SO COLD
"So will you do it?"
"I feel like this is a trap or a trick."
"Why? You're doing me a favour and I'll pay you once you get back."
"Forgive me if I'm slightly sceptical of your intentions," I said to Cole. "But you go from overbearing caveman to sending me on a job overnight. What's changed?"
"I don't want you to feel like you're being forced to stay by my side," he said. "You're more than capable of looking after yourself. It's a simple job. Collect the money."
"And the guns?" I nodded to the bed where a case lay open, the guns were cushioned snugly in grey foam.
"Take your pick."
"I don't know. I'm not a gun enthusiast. Which one is better?"
"I'll explain it to you. This is a revolver. Generally speaking they can fire up to five or seven times. Swing out the cylinder...can you see the bullets? That's six rounds of ammunition. Pull back the hammer before firing. This is a double-action revolver, after you pull the trigger the cylinder will rotate to the next round and drop the hammer so you won't need to pull the hammer the second time–but you'll need to pull the trigger with a lot more force. If you're out of bullets and you need to reload, you'll need to empty out the casings in the cylinder and then load in the new rounds. It's lighter than a semiautomatic and great for quick one shots but it's not a top ten choice. It's an easy gun to use and that's all it's got going for it. Now this is a semiautomatic. Press this button to eject the magazine, the bullets rest in a LIFO stack. This gun will hold up to sixteen. You can take an extra magazine with you if you feel like you're slow on reloading. It'll be quicker than manually pushing in every bullet. Push the magazine in and chamber a round by racking the slide. That'll cock the hammer back and load a round into the chamber. The point of the semiautomatic is after the first round, it'll be ready to fire again without racking the slide again. Here's the safety, pull it back if needed. You got it?"
"Yeah," I nodded. "Hmm... I'll take the semiautomatic but I don't think I'll be using it."
"Just in case," Cole reached for my hand and tugged me closer. "I want you to be safe and on the lookout. Shěn's men may try again. And if any of my customers' give you trouble or refuse or hell talk too much, fire a round into their leg. Or shoot the cat. Anything. Show them you mean business. Don't smile and sit down for tea. Get out as soon as you can. It's a risk. The cops could be sniffing around and have you on the ground, handcuffs on in the next second."
"Then bail me out. Bribe a cop. Or the judge."
"Are you one hundred percent sure you want to do this? You don't have to,
"You're the one who asked for this favour," I kissed him, a quick brush against his mouth. "I'll be fine. It'll be like a road trip. So what are you going to do while I'm away?"
"Catch up on sleep. Rest." He lied. "Ask Morris to paint my nails, whatever." Cole really thought I was born yesterday. He wanted me out of the house so he can be free to do what he wants. He didn't have to go out of his way to avoid suspicion: all he had to do was ask for some space. His business was his life, I didn't need to be told a story tale and sent halfway across town on what could be a goose chase. A simple 'Go see your friends, I've got shit to do' would suffice.
"OK, don't watch The Walking Dead without me otherwise I'll change the Netflix password." I was about to leave when he cupped my face and kissed me passionately for a long, breathless minute and then he smiled, tucking a lock of hair behind my ear.
"Text me when you're on your way back," his smile fell and was replaced with a frown, "perhaps I should ask Giant to go along with you."
"Irvin and I will be fine," I rolled my eyes and took the semiautomatic and tucked it in my waistband. "We don't need a bodyguard. See you later."
*
"So who's first on the list?" Irvin asked. His feet were up on the dashboard, ankles crossed, and he had a hand stuck in a bag of crisps.
"A Mrs. Roberts. She lives on Cranberry Lane. She owes eighty seven pounds. The woman has a weed addiction. Who the hell gets addicted to weed?"
"Weak people. I bet she's a sort of soccer mom. Drives a minivan. Has three bratty kids, a cheating husband and has never had an earth-shattering orgasm."
"I don't actually want to picture moms and orgasms."
"You've never had a MILF fantasy?"
"No, I..." I thought about it. "No, funny enough I haven't. Why, have you?"
"Shamefully, yes,"
"Who?"
"You wouldn't know them."
"Try me."
"Ivy's mother."
I almost choked. "You've had wet dreams about your ex-girlfriend's mother? Irvin, that's – that's not right."
"She was hot in a busted-Botox way. She'd wear tiger stripes and these pink high heels. It was sexy."
"She sounds like she doesn't know how to dress herself. Anyway. Never mind her. Have you heard from Yvonne or Bryson lately? Or anyone from school?"
"Don't you know?" Irvin was surprised.
"What?"
"Bryson passed away months ago."
"You're kidding me," I was devastated.
"Yeah. It was alcohol poisoning. It was a couple weeks after you left, I think. I can't believe you didn't know. I thought I told you."
