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I Have Sinned Page 3
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“Hey, E,” said Trey, “you near done?”
“Nearly.”
“Only, you know them animal shows you like?”
“Yeah. Animal P… Planet is my jam!”
“Well, one is about to kick off right in front of your very eyes.” Trey felt the air stop moving as Bianca leaned over, curious to see what he was looking at. “You know how animals limping out on the African plains are in for a world of hurt?”
“Yeah,” said Emilio.
“Well, we got one. Least the Coopersville equivalent.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Bianca. “I can’t see.”
Trey held out the binoculars to her and pointed. “Look. There’s some old white dude walking down Bleacher and – oh damn! He’s reading a map!”
“For real?” said Bianca.
“Yeah, and the wildlife has just noticed.”
Chapter Three
Marcus sat on the stoop and watched, a wide smile on his lips. He heard the door behind him open as Sergio stepped out.
“OK,” said Sergio, all business, “I got it. Let’s go.”
“Hold up, brother, hold up. Take a look at this.”
Sergio looked across to where Marcus was pointing. An old white guy with a thick beard was standing in front of the alley beside Wong’s, holding a fold-out map in his hands. “Damn, ese, that old white dude looks a long way from home.”
Marcus clapped his hands together. “I know, right? I feel like it’d be our civic duty to help him out.”
Sergio shook his head. “Nah, come on, homie, we gotta get this done. You know how Santana feels about people going off schedule.”
Marcus waved his hand dismissively. “Fuck that, off schedule. We’re independent contractors. I ain’t passing up easy green. This’ll be done in like five minutes. We can get about his business once we’ve handled ours.”
“C’mon, man, let’s just do what Santana wants. You know how he gets.”
Marcus was getting annoyed now. “You too much of a pussy. I’ll do it myself. Santana got where he is by taking what’s his – I’m just doing the same.”
Marcus stood up and strode across the street. Sergio watched him go, then felt the weight of the packages he held in his coat pockets. There was nothing about this that he liked. Marcus stopped in the middle of the street and looked back at him over his shoulder. Sergio scrubbed at his goatee, and then, with a sigh, he followed Marcus across the street.
“Excuse me, sir, are you lost?”
The man looked at Marcus over the map and gave him a broad smile. “To be honest with ye, I am. ’Tis embarrassing. I found the church fine, but then I must’ve been distracted when I came out as I seem to be on the wrong street now.”
“Ahhh.” Butter wouldn’t have melted in Marcus’s mouth. “No problem, sir, we’ll get you where you need to go.”
“Well, that’s very kind of ye, lads. Much appreciated.”
“No problem at all, sir,” said Marcus, winking at Sergio as he spoke in his most polite voice. “Happy to be of service, although I’m afraid there is a charge for our directional assistance on this fine winter’s day.”
The man looked between the two of them. “Ah right, I was afraid of that.”
Marcus nodded.
“Would the charge by any chance be all the money I’ve got on me?”
Marcus nodded again.
“And your phone,” added Sergio.
“Yeah, your phone too.”
The man slipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out a phone of a type Marcus didn’t recognise. “This phone? Believe me, lads, you don’t want this phone. It doesn’t have maps or email or any of that. Ye can’t even get the scores on it. Plus – fair warning – it’s the property of a shadowy organisation within the American government and they will probably take a very dim view of you half-inching it.”
“Half what?” said Sergio.
“Half-inching,” repeated the man. “Pinching. As in nicking, stealing, absconding with. Sorry, I don’t speak the local variation on the lingo. Speaking of cultural misunderstandings – can I just clarify, you are definitely mugging me?”
Marcus laughed. “Check this motherfucker out. You English dudes are funny.”
The smile fell from the man’s face. “English?” He shook his head. “That’s one.”
“You threatening me, old man?” Marcus took a step closer. “This can go one of two ways. Do you want the hard way?”
This was greeted with a disconcerting grin from the man, who looked over Marcus’s shoulder, directly at Sergio. Now that he saw him straight on, there was something weird about the dude’s eyes. They didn’t look in the same direction. Come to that, he seemed way too happy about things. Maybe he’d escaped from some institution or something?
