Текст книги "Devil Smoke"

Автор книги: Max Henry

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

BILLS

Bronx

Eight houses down and we’re finally on to the last one for the night. I’ve broken fingers, slammed an asshole’s head in the door, and threatened two women’s lives if their men didn’t pay up. All in all, just another day on the job. Kind of feels like home.

Gunter pulls the Dodge into a dead-end street and kills the lights. The old car purrs along the road, idling to a stop before the curve of the cul-de-sac. We sit in silence, the glow from Tommy’s phone illuminating the interior of the vehicle.  Gunter lifts one of the sheets Ryan marked off and checks the information before we go inside, the same as he’s done for every house tonight. Gotta figure out how to get those lists from Ryan at the next show. I have to give it to the big bastard. He’s thorough; he likes to ensure we’ve got the right place before any of us so much as steps foot outside the car.

“Yeah, this is it,” he announces.

Tommy kills the phone, pocketing it.

“It’s the asshole who threatened Eddie today,” Gunter adds.

“What are we here for?” I ask. “Thought Eddie cut him loose.”

“Doesn’t mean he gets his debt wiped for nothing,” Gunter explains.

Right. Suppose that makes sense. “He expectin’ us?”

“Probably.”

Tommy straightens in his seat, his eyes trained on the house to our right. I stare out at the unassuming single-level dwelling and draw a laden breath. This could get ugly.

“Take it there’s a reason you left this until last,” I say from my position in the back.

“Yeah,” Gunter grumbles. He hesitates and then twists in his seat to look at me. “I’ve been watching the way you worked tonight.”

“That so?”

“You’re not new to this, are you?”

I shake my head. “Been crackin’ knuckles since my voice broke.”

“Thought so.” He chuffs to himself and twists back to the front. “I’m guessing then you’ll be aware of how this is probably going to go?”

“What weapons do we have?” So far, we’ve got by on the element of surprise and sheer size alone. This job’s not going to be so straightforward.

Tommy pops the glove box and pulls out a Glock. He checks the clip, and then sets it in his lap. He selects a knife for me and hands Gunter a simple length of heavy chain.

“You better hope he’s not packing,” I say, motioning to the chain.

“Don’t you worry about me,” Gunter answers. “Just keep your eye trained on him. Don’t want you getting some stupid idea about fucking us over.”

The thought of doing that to Gunter is appealing, but I wouldn’t hurt Tommy like that. He’s too much of a nice kid.

“Ready then?” I poise my hand to open my door. “Sooner we get this shit done, sooner we can crack a cold one.”

“We pull this off,” Tommy says, “and I’m doing a fucking line. Screw beer—this shit calls for something better.”

Gunter slaps him around the back of the head. “Like fuck you’re doing that shit.”

“What?” he cries out. “So you can do it whenever you fucking want, but I can’t?”

“Fucking right,” Gunter growls, getting in Tommy’s face. “It’s my job to look after you, little brother, and that means no drugs.”

“Uh, guys?” I indicate they should look out Tommy’s window.

Both heads swing around to take a look at what I’m currently evaluating. Our jaded friend stands on his front porch, a shotgun pointed at the car.

“Fuck,” Gunter hisses. “I’ll try and reason with him. Stay here.”

“Sure,” Tommy answers, eyes wide.

The air in the car is heavy as Gunter lifts the handle, edging the door open and rising out of the seat to face this guy. Tommy and I wait on tenterhooks, neither of us blinking while Gunter makes his way around the car and up the path towards the man, wrapping the chain around his hand as he goes.

“He’s never been trouble before,” Tommy whispers. “Most of the people we’ve seen tonight are never any trouble. Things are changing.”

Gunter reaches the guy and they start to talk. Hands fly, heads bob, and the two of them enter into a rollercoaster of an exchange. Quiet and passive, and then loud and confrontational. Up and down, over and over. All the while I’m slipping my door open, standing to give myself a clear path should I need to get involved.

