Bork

̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅𝙴𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙽 𝚃⌖ 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅

an interlude

Kidnappings weren't Eric's forte, but Santiago had paid a premium for this one, and a code was a code. Cleaners didn't question. They just executed. And there was time afterwards to deal with all the bullshit that came with hiding a body.

The rust-strewn streetlight he leaned against flickered above his head as he fumbled for a cigarette in his pocket. He frowned when his fingers caught only clumps of lint. Shit. He must have left them back at home. He observed the empty street—a cracked line of tar-black asphalt festering with clogged drains and heaping piles of fallen leaves. Midnight wasn't exactly Mineenoona's strength. The night life wasn't endangered back in Yonkers; you could still find a good watering hole around any block at that hour. But Eric always felt like something had swept through Mineenona —something biblical - like a plague or the Reaper himself. People seemed to live listlessly here, waiting for some kind of end.

At least the rent was cheaper.

He heard the mark before he saw him—a staccato of leather heels clicking against the concrete. Eric nodded, and the single van parked to the side of the streetlight shuddered, engine coughing, as it rolled forward down the asphalt and turned the corner. Eric slipped away from the streetlight into the shadow of a nearby alleyway. He fingered his Colt. Santiago's orders rang in his mind, verbatim: Shoot the fucker on the street. Leave him bleeding on the sidewalk. Don't bother to clean him up.

It would have been easy. But he owed the mark something better than a quick shootout in the open. There was history between them—history that deserved some respect.

So Eric waited. The mark whistled a jaunty three-note tune, some old bar jig.

"Hey, Tim."

It'd been three or maybe five years since he last dealt with Tim. The old iron dealer's nose was a purple car crash of fists and broken bones. A heavy beer gut poked out from under his shirt, and his glass-blue eyes were bloodshot, sharp to look at. A smile spread across his liver-spotted chin the moment he saw Eric.

"Is that you, Eric? What're you doing up this late?"

"Had to pick up something for the wife. You know how they are."

"Hey, listen. I'm on my way to Callahan's. Wouldn't mind an extra partner for the night—"

The sound of rubber tearing on the road interrupted their conversation. The van from earlier swerved onto the sidewalk, nearly colliding with Tim. Eric slowly walked behind Tim as the former arms dealer wheezed in shock.

"Jesus fuck, watch where you're goi—"

Eric rammed his shoulder into Tim's back. His head bounced off the van's chassis and he dropped to the floor like a sack of spilt flour. Eric breathed. Too easy. If the marks struggled, it somehow made it easier to go through with. The front passenger door opened and Connor stepped out. The two of them worked in unison, securing Tim's arms with cable ties before dragging his groaning form to the back of the van.

Eric sat in the rear as the doors slammed shut. Connor drove off. From the darkness, Eric watched silently, Colt drawn from his pocket, as Tim roused slowly, shaking his head.

"Really had to put these on tight?" Tim groused, wriggling his wrists in the cuffs.

"Sorry. You want me to loosen them?"

"Nah, nah," Tim shook his head, waving Eric away as he leaned against the thin metal chassis. Eric thought he was handling an impending execution well enough all things considered. "Don't suppose you'd let me out if I offered you money. Probably just pocket the cash, eh?"

"Probably," Eric admitted.

"I've—uh—got a fag in my jacket," Tim shimmied slightly to the left, nodding toward his right jacket pocket. "Mind cutting it for me?"

Without a word, Eric plucked the cigar from his pocket. The orange glow of a lighter released the smell of Cuban tobacco into the cramped interior. Tim nodded a quiet thanks, took it with both hands, and stuck it between his lips.

"So, who asked you to do it?"

"Santiago."

"Fuck!" Tim cried out, more offended than angry. "What did I ever do to him?"

"I don't know. I just follow orders. Looks like he probably thinks you snitched on him."

"Me? I've been out of the game for years now." Tim shook his head. "Fucking asshole."

"I wish it wasn't me."

"Ah, yeah, yeah, quit with that sappy shit. You still got that Colt I sold you?"

Eric nodded.

"Mind if I see it?"

Years of common sense told him it was a bad idea, but the wistful glimmer in Tim's eye made him relent. He checked the barrel to make sure no bullets were chambered before handing it over. Tim's fingers steepled over every chrome inch, thumb slowly turning the cylinder one click at a time. Tim took a deep breath near the barrel like he was drinking fine wine.

"Took good care of it," Tim said. He handed it back, clutching the revolver by the barrel. "Too many punks these days don't know how to take care of a wheel gun."

"Learnt it from someone after you left the business. You'd like him."

"Doubt it. It was simpler back in my time. Didn't have to worry about the cops or the feds moving in. Now, everyone's on edge these days." Tim coughed, longer than politeness allowed, edging toward genuine concern. His body shook, and Eric wondered if there was another reason for his calmness.

"You know, never really seen someone get shot before."

"Really?"

"Well, not really. Only ever saw the aftermath." Tim's face scrunched up in recollection. "Think it was about ten or fifteen years ago. Deal gone south. Shootout between Santiago's men and some other dipshit, and little old me in the middle. Anyway, one of his guys pulls me out, and I thought it was gonna be like the movies—you know, couple guys lying on the floor, windows broken. Nah." Tim shook his head. "One moment, it's a parking lot. The next, it's the friggin' Somme. Tires blown. Cars looking like Swiss cheese. Arms and blood everywhere."

The gun dealer paused, taking a puff of his cigar, holding it between both palms like incense. "Twelve guys dead in two minutes from my iron. Thing that still gets me is that some of their eyes were still wide open. One of these guys—twenty-something years old, was looking at me even though half his jaw was missing—and I thought he blinked at me for a moment."

The moment stewed in the damp, cramped interior of the van like an old rat behind drywall. Tim spoke up after a while, voice lost in his past.

"I did that. My guns did that."

"Couldn't have been someone else's," Eric said, staring out through the narrow viewport, the blurring lights coming to a crawl. It was nearly time. "Someone else would have done it if you hadn't."

"But I did it anyway. That's all that matters in the end, isn't it?"

The van lurched to a halt. Tim shuddered, dropping the burnt end of the cigar to the floor. The doors opened with a metal yawn and the dark waters of Lake Winnebago greeted them. Connor stood there by the side, grabbing Tim's hand roughly as he walked out. Eric shook his head and Connor let go. He wasn't running and if he did, he wouldn't get far.

Eric walked behind Tim as they both strolled away from the van to the lip of the lake's coast. He could see the prints of Tim's footprints on the damp sand as the waters licked their feet. His mind reminded him to wash it away later but he wasn't focused on that. Eventually, Tim stopped. His breath was steady as he looked up to the starless sky alongside Eric.

" Nice spot," Tim commented.

"Yeah, it is. ," Eric said.

Tim turned around slowly, dragging his feet on the sand. Eric could see a dozen last wishes in the creases of his face before they fell away.

"I'm glad it wasn't someone else today."

He then turned around again, back faced to him. Eric's arm trembled.

His arm snapped up and he pulled the trigger twice. He walked over to the slumped body and the eyes were still open. He fired one final time just to make sure.

̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅𝙴𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙽 𝚃⌖ 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅

Post 6 Breakdown

- Was originally going to be a three parter that ended in a massive shootout.
- Next part will accelerate some of the plot threads I have going and be more open for collab.
- This one felt shorter and longer to write at the same time.

̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅𝙴𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙽 𝚃⌖ 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅

the run: part 2

It was nearly midnight by the time they finished burying him. Pike glimpsed one finger poking out of the black dirt, a glimmer of gold on it. A shovelful of vitreous earth then buried it unceremoniously. Pike silently watched Connor and Raul pant as they leaned over rusty shovels, their backs wet from two hours of work. The road was a good mile away from them, a snaking trail of headlights and asphalt worming its way through the hillside. Raul had his back turned to him, and the Colt in Pike's pants tempted him. He could think of a dozen excuses that would satisfy Santiago. Raul drank on the job and confessed to the cop about our cargo. We found Raul skimming off our supply. Raul was working for the Comanchez. Pike's muscles seized up the more confident he grew about it. Before he could reach for the handle, Raul turned around and wiped a sheen of sweat off his matted brow.

"That's it. We oughta get back to the truck now."

They walked. Connor and Raul shared a one-sided conversation dominated by Raul's nasal grousing throughout the way, but Pike only paid attention to the wake of crunching pebbles and wet grass beneath their boots. The night air was cold, but he could still feel the splash of warm blood on his face, the friction of digging pounds of dirt out of the ground. His pace slowed until Raul was walking in front of him. He stared at the back of Raul's head, pondering some more. He started with the obvious first: whether it would take one or two shots to kill him. He'd killed before. It wasn't that hard. Russell wasn't that hard. He stepped on a twig, and the splintery crack reminded him of a gunshot. The memory of Russell's pale face, a geyser of blood erupting out of his neck, made him wobble. He forced the bile down his throat.

Connor took the wheel this time. Pike chose to take the backseat while Raul took the passenger's side. The meadow where they buried the cop disappeared into the black of night, and Pike stared up at the smiling moon above him. The radio blared a serenade of static, and Connor banged it with his fist to shut it up.

"Look, I get it," Raul muttered under his breath, cleaning the dirt from under his fingernails with the edge of a penknife. "It was a little messy. Could have done it cleaner."

"You didn't need to kill the man, dumbfuck," Connor said, tapping the side of his cigarette on the window with one hand on the wheel.

"Man was a cop," Raul shrugged. "What if he tried to peer into our trunk?"

"You don't know that," Pike retorted, anger bubbling under his voice.

Raul guffawed, rubbing his pockmarked nose with the back of his hand. "Yeah, you don't know cause you're acting like you're the one who killed him. Nah, I'm the one that did. See this, Pikey?" Raul lifted the penknife to his cheek, tracing the edge on his skin. The blade glinted, but less so, dulled to a rust-red by flecks of dried blood. "Don't think I'm dumb enough that I didn't see that look on your face. You think I'm a killer, but you?" Raul snorted, hacking out a glob of spit through the rolled-down window. "You're the worst killer of us all, O'Malley. You've sold iron for five years. It's people like you that allow me to kill, so fuckin' square up, O'Malley. At least you didn't get your hands dirty like you did with your brother."

---

later

Hort's was emptier than it should be at this hour, even in this neighborhood. The diner was normally crowded with every Mineenoonan from every corner, but, instead, the seats were empty. There were no waiters, only the hiss and crackle of grease from an underpaid cook frying trout on a griddle. Being alone in a place like this should have comforted him, if he were truly alone. The man on the other side of the table made him feel caged. Harold Santiago, renowned arms trafficker and his boss, stabbed a fork down into his meal-a whole fried catfish-spearing a chunk of white flesh encrusted with greasy German beer batter. He was dressed simply in a ratty polo shirt with loose strings poking out of the collar and crinkled brown slacks. His beard seemed as though it had been shaven past the skin and into his jawbone. He kept one lazy eye on Pike as he ate, swallowing but not chewing.

"You hungry? Ordered something for you in case you were," Santiago said, nodding to the plate of cold, soggy fries in front of Pike. Pike blinked mutely at him, tracing the edge of a glass of water with his thumb.

"No, thanks."

"So-" Santiago took a sip of his own water, ice cubes rattling, "-how's our business?"

"Business is good. Volume's steady. Currently working on that rifle deal with those guys from Delaware."

"That's good." Santiago set his fork and knife down. "I heard about what happened a few days ago on the 31. Unfortunate but necessary. Look, about Raul... I get it. Man's a little—" Santiago didn't say the word, but his cheek twitched as though he were telling some salacious family secret, "—you know what I mean. But, better to control a rabid dog before you have to put it down. Kind of like what happened with your brother."

Don't let him fish. Don't let him fucking fish anything out of you. Pike's left hand brushed against the pistol in his pocket, keeping his expression stolid.

"Uh, mind if I have that?" Santiago waggled a finger toward the dish of fries, and before Pike could answer, the crime boss had already dragged it over to his side of the table, picking up the limp fries two or three at a time and using them to clean the grease off his plate.

"So, you heard much in town these days?" Santiago asked.

Pike kept his mouth shut.

"Hm." Santiago took the salt shaker and shook it up and down over the fries like he was strangling the glass. "Ever heard of the ATF?"

He said it as though he were observing the weather, but still, Pike's heart started to hammer. The Bureau of Alcohol, Trade and Firearms was a folktale in his circles, somewhat of a joke at times. They were shit at their jobs and even shittier at preventing the flow of iron through the mid-atlantic into the east coast ports where the merch was at. Still, having the attention of government spooks wasn't exactly something you brushed off. He wondered for a moment if he should play dumb in front of Santiago.

" Uh, you mean the feds?"

" Of course, I mean, the fucking feds." Santiago rolled his eyes. " You ever heard of anyone talking to them?"

"No."

"Ever seen one on the streets? Anyone come to you looking odd these past couple of days."

Santiago's voice was calm but Pike knew from the way he was sawing his knife into his plate that he was stressed.

" I've been working for you for nine years and the feds or cops don't know what we do down here. If you're doubting me, then, you wouldn't call me here for this meeting."

The knife in his hand stops moving and Pike can't decipher the searching look that Santiago gives him. The crime boss then raps the window by his side, and the doorbell jingles. Pike heard the sound of footsteps, and then, a body landed on the table. He nearly leaped out of his chair, but two beefy guys forced him down. It was the guy who had beaten him black and blue at the shop. Pike stopped struggling and was forced to look at the gormless, dead face of some dark-haired guy. His lips were so swollen Pike could hardly make out his nose.

"That's one of my street dealers. Bobby. Deals down near Marigold Avenue with the chinks and gooks. Anyway, see, few days ago, one of my men caught him talking with someone dressed too nicely for a couple of hours before leaving. So, I asked him to come over to my house for coffee. Asked who it was. Said it was some guy, Bobby, that we used to trade with, but the only problem is that Bobby doesn't wear fucking hundred-dollar suits. So, I took these little things out." Santiago reached into his coat pocket and dropped several white things, the size of marbles, onto the table. One of them rolled over to Pike, and he blanched, realizing why the man was missing all his teeth. "One by one. And then, he wasn't much good for conversation after that."

"Now, rumour on the street out is that the ATF is here. Didn't believe it at first but after Bobby....." Santiago brushed Bobby's shoulder aside to reach for the catsup. " Well, can't afford to be careless now. So, given these—uh—security risks, I want you to handle all of my merchandise from now on."

