The sand Mike was laying back on was sloped downward, with just enough decline that he could put is hands behind his head, lay back, and still be able to watch the yacht move slowly across his field of vision headed south in the moonlight, taking its wealth with it. The slow movement of the boat against the horizon mesmerized him, and he fell asleep.
When he woke, the water was lapping against his shoes and the bottoms of his jeans. His feet felt wet and heavy. He was groggy, as if some hours had passed, but the moon was hid behind some clouds, and it was too dark to try to read the time of he night from the skies. He pulled out his cell phone to check the time, but it must have run out of battery, because it was off and wouldn't turn back on. The boat he had been watching was gone, which startled him a little. It had been moving so slowly that it must be much later in the night. He stood up and turned around, shaking out his blanket as he did. The restaurants and shops and bars were all closed, their lights out for the night. No one walked the street along the beach, no couples lay on the sand.
And then it occurred to Mike - there were no bums either. Nobody sleeping on the sand or the benches or the sidewalk. There was no noise of cars passing by on Hollywood Boulevard, not at all. Even the waves right by him were silent. He turned to look at them, to make sure they were still moving, and sure enough, they were. Stepping closer to see if maybe he just wasn't hearing right, he strained his ears to hear a sound matching the movement of the water, but he couldn't hear anything. However, what he saw took whatever credulity he had left.
It looked at first like a wad of seaweed washing up of shore, the way they do sometimes, floating in on the waves and bobbing up and down. But the thing he saw was not floating; its movements were much more deliberate. It came towards him, just under the surface of the water, but rising as it slowly came. Then a head emerged from the dark blue waters, about twenty feet out. The foam settled around a perfectly trimmed haircut and brown forehead, but the hair itself and the flesh didn't seem to be wet at all. The eyes that rose out of the sea were as dark and as blue as the waters themselves, as if they were made of the same stuff. Then a straight, broad nose with narrow nostrils that flared just a bit as the person breathed. The mouth and jaw were broad, with thin lips and a pronounced chin.
As the figure continued to rise from the ocean, Mike dropped his blanket and stepped back, almost unconsciously. It wasn't so much that he was afraid, but something in him was repulsed by this figure. But then something else in him was intrigued, wanted to see who this man was, this figure emerging from the foam of the ocean, curiously unwet, in a black suit and red tie, wearing gold cuff links shaped like dice, and walking directly towards him with a stride like a prize fighter, a champion, making is way to the ring for a fight he has already determined to win.
"Mike Barnes," the man said, "I have called you here to offer you that which you desire more than anything else, and I ask for nothing more than what you have given me already."
Mike tried to back away from the man, but found his feet rooted to the spot. It wasn't so much that he couldn't move, just that, as much as he wanted to get away, he also wanted to stay. In a way, it felt like it wasn't even him wanting. It was a desire that seemed to come from outside of him and wash over him, like a lust for a woman or a hunger for a food that afterward you would swear you never really wanted, and never would have indulged of your own free will. Mostly he felt swept along.
"Who are you?" Mike tried to sound firm, screwing up his face in what he intended to be fierce and intimidating, but ended up being the look of a man in pain who doesn't yet now what part of him hurts. "How could you know what I want?"
Somehow, however, Mike was sure that this man did know what he wanted, and knew a lot more besides.
"I am Dagon Prince," the man said, smiling as if he liked the sound of his own name, "and I know what you want because it is what every man wants." The smile faded from the man's face, and he moved uncomfortably close to Mike, resting his massive hand on Mike's shoulder. "What's important is whether or not I can give it to you."
And somehow, Mike knew that he could.
"I want a lot," Mike said, feeling life seep back into his muscles and sense into his mind. "I want a whole lot, enough money that I could spend nonstop and yet never run out. Enough power that I could make anyone, man or woman, do what I want them to do, or punish them if they don't. I want people to know me and respect me, fear me, like they do Corleone, but not just in a ten mile area, not just a run-down neighborhood. All over the world."
Dagon smiled again, this time wider and almost joyous, with a hint of perfect white teeth showing through his thin brown lips. "Yes," he said, "to be a god among men. To speak and make the world obey. To take, and fear no resistance. This is is your desire."
Mike stepped to his left and out from under Dagon's hand. He looked this man over, from the clean line of his hair, cut close to his head, to the blood red tie that stood out against his black suit and black shirt, to the black leather shoes that shined against the white beach, and yet seemed to get no sand on them.
"What does it cost me?" Mike said, his eyes finally resting on Dagon's dark blue eyes.
Dagon eyes narrowed and he cocked his head to the side. "As I said, only that which you have already given me."
He looked down at Mike's right arm, and suddenly it began to itch. Mike looked down at it, and saw the blood beginning to seep through the sleeve again, first in a small circle not much bigger than the head of a thumbtack, but growing outward, as if it were radiating blood.
Dagon grabbed Mike's right arm and held it tightly. "Your soul." He slid his other hand over Mike's wound, towards his shoulder. The itching stopped, and the blood on the sleeve disappeared.
Mike passed his hand underneath the sleeve of his jacket and felt his arm. The dressing was gone, but so was the wound. No blood, no gash, not even a raised spot where a scar would be. A shiver ran up Mike's back that shook him visibly, and he cursed himself for showing his fear. He tried to laugh to cover it up. "So what," he snorted, "am I supposed to sign some contract? You got a pen to dip in my blood?"
Dagon extended his hand. "A simple handshake will do." He leaned in even closer and winked at Mike. "I trust you."
Before he even knew it, Mike's hand was extended and he almost shook hands with the stranger. Drawing it back, he noted the grin that was growing across Dagon's face.
"Clearly, you don't believe me yet," Dagon said, dropping his hand back by his side. "Let me show you what I mean." He looked directly into Mike's eyes, and it seemed like the dark blue of Dagon's irises expanded and washed over him like an ocean wave, like going under water. Everything got muffled, except for the sound of his heartbeat, which grew louder and louder, until it sounded like it was coming from outside of him instead of from his own chest. He saw himself, on stage, holding a microphone, and dressed in the kind of designer clothes he only thought about buying now, with a diamond earring in both ears, at least a full two carats each. He could hear nothing still, except for his own heart, but that heartbeat was the rhythm that was moving a crowd of thousands of people. He could see that he was rapping, performing for the crowd in front of a line-up of dancers and deejays and musicians, but it was his own heartbeat hat drove the show and moved the crowd. They screamed and chanted and danced. Some rushed the stage and were held back by security at the base of the stage. The women wore fierce looks of hunger, all of them, and he knew he was the object of their lust. He controlled all of them. His words and his beat gave them life, gave them meaning. If he were to stop, they would simply cease to be, and best of all, they knew it too. They revered him.
In a moment, the feeling of water rushing over him returned, and once again he was standing on the beach alone, with Dagon in front of him, still smiling that confident smile, still extending his hand. Mike took his hand and shook it. It was strangely warm, almost hot, and made him feel as if he would never be ale to let go, but he wanted what this man had to offer more than anything, more than common sense or reason, more than his life or his breath, more even than his soul.
When he released Dagon's hand, he realized that he had been closing his eyes, squeezing hem closed, really. They opened slowly, sticking together with what Mike was surprised to find were tears trapped in his eyelids. When his vision cleared and adjusted to the darkness, he could hear the waves again, and the traffic passing along the street behind him, and the music all mixed together coming from some of the bars that were still open.
He drew his phone out of his pocket, and, on a whim, tried to turn it on. To his surprise, it turned on right away, and had about twenty percent charge left on it. He looked around and saw one or two bums coming to settle down for sleep under the lifeguard stand about twenty yards away.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Monday, November 7, 2011
Nanowrimo - Day 7
He walked up to one of the ones he had met before, a seventeen-year-old kid from North Miami Beach named Antwan. He was one of the ones that Corleone was looking at for working inside the school. He had always seemed down enough, and didn't stand out much. He was only about average height, lighter skin, and blended in well, but still seemed smart enough to handle numbers and wise enough to stay on the right side of things. Mike nodded to him and gave him and the other boy from his same school that had showed some promise, Kevin, a pound, but didn't say anything more, so he could listen to the tail end of the verse one of the other guys was just finishing up. Not bad, but not great, certainly not as good as some of the stuff Mike and his boys used to write.
While this guy was finishing his verse, Mike just stared him down, not smiling or frowning, and not showing any sings of approval or even notice, just watching him with the intimidating look he'd learned over time with the business.