“Well, seeing as you’re offering – I’ll take the hard way.” He turned and nodded towards the alley they were standing in front of. “Shall we take this somewhere a bit more private? Don’t want to unduly upset the locals.”
Without waiting for an answer, the man turned and walked into the alley, folding the map as he went. Suddenly, this all felt very wrong to Sergio, in a way he couldn’t give voice to. “Hey, Marcus, c’mon. We should…”
Marcus turned around. “What? You scared of some English dude?”
“We should…”
Marcus turned and followed the man down the alley. Sergio was seriously beginning to regret agreeing to team up with him.
The man stood calmly with his back to a dumpster as they approached him. The alley was a dead end. He was trapped, at least in theory. In reality, he was calmly pulling a thermos flask from his pocket and unscrewing the cup from the top.
“Does anybody mind if I finish me soup before we get down to business?”
Marcus laughed. “Man, this dude is too fucking funny. He got mad jokes.”
Sergio watched as he calmly poured thick green liquid into the plastic cup.
“I tell ye, lads, I’m a demon for the soup these days. I noticed I was putting on a bit of weight, what with eating in restaurants over here all the time. I mean seriously, boys, ’tis a fine country you’ve got here, but two words: portion control. I’m amazed any of ye can fit through a door. So anyway, my friend Cheryl – lovely girl – she got me this soup maker for Christmas. I buy a load of veg that’s on the turn – end of the day you can get it fierce cheap, and I’m on a budget since the previously mentioned shadowy organisation cut off my allowance for refusing to give updates – then throw in a bit of stock, some water and voila! Twenty minutes later – soup. Thermos keeps it warm all day too.”
The man blew on his cup and then drained it in one before calmly screwing it back onto the top of the thermos flask.
Marcus cracked his knuckles. “Give us your money, that phone and your coat, and we’ll let you keep your motherfucking soup.”
The man smacked his lips. “I’ve not got much money, the phone doesn’t actually belong to me and the coat… I’m afraid the coat has tremendous sentimental value.” He rolled his head around his neck. “My lady gave it to me, you see.”
“Well,” said Marcus, “you gonna have to ask her to buy your ass a new one. I don’t even want it, I just don’t want you to have it.”
“That’s two. I can’t ask her to do that as, y’see, I’ve not seen her for twenty years. ’Tis a long story.”
“Bitch bought you a shitty coat and then left you. Pretty short story.”
The man’s smile faded and was replaced by a look of cold steel. “That’s four.”
Despite himself, Sergio asked, “Wait, what happened to three?”
The man ignored the question, not taking his eyes off Marcus. “She also didn’t buy it.”
“No?”
“No. She pulled it off the body of the man I’d just killed.”
Marcus pulled the gun out of the back of his pants. “I’m bored of this, old man. Give me your money.”
“Come and get it.”
Marcus ad
vanced quickly, holding the gun out in front of him as he walked. He’d expected the man to react how anyone would when a gun was pointed at their head. He’d expected him to flinch. Instead, he stood stock-still. Marcus placed the tip of the weapon directly in the centre of the man’s forehead.
“You gonna run your mouth now?”
“Feck it. Didn’t know you had a gun. That’s impressive.”
“Give me your shit.”
The man wrinkled his nose. “What? Like my poo?”
Marcus pushed the gun forward, pressing the barrel into the man’s forehead, forcing him to take a step backwards.
“Ouch, that’ll leave a mark.”
“I’m gonna shoot your ass.”
“That’ll leave a bigger mark.”
Sergio stepped forward. “Marcus, we drop a body, Santana gonna be pissed. He said—”
“I know what he said.”
“S’alright, ese,” said Sergio, “be cool. I’ll go through his pockets.”
Sergio moved behind the old guy and started patting him down. He felt a wallet in his inside coat pocket and went to get it. “OK, I got…” There was a loud snapping noise and Sergio screamed. He pulled his hand back out and held it in his other hand. “Mother—”
Marcus watched him dance around. “What the fuck, man?”
Sergio held his hand up and yowled. A large mousetrap had snapped shut around his fingers. “You broke my finger, you…”
The old guy shrugged. “My hotel is on the lower end of the scale. It’s got a slight rodent problem.”