"Santiago, I've got other clients—"

"I'm your only client from now on, or do I need to get my man to persuade you some more?"

The hand on Pike's shoulder tightened so hard he could feel his collarbone bend. Pike nodded hastily and was relieved to no longer feel the pressure on his shoulder. Santiago reassuringly patted his hand on Pike's shoulder, giving a languid smile.

"Good, and let's be clear on one thing." The hand on Pike's shoulder reeled him closer until Santiago's teeth were practically kissing his ear. "If you ever try to fuck with me—and not in a dumb way, but in a way that you think makes you look smart—I will go with my men to the West End. To that little, two-story, white-picket-fenced house with the azaleas. I will kill Muskie's wife. I will kill his two little daughters. I will burn his house down to the ashes, and then, I'll kill you. In that exact order."

̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅𝙴𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙽 𝚃⌖ 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅

Post 6 Post-Mortem

- Was going to involve a direct meeting with Santiago instead of this.
- Posting schedule is really fucked.
- Arc will go for probably three posts at max.
- I find writing the dross in between dialogue really fucking difficult for some reason.

̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅𝙴𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙽 𝚃⌖ 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅

---

the run: part one

---

that night

If he could see his breath in this winter, the man in the hat knew someone was going to die tonight. Thick wisps of hot breath poured out of his mouth as he climbed the ladder one rung at a time. His bones ached, and the man found himself wishing he had more time. It hurt to hold the cold, scalding metal with his fingers as he pulled himself up, joints squeaking like rusted old hinges. He made his way onto the roof and took a moment to check if the coast was clear before gulping down some air. He wiped the edge of his mouth and scanned the skyline. Clear. No witnesses. That's a relief.

The target was three-quarters of a klick away, walking in a park. He could see a field of streetlamps and gnarled oak trees from this distance. He took the telescope out of his coat pocket and closed one eye to look through it. Two figures, male. He couldn't quite make much out at this distance. He sheathed the telescope and looked in the general direction. There it was again. That familiar hesitation. The questions. Why did he have to pick his job? Was it really necessary? Couldn't he get someone else to do it? He tried to find excuses. He licked his fingers and pointed them up to the sky, but the taste of the wind could not dissuade him. He checked the perimeter again. No one to distract him. His hands weren't trembling, so it meant he could handle it. He searched long and hard before he shrugged his shoulders, unslinging a scoped Lee-Enfield.

There was something unnatural about the act of planning to kill someone else. The pathetic nature of it. Most men like him tried to blind themselves to it by taking joy or sorrow in the act, but the man in the hat treated it like a chore to keep himself sane. He lost himself in the preparation of the act, the ritual. He pulled out a squat magazine from his belt and examined the bullets in it: rows of symmetrical, brass-forged lead arrows. Full metal jacket. He pulled the bolt back and loaded the magazine into the receiver. The barrel rested on the concrete edge of the tenement as he waited.

He counted down. Four this time. They're too far away from the lamppost for a three. He shouldered the rifle and paced his breathing. Four. He pulled the trigger. The butt of the Enfield bent his collarbone, mailing him a bruise with interest for tomorrow. There was a brief puff of red under the streetlamp like a match being struck. He couldn't see the other person's mouth at this range, but he had seen enough funerals to know all the familiar words. He took a brief sigh and stopped watching through the scope. The chrome barrel was steaming, wispy trails of snowmelt coruscating along its length. He pulled the bolt, caught the brass, and holstered the rifle back on his back. The man dusted off his gloves and produced a dishrag, wiping each footprint he made as he stepped off the roof and onto the rickety, rusty ladder behind him.

somewhere outside of Mineenoona

Santiago wanted three men for the gun run to Kenosha. Pike thought it would have been easier with two, but Pike wasn't keen on arguing the finer points with Santiago. Muskie could have sorted him out, maybe even come to a deal, but Pike was just blessed with deft fingers, not a deft tongue. Santiago made the job seem simple. Transport some heavy iron to Kenosha to trade with some provos. Pike didn't like the provos, not one bit. Common criminals were easy to understand, but revolutionaries, commies, pinkos, and anarchists were simply unpredictable. Some of the older Irish back at his parents' place loudly boasted about how they were patriots for the homeland, but Ireland was scuffed bottles of Guinness, his mom's corned beef and potatoes, and some jaunty Irish tune the local drunks at O'Callahan's would break out in every single afternoon. It was yet another label that the world was determined to saddle him with. All went well. The route was a common one he took down Highway 31, and Santiago had organized the meeting place. For once, everything was working out for Pike.

Well, until the Ford broke down.

The pickup was currently resting near the lip of some ditch, a dried-up oxbow lake in the distance next to a spring-parched meadow. The sun had set already, and the scorching path that it had seared through the autumn sky was lacquered over by the evening. Pike kept an eye out on the road that cut through the rolling hills, his back leant against the truck's side, whilst Connor, one of Santiago's lackeys, had his arms buried under the truck's hood. Pike glanced once and saw an oil- and grease-soaked wrench clutched in Connor's right hand.

"No luck?" Pike asked, a cigarette nested between his fingers.

"I wouldn't mind a fag right now," Connor groaned, the wrench clattering on the asphalt. "We had to take that piece of shit's truck, didn't we?"

Pike knew who he was talking about. The man he'd mentioned, the plus one, had been sent off to a gas station to fetch some motor oil, but it was mostly to keep the fucker busy. Pike nodded in sympathy, scrunching the cigarette under his foot, before walking over to the front of the truck.

"Alright, let me see if we can get this over with—"

"You boys need a hand?"

Both Connor's and Pike's hands twitched to their back holsters, peering to the side of the truck to see a black-and-white patrol car parked behind the pickup. A uniformed patrol cop with a squashed cap and a bomber jacket walked over to them, his spine straight like a railroad spike.

"Hey there, officer. In fact, we just called a guy to come pick us up," Connor lied, chuckling. "Nothing to see here, just a shitload of bad luck."

"You could be waiting here until tomorrow morning when that pickup comes, son. I could take you to a phone or wherever you need to be while I get your truck sorted-"

"No! No, it's just that -" Pike gulped, rubbing the pads of his fingers together, "-we're actually delivering this truck here to our cousins down in Madison. He'd kill us if he had to go pick it up himself."

The officer scratched his chin as a Mustang bolted past them, tires screeching on the asphalt as its passage scattered loose gravel and leaves. Pike tensed as the officer checked his watch, wondering if they've been caught.

"Well, lemme see if I can get it sorted then." The officer took off his cap and pushed it into Connor's arms without a word. Connor mouthed silently to Pike some curse he couldn't make out as the officer's fingers moved around the crevasses of the Ford's hood like a musician's. "Your battery connections look good. You're obviously not running a flat. Engine oil and coolant look topped up. Alternator's fine. Probably has something to do with—ah—." Pike intimately knows that glint in the man's eye, the fervor one feels after nights of oiling and disassembling guns for years on end. "It's the timing chain. It's loose. It isn't supposed to be loose. You just have to twist it a little and—" The officer grunted, twisting something down within the interior of the hood. "Try it now."