"Something on your mind, player?" the kid said, stopping his rhyme abruptly.
"No, brother," Mike said, "Keep going. It's cute."
The kid rapping cocked his head a bit sideways and looked hard back at Mike, while the other just smiled on. Antwan shook his head at the others in warning.
"So you can do better?" the rapper said.
Mike just smiled and shrugged his shoulders.
The youngest of the three unknowns, the one with he iPad, smiled slyly and scanned through songs until he found one that made him smile even bigger. It a flash, a new instrumental was pumping through the speakers, and the rapper glanced over at him and nodded.
"Okay, Trina, check this out."
My name ain't Robin, but my rhymes' so Thicke
I been in this rap game since 2006
Since then it's been my mission to split up cliques
Come up with new rhymes each time the clock ticks
And I took the crown from the ruler Slick Rick.
And no way, no how, I'm not giving it back,
Cuz suckers keep coming with that style so sack.
You think you're so hard but I can see your cracks
Just like the fat plumber when he bends his back
Side - all right, baby girl don't cry,
I'm a get off this beat like a subway ride
Almost before he finished, the other two unknowns were already giving him pounds and slaps on the shoulder, even the one he had just beaten. The beat coming from the speakers plodded on, and Mike flashed a haughty smile at Antwan, jealous to have someone on his side.
"That's mine." The rapper said, "What you got?"
Mike felt a little nervous, but didn't show it. He waited for the beat to come around twice and then jumped in.
I come harder than a balled up fist,
None of y'all punks seen nothing like this.
I spit flames foot long 'til you burn to a crisp
And then walk away with your cash and your chick
I carry nines with loaded clips
None of y'all punks seen nothing like this
In a moment, all words failed him. He couldn't think of another rhyme, or start a new one. It seemed as if he had forgotten how to speak altogether. He bobbed his head to play it off, thinking to catch the beat when it came around again and say something clever to atone for his silence, but when the moment came and went, the others started laughing. In fact, allow them were laughing, except for Antwan, who was shaking his head again and trying to calm them down.
"That's it?" said the rapper who had gotten beaten before, "What kind of crap is that?"
"Yo, player," said the winner of the battle, "keep practicing in the mirror for a while more before you take on a champ."
Mike's face burned with shame. He hated these boys and hated himself for getting involved with them. Reaching behind his back, he pulled out his pistol and held it loosely down at arms length for a moment before making a show of tucking it into the front of his jeans and pulling his shirt over it.
All laughter stopped immediately.
Antwan was already backing away, keeping his eyes fixed on Mike's waist, where the pistol was hidden. The other boys froze where they were.
Of course, Mike wasn't really sure what he wanted to do. He felt embarrassed and ashamed, knowing he should be better at this, hating he fact that he was beaten by a stupid kid. Somebody who should be staying clear of Mike hade instead been openly mocking him. It was exactly the opposite of what Mike wanted. Besides the money he yearned for so desperately, the power of wealth and the influence over other people's lives called out to him. Staring at these boys, he felt a desire to gun them down, or pistol whip and beat them, to show his dominance over them in some brutal and decisive way.
Then he saw Antwan's face, the horror and disgust displayed there. It was the look one would given a petty man and a sore loser. Mike looked away for Antwan, through the doors of the mall entrance, took his hand off his gun, and covered it back up. He looked back at the boys, who were frozen, backs against the wall, eyes flitting back and forth from his face to his hands.
Mike walked backwards about eight paces, almost to the curb, then turned around and picked up the pace. "I don't need new shoes any way," he muttered to himself as he approached the car. After getting in, he left the mall in a hurry and drove around for a few hours, listening to music, and trying to sort out a way to make more money, to get more power.
By nightfall, Mike found himself near Hollywood beach, about fifteen or so miles from home. It was one of his favorite spots when he was a kid. He remembered when he was four and five, before his mother died, she would bring him during the summertime whole school was out. Now he knew that it was because his mother had lost her job that she had so much time to play, but then he only knew that they were together, and having fun. As soon as he could drive, this beach became an even more attractive spot. There was good food all around for little money, fine women, and usually some kind of music or something going on.
Even as a child, Mike never came to swim, just to watch. He would play in the sand when he was little, and watch the grown ups or the other kids, people with lives very different from his own, who came to the beach with jewelry and huge radios, and left in convertible Benzes and Beamers. When he was a teenager, he would watch the women, and the men who came with them. Looking back, he wasn't sure if he lusted more after the women, or the opulent lifestyle.
Since it was a Thursday evening, there wasn't a whole lot happening. The air was too cool for natives, but the snowbirds and the tourists, hadn't really arrived yet, people who came from places where the climate made sixty degree weather seem just right for the beach. There were a few people eating in the beachfront restaurants or drinking in the bars. One or two couples lay close to their partners on the beach, watching the waves, but Ike steered clear of them and found a spot all his own, near enough to the water to see the edge of it come and go with the waves and tide, but not near enough to get wet. He sat down on a blanket he kept in his trunk for nights when he might want to bring a girl out here.
There was a boat off in the distance, not quite at the horizon, but far out on the waves. It was a yacht, the kind that Mike had seen plenty of times during the day, even as a child, and wondered what kind of life happened on it. Did he people on those boats have jobs that they had to report to, places to be? Or did they just stay on that boat all the time, doing what they wanted to do, until they got tired of it and moved on? How did they come into this lush life? How long would it take for him to get there?
The sand Mike was laying back on was sloped downward, with just enough decline that he could put is hands behind his head, lay back, and still be able to watch the yacht move slowly across his field of vision headed south in the moonlight, taking its wealth with it. The slow movement of the boat against the horizon mesmerized him, and he fell asleep.
While this guy was finishing his verse, Mike just stared him down, not smiling or frowning, and not showing any sings of approval or even notice, just watching him with the intimidating look he'd learned over time with the business.
"Something on your mind, player?" the kid said, stopping his rhyme abruptly.
"No, brother," Mike said, "Keep going. It's cute."
The kid rapping cocked his head a bit sideways and looked hard back at Mike, while the other just smiled on. Antwan shook his head at the others in warning.
"So you can do better?" the rapper said.
Mike just smiled and shrugged his shoulders.
The youngest of the three unknowns, the one with he iPad, smiled slyly and scanned through songs until he found one that made him smile even bigger. It a flash, a new instrumental was pumping through the speakers, and the rapper glanced over at him and nodded.
"Okay, Trina, check this out."
My name ain't Robin, but my rhymes' so Thicke
I been in this rap game since 2006
Since then it's been my mission to split up cliques
Come up with new rhymes each time the clock ticks
And I took the crown from the ruler Slick Rick.
And no way, no how, I'm not giving it back,
Cuz suckers keep coming with that style so sack.
You think you're so hard but I can see your cracks
Just like the fat plumber when he bends his back
Side - all right, baby girl don't cry,
I'm a get off this beat like a subway ride
Almost before he finished, the other two unknowns were already giving him pounds and slaps on the shoulder, even the one he had just beaten. The beat coming from the speakers plodded on, and Mike flashed a haughty smile at Antwan, jealous to have someone on his side.
"That's mine." The rapper said, "What you got?"
Mike felt a little nervous, but didn't show it. He waited for the beat to come around twice and then jumped in.
I come harder than a balled up fist,
None of y'all punks seen nothing like this.
I spit flames foot long 'til you burn to a crisp
And then walk away with your cash and your chick
I carry nines with loaded clips
None of y'all punks seen nothing like this
In a moment, all words failed him. He couldn't think of another rhyme, or start a new one. It seemed as if he had forgotten how to speak altogether. He bobbed his head to play it off, thinking to catch the beat when it came around again and say something clever to atone for his silence, but when the moment came and went, the others started laughing. In fact, allow them were laughing, except for Antwan, who was shaking his head again and trying to calm them down.
"That's it?" said the rapper who had gotten beaten before, "What kind of crap is that?"
"Yo, player," said the winner of the battle, "keep practicing in the mirror for a while more before you take on a champ."
Mike's face burned with shame. He hated these boys and hated himself for getting involved with them. Reaching behind his back, he pulled out his pistol and held it loosely down at arms length for a moment before making a show of tucking it into the front of his jeans and pulling his shirt over it.
All laughter stopped immediately.
Antwan was already backing away, keeping his eyes fixed on Mike's waist, where the pistol was hidden. The other boys froze where they were.