"Holy shit. I tried keeping contact with him when I left but he soon stopped answering and now I realise why. I thought he must've gotten fed up with me or something. This is depressing. Did you go to his funeral?"
"No, his parents wanted it to be a private affair and the school held a short assembly for him. I went to it but it was a shit-show. People were crying as if they were friends with him. There was only a handful of people that were genuinely upset. Yvonne was expecting his kid – well, she thought it was his, she had an abortion, dropped out of school and now works in that greasy café near the highway. The Jerry's Burger. I think. I'm not too sure. I deleted my Facebook account. I got way too many hate messages after I got arrested. I'm a murderer and scum to everyone. It doesn't matter that the charges have been dropped, once someone gets an opinion of someone else it sticks like glue."
I looked over at him with sympathy. "How do you feel? I haven't had the chance to talk to you properly not since your grandma passed. Give me an honest answer."
"I'm ...alright," he shrugged, gazing out of the window. "It's tough to deal with but I'm taking one day at a time. Sometimes I feel like I'm crippled with pain and it's hard to get out of bed but that's only if I think on shit too long. If I put it aside and focus on the present then it's not so bad. I miss her like crazy but its life and shit goes on."
"Do you think it's healthy to bottle up your feelings? Ignoring the problem won't make it go away. It'll grow like fungus and it'll spread to all areas eventually. You gotta get it out, man. Speak to someone – I'm here for you, you know that. Write down your emotions. Get creative. Or go down the traditional route and see a therapist."
"If it's alright with you I don't want to talk about this anymore," he glanced at me and tried a false smile, "but thanks for the offer."
"We're here." I parked. "Five pound bet she's a crazy lady who works from home with a lot of jewellery around her wrists and scruffy cats peeking out from behind her legs."
"Make it ten," Irvin followed me out of the Shogun and up the cracked stone steps.
I knocked on the door and a pudgy woman with frizzy blonde hair, a cigarette hanging out of the corner of her mouth and a denim jacket answered. She wasn't what we imagined. "Can I help you, kids?" her voice was husky.
"Yeah, hi, we're here to collect a debt you owe." I said politely.
She stared at us for a confused moment and then threw back her head and laughed like it was the funniest thing she'd heard for a long time. "That's a good one, har-har-har,"
Irvin and I shared a look. I pulled out my gun and pointed it at her stomach while Irvin took a step to the side, obscuring the sight from any nosy neighbours. The colour drained from the woman's face. I smiled. "Like I said, Mrs. Roberts, we're here to collect a debt. Eighty-seven pounds. We take cheques and cash – actually, no, we don't take cheques, that was a lie. Anyway. Come on. Cough up."
"I have more time, the deadline is thirteenth July–"
"It's the twenty first. Where have you been living, in the clouds? Now I've been instructed to persuade you if you attempt to play any games but I don't like getting messy. I don't want to give you a hospital bill and add to your problems. We'll be out of your fluffy hair as soon as the cash hits my hand."
"I'll go get it."
"I'll follow you." Irvin said.
I hid the gun and waited on the doorstep. A ginger cat appeared from behind a flower pot and hissed at me. "Shoo," I said. The cat stalked away, nose in the air. Irvin and Mrs. Roberts returned with the latter appearing disgruntled, puffing on her cigarette and the former nodding at me. "Thank you for your time."
"Fuckin' kids," she slammed the door in our faces.
"Who's next on the list?"
"Mr. Lopez. Seven hundred and fifty two pounds. He's a twenty minute drive away. His crime is pills. You want to drive?" I tossed him the keys.
"Sure."
Mr. Lopez was a small man with a nervous voice, he twitched and walked around like a squirrel, scampering from room to room, counting the notes out over and over again as if they changed right before his eyes. In the end, Irvin took the stack, flipped through them and gave him the thumbs up. We were out in ten minutes and back on the road. "Irvin," I said slowly. "Why don't you ever talk about your time in jail?"
"There's nothing to say. I was locked up for twenty three hours a day, ate tasteless sandwiches, went out in the yard for an hour while a couple of shirtless old timers eyeballed me from the other side of the fence. The guards didn't really bother me. I was just a dumb kid with bad luck to them. It was awful, I'm not going to downplay it. But I'm out and free. I don't want to dwell on the bad times. Now can I ask you a question?"
"Of course,"
"Why aren't you freaking out? You survived your second assassination attempt and killed two men. I thought you'd be panicking but you've got a cool head."
