“Always, princess,” he said, offering me a toothy smile. “You trynna see Dutch? Go on in. He ain't put up his DND. I don't know why the fuck he's got a guard these days, like he's the prince of Monaco with some kinda treasure to keep safe.”
DND; do not disturb. One of those things that always made Dutch a good President was his open-door policy. You had a problem, you could take it straight to him, unless he had that sign up. And then, you just took it to Blade, who could decide whether or not it was worth disturbing Dutch.
Fleet rapped on the closed door, and Dutch's voice called out from the other side.
“Yeah, come on!”
Whether or not he'd heard me scream when Soldier grabbed me, it clearly hadn't bothered him enough to check it out. I took a deep breath, gave Fleet one last smile, and pushed the door open.
Dutch didn't even look up. He was looking at something on his desk. A ledger or something. I still had adrenaline in my veins, and I decided to use every ounce of it.
“I'm not doing it,” I said, slamming my hands down on his desk like I had some kind of power in this situation. “I'm sorry, Dutch, I'll give you back every cent, but I can't do this.”
“This her?”
Her voice was the first thing that told me Sylvia was in the room. My attention swerved from Dutch's surprised (and quickly darkening) face to the corner of the room, where a woman – if you could call her a woman – slowly rose from a cushioned rocking chair.
She was tall, thin, and beautiful in a horrible way. She was young, not much older than me, but she looked ageless. Her hair was white. Maybe dyed, maybe natural, but it was white as snow. And it was pulled back into this bun that looked like it actually hurt to wear. So tight you could imagine her hair screaming as she pulled it back. She had on this long, red dress, long-sleeved, with a deep V that kept going and going but never reached cleavage. Instead of blinking, her eyes snapped shut. Her lips were plump and purple. She looked like a runway model or a corpse queen. Either would fit.
At any rate, she made me feel like a middle schooler in my jeans and t-shirt.
“Yeah, this is her,” Dutch drawled, not taking his eyes off me. I could tell his surprise had passed, and pure rage was taking its place.
“Well, doesn't she have some balls,” the woman said, and floated – yes, floated – over to stand behind Dutch, her hands falling on his shoulders.
“I...”
“Shut up,” Dutch said. “Sit down.”
I wish I could say I didn't obey, but I did.
“I'm Sylvia,” the woman said, not quite smiling at me. “And I appreciate your fervor, especially since it is so clearly backed up by nothing.”
“I...”
“Shut. Up,” Dutch said again, pounding a fist on the desk, hard enough that everything rattled. “You do not get to come in here and tell me that you're goin' back on our deal. You do not get to choose to back out. You are mine, princess. And if you don't realize that, you're daddy is rollin' in his grave over havin' raised a moron.”
“He's right, dear,” Sylvia said. “You're ours. You're in our city. You're in our club. You're ours. Even if you leave, if you try to run, you'll be ours. We'll track you down, and rip every nail off your fingers and toes before we throw you to the men for their pleasure.”
She said it all like she was reciting the plot of The Crucible. She didn't have any accent I could figure. My jaw must have been about six inches below the rest of my face. For one, the way she said our...like being Dutch's old lady gave her some rights to the Crusaders, which was most certainly not true. But Dutch didn't correct her; he just grabbed one of her hands as it sat on his shoulder, his eyes boring holes into my skull.
“We can go 'head and forget 'bout you stormin' in here and actin' like you have a say in all this,” Dutch growled. “Or you can try'n stick by your fool-ass words, and see what happens. Would y'like that, Bex? You wanna see if I'm a man of my word, or test your luck, an' see if I'm bluffin'?”
Oh, he wasn't bluffing. He sure as hell wasn't bluffing. And even if he was, she wasn't. Whoever she was, anyway. I hated her the way a child hates the darkness; on instinct. Suddenly, I felt real stupid. What had I expected to happen?
But, I had to try. I had to try.
Apparently, my silence answered Dutch's question for me.