Of course, Mike wasn't really sure what he wanted to do. He felt embarrassed and ashamed, knowing he should be better at this, hating he fact that he was beaten by a stupid kid. Somebody who should be staying clear of Mike hade instead been openly mocking him. It was exactly the opposite of what Mike wanted. Besides the money he yearned for so desperately, the power of wealth and the influence over other people's lives called out to him. Staring at these boys, he felt a desire to gun them down, or pistol whip and beat them, to show his dominance over them in some brutal and decisive way.
Then he saw Antwan's face, the horror and disgust displayed there. It was the look one would given a petty man and a sore loser. Mike looked away for Antwan, through the doors of the mall entrance, took his hand off his gun, and covered it back up. He looked back at the boys, who were frozen, backs against the wall, eyes flitting back and forth from his face to his hands.
Mike walked backwards about eight paces, almost to the curb, then turned around and picked up the pace. "I don't need new shoes any way," he muttered to himself as he approached the car. After getting in, he left the mall in a hurry and drove around for a few hours, listening to music, and trying to sort out a way to make more money, to get more power.
By nightfall, Mike found himself near Hollywood beach, about fifteen or so miles from home. It was one of his favorite spots when he was a kid. He remembered when he was four and five, before his mother died, she would bring him during the summertime whole school was out. Now he knew that it was because his mother had lost her job that she had so much time to play, but then he only knew that they were together, and having fun. As soon as he could drive, this beach became an even more attractive spot. There was good food all around for little money, fine women, and usually some kind of music or something going on.
Even as a child, Mike never came to swim, just to watch. He would play in the sand when he was little, and watch the grown ups or the other kids, people with lives very different from his own, who came to the beach with jewelry and huge radios, and left in convertible Benzes and Beamers. When he was a teenager, he would watch the women, and the men who came with them. Looking back, he wasn't sure if he lusted more after the women, or the opulent lifestyle.
Since it was a Thursday evening, there wasn't a whole lot happening. The air was too cool for natives, but the snowbirds and the tourists, hadn't really arrived yet, people who came from places where the climate made sixty degree weather seem just right for the beach. There were a few people eating in the beachfront restaurants or drinking in the bars. One or two couples lay close to their partners on the beach, watching the waves, but Ike steered clear of them and found a spot all his own, near enough to the water to see the edge of it come and go with the waves and tide, but not near enough to get wet. He sat down on a blanket he kept in his trunk for nights when he might want to bring a girl out here.
There was a boat off in the distance, not quite at the horizon, but far out on the waves. It was a yacht, the kind that Mike had seen plenty of times during the day, even as a child, and wondered what kind of life happened on it. Did he people on those boats have jobs that they had to report to, places to be? Or did they just stay on that boat all the time, doing what they wanted to do, until they got tired of it and moved on? How did they come into this lush life? How long would it take for him to get there?
The sand Mike was laying back on was sloped downward, with just enough decline that he could put is hands behind his head, lay back, and still be able to watch the yacht move slowly across his field of vision headed south in the moonlight, taking its wealth with it. The slow movement of the boat against the horizon mesmerized him, and he fell asleep.
Friday, November 4, 2011
Nanowrimo - Part 4
"I've made choices and sacrifices that have dug trenches in my soul. And that was my choice." She downed he last of her tea without even blowing on it; it had lost so much of its heat by now. "My choice. But just like these men you run around with, these men you do work for ..." Mike shifted in his chair and opened his mouth to speak, but his grandmother just looked to the side and waved her hand in his direction. "Just like these men, I expect full value for my investment. I want what's coming to me. And I figure that my investment earns me the rights to your soul. I own it. And I'm going to see it saved even if it kills me."
Mike looked up at her face and started to say something, but then saw that she wasn't looking at him, at least, not at his face. She was staring at his arm. When he looked down at it, he could see what she was interested in - a short, oval line of blood shaped like the center of a cat's eye, seeping through the sleeve of his hoodie, darkening and glistening in the low lamp light that washed over him. He stared at it too, and for a moment he saw it the way she must have been seeing it, an ugly thing that was growing uglier moment by moment.
Without saying another word, she got up, took her mug from the table, and walked away from Mike into the kitchen. Mike heard her footsteps, heard the water running as she rinsed the mug, and heard her walk behind him down the hall towards her bedroom, but he didn't dare look up. He had been stabbed once with a short kitchen knife, by a woman he had betrayed. The look in her eyes when she stabbed him had been pure hate and rage. Once, when he was out on the street with one of Corleone's sons, Benzo, supposedly learning the art of the drop, he had seen the young man, himself just eighteen, a year older than Mike, put two bullets in another man's chest for skimming money and then turn the gun on Mike and warn him of the consequences of deceit. He had even spent two whole nights in county jail with a couple of thugs who had used every moment that the guards weren't looking to pound on him, ultimately breaking two ribs and fracturing a plate in his face before he was moved to a different cell. Still, there was no one, man or woman, that Mike Barnes feared more than his grandmother, because only he had seen first hand what happened when she decided to become the agent of justice.
After he was sure, she had closed the door other room, Mike crept into his own. He shut the door and immediately took off the hoodie, peeling the wet sleeve away from his bleeding arm. He kept a first aid kit under his bed for situations like this, and now he took it our and went to work. The would didn't seem to need stitches, despite how it looked, so he knew he didn't need a doctor. Instead, he cleaned it well with alcohol, rubbed some antibacterial cream into it, and bound it tightly with gauze and an Ace bandage. In the morning, he could always check it again and see if he needed to get it looked at, but for now, he just put the money under his bed, lay back in it, and closed his eyes, the dull throbbing of his arm putting him to sleep.
********************************
The next morning Mike woke up late, ducked his grandmother, and escaped the apartment without a lecture or even a look, as far as he could tell. He took the first aid kit with him and changed his dressing in the car. So far, the arm looked fine. It felt like it had been in a vice from the tightness of the bandages, and ached and itched as well, but it had stopped bleeding, looked clean, and was getting some color back into the surrounding area. He redressed it, a little looser this time, and then put the kit in the back seat. After one more inspection of his work, Mike wondered to himself if he could have done this for a living, if he hadn't quit school. He didn't think being a doctor was in the range of possibilities, but maybe a nurse. Other people from the neighborhood had gone that route, and eventually moved away. But then the idea of being a nurse made him chuckle a little to himself. It wasn't that he thought it was too feminine, even though he did, but rather that he though about what kind of money nurses make and laughed to himself about trying to get the things that he wanted on that kind of bank. How long would it take to get the BMW he wanted, or the house in a neighborhood nicer than Corleone's. Too, long, he thought, smiled once more, and then put the car in drive and pulled out onto the street, headed in Corleone's direction.
Corleone's house was a huge six-bedroom house in Opa Locka, the biggest on its block. He had bought two houses on the corner or the block, torn them both down, and built one big one on the two plots. The rumor was that at first the city had tried to stop him, because of he zoning or the property lines or whatever, but that after a couple of his boys made the trip to city hall, all of those petty nuisances went away, and Corleone did what he wanted, like he always did. Mike never was sure whether the motivation for the change was the carrot or the stick, the bag of cash or the bullet, but he was around when the house was being built, and he knew that the foundation was already being laid while the city people were coming out to stop it. Mike pulled up in front of the two story house, the only one that tall in the neighborhood, let alone the block, and waited for one of the boys to come out and walk him inside.
The boss was busy, fortunately. While he was happy to see all of his money accounted for, he wasn't interested in the details of the drop, and since Mike didn't plan on doing any more of them, he didn't bother to mention them. Mainly, he was glad to get out of there with the five thousand dollars in his pocket in a big round roll, and no mention of what his next assignment might be. Give him some time to think about where he was headed.
When he was done with business, he decided to head over to the mall to spend some of the money. Nothing much, and nothing flashy, just maybe a new pair of sneakers, no more than a couple of hundred dollars. Mike generally saved as much money as he could, and made a point of keeping his life simple when it came to possessions. Besides trying to keep his grandmother at peace, he had a couple of other reasons. First, he had seen too many guys get caught be doing what he called "advertising the hustle." He despised the guys who drove sixty thousand dollar cars and wore at least three thousand dollars worth of jewelry at all times, and with no verifiable source of income. As far as Mike was concerned, they made themselves targets for the cops. But second, he liked having the money far more than he liked having the things. He like knowing that it was in the house nearby, being able to get at it when he wanted to. He liked keeping track of it, even had a ledger notebook that he got from Office Depot that he used to document how much he had. There were some things that he wanted to buy, but every time he did, he always found it had to part with the money, even if he really wanted the prize.