Connor, hand still behind his back, walked to the driver's door and poked his hand through the window. A moment later, and Pike heard the engine thrumming once more with relief.

"You two aren't much in the way of mechanics, are ya?" The officer wiped his oil-slick hands on a napkin, a grin on his face. "Where do you hang out? Never seen you two before."

"Uh, the Soiree, O'Callahan's, Blue Lights," Pike lied about the last two. They were dive bars located on the south side of Mineenoona, far away from his own shop.

"O'Callahan's, huh? You ever played brag?"

"Nah, nah," Pike shook his head, not too fast to seem suspicious.

"Not a brag guy?"

"More darts. Pool," Pike said, wiping away the sweat on his forehead. "Maybe a little bit of twenty-five every now and then."

"Right, well, I'll be off then." The officer turned away, strolling to his Cadillac before pausing and turning back to face them. "Uh, didn't catch your names- "

A silver blade suddenly sprouted out through the officer's tongue. Connor swore out loud, and Pike's stomach heaved. He stumbled for his revolver as the officer's eyes wobbled and twitched in agony, unable to breathe with three inches of steel in his mouth. The knife dragged its way through the back of his neck, carving a red line through his cheek. Pike saw the cop's molars, rows of pearly white teeth. The knife disappeared in a geyser of red, and the cop fell to the ground, a limp corpse of meat. Raul stood over him, blood scattered over the sleeve of his dress shirt and a river of red dripping down the stalactite point of his knife.

The two of them watched Raul dumbly, like deer in headlights, Connor with his mouth agape like a fish and Pike's lips pressed tight enough to break a needle in half. Raul didn't even notice their expressions, busy using the cop's dress shirt to wipe the blood off his knife. After a while, he looked at their shocked expressions and nonchalantly shrugged.

"What? He's a cop. Was gonna rat on us eventually. Better for him to be dead than alive."

---

Midnight. Saw some pet cat stomach burst open by a truck tire. Eyes were still blinking.

Murder of a cop outside the city limits. Patrol officer. Same routes as the ones down near New Jersey.

Washington can't ignore this now. Maybe, they'll finally send me the men I need.

̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅𝙴𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙽 𝚃⌖ 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅

Post 4 Post-Mortem

- Setup for the next post I got planned.

- Removed two flashbacks at the beginning and the end as they were supplementary.

̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅𝙴𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙽 𝚃⌖ 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅

some time later

Too much rain today. More than he liked. Pike wondered right now if he should have chosen a better location for the sale. He'd chosen it near some motel near Halfborn Avenue—a squat, brown, run-down place that didn't make people question or think of questions. The window was a mosaic of tears right now. Fat clouds of gray and black dusted the skies outside, sagging with the weight of autumn. The light static of rain splashing against the glass was accompanied by the usual din of Mineenoona: the shriek of a kid playing outside, the rubber screech of a tire.

"Hey, Pike. You all there?"

Pike's head jerked away from the window toward the other occupant in the motel room. A man was standing on the other side of the king-sized bed, and on top of the mattress was a graveyard of guns. The old man wore a lime green denim jacket that was fraying at the sleeves, and the jowl of his neck was dotted with liver spots. His fingers, knobbled with arthritis, steepled over a matte gray revolver he was holding.

"Right. Sorry, Eric." Pike scratched the back of his head, wincing slightly at the swollen mass of blue bruises that mushroomed out of his hair. "Ruger Speed Six. .38 chamber. Eight-round capacity. 'Lil different compared to the police specials you're used to."

"Gun's lighter than I expected it to be," Eric groused, pressing the receiver near to his ear, blue eyes squinting as he thumbed the cylinder. "Sounds different, kid. You changed the frame—no—the barrel."

"Close. Smith & Wesson released titanium cylinders for their .44s two years ago." Pike couldn't help but smirk in pride. "Easy enough to rechamber for a .38."

Eric turned his back away from him, and Pike heard the clock-like click of a finger pulling back a trigger hammer. It continued for a few more minutes and then stopped as Eric turned around, a look of disappointment on his face.

"Sorry, kid, but it's too light. Throws my aim off."

"Thought you needed something fast on the draw."

"Doesn't matter if I'm not used to the weight," Eric grunted, setting the pistol gently on the bed with two hands. He strode over to the coffee table where a duffel bag lay on top. "All the .38s you have are too damned loud, and all the silenced ones you have weigh like a fucking brick. Thought you'd have something for me."

Pike was silent as Eric zipped the bag up and hoisted the strap over his shoulders.

"To be honest, I'm surprised you called me. Normally, I'm the one calling you for iron."

"Yeah," Pike felt like he was swaying on his feet. It was still hard to smile, to make expressions after what happened a week ago. His face felt too tight. He took a slow breath, preparing himself for what he was about to say next.

"Say I was to hire you."

"Nope," Eric replied without a second's consideration. "I know what this is about and, kid, I am not messing with Santiago."

"I have the scratch—"

Eric dropped the bag with a shrug and, before Pike could react, he grabbed his shoulders in a vice-like grip and shoved him roughly onto the bed. The old, grizzled criminal crossed his arms, examining him as if he were an ant under a magnifying glass. There was only the sound of rain to accompany the silence, and Eric must have gotten tired of it, as he started talking in a tone strained with patience.

"Now, in the interest of our long-standing professional relationship, I'll offer you some advice. This is not some dime-store thriller you pick up from some corner store. I kill, but I don't go around dicing up entire streets in an entire night. You want a trigger-happy nutjob, call Raul or one of your shell-shocked fellas down from McCallaghans. They'll fuck it up for you happily."

"I don't need to be lectured—"

"Suppose I did even manage to kill Santiago. A round from half a mile away through his dome while he's pissing or screwing a broad in his underwear." Eric ignored Pike's jab, sucking in a breath. "First thing they'll think of is you. Bet that modern art masterpiece on your face was commissioned by them, aye? First thing his crew will think of is you. Frankly, I expect better of you, kid. You're a lot goddamn smarter than this."

"Let me worry about that. Just tell me how much I need to pay you—"

The punch came as fast as a whip, sending his head jerking back. The pain came a moment later as thunder broke the sky outside. Eric was now sitting by the corner of the bed, one leg propped up.

"Back when I was your age, I used to work with a hijack crew down by the Appalachians. Trucks. Good pay, marks were cooperative, and everyone treated each other fairly. Well, as fairly as you can get in this line of business." The glimmer of nostalgia faded in Kochinsky's eye, replaced by a dull sheen of pain. "It was January. A blizzard had just hit the town. We thought it would be good to do one last job. Cigarette truck rolling out of town. Some of the crew were looking for a cash-out and were getting antsy. One guy, this guy—" Eric bit his lip, rage curling the edge of his cheeks. "Charlie, that's right—Charlie leaves. Not any fault of his own. Cancer will do that to you. So, it was up to me to pick a replacement. We search around town for a bit before I get this guy from a job. Oliver. East Coast second-story guy. Cocky, confident, looking to make a quick buck. Fun to talk to, fun on the job, and I knew he was reliable. I had to."

Eric nodded, and Pike wasn't sure whether it was to himself.