The scene deteriorates in a matter of seconds. One minute I’m cursing at the door as it squeaks after an accidental nudge of my hip, the next, Gunter’s facing us, running towards the car. Tommy’s frozen in the front seat, the gun useless in his hand. The shotgun goes off, a resonating boom echoing around the cul-de-sac as Gunter slides across the hood. Pellets pepper the bodywork of the car, one hot stray connecting with my collarbone. Gritting my teeth and ignoring the sting best I can, I hurl the knife in the back seat, reach through Tommy’s open window to snatch the Glock from him, and slam my hands down on the roof of the car to line up the dealer as he advances down the path. I fire at his body, and the bullet connects with his shoulder, but like some fucking Terminator spin-off, the asshole keeps coming. Gunter dives in the open driver’s door, cranking the car over while he reaches for the door handle to pull it shut. I slide in before I get left where I stand and wrench my door closed, sliding across the back seat to wind the window down on the far side.

The dealer lifts the shotgun to his shoulder, stopping his advance and widening his stance.

“Fuckin’ give it up,” I mutter under my breath, firing off another round at the guy’s arm as we start to pull away, hoping to get him to drop the weapon.

The shotgun goes off at the same time as my bullet connects with the dealer, his body twisting with the impact. He grimaces, clutching at his upper arm and dropping the weapon. Tires squeal, the car whips around, and we’re flying down the road toward the intersection that’ll lead us straight out to the main road. The familiar rush of adrenaline kicks in, my leg bouncing erratically to burn it off.

“Asshole!” Gunter roars, slamming the heel of his hand into the steering wheel. “We’ll reload at home and come back, finish the fucker off. We’ve still got that box of slugs, Tommy?”

“I don’t think he can answer you,” I say, launching myself off the back seat to reach around Tommy’s. He’s gurgling, head leant on the rest as he stares at his big brother for the solution.

Neither of us have the answer he needs.

Blood pumps between my fingers, my hands pressed to the wound on Tommy’s neck. Gunter finds the floor, his foot jammed down hard as we speed through the streets. Unnerving silence stretches between us; I would have expected the big guy to be shouting, cursing, or at least saying something when his little brother has a gunshot wound to his throat. But he’s not. The burble of Tommy’s breaths is the only sound. The Dodge weaves through traffic as though the cars were at a stand still around us.

Gunter never speaks a word the whole way—he doesn’t have to.

The tears running over his cheeks say it all for him.

KARMA

Ryan

The front door flies open, slamming in to the wall with such force the stopper snaps off and the handle leaves a hole in the plaster. Gunter storms through, marching past me as though I’m not even here. Were those tears on his face? I break away from watching where he’s storming to, confused as fuck, to find Bronson coming in with Tommy in his arms.

There’s blood fucking everywhere.

Everywhere.

The deafening whoosh of my heartbeat in my ears muffles the sound of my words. “What the fuck happened?”

“What the fuck does it look like?” Gunter hollers from the kitchen where he’s presently ripping drawers from their slides.

Utensils scatter as one of the drawers splinters on impact with the floor, a spatula skidding to a halt against my foot. “What the fuck are you doing that for?” I scream at him. What the hell could be in here that he’d need?

“Argh!” he growls triumphantly, raising his clenched fist to shake a piece of card in the air. Gunter pulls his phone from the pocket of his jeans, glancing between the card and it as he slams a number into the keypad.

I turn away, blood pounding so hard that my hands and feet feel fat with each pulse. Bronson isn’t in the living room, or anywhere near the kitchen end of the house for that matter. I dash up the hallway and into the bathroom, finding him where I figured he’d be. He has Tommy laid out on the floor, kneeling beside him and pressing a towel to his neck.

“Could you get me some more towels to put under his head?” he asks.

I nod, backing into the hallway while I stare at him on the floor beside Tommy, so calm. Within seconds, I’ve returned with two fresh towels, and I push them under Tommy’s head while Bronson lifts him clear.

“He’s still alive?” I whisper, eyeing Tommy’s body as he lies there motionless.

“Just.” He places two fingers to Tommy’s pulse point and counts under his breath. “His pulse is gettin’ weaker, but slowly. He’s fightin’ it, but I won’t lie, he’s lost a hell of a lot of blood.”

“He needs a hospital, medical attention. Why the fuck did you bring him here?” I ask, my voice rising to near hysteria as I get the question out.