Marcus pulled the gun back, ready to slam the butt down onto the old guy’s head. As it was making its descent, his hand was met by the flask, which was travelling a beautifully judged arch that caused it to smash directly into Marcus’s wrist. The gun flew from his hand as he yowled in pain.
“One.”
The old guy had thrown his whole weight behind the swing, his momentum causing his body to twirl around, which he followed through by driving the point of his left elbow straight into Marcus’s face.
“Two.”
Sergio, having managed to prise the mousetrap off his shattered finger, lowered his shoulder and charged, intent on tackling the old dude to the ground. Instead, like a bullfighter, the man sidestepped gracefully, extending his left foot as he did so and sending Sergio tumbling headfirst into the side of the dumpster. Pain flashed across his eyes like sheet lightning as his head slammed into unyielding metal. He found himself on his hands and knees, the foul stench of rotting food filling his nostrils as mushy, wet cardboard squirmed under his fingers.
Sergio turned around just in time to see the old man connect with a left hook to Marcus’s jaw.
“Three.”
He followed this up with a swift kick to the right knee that caused Marcus’s leg to twist at a sickening angle as he crumpled to the ground.
“Four.”
Sergio wasn’t packing, but he scrambled for the blade that he always carried inside his jacket pocket. He got messily to his feet, a ringing in his ears as he swayed slightly. He brandished the knife in front of him, his back pressed against the dumpster.
“I’ll cut you, old man.”
The old man smiled. “Your choice.” He raised his right hand. “Do you want the flask?” He raised the other hand, which now held Marcus’s gun. “Or this.”
Sergio considered his options briefly before holding his hands up in surrender.
“Toss the knife.”
Sergio looked at it.
“Do it, and if you don’t hit the back wall with it, I’ll shoot you and make you do it again.”
The knife hit the back wall.
“Nice throw. Now get down on the ground, face down, arms spread.”
Sergio looked at the muddy ground, covered in the kind of unpleasantness that life left behind. “Aww, man.”
“Would you like to hear your options again?”
With a grimace, Sergio did as instructed.
The man walked over to Marcus, who was groggily attempting to get back to his feet, stumbling like a newborn deer while holding his shattered wrist to his chest. Their tormentor slammed the flask into the side of Marcus’s head, causing him to slump to the ground again, unconscious.
“And that’s five. You got an extra one because I’m not having the best of days.” He turned back to Sergio. “Now that he’s having a nap, I think it’s time you and I had a chat.”
“Look, man, I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, I’d imagine you are alright. Empty your pockets.”
Sergio’s pulse raced. “I swear, man, you don’t want what’s in my pockets.”
The man leaned over and looked into Sergio’s eyes. “Well, if you say so. I mean, you seem trustworthy.”
The man shoved the flask back into his coat pocket and took a few steps towards the mouth of the alley. Sergio’s whole body relaxed.
“Although…”
Sergio watched the man turn and walk back to stand in front of him again. “You did get my nationality wrong, and I am a bit sensitive about that.”
“That was him!”
The man used the barrel of the gun to scratch his beard. “Oh yeah, ’twas. Well spotted. Still though. I just wanted to check you’d not got a gun, so I didn’t get shot in the back, but now I really am curious as to what’s in your pockets.”
“Look, man – we’re Diablos Rojos, man. You don’t want none of this, believe me.”
“You’re what?”
“Diablos Rojos. This is our territory.”
“Di-ab-los Ro-jos…” The man sounded the syllables out slowly, as if savouring them. “D’ye know, one of my big regrets – and I’ve got many – is I don’t know any Spanish. They taught us French in school. Fecking French? I mean, sure, the women are fantastic, but I can’t stand the food. Too much butter on everything. And pain au chocolat? For feck’s sake, you can’t start the day with chocolate. Chocolate is something you build up to. ’Tis a treat. What the feck did you do while sleeping that deserves a treat? ’Tis excessive. I much prefer Mexican food.”
Sergio looked up at the man. Even if he weren’t concussed, he reckoned he probably wouldn’t have understood what was happening now.