The mall was one of those places that had gone through a lot of changes since Mike had been going there. Like a lot of places it had lost whatever had made it safe and special, and had become just another part of the decay. According to his grandmother, the mall on 163rd Street used to be the one everyone went to, not just the regular shoppers, but the rich folks, and the tourists who came to Miami just for the shopping. First it was just a really nice plaza, with a central hall down the middle of two long rows of stores and restaurants. Just before Mike was born, his grandmother had told him, the owners had covered the central walkway with a beautiful domed roof that still let the sunlight filter through in the daytime, and how everybody came out to see it when it reopened. In fact, it was so classy that it attracted anchor stores like Burdines and Macy's, as well as a number of important chains and specialty boutiques and the best movie theater around at he time. But since Mike was born, the crime rate had gone up and up, and the more lucrative business owners had pulled out. The tourists didn't dare go there any more, choosing instead to shop at the newer mall in what was now the richer, and therefore better, neighborhood. Now it was little more than a flea market with a food court, and a moat of trouble surrounding it.
When Mike parked the car and approached the mall entrance, there were five teenaged boys standing around outside and listening to music through an iPad attached to some portable speakers. Most of them were just knuckleheads skipping school, just like Mike would have been about five years ago, but two of them were guys Mike recognized, ones that he knew Corleone had noticed and was getting ready to groom for the business. As he got nearer, he could hear a couple of them rapping over the instrumental coming out of the speakers, obviously battling, by the tone of their lyrics.
Often Mike had thought about rap as a way of making money. Guys like Jay Z and Diddy had it all, the money, the power, major corporations that got them whatever they wanted, and hey didn't have to get shot at to get it. He considered himself a good rapper; after all it didn't really take much, it seemed to him. When he was in school, he and a couple of friends, back when he had friends, had played around with the idea of a group, even giving themselves names and recording some stuff on a computer. But it never went anywhere, not because it wasn't good, Mike had always told himself, but because he had started making money working for Corleone, and the rap thing seemed so irrelevant. Now, however, seeing those young guys doing it, he had an urge to show them up, to see if he still had some of it left in him.
He walked up to one of the ones he had met before, a seventeen-year-old kid from North Miami Beach named Antwan. He was one of the ones that Corleone was looking at for working inside the school. He had always seemed down enough, and didn't stand out much. He was only about average height, lighter skin, and blended in well, but still seemed smart enough to handle numbers and wise enough to stay on the right side of things. Mike nodded to him and gave him and the other boy from his same school that had showed some promise, Kevin, a pound, but didn't say anything more, so he could listen to the tail end of the verse one of the other guys was just finishing up. Not bad, but not great, certainly not as good as some of the stuff Mike and his boys used to write.
Mike looked up at her face and started to say something, but then saw that she wasn't looking at him, at least, not at his face. She was staring at his arm. When he looked down at it, he could see what she was interested in - a short, oval line of blood shaped like the center of a cat's eye, seeping through the sleeve of his hoodie, darkening and glistening in the low lamp light that washed over him. He stared at it too, and for a moment he saw it the way she must have been seeing it, an ugly thing that was growing uglier moment by moment.
Without saying another word, she got up, took her mug from the table, and walked away from Mike into the kitchen. Mike heard her footsteps, heard the water running as she rinsed the mug, and heard her walk behind him down the hall towards her bedroom, but he didn't dare look up. He had been stabbed once with a short kitchen knife, by a woman he had betrayed. The look in her eyes when she stabbed him had been pure hate and rage. Once, when he was out on the street with one of Corleone's sons, Benzo, supposedly learning the art of the drop, he had seen the young man, himself just eighteen, a year older than Mike, put two bullets in another man's chest for skimming money and then turn the gun on Mike and warn him of the consequences of deceit. He had even spent two whole nights in county jail with a couple of thugs who had used every moment that the guards weren't looking to pound on him, ultimately breaking two ribs and fracturing a plate in his face before he was moved to a different cell. Still, there was no one, man or woman, that Mike Barnes feared more than his grandmother, because only he had seen first hand what happened when she decided to become the agent of justice.
After he was sure, she had closed the door other room, Mike crept into his own. He shut the door and immediately took off the hoodie, peeling the wet sleeve away from his bleeding arm. He kept a first aid kit under his bed for situations like this, and now he took it our and went to work. The would didn't seem to need stitches, despite how it looked, so he knew he didn't need a doctor. Instead, he cleaned it well with alcohol, rubbed some antibacterial cream into it, and bound it tightly with gauze and an Ace bandage. In the morning, he could always check it again and see if he needed to get it looked at, but for now, he just put the money under his bed, lay back in it, and closed his eyes, the dull throbbing of his arm putting him to sleep.
********************************
The next morning Mike woke up late, ducked his grandmother, and escaped the apartment without a lecture or even a look, as far as he could tell. He took the first aid kit with him and changed his dressing in the car. So far, the arm looked fine. It felt like it had been in a vice from the tightness of the bandages, and ached and itched as well, but it had stopped bleeding, looked clean, and was getting some color back into the surrounding area. He redressed it, a little looser this time, and then put the kit in the back seat. After one more inspection of his work, Mike wondered to himself if he could have done this for a living, if he hadn't quit school. He didn't think being a doctor was in the range of possibilities, but maybe a nurse. Other people from the neighborhood had gone that route, and eventually moved away. But then the idea of being a nurse made him chuckle a little to himself. It wasn't that he thought it was too feminine, even though he did, but rather that he though about what kind of money nurses make and laughed to himself about trying to get the things that he wanted on that kind of bank. How long would it take to get the BMW he wanted, or the house in a neighborhood nicer than Corleone's. Too, long, he thought, smiled once more, and then put the car in drive and pulled out onto the street, headed in Corleone's direction.
Corleone's house was a huge six-bedroom house in Opa Locka, the biggest on its block. He had bought two houses on the corner or the block, torn them both down, and built one big one on the two plots. The rumor was that at first the city had tried to stop him, because of he zoning or the property lines or whatever, but that after a couple of his boys made the trip to city hall, all of those petty nuisances went away, and Corleone did what he wanted, like he always did. Mike never was sure whether the motivation for the change was the carrot or the stick, the bag of cash or the bullet, but he was around when the house was being built, and he knew that the foundation was already being laid while the city people were coming out to stop it. Mike pulled up in front of the two story house, the only one that tall in the neighborhood, let alone the block, and waited for one of the boys to come out and walk him inside.
The boss was busy, fortunately. While he was happy to see all of his money accounted for, he wasn't interested in the details of the drop, and since Mike didn't plan on doing any more of them, he didn't bother to mention them. Mainly, he was glad to get out of there with the five thousand dollars in his pocket in a big round roll, and no mention of what his next assignment might be. Give him some time to think about where he was headed.
When he was done with business, he decided to head over to the mall to spend some of the money. Nothing much, and nothing flashy, just maybe a new pair of sneakers, no more than a couple of hundred dollars. Mike generally saved as much money as he could, and made a point of keeping his life simple when it came to possessions. Besides trying to keep his grandmother at peace, he had a couple of other reasons. First, he had seen too many guys get caught be doing what he called "advertising the hustle." He despised the guys who drove sixty thousand dollar cars and wore at least three thousand dollars worth of jewelry at all times, and with no verifiable source of income. As far as Mike was concerned, they made themselves targets for the cops. But second, he liked having the money far more than he liked having the things. He like knowing that it was in the house nearby, being able to get at it when he wanted to. He liked keeping track of it, even had a ledger notebook that he got from Office Depot that he used to document how much he had. There were some things that he wanted to buy, but every time he did, he always found it had to part with the money, even if he really wanted the prize.
The mall was one of those places that had gone through a lot of changes since Mike had been going there. Like a lot of places it had lost whatever had made it safe and special, and had become just another part of the decay. According to his grandmother, the mall on 163rd Street used to be the one everyone went to, not just the regular shoppers, but the rich folks, and the tourists who came to Miami just for the shopping. First it was just a really nice plaza, with a central hall down the middle of two long rows of stores and restaurants. Just before Mike was born, his grandmother had told him, the owners had covered the central walkway with a beautiful domed roof that still let the sunlight filter through in the daytime, and how everybody came out to see it when it reopened. In fact, it was so classy that it attracted anchor stores like Burdines and Macy's, as well as a number of important chains and specialty boutiques and the best movie theater around at he time. But since Mike was born, the crime rate had gone up and up, and the more lucrative business owners had pulled out. The tourists didn't dare go there any more, choosing instead to shop at the newer mall in what was now the richer, and therefore better, neighborhood. Now it was little more than a flea market with a food court, and a moat of trouble surrounding it.