"Night before the job, he gets fidgety." Eric raised his left palm horizontally, tilting it to and fro. "Not the scared type of fidgety, but the kind where you're preparing yourself like you're gonna take a dive off the pool. I ask him the night before the job what's up. Says he's nervous. So, a couple of beers later and he's spilling to me about his debts. About issues he's having. Now, I'm stuck in a quandary. Should I pull him off the job? I agonized. We need one more lookout, he's too unreliable, it's a simple job, can't afford to screw this up, blah blah blah. You can guess which choice I made."

Eric took a deep, shuddering breath.

"So, the job goes smoothly. It's five of us. Snow hides us well. Spike strip to the tires. Boom. Truck goes still. We're going to get the driver, but Oliver beats us to the punch. Shot him through the head. The crew leader, John, gets angry with him, but it's cold as shit, we're hungry from the stakeout, and he wants to get the goods. All of us go to the back of the truck. We're hacking it open with a rotary saw. The sound was so loud that we didn't hear that fucker shooting John in the back. Shoots the rest of us. Bang. Bang. Bang. I managed to get lucky." The light in the curtains had shifted onto Eric's left cheek, and Pike could see a canyon of scar tissue worming down his neck like a noose. "I'm laying on the ground. He's standing over me. He says the usual shit, but that's not him; that's the fucking guilt speaking. I just want it to end already. Then, a gust comes through. Knocks the bullet out of his fingers. I get my lucky break." Eric's hand shoots up in a blur, index and ring finger pointed out with his thumb cocked at the ceiling. "Right through the heart. Didn't stop moving, so I gave him two more in the head."

"What happened next?" Pike watched Eric rub his calloused knuckles, seemingly lost in the sensation of memory before he spoke.

"I just left the truck out there, walked back to my house. Waited for a couple of weeks. Pretended I knew nothing about the truck, but then, the rumors started. Everyone had already made up their minds when I went to talk to them. The widows of the team I was with spat at my feet whenever I'd go out for a drink. Got so bad that I quit my day job there, but it followed me to Florida. Stopped chasing me after I moved here."

"So, that's what you're trying to tell me?" That familiar sense of anger returned, bile-like and acidic in his throat. "That it gets better over time?"

"It doesn't, but you need to live with it. It doesn't matter what you want. It's what other people want. That's just how it is. Otherwise, shit like what happened down at the Soiree gets you killed."

"I wasn't—"

"Doesn't matter what you meant. You're not the only one this affects. Think about who buys your iron." Eric slowly placed his hand on top of Pike's shoulder and then parted his jacket to reveal a brown leather holster, a polished oak grip protruding out. "I don't know what the hell happened to your brother, but keep at it and you'll fucking join him real soon. If that's what you want, come find me. It'll be cheaper than trying to kill Santiago myself."

̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅𝙴𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙽 𝚃⌖ 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅

Post 3 Post-Mortem

- Very different to what I originally envisioned after Mae's post. Originally was going to bring in another OC but decided against it.
- Decided against revealing the fed agent this time.
- Will try and improve the pacing next time. Been busy with goddamn coursework this week.

̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅𝙴𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙽 𝚃⌖ 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅

some time ago

---

The lake was flat on this Friday, its cerulean surface devoid of any gulls, flies or passing trout. The sky was empty as well, a cloudless barren expanse of steel blue that sliced into the frothy waters. The coasts could be barely seen over the waters horizon, swallowed by miles of churning water. The winds around him was silent like a person with bated breath. The world around him was frozen into a perfect mosaic, a canvas, and he had to be the damn painter to decide how it would look like in the next twenty minutes. But it was all according to plan. There was no living being in sight, other than him and the person he was planning to kill.

It should have been reassuring to Pike. Everything seemed to be cooperating with him today, some portent that the act he would commit was natural in line with the laws of the universe. If it was some immoral act, then, someone would have stopped him already. Sanchez should have spoken more about the risk of a storm, a flash flood, made him worry more. There should have been an accident as he drove down the I-82 up north. The .22 he was holding should have arrived rusted on arrival. The bullets would have been duds. Nothing in the universe would stop him now if he chose to continue on.

Pike bit his lip, thumbing the trigger of the Smith and Wesson. His reverie was broken by a sudden rocking of the canoe followed by the sound of something heavy crashing into water. Pike gingerly stood up, making sure his weight was balanced. The other occupant of the canoe was missing and judging by the sputtering he was hearing, not far away. Pike leaned over the side to see a soaked navy buckethead peeking out of the water and pale white limbs seizuring in and out of the water. Pike reached out his hand and a mud soaked palm snapped out to clutch onto his for dear life. He pulled and

" So, managed to catch it?," Pike raised his eyebrow. Muskie rolled his eyes and angled his shoulder upwards to reveal a brown freshwater muskellenge, its fanged maw writhing in the dim cloudlight.

" I'd say so," His brother panted, tired yet cheerful.

The waves were loud enough to quash out the dial-like clicks of the barrel as his fingers thumbed it, one bullet for each second that passed. Muskie's back was facing him, his brother busy gutting his catch. He could hear the loud scrapes of Muskie dragging his buck knife on a whetstone. Some idiot fishermen chose to club their heads in with any rock they found by the riverside but Muskie considered a knife more humane, more quiet. It was anything but. Contrary to popular belief, fish didn't die silent. Pike could hear the twig-like snap of its spine being severed in two by Muskie's spine. The pitter patter of scales showering the deck of the boat as Muskie ran the back of his knife across the fish's belly. The dull thuds of the muskellenge's final paralyzing paroxysms of pain against the timber hull.

" Whaddya say, Pike? We can fry this bad boy up back at camp, crack open that case of Mccallaghans we been savin' since 69'. " Muskie said, one hand pulling up the gills to let the flat of the blade in." Today's some crait shit, believe me."

Pike let Muskie chat. Smalltalk came more naturally to his brother. It was the same verbal dance they had engaged in since they were ten: Muskie always chattering aimlessly about any topic that came to mind and he served terse answers in return. Most people would have found him dull but Muskie never did. Jagged daggers of purple sank their way through the noon sky just as Muskie was chattering about a deal they had made a week ago with some blacks from the southern districts of Minneenona. MMuskie continued to talk excitedly as he hooked a fat bobbing worm onto a glinting steel hook. It was getting near night now. The revolver in Pike's pocket was chaffing uncomfortably against his skin.

" - And for fuck's sake, I'm telling you, Pikey, man, we are never dealing with those two fucks ever again - "

" Muskie." Pike breathed, hesitant and regretful. " We need to talk about something important. "

" Talk about what? The fact that you blew off that lady at the gas station?," Muskie wagged his finger playfully as he cast out his fishing line, letting the lure sail into the depths below. " Mom called me about a month ago and she's constantly asking when the hell you're gonna get a woman in your life.'

" Muskie. I know where you're going on Fridays." Muskie's smile froze on his face. Pike let his statement stew for a couple ofmmore seconds before continuing. "Santiago knows as well."

" Look, man, I can handle it," Pike knew enough of his brother tells to see the fear past his easy tone.

" Even with the baby coming?," Muskie's composure was now a shattered plate, his hands dropping the rod on the floor of the canoe. " I can work the books, try and sell more iron but he's eventually going to put two and two together, Muskie."

" Yeah." Muskie chuckled. " Yeah. Well, maybe, you can handle things without me from now on."

" What the fuck do you mean?"