“And tell them what when they call the cops in? That your boy here was shot in a drug-related gunfight in suburbia? What you think they’d make of that, huh? Where you think Tommy would end up when he got better? Gunter, for that matter?”

I stare at him as he eyes Tommy, a frown setting in. He’s right, but it doesn’t make me any less determined to get appropriate care for the guy I love like a little brother.

Gunter appears in the doorway, a looming force over our moment of resignation. “I’ve got a doc on the way. He said to keep up what you’ve been doing, Bronson.”

“Yeah,” he says on a sigh. “I know what to do with a bullet wound.”

Gunter and I both stare at him, but for vastly different reasons. The look on Gunter’s face as he eyes Bronson looking after his little brother is something akin to admiration mixed with apprehension. It’s as though the idiot appreciates what this man is doing for his family, but can’t understand why.

Me, on the other hand? I look at him with nothing but sheer curiosity. What’s his history? Why is this scenario so damn familiar to him that he’s sitting here, calm as fuck, while we’re quietly freaking the hell out around him?

Who the hell was he before he settled here?

“You had a house call before?” Bronson asks Gunter, settling back on his haunches with the towel still in place.

He shakes his head. “In all the years, all the shit our old man got us in to, I’ve never had to use the number.” Disbelief that one of them finally has been hurt bad enough for him to haunts his eyes.

“They’re not cheap, house calls. You got enough cash to cover it?”

“I think so.” Something snaps, and the Gunter we all know and tolerate returns. “You just keep pressure on that wound and let me worry about it, yeah? Tommy dies, you’re following him.”

Bronson shakes his head and sighs, disappointment clear with the frown on his face. He returns his attention to Tommy, twisting his body so his back is to Gunter. I slap a hand to my face and sigh also. Now’s not the time for a game of ‘who’s the bigger man.’ We need to pull together, stand together, and be what Tommy needs to pull through this—to live.

“Can I have a word with you?” I ask Gunter, forcing him from the room with my body as I try to leave.

He steps back and nods.

“Bedroom.” I point to our door. “You can get your cash out of the safe while we talk.”

Giving Bronson one last look, Gunter heads towards our room.

I follow him in, shutting the door behind us. I lean against it, my hands pinned behind my back. “You don’t like him, I get it, and I’m pretty sure he doesn’t like you. But fuck, Gunter, that’s Tommy dying on our God damn bathroom floor right now.” Tears crest my cheeks. “Put this bullshit aside and do what he’s doing back there—being a human being doing everything he fucking can to save another human being.”

His hands run over his bald head, his boots treading the carpet as he paces. “I’m trying. Ryan. I’m really fucking trying.”

I expected rage, disdain that I’m questioning him, and arrogance, the same as I’ve been given any other time I’ve spoken my mind. I expect Gunter to swing around any second and close the space between us with his hand raised. I brace for it.

What I don’t expect is for him to fall to the floor and tuck his knees to his chest, his body shaking with deep, hiccupping sobs. The action takes me so much by surprise that I literally stand for a full minute, eyes wide while I figure out what the fuck I’m supposed to do. Do what you’re telling him to—act like a basic human being.

He refuses to show his face, stiffening when I try to coax him out of his ball. So I do what I can to comfort him, trying to make my hands connect around his huge frame, and pull him to my chest while I rest my head on his. “I’m scared, too.”

Gunter shifts, an arm moving to snake around my waist. His embrace is so damn tight that my ribs ache, but I give him this moment, offer what he needs. I give him everything I’ve never had.

We sit like that for minutes, a damn hour—who would know? It’s long enough for me to run through every possible scenario in my head of what may happen to Tommy. He could make a full recovery, he could lose the ability to talk . . . he could die.

He’s too young to die. The kid’s only just made it into his twenties. Nothing’s right about a death so young.

A pounding at the front door echoes through the otherwise still house. Bronson calls out for somebody to get it from the bathroom, and as though nothing were ever amiss with him, Gunter rises to stand, again becoming the intimidating force he is as he marches from the room to let the doctor in.

I hang behind, sitting Indian-style on the carpet of our bedroom, staring down the hall as an elderly man in a three-piece suit follows Gunter to the bathroom with a large leather bag in his hand. There’s discussion, silence, more talking, and then Gunter brushes past me as he heads to get money from the safe. The doctor wants payment up front—of course he does. I remain where I am, afraid to go see what they’re doing, and aware that if I did I’d just end up in the way anyway.