"Well," I said and stopped. Where do I begin? "I guess I'm like you, if I stop for a second and reflect on the past two weeks my head will explode. I don't want to collapse in a weepy puddle. I can't feel bad and blurt out to anyone about what's been going on. I'd get arrested. I have my family to think about. I don't want them to worry about me. It plays like a tape in my head every night and there's no relief from it. I don't know what's worse: the nightmares or the sleepless nights. But I'm hoping for the best and riding it out. This shit is a wave and its chaotic and violent but I'm holding on to my surfboard – ha, what the fuck am I saying? You get what I'm trying to say, though, right? It's easy to get lost in your own mind and replay every moment and question every move and mourn the loss of the past but...I don't know if I can survive it. I did what I did to defend myself otherwise I would've been killed. That's justifiable, right?"
"Yeah, it's self-defence," Irvin said, reassuring my doubts. "You shouldn't feel bad about this. You did what you had to do."
"Yeah," I drummed my fingers on the wheel, anxiety skittering up my spine like long-legged spiders, and said. "But I do, I feel terrible. It's like a rotten stench that I can't shake. A gut-deep feeling. I'm trapped in a state of mind that's pitting my own sanity against me. And I don't know what to do. How do I escape this feeling? I can't even shut my eyes without seeing the men imprinted on the insides of my eyelids. They're haunting me and my sins are pulling me further and further to a place that I don't want to go. Shit's crazy."
"Take one day at a time. Talk about the ghosts. Face them head on, don't squeeze your eyes and pretend they're not there. Show them you're not afraid. Fighting yourself sounds whack but we all gotta do it at some point in our lives. You're going to feel like you're being suffocated for some time but eventually the pressure will ease up to the point where you'll be able to breathe easier. And then today will become yesterday and you'll find yourself feeling better. It's a long process. You gotta be patient."
"Maybe you're right,"
"Ain't no maybe about it. Avoid it and you'll go mad. What's this guy on the list for?"
"Twenty two thousand. Shit. He brought a pistol. That's a little expensive, I wonder what else he got."
"Probably asked for a clean-up or maybe a burial site. This area's middle class," Irvin observed. "He's a father too. Check out the Barbie bike in the driveway."
I held my finger on the doorbell. A boy under ten answered, he was sniffling, his eyes red. "Hey," I bent down to his level. "Are you OK?"
He nodded, wiping his nose with his arm. "Are you here for the funeral?"
"Funeral?"
"Mummy's gone to heaven. We're saying goodbye."
"Uh," I straightened up. "Yeah. I guess. Would you mind getting your dad for us?"
He nodded and ran off, leaving the door open. "What are you thinking?" I asked Irvin.
He made a face. "It could be a natural death."
"You don't believe that," I said.
"It's nothing to do with us," he stepped inside as a tall, broad shouldered man walked out of a door. He was dressed in a black suit and wore a scowl. He strode across the hallway and thundered.
"What is the meaning of this? This is a private funeral. Leave before I call the police."
"Chill out, Erik. We're here to pick up the twenty two K you owe." Irvin said.
Erik Barron's scowl deepened, he hissed. "Keep your voice down. Follow me." He walked briskly to his office, ushering us inside and slamming the door shut. The room was organised: a potted plant sat beside a bookcase, filing cabinets were beside the glass case of some sort of purple rock. Erik sat behind his desk and gestured for us to take a seat. He folded his hands on the desk and said. "It's unfortunate you took the trip out here. I could've saved you the trouble if you had called me beforehand. I don't have the money."
"That's a problem." Irvin leaned back in his seat, eyes trained on him. "How do you propose we solve it?"
"Come back another day. I'll fit you in my calendar."
He scoffed softly. "Pass me the gun, Shay. Listen here, Mr. Barron, we're going to leave your home with the money otherwise I'll put a bullet in your kneecap and then I'll go through your home and take out your guests until you hand over the cash. I'll save your children for last." Irvin was a pacifist. He had a mouth that was too big.
Erik's brow furrowed and he dropped his hands, "Threatening my children isn't very wise." He pulled out a gun, cocked it and aimed it at Irvin's head. "I was thinking of a new design. Blood splatter on my floors would look very artistic."
"That's psychotic."
"Says the man willing to hurt an eight year old," he sneered.
"This has all been a misunderstanding," I intervened. "We're not here for a fight. We're here for a job and that's to collect the debt you owe. Irvin, drop your gun."
"What? Why?"
"Drop it. There. Why don't you do the same, Mr. Barron? And then we can talk business without the need to threaten each other."
He swivelled the gun towards me and smiled wryly. "I take it this is your first time. Lowering your gun was a mistake. Put it on the floor. Slowly. Now stand up. I want the two of you gone. Leave my home. Return and I won't hesitate to put a bullet between your eyes."
Once outside, Irvin glowered at me. "Why would you choose today to be a peacemaker? Now we have no gun and we're twenty two thousand short. What are we going to do?"
"We're not menacing, we're two kids and people aren't going to take us seriously," I got in the Shogun. "We need Giant."
***