When Mike parked the car and approached the mall entrance, there were five teenaged boys standing around outside and listening to music through an iPad attached to some portable speakers. Most of them were just knuckleheads skipping school, just like Mike would have been about five years ago, but two of them were guys Mike recognized, ones that he knew Corleone had noticed and was getting ready to groom for the business. As he got nearer, he could hear a couple of them rapping over the instrumental coming out of the speakers, obviously battling, by the tone of their lyrics.
Often Mike had thought about rap as a way of making money. Guys like Jay Z and Diddy had it all, the money, the power, major corporations that got them whatever they wanted, and hey didn't have to get shot at to get it. He considered himself a good rapper; after all it didn't really take much, it seemed to him. When he was in school, he and a couple of friends, back when he had friends, had played around with the idea of a group, even giving themselves names and recording some stuff on a computer. But it never went anywhere, not because it wasn't good, Mike had always told himself, but because he had started making money working for Corleone, and the rap thing seemed so irrelevant. Now, however, seeing those young guys doing it, he had an urge to show them up, to see if he still had some of it left in him.
He walked up to one of the ones he had met before, a seventeen-year-old kid from North Miami Beach named Antwan. He was one of the ones that Corleone was looking at for working inside the school. He had always seemed down enough, and didn't stand out much. He was only about average height, lighter skin, and blended in well, but still seemed smart enough to handle numbers and wise enough to stay on the right side of things. Mike nodded to him and gave him and the other boy from his same school that had showed some promise, Kevin, a pound, but didn't say anything more, so he could listen to the tail end of the verse one of the other guys was just finishing up. Not bad, but not great, certainly not as good as some of the stuff Mike and his boys used to write.
Nanowrimo - Part 3
He opened the door as quietly as he could, even though the door always scraped against the jamb as it opened. To minimize the sound, he pulled hard on the doorknob, up and to the right as he opened it, and still there was a slight scratching sound and a tiny pop when the door swung free of its frame. He stuck his head through the opening, because the light over the doorway would spill into the room, and wake his grandmother if she were sleeping on the couch. There was a green hoodie with a white skull on the back hanging on a hook by the door, so he gently took it down and put it on outside, to cover his bloody arm.
He stepped through the doorway, closing the door carefully and quietly, pressing it in slowly enough to avoid the scraping. Once inside, Mike craned his neck around towards the kitchen and eating area to the left, in case his grandmother might be in there, getting a midnight snack. After peering into the darkness and seeing no one, he crept silently through the small living room, pressed close to the wall. The feel of the cold wall to his back, amid the hot night air, reminded him of one or two houses that he had been in, creeping around this same way. He made his way noiselessly towards the doorless arch the led to the two bedrooms in this apartment and smile at his own stealthiness.
Just then, a light flashed on from behind him, casting his startled, cringing shadow across the floor in front of him. He turned slowly, and in the dim light, he saw his grandmother, her slight frame hunched over a steaming mug resting on a magazine on the coffee table.
"Another late night, huh, Mike." Her raspy voice filled the dim, silent room.
Mike turned slowly with what he hoped was a nonchalant look on his face and a normal-looking arm and pant leg. "Not really. What time is it?" he said.
Beverly Barnes slowly sipped her to tea from the black ceramic mug. She set the mug right back into the ring it had left in the magazine. "Late. After midnight. Almost one. Only people up this hour is the devil and his own."
Mike tried to give that smile that had gotten him out of so many beatings as a child, but his grandmother just stared through it and blew over he mug of tea.
"Well, I certainly ain't the devil," Mike said.
Grandma Bev slowly picked up the mug and sipped the tea again, letting it heat her tired throat before setting it back down again. "No." She said, "No, you're not."
She looked into Mike's eyes, and Mike looked back as long as he dared, until he felt he couldn't hold her gaze any longer, without giving something away. His eyes found some spot on the floor, some tear or bump in the carpet to scrutinize. "Well," he said, stretching and yawning with real fatigue, "I guess I'm going ..."
"Sit down."
Mike looked at his grandmother, to see if she was serious, but also partly to see if it was really her. There were times when, despite her frail body and thin, rough voice, she became so powerful and so intimidating, not the grandmother who baked for him and sneaked him candy when his mother was alive, but the grandmother who forced him to labor through math problems and commanded him to eat vegetables after she was dead. Ever since the night his mother died, sometimes he could swear that there was a force in this old woman, something separate from her but looking through her eyes and living through her body, a force that he didn't understand, but always recognized, and feared. This was one of those times.
Mike sat down in the armchair across from his grandmother.
"Now then," she began, stirring her tea with her spoon, making clinking noises like the sound of chains rattling while she talked. "I won't ask you where you've been, because I don't want to hear you lie. So let me just ask you something else." She drew one long sip of the hot tea, letting it swish in her mouth before swallowing it. "What do you think is out there for you? You think someone's waiting for you to come along and give you a million bucks? And you don't have to give up anything for it if they do?"
Mike shifted his weight in the armchair, the paper-wrapped package pressed up against he side of his lower leg, making it sweat right through the brown paper so that he could feel he slickness of the plastic underneath. The pain in his arm surged again, and he resisted the urge to touch it. "I'm not doing anything so bad, Mama. Just doing the only thing I can. Just trying to make money, for us." He felt exposed. The one lamp giving any light seemed aimed directly at him. He sat bathed in soft light while his grandmother peered at him from behind darkness. He wanted to tend to is arm, but didn't dare move it now.
Grandma Bev blew over the tea again. The blackness of the mug and the blackness of the liquid inside and the blackness of her hands all blended together in the darkened room. She looked like a prophet or a judge getting ready to make a declaration. As she bent over the mug to blow into it, her own eyes reflected back at her in the rippling tea.
"I wonder if that man who killed your mother said those kinds of things too. I wonder if he was just doing what he could, too." Grandma Bev said, taking another sip of tea, but staring right into Mike's eyes as she did.
Mike's brow screwed up to about half its size, and his cheeks flushed hot and then cold. He looked again at that bubble in the old, worn, brown carpet, and he wondered how much force it would take to smash it flat again.
Beverly placed the mug back perfectly into the growing black ring on the magazine again, then sat back and closed her eyes. "Well," she said, "no use wondering about him. He's dead now anyway."
Mike sat silently and let the words sink in to his soul. He had only been five, and there was so much about that night that he couldn't remember, didn't want to remember, but then so much that stuck with him. It woke him up from his sleep and kept him from coming home at night. When he had been going to school, it would stand beside him, waiting for the perfect moment to tell him that he was very different from the other kids. Even at five, it hadn't been the first time he had seen a gun, certainly not the first time he had heard one fired, but it was the first time he had seen someone shoot at another human being. It was almost instantaneous, the report of the gun and his mother's body falling to the floor. Her beautiful brown face with its wide eyes and soft skin, so smooth to a little boy's touch that he would climb out of bed at night to sleep near her and touch her cheek, that face ran with blood and flesh. And then another shot.
"I've done some very difficult things for you, Michael, and you know it."
Mike looked up at her, into her strong, deep, brown eyes, and nodded his head before looking down again.
"I've made choices and sacrifices that have dug trenches in my soul. And that was my choice." She downed the last of her tea without even blowing on it; it had lost so much of its heat by now. "My choice. But just like these men you run around with, these men you do work for ..." Mike shifted in his chair and opened his mouth to speak, but his grandmother just looked to the side and waved her hand in his direction. "Just like these men, I expect full value for my investment. I want what's coming to me. And I figure that my investment earns me the rights to your soul. I own it. And I'm going to see it saved even if it kills me."
He stepped through the doorway, closing the door carefully and quietly, pressing it in slowly enough to avoid the scraping. Once inside, Mike craned his neck around towards the kitchen and eating area to the left, in case his grandmother might be in there, getting a midnight snack. After peering into the darkness and seeing no one, he crept silently through the small living room, pressed close to the wall. The feel of the cold wall to his back, amid the hot night air, reminded him of one or two houses that he had been in, creeping around this same way. He made his way noiselessly towards the doorless arch the led to the two bedrooms in this apartment and smile at his own stealthiness.