“Good,” he said. “Now get your fat, ungrateful ass out of my office, and don't fuckin' come back until you've got Cross' heart on a spit and somethin' to tell me.”
And I did. God help me, I did. I left. But before I got out the door, Sylvia had one last thing to say.
“And don't you think about tellin' Cross,” she spat. “Or it'll be both of your asses up for grabs on the black market.”
Of course, I'd already thought of that. And while her threat did make my back stiffen, it didn't change my mind. I couldn't get out of this through Dutch. And telling Cross might mean the end of any love he ever had for me. But I couldn't live this lie, and he deserved the truth.
I'd tell him, alright. Just as soon as I saw him again. I had to go into Peach's for training, and he was out on some job or another, but I'd go to his apartment and wait for him. I had to do it that very night. Before I could change my mind, or he could change it for me.
Cross
“Harvey, brother, you fucked up.”
I was standing in the doorway, towering over the sleaze ball, making a big show of slipping on my brass knuckles. Family tradition. My pa taught me to fight with them when I was a kid. Most people think brass knuckles hurt more 'cause they're, you know, brass. It's not that. It's about the way you form your fist, keeping your fingers away from your palm, so your knuckles don't absorb half the impact of the punch. Harvey probably did not know this fact about brass knuckles. It didn't matter. He was going to learn what they felt like, soon enough.
“Whaddya need those fer?” Harvey asked, eyes wide, staring at my hands. Poor guy didn't even think to try and close the door before I could rush it. Let me walk right in. He looked pretty doped up. Well, he'd feel it once the drugs wore off, at least.
“You been talking shit about our product, Harvey? You, of all people? Us being so generous and good to you all these years?”
“Cross, my man, I don't know what you...”
Harvey didn't get a chance to throw me any excuses, or try to cover his ass. You give fuckers like that a chance, they'll have you running late for lunch. My first blow was a glance on the jaw, enough to knock out one of his rotted-up teeth. The next had his ear running blood, and by then he was crumpling to the floor, whimpering and screaming like a dog. A kick to the ribs and one to the knee was enough to get the message across, I reckoned.
Harvey wouldn't be talking shit anytime soon. Hell, he might not even be talking anytime soon. I hoped he had a lot more dope stocked up, too, because it would be a long period of repentance before we did the favor of supplying him again. Once you crossed the Crusaders, it was hell and a half trying to get back on our good side.
I stepped over
his broken body, toward the door, blocking out the sound of his blubbering.
“Gram'pa?”
Oh, shit. I shouldn't have looked. I should have just left. But wouldn't you know it? I fuckin' looked. Standing at the end of the hall was a kid – maybe five or six, but I'm no good with guessing ages. Young enough to wear a diaper, anyway – a dirty-ass diaper, by the way, lookin' like it was about to drag on the damn floor. Naked from the waist up, one dirty finger in his mouth (also dirty, the kid was dirty all over, like maybe Harvey hadn't paid the water bill and baths were a distant dream).
“Gram'pa?” The kid said again, and took his finger out of his mouth, pointing at Harvey's shuddering body. If Harvey was a day over 40, I'd be surprised. So to be this kid's grandfather...well, the math wasn't much worth doing. Now, Harvey had started speaking again, sort of. Sayin' words, at least. Wa'nt me, I din'it, s'rry, s' s'rry, pl'se...
“Go watch TV, kid,” I said, 'cause I could hear the TV going in the other room, something that sounded bright and cheerful. A shadow passed behind the little boy, and I immediately went for my gun. I knew I shouldn't have lingered.
But I didn't have anything to fear, as it turned out. That shadow belonged to somethin' even more hopelessly sad than that dirty diaper. The girl was eleven or twelve, I guess. Blonde hair. Nice little face. Thin as an orphan from a Dickens story. She grabbed up the boy, her lips trembling, her eyes looking everywhere but at me. Down low, I felt Harvey's fingers grasping at my ankle, like he was seeking my forgiveness or some shit.
“Th' kids,” he managed to croak, blood-flecked spit coming with each word. “Can't...mon'y...kids...”