“So, Diablos Rojos, what’s that stand for? I mean, in English, like?”
“Red Devils. We the red devils, man.”
“What the—? Are you a Manchester United supporters’ club or something?”
“No.”
“Well, I don’t want to add to your troubles, but I’m guessing they’ve trademarked that, and they are notoriously litigious.”
Sergio shook his head. This was all starting to feel like some messed-up dream.
The man moved behind Sergio and started unzipping the left pocket of his jacket.
“Aw, man – don’t.”
He felt the package being removed; this was swiftly followed by a boot connecting with his ribs.
“Oof!”
Sergio didn’t need to see to know what the man held in his hand. It was a Ziploc bag full of tiny baggies, all labelled “Red Devils”. Santana said it paid to advertise.
“I’ll be honest, this was a bit of stress relief for me up until now, but I take rather a dim view of drug-peddling scum.”
“You—”
Sergio was interrupted by another boot to his ribs, unerringly hitting the same spot as last time and redoubling the pain. Then he felt his other pocket being unzipped.
“How much is this?”
“You don’t—”
“I can boot your ribs again if you’d like.”
“It’s five G.”
“OK. Well, I’ll put this to good use. I’ve seen a self-cleaning soup maker advertised. I might get one of them.”
“Seriously, man, I ain’t playing. You take that – you a dead man. Santana will find you.”
“The guitar lad?”
“What?”
“Plays guitar in the band called – actually it’s called Santana, n
ow I think of it. Never liked that. Like Bon Jovi. ’Tis fecking cocky naming your band after yourself.”
“No. Santana, he runs the Rojos, man. He’ll kill you. He’ll kill your family. The dude don’t play.”
“He also has a shocking understanding of trademark law. I’m smelling two lawsuits – and counting.” The man came back around to stand in Sergio’s eyeline. “Now, you tell whoever you like that I’m confiscating all of this. I’ll destroy the drugs and we’ll say the cash is for covering expenses and emotional hardship.”
Sergio shook his head furiously. “No – no, no, no. He’ll kill me, man, he’ll kill me.”
Bunny glanced over at the still unconscious form of Marcus. “Well, not to sow disharmony in the family, but if I was you, I’d strongly consider blaming him. Right, one last thing, then I’ll leave you in peace. Could you tell me… How do I get back to Cypress Avenue Station from here?”
Chapter Four
Smithy sighed.
Whoever had said that if you expect the worst from people, you’ll never be disappointed definitely had a point. What they had failed to mention, though, was that you could still be incredibly irritated.
He had more than enough self-awareness to realise he had an anger management issue. His experiences, up until this point in life, had provided ample evidence of it. Even if they hadn’t, the court-mandated anger management course was a pretty big clue.
He slammed the cab into reverse.
Overall, he enjoyed driving the taxi. His friend Marcel owned it. Thanks to the proliferation of app-based ride services, the medallion for a yellow cab wasn’t worth as much as it once had been. Smithy was sure he’d heard they once went for a million bucks, but he reckoned it was still pretty valuable. How Marcel, a French-Canadian dwarf who wrote poetry in between pickups, had come to own one was a mystery, and any and all efforts made by Smithy to find out more had been met with the kind of oblique answers that only a poet writing in their second language could come up with.
Smithy didn’t spend much time hanging out with the little people’s community. It just wasn’t his thing – he’d never been much of a joiner. In fact, Marcel was Smithy’s only similar-sized friend in New York, and even then, he wasn’t someone you met up with regularly. He was the kind of guy who turned up at your door stinking drunk, bleeding or once, rather memorably, carrying a bust of Jimmy Carter. Smithy hadn’t received a coherent explanation of how Marcel had come to be in possession of that either. Smithy had first become aware of Marcel’s existence when some guy had tried to beat him up for sleeping with his wife. The only way Smithy could explain to the big drunken idiot that he’d got the wrong dwarf was to win the fight first. Then they’d had a heart-to-heart during which the man had realised that he was angry more at himself, for having been a bad husband, than he was at Marcel. This had led indirectly to Smithy meeting Marcel. Despite their rocky introduction, they had become friends, because while he could be accused of being many things, Marcel was never dull.