" The shop. Loans gonna be fully paid off for it next year. I've been out doing all that shit while you've been handling most of the business." Pike couldn't understand the ease of which Musk spoke of it, as if he was discussing going out on a afternoon stroll through a park. " Way I see it, I need to move on.You've never really needed me in the grand scheme of things."

" Muskie, I can't accept this -," Pike's hand clasped Muskie's shoulder, only to find his corpse staring back him, fly-bitten, cheeks sunken with rigor mortis. Pike backed up but whatever action he took only seemed to close the distance between him and the corpse that lurked behind him. The corpse wheezed, the long, swollen cut in its throat throbbing with each word it spoke next.

" But, maybe, you always knew that in your heart," The thing wearing Muskie's face croaked as it plunged the knife into his chest. Pike felt the water hit his back, tendrils of red peeling out in the grimy riverwater as -

---

He woke up to a burning headache, one that pounded in his skull like a jackhammer. Pike's eyes blearily opened, kneading a fist into his bloodshot eyes with a yawn. He blinked to look at the right side of the storefront, right above the shelf with the canvas bags of dried cod, and tried to make out the clock. It looked like they were past six and the streets outside reeked of night, blotted out by blackness. He hiccuped, head queasy with loathing and liquor, and nearly knocked the empty bottle of scotch that was on the counter. He looked around and the last ergs of pride in him began to gnaw viciously like a trapped rat. The unmopped floors, rust-red fish blood deep in each groove, irritated him. The cobwebs drooped overhead from the incandescent lights and he could feel them stroking his skin the more he looked at them. Was that mold creeping on the windows?

Pike moved to the cupboard before the photo stopped him in his path. He ran a hand over the glass, wiping off the carpet of grey dust that had grown on it. Muskie's smile mocked him with the illusion of solace that only living people could provide. Without thinking, Pike silently ripped it off the hangnail and sent the picture spinning across the room. The frame smashed apart against a shelf in a spray of broken glass and wooden splinters. Pike's arms felt like lead as he looked at the now glittering floor. Another mess for him to clean up. He grabbed a dustpan and a broom and began sweeping up the remannts of that trip to the north, one shard at a time. The store bell then rang followed by the squeak of rusty hinges.

" We're closed," Pike automatically said, not even bothering to look up.

" Not to us." Pike paused in the middle of his sweeping and looked up to see a pair of men he was all too familiar with. One of them was a lean mountain of hurt, chewing something that smelt of tar in his mouth, and hands stuffed in his jeans. The other, thin as a fire hydrant and with blocky aviators glued to his eyes, stood in front of his enormous friend and spoke first in a lazy drawl. " Fine evening, Pike. Where's my fucking money?"

" Due this Friday. And it's not your money. It's Santiago's - " Pike barely had time to stand up before man behind Matt grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket and tossed him roughly against the counter. His spine hit the edge roughly, a sharp ache of pain lancing down his back. A cage of meaty fingers encrusted his throat and Pike was on his tiptoes, wheezing for breath. Dark spots danced in his vision as he heard the thunder of boots crunching against broken glass. The grip on his throat relaxed and Piek found himself face to face with the ugliest fucking pair of shades he ever saw this side of Mineenoona. Cold, hazel eyes stared from behind the caramel shades as Matt began speaking once more, conversationally.

" We come whenever we want, irishman." Matt stabbeds thumb into his breast, pushing and twisting it around. " You think just cuz you move Santiago's iron, you're hot shit. You're lucky we didn't off you two months ago for that shit your brother pulled against us, you two-bit paddy fuck."

" Say that again, spic - ," Pike's tongue turned numb as Matt's friend turned his throat into a pipe, solid and inflexible.

" When did this fuckin' fuck become so mouthy? Learnt that from your brother, eh? Maybe, that's why your brother ended up dying the way he did. "

" I don't understand. I didn't do anything wrong. "

" Didn't do anything wrong. ," Matt repeated back playfully. " You're late, Pike. You missed your payments last week and hell, Santiago gave you time. Said that you were dependable. But, then, you had to have your brother's broad over at your apartment."

" Wasn't my choice, " Pike grounded out. " I know what I promised him. "

" Then, you better keep it that way. Otherwise, we're gonna clean their houses. Get me? "

" Eat shit. "

Matt's eyebrow quirked up, unimpressed. He nodded to his friend and Pike let down on his feet, gasping for air.

"Okay. " Matt said. Before Pike could reply, Matt looked away like he was going to sneeze. " Rico, teach him some manners."

Rico leapt upon him, one palm wrenching his head back like a spring and the other locking his two arms behind his back. He spun Pike around so that he was facing the counter. An three day old pike was staring blankly up at him
on the other side with wide lifeless eyes. The counter rushed up to meet him and his head kissed in the glass with a crack. His vision swam with starbursts of pain, flecks of blood drooling from his lip, before Fred slammed his head against the counter again. And again. And again. By the time Pike woke up, he was punch-drunk, cheeks puffed and swollen, face feeling wrapped up behind layers of wool. He was leaning against the side of the counter, a spiderweb of cracks sprouting across it. He felt a hand pick underneath his jaw and he had no energy to complain as a white pebble was plucked out of his jaw. Matt's voice echoed in his ringing ear whilst he lamely curled up on the ground.

" Take it this way, you Irish fuck. Ten grand end of this week or ten teeth by tomorrow. Your choice."

̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅𝙴𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙽 𝚃⌖ 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅

a collab between @Bork and @themaybreeze

Roger’s knock was like his fingerprint: Uniquely his (unless someone were to be silly enough to chop his hand off.)
He didn’t use his knuckles, one of the very few things he didn’t use them for, and instead chose to ball those fat fingers into a fist and bang thrice with the backside. It would always rattle the office door hinges. It would always make the blinds clatter together. It would always make Pearly startle. She was halfway through a deep inhale of a line of coke. It was chopped up into a slug atop the diary she used sporadically, only when she remembered she even had a diary, once or twice a month. Pearly paused, mid-sniff, the rolled note trembling slightly at the halfway line of the coke chem trail. If it hadn’t have blown away the powder, Pearly would’ve sighed. Instead, she ripped the note through the remainder and threw her head back, sniffing so hard her nostrils vacuumed in against her septum like a serpent.

“Yes, Roge?” she called out, tracing a finger across the residue and suckling at her tip like a teat. She sounded like a mother, tired of her child’s incessant calls for attention from another room.

The office door opened a crack, just enough for Roger to throw his voice inside.

“O’Malley’s downstairs for you,” he called.

Pearly pinched the bridge of her nose, eyes watering as the battery acid drip oozed at the back of her throat.

“O’Malley’s dead, Roge!” she called back dismissively, vexed that her quiet line had been interrupted with talk of an outstanding bill that was destined to remain unpaid.

“Pike’s not dead, Miss P. He’s downstairs. And he’s asking for you.”

Soirée wasn’t busy. There were some dregs scattered haphazardly but no thrumming atmosphere nor bustling crowd for Pearly to bury her buzz in. She pulled her shawl tighter around her body, wrapping it like a cocoon around her frame, heels thudding against the fraying carpet. His back was turned but she wondered if he could feel her imminent descent. She slumped into the stool next to him, legs scuffling to steady herself on the foot rest. Pearly fixed her posture. She straightened her spine. Lifted her chin. Clenched her jaw to fight the coke-induced tingle that itched beneath the skin.