Just then, a light flashed on from behind him, casting his startled, cringing shadow across the floor in front of him. He turned slowly, and in the dim light, he saw his grandmother, her slight frame hunched over a steaming mug resting on a magazine on the coffee table.
"Another late night, huh, Mike." Her raspy voice filled the dim, silent room.
Mike turned slowly with what he hoped was a nonchalant look on his face and a normal-looking arm and pant leg. "Not really. What time is it?" he said.
Beverly Barnes slowly sipped her to tea from the black ceramic mug. She set the mug right back into the ring it had left in the magazine. "Late. After midnight. Almost one. Only people up this hour is the devil and his own."
Mike tried to give that smile that had gotten him out of so many beatings as a child, but his grandmother just stared through it and blew over he mug of tea.
"Well, I certainly ain't the devil," Mike said.
Grandma Bev slowly picked up the mug and sipped the tea again, letting it heat her tired throat before setting it back down again. "No." She said, "No, you're not."
She looked into Mike's eyes, and Mike looked back as long as he dared, until he felt he couldn't hold her gaze any longer, without giving something away. His eyes found some spot on the floor, some tear or bump in the carpet to scrutinize. "Well," he said, stretching and yawning with real fatigue, "I guess I'm going ..."
"Sit down."
Mike looked at his grandmother, to see if she was serious, but also partly to see if it was really her. There were times when, despite her frail body and thin, rough voice, she became so powerful and so intimidating, not the grandmother who baked for him and sneaked him candy when his mother was alive, but the grandmother who forced him to labor through math problems and commanded him to eat vegetables after she was dead. Ever since the night his mother died, sometimes he could swear that there was a force in this old woman, something separate from her but looking through her eyes and living through her body, a force that he didn't understand, but always recognized, and feared. This was one of those times.
Mike sat down in the armchair across from his grandmother.
"Now then," she began, stirring her tea with her spoon, making clinking noises like the sound of chains rattling while she talked. "I won't ask you where you've been, because I don't want to hear you lie. So let me just ask you something else." She drew one long sip of the hot tea, letting it swish in her mouth before swallowing it. "What do you think is out there for you? You think someone's waiting for you to come along and give you a million bucks? And you don't have to give up anything for it if they do?"
Mike shifted his weight in the armchair, the paper-wrapped package pressed up against he side of his lower leg, making it sweat right through the brown paper so that he could feel he slickness of the plastic underneath. The pain in his arm surged again, and he resisted the urge to touch it. "I'm not doing anything so bad, Mama. Just doing the only thing I can. Just trying to make money, for us." He felt exposed. The one lamp giving any light seemed aimed directly at him. He sat bathed in soft light while his grandmother peered at him from behind darkness. He wanted to tend to is arm, but didn't dare move it now.
Grandma Bev blew over the tea again. The blackness of the mug and the blackness of the liquid inside and the blackness of her hands all blended together in the darkened room. She looked like a prophet or a judge getting ready to make a declaration. As she bent over the mug to blow into it, her own eyes reflected back at her in the rippling tea.
"I wonder if that man who killed your mother said those kinds of things too. I wonder if he was just doing what he could, too." Grandma Bev said, taking another sip of tea, but staring right into Mike's eyes as she did.
Mike's brow screwed up to about half its size, and his cheeks flushed hot and then cold. He looked again at that bubble in the old, worn, brown carpet, and he wondered how much force it would take to smash it flat again.
Beverly placed the mug back perfectly into the growing black ring on the magazine again, then sat back and closed her eyes. "Well," she said, "no use wondering about him. He's dead now anyway."
Mike sat silently and let the words sink in to his soul. He had only been five, and there was so much about that night that he couldn't remember, didn't want to remember, but then so much that stuck with him. It woke him up from his sleep and kept him from coming home at night. When he had been going to school, it would stand beside him, waiting for the perfect moment to tell him that he was very different from the other kids. Even at five, it hadn't been the first time he had seen a gun, certainly not the first time he had heard one fired, but it was the first time he had seen someone shoot at another human being. It was almost instantaneous, the report of the gun and his mother's body falling to the floor. Her beautiful brown face with its wide eyes and soft skin, so smooth to a little boy's touch that he would climb out of bed at night to sleep near her and touch her cheek, that face ran with blood and flesh. And then another shot.
"I've done some very difficult things for you, Michael, and you know it."
Mike looked up at her, into her strong, deep, brown eyes, and nodded his head before looking down again.
"I've made choices and sacrifices that have dug trenches in my soul. And that was my choice." She downed the last of her tea without even blowing on it; it had lost so much of its heat by now. "My choice. But just like these men you run around with, these men you do work for ..." Mike shifted in his chair and opened his mouth to speak, but his grandmother just looked to the side and waved her hand in his direction. "Just like these men, I expect full value for my investment. I want what's coming to me. And I figure that my investment earns me the rights to your soul. I own it. And I'm going to see it saved even if it kills me."
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
Editor's Note
Sorry for the confusion at the end of today's post, and there is more of it waiting in the wings. I decided the first part needs more action and tension, so I'm going to add some gun play. Even though I haven't done any rewrites yet, I'm writing the rest of his section with the understanding that Mike sustained a bad flesh wound in the first scene. And now, back to our story.
Nanowrimo - Day 2
Once he pulled up at his grandmother's apartment down the street and shut off the car, he took the package off the passenger's seat and stuffed it back into his pants leg. When he sat up again, he looked all around to see if anyone was looking, maybe watching him come up, but the street was empty. He stepped out of the Impala, locked it up, and walked as normally as he could to the steps leading to his place. The stairs were concrete, chipped away by long use and misuse, with a couple of bullet marks like moon craters from about a year ago, the last time there was real trouble here. Since then, there had been a stabbing and several drug raids, but nothing so serious. Mike wondered how his grandmother felt about these steps, and whether they were the reason she stayed inside so much these days. She said it was the neighborhood, too many thugs and drug dealers. She said that even in her day, the bad men weren't so bad that an old lady had to worry about being robbed or raped, but that these days, anything was possible. Ever since that woman and her son got beaten and raped by ten teenagers in West Palm Beach in 2007, Grandma Bev had stayed home more and more, the lights low and the doors locked. When that story first broke the news four years ago, she would even try to barricade the door, but the heaviest thing she could move by herself was her rocking chair, and that did almost nothing. She was only sixty-five years old, but looked much older, having been sick with so many things, including liver cancer, which she had survived going on five years. She always smiled and tried to say encouraging things, quoting scripture and other platitudes, but Mike new she was scared, tired, and worried. When she stopped going to church and started staying in to watch service on the television instead, he knew she was over the edge.
He also knew she would want to die if she found out some of the things he was into, that she would think he had become just like those boys in West Palm Beach. How could he explain to her that he was just trying to make a way for himself? To get ahead and be able to have the things that none of his family had ever had? He was doing all of is as much for her as for himself anyway. He had decided early on to to be like some of these other guys, flashy and show-off, buying expensive cars that stuck out in this neighborhood like neon signs saying 'criminal.' No wonder they always got caught. No, he would do it right, keep his head low, avoid suspicion, and the one day just disappear. He already had almost forty-thousand under the floorboards under his bed, and this night's take would make it almost forty-five. Sometimes he felt the need to look at it, take it out, feel it, count it, touch as much of it at once as he could. It was almost the same feeling he had when he wanted a woman, maybe even stronger. He smiled slyly as he turned on he second floor landing and start up to the third floor, wondering if that was the real reason he refused to put it in the bank, even in a safe deposit box, because he wanted it close by, to get his fingers on it.
He reached the last stair to the third floor, turned towards apartment 302, and stopped for a moment. He checked the window to see if any lights were on, if his grandmother was sleeping or not. He knelt down one more time to reposition the package. Unable to resist the urge to peek one more time, he slipped his fingers in between the folds of the bag and looked across the single-file stack of strapped hundreds wrapped in plastic. The was $50,000 there, and five grand of it was his. All he had to do was take the rest to Corleone in the morning and he was done with this business. First he had to get past his grandmother and her questions.
He opened the door as quietly as he could, even though the door always scraped against the jamb as it opened. To minimize the sound, he pulled hard on the doorknob, up and to the right, as he opened it, and still there was a slight scratching sound and a tiny pop when the door swung free of its frame. He stuck his head through the opening, because the light over the doorway would spill into the room, and wake his grandmother if she were sleeping on the couch. There was a hoodie hanging on a hook by the door, so he gently took it down and put it on outside, to cover his bloody arm.