They need space, and I need to re-evaluate my direction in life.

Gunter breezes past again, stoic, silent, and a whole lot scary in his focused state. I watch as he hands the cash over and the old man counts it out, finally nodding before he pockets it in the breast pocket of his suit jacket. The doctor disappears into the bathroom, closely followed by Gunter, and then Bronson emerges, hanging about in the doorway for a moment while he watches what’s going on. His head turns right, finding me watching, and with a sigh he pushes off the doorframe and walks my way.

I stay motionless, my face blank as he drops to the carpet in front of me. “You okay?”

I shrug. It’s about the only thing that sums up my complete lack of feeling in this moment.

“The doc reckons he has a fifty-fifty chance of pullin’ through. All we can do is wait.”

“I hate waiting,” I murmur. “I’ve always been impatient.”

Bronson smiles, patting my knee. “Hungry?”

“No.”

“Can I get you a drink?”

“I don’t want anything, okay?” I snap, backing away to stand. “Nothing. I just want Tommy fixed.”

He hesitates, watching me as I fidget because I’m unsure if I want to be sitting or standing. Fuck. Why can’t I decide?

“Was he right?” Bronson asks, thumbing toward the bathroom. “You lot never had anyone hurt before?”

I nod, fingers drumming my bottom lip. “Yeah, he’s right. Never.”

“Shit,” he mutters to himself, turning his head to the floor. “How? I mean . . .”

“They’re show ponies,” I blurt out, throwing my hands in the air and finally fucking deciding I’d like to be seated on the bed. “They prance around, looking the part, but they’re not actually much use for anything.”

“Really?” He seems as though he still can’t believe it.

“It’s not that hard to believe, you know? They do a good job of making out they’re tough as hell, but the lot of them are fakes.” My damn tears start again. “Fucking Eddie. It’s all his fault. He dragged them into this.”

“They had a choice, Ryan. They would have been able to walk away if they didn’t want to work for him.”

I laugh, hollow and callous. “You think they had a choice? Who do you think pays the mortgage on this place? You don’t honestly think their dad can when he’s locked up?”

Bronson stares at me with some mix of pity and sympathy. “The door never closes. If after this they want to go clean, they can. Nobody’s stoppin’ them.”

“You think they would?” I ask, lifting an eyebrow.

He chuckles, shaking his head. “At least one wouldn’t.”

“Exactly,” I say.

Bronson lifts his face, his eyes searching mine as his expression hardens. “Doesn’t mean you can’t, though.”

“I need to be here,” I whisper, shifting my gaze to check the hallway. It’s quiet, save from the odd scuff of feet on the bathroom floor, or the murmur of the doctor. “There’s something I need to do before I can go.”

Bronson moves from his position on the floor, coming to sit beside me on the bed. I take a small comfort in how close he chooses to sit; closer than two people who don’t know each other very well would. “No, you don’t need to be here,” he argues. “The only thing stopping you from walkin’ out of here is yourself. What the hell is so important that you’d rather put up with this shit?”

I sigh, ducking my head and playing with my hands in my lap. “Eddie’s the only person who knows the truth about what happened to my parents. He won’t tell me, so I’m working on a plan to blackmail it out of him.” Bronson sucks a sharp breath between his teeth, the frown he wears telling me he disapproves of the idea. “If I leave without finding out, I feel like what happened when I was a teenager will be nothing but some fucked up incident that stops me returning to the happy girl I was before it all.” The moment’s too intense, the air between us too thick. I break away and march to the set of drawers and tug out a clean pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt, throwing them at a confused looking Bronson. “Gunter’s clothes should fit you so you don’t have to walk around in that.” I swallow hard, pointing to Tommy’s blood all over Bronson’s clothes.

He tips his head to the side, frowning as he rolls the T-shirt through his hands. “What were you talkin’ about, Ryan? What happened to your parents?” His eyes lift to find mine, waiting on an answer as he reaches down and removes his boots.