“Peter?” she said, her lyrical tone implying that this was a pleasant surprise but the stiff upper lip exposing the opposite. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

Pike fished the remains of a cigarette out of his lips and squished it flat onto the ashtray as Pearl sat down. His eyes looked over her for a second, guarded and cautious. He didn't have the patience to indulge in other thoughts. He searched his memory, flipping through the scattered memories like a diary. He didn't venture much out to these parts but Muskie apparently did. The street talk about the woman in front of him passed through him like a fall wind blowing in leaves. The Soiree and Pearl were inseperable, like a tangled flyline in a river. There wasn't a single soul who ventured here who didn't know about the madame of the Soiree.

" I'm here on behalf of this," Pike fished out a piece of paper that felt like a brick in his hand, placing it with two fingers on the bar counter, and pushing it towards Pearl. His nose curdled at how twitchy she looked, the blown-up veins along her eyes. Ice, maybe. Dopeheads were always the worst clients. Their trigger instincts were itchy and you always had to hand the ammo seperately to them before whatever they were on gave them the wrong ideas. He tried to not let his disgust show, punching it down, as he spoke teresely.

"Muskie left many things to me when he died." He nodded towards the paper. It was a crumpled carbon slip of paper, ink stamped with the Soiree's address and a five figure number that made his eyes water. "I understand he's got an account with the Soiree. Now, 7 and a half grand is a little high. I was wondering if you could drop that down to a 5 and in return.....," Pike breathed as if he had run a marathon. Muskie was better at the negotiations." I'd be willing to offer your business a discount on my merchandise. Don't go telling anyone though."

Pike snorted in disbelief as he mused over the thought of Muskie with rows upon rows of empty shot glasses on the bar counter, "Can't believe my brother drank his way to 50 grand."

Pearl’s eyes lazily flicked down to the bartop, barely glancing at the Soirée bill. She didn’t need to read it. She knew what it said. She’d written it. She’d kept a record of the money that awaited her on the streets and Muskie’s bill had been gathering dust on her priority list until she’d heard news of his passing. So Pearly waved a hand at the bill dismissively and returned her icy blue gaze back to Peter O’Malley, marvelling at the similarities and consequential differences between the brothers. It had been mere seconds and Pearly already decided she preferred Muskie. He’d always been good to the girls. Soft. Never a problem. His only problem was that he never fuckin’ paid. And granted, tha was a big fuckin’ problem. But the girls liked him so damned much they’d always give him dances on tick, head on tick, time on tick. It wasn’t how Pearly liked to do things but Muskie always managed to sweeten the deal. His brother spoke like he didn’t know that. Was he not aware of why Muskie O’Malley got special treatment round here?

The Madam arched her eyebrows and levelled Pike with a searching look. She took her time to answer, heart struggling to beat against the tide of coke in her system, the buzz making her feel all racy and wired. She sighed, letting Pike’s words hang in the air, and gestured for Lloyd the barman to come over. He obliged. She fixed him with a brimming grin.

“Lloyd be a doll and pour Mr O’Malley another of whatever it is he’s drinkin’, won’t ya? Got a feelin’ he’s gon’ need another!” the Madam smirked before breaking into her dazzling albeit unsettling smile. “Oh and Lloyd? Grab me my pack of El Producto’s while you’re at it, honey bee. It’s what Muskie would’ve wanted if he were here.”

Lloyd nodded somber. The pack of cigars was placed into Pearl’s open and expectant palm. She tentatively slid one out and placed it between her teeth, leaving the open pack pointed to Peter in case he wanted to indulge. His lighter lay conveniently next to the ash tray in front of him and she reached for it wordlessly. The blue flame sprung forth and caught the reconstituted tobacco wrap, plumes of smoke chuffing from her lips like a steam train. She crossed and recrossed her legs, beaded skirt creeping up her thighs, the slit parting to expose her trusty Smith and Wesson snuggled in her garter.

“Now now, Peter” she purred, poised and draped across the bar stool. “I know I don’t need to tell you that it’s polite to at least start with a bit of light foreplay before you fuck someone-“

Lloyd and Shoshanna were working the bar side by side. The tattooed bartender effortlessly poured a generous thumb of whiskey for Pete. Lloyd began stirring Pearly an Old Fashioned. He knows it’s her tipple of choice when she’s enjoying a Producto. The Madam was still smiling, the scent of her cigar smoke billowing around them.

“A top secret business discount? Mmmm. Sounds sexy, don’t it? I appreciate your… Generosity. Cos I know the O’Malley’s have got the best shit in the biz. See, it’s a sweet deal, sure. On the surface. But let’s dig a little deeper…”

Lloyd tapped the metal bar spoon on the side of the rocks glass, signalling that the Old Fashioned was finished. Pearly reached and took the sweetened bourbon, sipping at the tang of bitters and honeyed smoke.

“Of course, I won’t bite the hand that feeds me, Pete. Never bite the hand that’s feedin’ me. ‘Cept your not feedin’ me are you, darlin’? Matter of fact, it’s quite the opposite. You’re taking the food right out my mouth. Ain’t even had the chance to chew on it before you’re shovin’ your fingers down my throat to grab it back. So hows bout this-“

She sipped from her glass again then pinched Muskie’s eye-watering bill between her fingers, slowly crumpling it with a wiggle of her digits. It balled up into a snowball of debt. Pearl set it down on the bar and flicked it behind the jump with a satisfying crunch. It flew past Lloyd’s left shoulder and pinged to the ground.

“Consider this little matter resolved. I don’t like it. Fuck no, I don’t like it one little bit. But for Muskie? God bless his fuckin’ soul, I’ll let your bartering slide. Your brazen negotiations piss me off no end but unpaid dues piss me off more. Somethin’ is always better than nothin’…” Pearl’s eyes narrowed at Pike, her tongue running the length of her bottom lip. Something flickered in her eyes. A lick of a challenge. A warning flare. “5 grand. And mates rates for as long as we’re both still breathin’. Debts can be paid. Appreciation is forever.”

Her lips curled around the cigar, the cherry twitching as she took tiny tokes. She sniffed. The buzz from her recent line had slipped away, mellowing to a gentle thrum beneath the surface. She felt sharpened, the liquor balancing her out nicely. Pearly leant back in the bar stool, taking up so much space despite her slight form.

“It’s not the liquor debt that’s tricky to let go. That’s the bill I’m willing to write off. It’s the girl’s time that cost our Muskie a pretty penny. Your brother’s real vice weren’t the pricey vintages or chasing the worm at the bottom of the bottle… His Achilles was was my Dixie’s pretty lil pussy. She was his favourite. Oh, they were like lovesick teenagers, the pair of em. She was beside herself when she heard of his passing. Least her grief ain’t for nothin’ now that you’re willing to foot the bill. I’m sure she’ll be grateful to ya.”

The whiskey boiled in his mouth, despair and doubt equally mixed, as he heard Pearl say those damned words. He swallowed, and his tongue was dry as sandpaper when he tried to speak. You idiot. It was speaking again, now using Maria's husky voice. It was the demon that writhed and roared inside him like a rabid beast the one he lent his soul to whenever he held a gun or pulled a trigger. The one he used to kill Garcia. You know Pearl's reputation. You think Muskie was some paragon, some untouchable summit that you couldn't comprehend. Principles? Please. You just sell death and destruction, Peter. He downed the whiskey again, but it didn't seem to help. The whiskey wouldn't help.