He also knew she would want to die if she found out some of the things he was into, that she would think he had become just like those boys in West Palm Beach. How could he explain to her that he was just trying to make a way for himself? To get ahead and be able to have the things that none of his family had ever had? He was doing all of is as much for her as for himself anyway. He had decided early on to to be like some of these other guys, flashy and show-off, buying expensive cars that stuck out in this neighborhood like neon signs saying 'criminal.' No wonder they always got caught. No, he would do it right, keep his head low, avoid suspicion, and the one day just disappear. He already had almost forty-thousand under the floorboards under his bed, and this night's take would make it almost forty-five. Sometimes he felt the need to look at it, take it out, feel it, count it, touch as much of it at once as he could. It was almost the same feeling he had when he wanted a woman, maybe even stronger. He smiled slyly as he turned on he second floor landing and start up to the third floor, wondering if that was the real reason he refused to put it in the bank, even in a safe deposit box, because he wanted it close by, to get his fingers on it.
He reached the last stair to the third floor, turned towards apartment 302, and stopped for a moment. He checked the window to see if any lights were on, if his grandmother was sleeping or not. He knelt down one more time to reposition the package. Unable to resist the urge to peek one more time, he slipped his fingers in between the folds of the bag and looked across the single-file stack of strapped hundreds wrapped in plastic. The was $50,000 there, and five grand of it was his. All he had to do was take the rest to Corleone in the morning and he was done with this business. First he had to get past his grandmother and her questions.
He opened the door as quietly as he could, even though the door always scraped against the jamb as it opened. To minimize the sound, he pulled hard on the doorknob, up and to the right, as he opened it, and still there was a slight scratching sound and a tiny pop when the door swung free of its frame. He stuck his head through the opening, because the light over the doorway would spill into the room, and wake his grandmother if she were sleeping on the couch. There was a hoodie hanging on a hook by the door, so he gently took it down and put it on outside, to cover his bloody arm.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Hard as Hell, a novel by Sleep Deprived Single Father, part 1
The night air was hot, unseasonably hot, even for Miami, especially given that it was nearly the end of October, and approaching midnight as well. Mike Barnes leaned up against an electrical pole that leaned back against him on the side of 62 Street just outside of Drew Park. Through the white a-shirt he wore, he could feel every rut and splinter in the pole as he shifted his weight, and he grimaced only slightly. Once in a while a car would pass by, but not the car he was waiting for, and not a cop car, so Mike looked straight ahead as if he didn't see them.
The park was deserted, except for a bum sleeping in the cradle of the run-down slide, his feet dangling towards the ground like a child who fell asleep at play. Mike glanced over his shoulder at him from time to time, just to keep him on the radar, knowing that sometimes things were not as they appear, and that your enemies often chose to blend in with the sickness of the city to get into killing distance. Ever since Mike had been a kid, the park had always looked like this, like a mockery of a child's playground, with danger and despair all over it. In fact, he remembered when the city had come in and fixed the swings and slide and painted most of the buildings. That was less than two years ago, and now it looked worse than before. Not one fixture was whole, not one wall undefiled, not one spot on the ground that could produce life in the form of grass, flower, or bush, but the weeds choked out all and imposed their ugly existence over everything else. Mike didn't mind so much, though; at least it was familiar, and his own.
Still, he believed that it had once been a cleaner, nicer place, like his grandmother always told him, before everybody ruined it. The park was spacious, at least. Someone had chose this large plot for its wide expanse, despite all of the apartment buildings surrounding it, or perhaps because of them. When they were new, the swing sets must have been alive with fifteen or more kids, Mike pictured, because there were so many dual sets of screws along the rusted top beam. Yes, it must have been fun jumping off into the newly planted grass from those swings, but like so many things in Liberty City, it had given in to the creeping corruption that had moved in and taken root so deeply that it killed off any resistance before it grew.
Mike was not afraid to be out that late; after all, he was no punk. Still, he wanted this business done and to be back home again. He had promised to do this extra drop for Corleone because the money was so good, but here, in the hot dark, with a full kilo of uncut cocaine stuffed into his loose left pant leg, and a contact who was fifteen minutes late, it didn't seem worth it. It seemed like a setup.
A car turned the corner on the west end of the block, a black Buick Regal with factory rims and dark tinted windows, clearly unmarked police. It turned neatly into the lane nearest Mike and sidled toward him, making almost no noise. Mike looked away, cursing himself for taking this job, comparing the relative worth of five thousand dollars to a year of his life as a free man. He tried to look as casual as he could, standing alone outside a dilapidated park on a hot night at 11:48 with a bulge in his pant leg the size of a phone book.
The car sowed even more as it approached him, but the tinted windows stayed up, which Mike hoped was a good sign. He turned his back slightly to the road, enough so that the passenger of the car couldn't get a good look at his face, but not so much that he couldn't see what the car was doing in the periphery. As he turned, the car slowed down to a crawl. It stopped right beside him.
Experience had taught him that when you aren't sure what to do next, keep doing what you're doing and don't make any sudden changes, so he stayed in the same position with his hands down by his ankles until the passenger got out of the car and stepped up beside him.
"You Mike?" the stranger said, looking down on him with a smirk on his face.
Mike slowly rose to his feet, faced the man, and sized him up. The guy was about an inch or two shorter than him, not much, but broader in the shoulders and looked as if he could handle himself. He stood with his knees loose and his hands free at his sides. His thick brown hair was about shoulder length and must have had about a bottle of that stuff that white guys used to make it look as if they don't care how their hair looks. He had a neatly shaved goatee and a diamond earring in his left ear, trying to cover up the fact that he was a cop. If it wasn't obvious from all that, the blazer he wore with his jeans in almost ninety degree weather was a dead giveaway.
"Who's asking?" he said, looking into the man's eyes with a cold stare.
"Corleone said to meet you here to complete a transaction." The guy looked Mike over and sucked his teeth. "Look, bro, I don't have all night" he said, "You're Corleone's boy."
"And you're late." Mike stared hard at the guy. He might be a cop, but a dirty cop, and you could get leverage on those. Of course if he wasn't a dirty cop, then Mike knew his night was about to get a lot longer and a lot hotter. "Another ten minutes and the price would have gone up."
"Well, I guess it's good that I came when I did." the man went into his coat pocket with his right hand and Mike's eyes widened. His nose flared as he drew in a deep, even breath and reached behind his back for the Glock nine millimeter stuffed into his waistband under the tail of his sweaty undershirt. The man smiled and drew out a Black and Mild cigarette and a lighter. "Jumpy?" he said, bringing the small black cigar to his lips and lighting it. After drawing in his first puff, he chuckled and blew out the smoke.
Mike kept his hand near his gun. "Let's get this done Crockett," he said, "Open your car door and get the money ready."
The guy opened the passenger side of the car and then walked around to the trunk. Mike kneeled down in the crook of the door, as if he were tying his shoe, and pulled the brick of cocaine out of his pant leg and slid it under the seat of the car. He kept his eye on the driver the whole time, but the guy just stared ahead the whole time. This guy was no cop, but he didn't seem too happy about being here either.
The contact returned to Mike's side with the money, wrapped in plastic and shoved into a brown paper grocery bag. He handed it to Mike, who was still on the floor, and Mike opened it briefly to make sure it looked right, then shoved it into the pant leg where the brick had come from before. He pulled the hem down over it, rolled it under, shifted the money in there to secure it, and then stood slowly up.
This was it. The moment where he either it busted or closed the deal. He knew that if this cop took him in, he would be out tonight anyway, Corleone would definitely get him out. Still, the one thing Mike knew about dirty cops was that you couldn't trust them to do the smart thing or even the wrong thing. Sometimes they just did whatever they felt like doing, and that was often unpredictable.
Mike stepped back away from the Buick, nodded his sincere farewell to his contact, and waited for him to get back in the car. The guy smiled at Mike again in a way he didn't like, but then lowered himself into the car, keeping his twinkling blue eyes on Mike he whole time. He closed the door and put down the window at the same time.
"Next time, bro." the guy said, still smiling.
Mike nodded and returned his own confident smile. "Watch out for cops on the way back with that," he said, "not that you'd have any problems there any way."
As soon as the door closed, the car started moving, picking up fast with a slight squall of tires and spray of sand and stone. Mike watched them turn the corner before moving on down the street, toward the corner where his own car was parked.