I turn side on as he stands and strips his stained T-shirt off. “They died.” The clink of his buckle follows, and I peek from the corner of my eye over at the pile of blood-soaked denim at his feet.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” He bends at the waist with his back to me as he steps into the sweats. I allow myself to admire how delicious he looks in nothing but a pair of fitted boxer-briefs. The muscles in his back roll as he maneuvers the fabric up his legs, contracting while he ties the drawstring. Bronson bends and picks up the T-shirt next, tugging it over his head. My emotions war within—panic and grief for Tommy battling for space with lust and desire. “You want to talk about it?” he asks as he turns around to find me staring at him so vacantly.

I kind of do. Nobody’s ever sat down and chewed through the emotions with me. My history, my parents’ death has always been nothing more than a brief comment in passing. There’s a lot of unresolved emotion surrounding the memory that needs unpacking.

I take a step toward him, wondering if I’m wise to spill it all with someone whose background I nothing about. Should I share with Bronson exactly why it is I choose to lie every night beside a man I don’t love, and why I parade myself around for the appreciation of men I fantasize of stabbing in my dreams? I’m saved the agony of deciding if I do by Gunter emerging from the bathroom.

His gaze sweeps over the two of us and settles on Bronson wearing his clothes. “What the . . .?” He thunders towards our position.

Bronson goes to move in front of me, but I plant my hand firmly on his stomach, urging him to stay put. “He was covered in Tommy’s blood, Gunter. The guy at least deserves clean clothes for what he’s done to help us. Pull your fucking head in.”

Gunter’s nostrils flare as he swallows his pride for the time being. “Doc wants to take Tommy in to his practice—reckons there’s shit he can do there that he can’t here.”

I take a step toward him. “I’ll come with you.”

“No.” Gunter looks between Bronson and I again, his teeth gritted at what he’ll say next. “You stay here. I don’t need both of us tired and worn out. Somebody will have to look after him when he gets home.”

Fair enough. I nod, stepping back to stand before the edge of the bed. A moment of silence passes before I lift my gaze to Gunter and ask, “Would you like me to call Eddie, tell him what happened?”

He shakes his head. “Already done it.”

My hand automatically goes to my mouth, the fingers of my loose fist pressing against my lips as I speak. “What did he say?” I drop to the mattress to hear him out.

Gunter scoffs. “Tore me a new asshole for letting it happen.”

“That guy’s a fuckin’ douche,” Bronson murmurs. “Needs a fuckin’ bullet.”

“Normally I’d lay you out for that, fucker,” Gunter warns, “but tonight . . . I have to agree.”

“Want me to do it?” Bronson asks.

I look between the two of them. Bronson’s stoic face tells me he’s deadly serious, that the offer is valid. Gunter scrunches his brow into the expression I know as him deep in thought.

“Lets get through tonight first, yeah? No need to act on impulse.” Gunter turns to acknowledge the doctor, who clears his throat in the hallway.

“We need to move now if this exercise is going to have any point to it,” the doc advises.

Gunter nods to the old man, turning back to me and closing the space between us. He grabs my head between his hands, and bends down to lay a kiss on the top. “Be back soon.”

Before I have a chance to respond, he’s gone, and within seconds he emerges from the bathroom with Tommy cradled in his arms. Some of the blood’s been cleaned off his neck and face, but he’s still white as a ghost and completely out to it.

My chest rises and falls jerkily with my panicked breaths. What if this is it? What if I never see him again?

I launch towards Gunter’s back as he heads for the front door and slam a hand on his arm to still him. He twists, allowing me space to lean over Tommy and give him a kiss on the cheek—his cold and lifeless cheek. “Love you, little brother.” I look up to Gunter, catching the flare of his nostrils as he breaks a weak smile and walks away.

The door closes behind them with a finality I’m not quite ready for. I’m not sure what’s worse in this moment—having notice that somebody I care about might not come back, or having them ripped abruptly from my life as my parents were. Is it better to have time to prepare, or to have such pain thrust upon you without warning?

All I know is that the arms that wrap about my middle and pull me into a warm embrace are the only thing that stops me from falling to the floor where I am and spending the hours it might take for Gunter to come back sobbing into the carpet. Having that support, the care of another, is a first, and fuck, if it isn’t the exact sense of belonging I’ve longed my whole life for.