's stare. A talent Mickey was quite proud of. Intimidation.
"The lawyer," Phillips said, breathing heavy, wincing.
Mickey shook his head. "I'm not a lawyer," he said casually, face scrunching a little. "I lied. I do that often."
"Who are you?"
Mickey rolled his eyes, bored of this game now. "You've asked that three times now," he grumbled. "Fucking Christ, you piece of lard." He scowled, looking over at Phillips's closed blinds. He held his chin in-between his fingers as he stared. Cover the lower half of his face completely. "Mickey," he said again, slowly, muffled this time, "Mickey Milkovich."
"What do you want?"
Mickey heard a squeak. From the corner of his eyes, he saw Phillips reaching for the phone, thinking Mickey wasn't aware.
Mickey sighed, closed his eyes. His stomach tightened. "I told you, I'm moving out today. And you have something I want back," he said.
The squeak again.
"Don't fucking touch that, William," Mickey said harshly, between his teeth.
But too late. The dial tone rang out in the room, filling Mickey's ears. Because Phillips had gotten startled. Had lost his sneaky cool and had knocked the whole telephone system off of his desk. The receiver dangled on, sounding off and knocking against the wood. Mickey chewed his tongue, unmoving, and opened his eyes, just staring into space. Listening to the dial tone. His skin burning beneath the surface. His hands tingling. His heart pounding, pulse mingling together with the sound of the dial tone in his ears. Slowly, Mickey craned his head to looked back at Phillips. The man looked so scared. So guilty. Yet still he was reaching for the phone. Mickey figured that at this point, Phillips thought he hadn't much to lose. Taking in a deep breath, Mickey let go of himself, lurched forward in the chair, and grabbed the stapler sitting atop the desk. And all in one swift motion, took to assaulting Phillips's hand with staples, one right after the other. Hardly hearing the man scream because all Mickey could hear was the sound of his own heartbeat and the dial tone.
"Hang it up!" Mickey screamed in the man's face, still stapling his hand viciously fast. Sure he must looked crazed. Whatever. Maybe he was. Mickey didn't like thinking too hard on his own behavior most times.
Phillips screeched and cried, struggling to cross his other arm over himself and pick up the telephone. He fumbled with the receiver, fingers barely touching it. Only succeeding in knocking it around more.
Mickey didn't let up. Not until the gun ran out of staples, and even then, he banged the tool against Phillips's gushing hand. Fast and hard, Mickey threw the staple gun against the wall, leaned over the desk, and pulled the whole phone from the wall. Done, he stood back up straight, panting, looking at Phillips's with wide eyes. He waited until his breathing had calmed before he leaned back down on the desk again, lips pursed.
Phillips whimpered, cradling his wounded hand against his white shirt, Staining the material red quickly. He glared up at Mickey, face furious again. "You fucker!" the man barked in Mickey's face, spitting spraying Mickey's face.
Sneering, Mickey reached across and grabbed Phillips by the collar. "Where's my deposit money?" he growled, making sure to spray spit across the land lord's face in a small bit of revenge. It made Mickey feel only a little justified. Only a little better about this whole thing.
At this point, Phillips was laughing hysterically while Mickey shook him. "Spent! Gone! Not here anymore!" he bellowed, neck jiggling.
Mickey looked down at the blood covering his tan gloves because Phillips had taken to griping Mickey's hands. Frowning, Mickey sucked in a sharp breath. He shoved Phillips hard, then violently wiped his hands against the man's startled face. Phillips stopped laughing immediately. Most of the blood came off because it had only been a little. Mickey wiped the rest on his black jeans but the gloves were stained. He wetted his lips and began digging through his coat pocket. Annoyed, hands shaking out of rage, Mickey pulled out his last cigarette and with a forced casual tone, asked Philips if the man had a light. To which Phillips looked at Mickey as if the lunatic had grown another head. But in the end, glanced back at his hand, and apparently decided that doing as mickey asked was a great idea. Suddenly cooperative, Phillips nodded to the box of matches buried beneath the stacks of papers which had gotten knocked around during the fierce stapling. Mickey dug around and found the small box, pulled out a match and sparking it. He puffed his cigarette, pocketing the matches for later use. "My money," he repeated even though he hated doing that. Repeating oneself, Mickey had always thought, showed a lack of confidence. Something should only need be said once. His father had taught him that. Had pounded that into Mickey at a young age. Phillips nodded, holding up both hands in surrender, and began rummaging through his desk drawer. He pulled out a compact safe. Began counting out cash, looking up at Mickey occasionally for reassurance. Fucking lab rat.
So Mickey stood there and finished off his cigarette, dropping the ashes into his coat pocket. Careful not to get any on the floor. And when he was done, he pulled out the box of matches again and put the cigarette carefully out against the useless side. Placed the finished butt back into his pocket. Looked back at Phillips, who had finished counting out all two thousand dollars, now laid out on the desktop.
Phillips knitted his brow, staring confused at Mickey's pocket. "Why?" he breathed out. "Why do that?"
Mickey sniffed and began cramming the money into his empty pocket. Then his pants pockets when he ran out of room. "Because," he said, placing away the last bill, "I can't leave a trace of myself behind."
"What?" Phillips asked, eyes growing wide once more.
"I mean," Mickey shook his head, frowning, "I can't let you live now. Not now that you know my name, William."
Phillips gasped, a very guttural sound. "I won't breathe a word!" he begged.
Mickey squinted his eyes, drew his lips into an unconvinced expression, and shook his head, looking down at the carpet.
"I wont!" Phillips went on. "I won't tell anyone!
"But you will, though," Mickey sighed. "You will."
"I won't!" Phillips groaned, shaking his head, eyes wide, tears building up in his eyes. Mickey could hardly look at the guy. His stomach turned and his heart sunk a little despite Mickey's efforts to disconnect himself from the scene.
"Don't lie, William," Mickey sighed, slowly pulling the gun out from the front of his pants. He watched Phillips pant, mouth dropped open, stuttering as he looked back at Mickey. Probably pissing his pants. "Lying's my job," Mickey said bluntly, arm extended point blank, aiming, pulling the trigger. There was no sound because of the silencer. Aside from Phillips's shocked yelp and the chair falling over. A loud thump as the desk shook. Mickey hadn't looked at the man while he shot him, had stared off at a spot on the wall behind the guy. Now the wall was covered in a spray of the man's brains and blood. And Mickey swallowed, mouth twisted in disgust. Closed his eyes and breathed for a minute before leaving the office and closing the door behind him.