Suddenly, a wave of fear and panic swept through him, like a dizzy spell after standing up too quick. He looked back over his shoulder, almost certain that he had done something wrong, something stupid, and left himself open, but no one was there. He walked even faster, favoring the left leg with its burden, ending up with a sort of limp. When he reached the car, he practically jumped inside, snatching the package out of his pants and tossing it on the seat beside him.
"That's the last time," he said to himself. "I don't mind carrying a few hits or taking a few orders, but this is crazy. I ain't going to prison for his money."
He nodded to himself as he started the engine and pulled onto the street from off the grass and turned up the DMX on the radio. Definitely the last time.
Then he looked over at the package wrapped in brown paper on the seat beside him. Stopping at a red light, he reached over and peeked into the bag again. There was a whole lot of money in that bag, and five thousand of it was his just for making the exchange. His money. He knew he couldn't stop, but he didn't want to run up against a jail cell or a bullet like so many before him. The call of that money was overwhelming, as if he could smell it, feel it drawing him in, but here had to be some other way. All he knew was that he wanted more, much more, and even this petty few thousand at a time wasn't going to get him to the place he wanted to be soon enough. He wanted millions and millions, and didn't want to have to make deals with dirty cops outside of run-down parks to get it, or risk a life behind bars to have it.
The park was deserted, except for a bum sleeping in the cradle of the run-down slide, his feet dangling towards the ground like a child who fell asleep at play. Mike glanced over his shoulder at him from time to time, just to keep him on the radar, knowing that sometimes things were not as they appear, and that your enemies often chose to blend in with the sickness of the city to get into killing distance. Ever since Mike had been a kid, the park had always looked like this, like a mockery of a child's playground, with danger and despair all over it. In fact, he remembered when the city had come in and fixed the swings and slide and painted most of the buildings. That was less than two years ago, and now it looked worse than before. Not one fixture was whole, not one wall undefiled, not one spot on the ground that could produce life in the form of grass, flower, or bush, but the weeds choked out all and imposed their ugly existence over everything else. Mike didn't mind so much, though; at least it was familiar, and his own.
Still, he believed that it had once been a cleaner, nicer place, like his grandmother always told him, before everybody ruined it. The park was spacious, at least. Someone had chose this large plot for its wide expanse, despite all of the apartment buildings surrounding it, or perhaps because of them. When they were new, the swing sets must have been alive with fifteen or more kids, Mike pictured, because there were so many dual sets of screws along the rusted top beam. Yes, it must have been fun jumping off into the newly planted grass from those swings, but like so many things in Liberty City, it had given in to the creeping corruption that had moved in and taken root so deeply that it killed off any resistance before it grew.
Mike was not afraid to be out that late; after all, he was no punk. Still, he wanted this business done and to be back home again. He had promised to do this extra drop for Corleone because the money was so good, but here, in the hot dark, with a full kilo of uncut cocaine stuffed into his loose left pant leg, and a contact who was fifteen minutes late, it didn't seem worth it. It seemed like a setup.
A car turned the corner on the west end of the block, a black Buick Regal with factory rims and dark tinted windows, clearly unmarked police. It turned neatly into the lane nearest Mike and sidled toward him, making almost no noise. Mike looked away, cursing himself for taking this job, comparing the relative worth of five thousand dollars to a year of his life as a free man. He tried to look as casual as he could, standing alone outside a dilapidated park on a hot night at 11:48 with a bulge in his pant leg the size of a phone book.
The car sowed even more as it approached him, but the tinted windows stayed up, which Mike hoped was a good sign. He turned his back slightly to the road, enough so that the passenger of the car couldn't get a good look at his face, but not so much that he couldn't see what the car was doing in the periphery. As he turned, the car slowed down to a crawl. It stopped right beside him.
Experience had taught him that when you aren't sure what to do next, keep doing what you're doing and don't make any sudden changes, so he stayed in the same position with his hands down by his ankles until the passenger got out of the car and stepped up beside him.
"You Mike?" the stranger said, looking down on him with a smirk on his face.
Mike slowly rose to his feet, faced the man, and sized him up. The guy was about an inch or two shorter than him, not much, but broader in the shoulders and looked as if he could handle himself. He stood with his knees loose and his hands free at his sides. His thick brown hair was about shoulder length and must have had about a bottle of that stuff that white guys used to make it look as if they don't care how their hair looks. He had a neatly shaved goatee and a diamond earring in his left ear, trying to cover up the fact that he was a cop. If it wasn't obvious from all that, the blazer he wore with his jeans in almost ninety degree weather was a dead giveaway.
"Who's asking?" he said, looking into the man's eyes with a cold stare.
"Corleone said to meet you here to complete a transaction." The guy looked Mike over and sucked his teeth. "Look, bro, I don't have all night" he said, "You're Corleone's boy."
"And you're late." Mike stared hard at the guy. He might be a cop, but a dirty cop, and you could get leverage on those. Of course if he wasn't a dirty cop, then Mike knew his night was about to get a lot longer and a lot hotter. "Another ten minutes and the price would have gone up."
"Well, I guess it's good that I came when I did." the man went into his coat pocket with his right hand and Mike's eyes widened. His nose flared as he drew in a deep, even breath and reached behind his back for the Glock nine millimeter stuffed into his waistband under the tail of his sweaty undershirt. The man smiled and drew out a Black and Mild cigarette and a lighter. "Jumpy?" he said, bringing the small black cigar to his lips and lighting it. After drawing in his first puff, he chuckled and blew out the smoke.
Mike kept his hand near his gun. "Let's get this done Crockett," he said, "Open your car door and get the money ready."
The guy opened the passenger side of the car and then walked around to the trunk. Mike kneeled down in the crook of the door, as if he were tying his shoe, and pulled the brick of cocaine out of his pant leg and slid it under the seat of the car. He kept his eye on the driver the whole time, but the guy just stared ahead the whole time. This guy was no cop, but he didn't seem too happy about being here either.
The contact returned to Mike's side with the money, wrapped in plastic and shoved into a brown paper grocery bag. He handed it to Mike, who was still on the floor, and Mike opened it briefly to make sure it looked right, then shoved it into the pant leg where the brick had come from before. He pulled the hem down over it, rolled it under, shifted the money in there to secure it, and then stood slowly up.
This was it. The moment where he either it busted or closed the deal. He knew that if this cop took him in, he would be out tonight anyway, Corleone would definitely get him out. Still, the one thing Mike knew about dirty cops was that you couldn't trust them to do the smart thing or even the wrong thing. Sometimes they just did whatever they felt like doing, and that was often unpredictable.
Mike stepped back away from the Buick, nodded his sincere farewell to his contact, and waited for him to get back in the car. The guy smiled at Mike again in a way he didn't like, but then lowered himself into the car, keeping his twinkling blue eyes on Mike he whole time. He closed the door and put down the window at the same time.
"Next time, bro." the guy said, still smiling.
Mike nodded and returned his own confident smile. "Watch out for cops on the way back with that," he said, "not that you'd have any problems there any way."
As soon as the door closed, the car started moving, picking up fast with a slight squall of tires and spray of sand and stone. Mike watched them turn the corner before moving on down the street, toward the corner where his own car was parked.
Suddenly, a wave of fear and panic swept through him, like a dizzy spell after standing up too quick. He looked back over his shoulder, almost certain that he had done something wrong, something stupid, and left himself open, but no one was there. He walked even faster, favoring the left leg with its burden, ending up with a sort of limp. When he reached the car, he practically jumped inside, snatching the package out of his pants and tossing it on the seat beside him.
"That's the last time," he said to himself. "I don't mind carrying a few hits or taking a few orders, but this is crazy. I ain't going to prison for his money."
He nodded to himself as he started the engine and pulled onto the street from off the grass and turned up the DMX on the radio. Definitely the last time.
Then he looked over at the package wrapped in brown paper on the seat beside him. Stopping at a red light, he reached over and peeked into the bag again. There was a whole lot of money in that bag, and five thousand of it was his just for making the exchange. His money. He knew he couldn't stop, but he didn't want to run up against a jail cell or a bullet like so many before him. The call of that money was overwhelming, as if he could smell it, feel it drawing him in, but here had to be some other way. All he knew was that he wanted more, much more, and even this petty few thousand at a time wasn't going to get him to the place he wanted to be soon enough. He wanted millions and millions, and didn't want to have to make deals with dirty cops outside of run-down parks to get it, or risk a life behind bars to have it.
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