No, he had to stay calm. Just stay calm. Muskie would tell him to stay calm. He was here to negotiate and Pearl had forgiven his debts. He could forgive this. It was a successful deal. So, what if it was true? His brother was dead. He was dead. His fist clenched as he struggled to contain his breathing. But he was still alive in his heart. In the words that everyone spoke about him. In the stares that everyone gave him. In the shop he worked in, the bricks and rebar that they wove together with their blood, sweat, and tears. Muskie was dead, but Pike didn't know why everyone was intent on making him feel like he still lived.

The club began to remind him of river water; in a sickly pallor of amber light, pond scum danced in the air above the drowning masses of bodies around him. The whiskey was flowing down through his fingers, the color of blood,his brother's blood,and the jazz music transformed into a dirge that pounded against his skull. The singer on the stage behind them broke out into a wild verse and Garcia's blubbering voice sang from his throat. It was then Maria's on the next verse and then Muskie's voice at the crescendo. All taunting him. The next sentence pried its way out of his boiling stomach and flew out in one hot breath.

"You're lying," Pike said, uncertain, his face shining with a sickly pallor. He pushed away the shot glass and leaned in toward Pearl. "I know my brother. He's married. He wouldn't sleep with anyone in this rat shithole. He's married, ring and all. I know my brother and he wouldn't cheat. So, either this is a pretty sick fucking joke, Pearl, or you're fucking with my head. God knows everyone already is."

"Pike, just calm down, hey? Drinks on the - ," Shoshanna attempted to interrupt, raising her hands with a bar towel in one in a placating gesture, but Pike ignored it, barreling forward.

"My brother told me everything," Pike chuckled to himself halfheartedly. "He had to have told me everything. You think you know Muskie better than I do? I'm the one that buried him. I'm the one that fucking buried him!" He turned his head out into the crowd, some of whom were now staring at him, and spotted Roger trawling around like a bear, shouting out to him. "You hear that, Roger? You want to know what happened to Garcia too?"

"Pike!" Shoshanna grabbed his arm now. Her lips pinched tight enough to break a needle in half. Her face was smeared with disapproval, but her slate-gray eyes cast a soft gaze toward him. "It's true," she said.

Pike wrenched his arm out from Shoshanna's grip violently and then the fight drained out of him, the hubbub of the club returning to its regular rhythm. Shame flitted across his brow like a roach before he veiled it under a slow draught of whiskey.

"Well, shit," Pike groused, looking at Pearl apologetically. "If you want Roger to throw me out, now would be a good time. Your man's just itching to do it."

Pearl watched the realisation sweep across Pike’s features like watching a lifeless body plummet from a great height. She wiggled her backside further back in the barstool, angling her cocked head with exaggerated curiosity. Like a vindictive elder sibling may shatter their younger siblings reality by exposing Santa as a fraud, the Madam poked her bottom lip out with an inflammatory pity at Pike as his widened eyes flicked frantically between Shoshanna and the Madam. She ignored Pike’s vehement denials of reality, simply puffing on her cigar wordlessly, sneering at Shoshanna’s gentle reassurance. When her tattooed hand reached across the bar and flexed against Pike’s arm, it triggered Pearly’s neck to crick and fasten her employee with a disapprovingly withering look. She didn’t so much mind the blithering, grief-struck rebuttals of truth… It was the raucous behaviour which followed that really itched her shit. First he insults her with some piss-poor, lowballer offer? Then he starts running his mouth at a less than palatable volume? She tutted like a disappointed headmistress, shaking her head disapprovingly.

Pearl’s free hand ever so slowly floated to her garter, fingers tantalising the stock with a brush of her twitching pads. She wasn’t trigger happy enough to lap up the prospect of drawing her Smithy like a parched, stray dog. Pike O’Malley was not someone to point at with a pipe ‘less you were ready to bury a bullet firmly between his eyeballs. You better make sure your aim is flawless, too. No, Pearl wasn’t naive enough to think drawing Pike’s very livestock on him, turning his own metal against him, would result in anything positive. And at this close range? She’d be scrubbing his claret from her hair for days. Not to mention the buzzkill a murder at the bar would be…

Roger seemed to cross the Soirée dance floor in exactly 2 lengthy strides. She could feel his presence before registering the shadow of her bodyguard enveloping her from behind. He stood behind the bar stool, his girthy shoulders dwarfing Pearl as she sat a little stiffened in front of him. The bald, balky bouncer watched O’Malley as he washed down his shame alongside a mouthful of whiskey with a blank stare. Pearly shot a sidewards glance at the Soirée crowd that had stirred at Pike’s little outburst, smiling as they’d resumed whatever it was they’d been doing prior the interruption. She clicked her tongue, drew from the last of her cigar, and allowed a waterfall of smoke to slither up from between her lips. The Producto was as good as done. Pearl pinched it between thumb and forefinger, leant past Pike and stubbed it out in the ash tray.

“You’re quite right, Petey” the Madam conceded. “I’m pretty sure Roge is chomping at the bit to drag your ass outta here. Can you blame him? You made a right song and dance out of all this. But, listen, let’s kiss and make up.”

The Madam held out a hand like a high-flying businessman, eyes levelling with Pike’s, her elongated nails draping from her nail beds like talons. A handshake. As if they hadn’t just agreed to write off a couple thousands worth of his dead brother’s booze bill and settle the price of the pussy he was a slave for.

“Shake on it. I want the money in instalments, alright? Easier to bury that way. Bring me a grand a week.”

She unravelled from her barstool, tossing her loosened jet black pin-curls over her shoulder. Her body language told him this conversation was done. She placed a hand on Peter’s arm, in the exact same spot Shoshanna had grabbed just moments ago, and shot him a pitying smile.

“You stay as long as you like, darlin’. Have another drink. Then maybe have yourself another. But you pay as you go, ya heard? No tabs for the O’Malley’s no more. Ain’t no more brothers left to be pickin’ up your bill should you decide to go and pop ya clogs on me.”

Pearl disappeared in a plume of YSL “Opium” and the clatter of her beaded skirt. Roger lingered for a moment, his beady eyes narrowing at someone across the room then turning back to Pike.

“Thanks for stopping by, Pike” Roge said, his tone etched with warning. “Who’s your mate? He ain’t taken his eyes off you the last 20 minutes.”

The meaty man jutted a chin that melted undefined into thick neck at the general direction of a man sat a few seats away. With that, he disappeared in pursuit of Pearly who strutted across the Soirée dance floor, hips swaying.

Pike's eyes watched the two fade away into a world that he didn't dare understand, but Muskie understood. He thought about dwelling on it more before he decided to dwell on the whiskey he'd been ignoring in front of him all along. His calloused palms grabbed the glass and took a lick of it. His eyes then turned to the man Roger pointed out to him. It was hard to make out his figure. A light bulb was flickering above him erratically like a dying animal. His trenchcoat was one size too big for him, the coattails drapped over the bar-stool, swishing back and forth like a tail. His arms move languidly on the counter, accepting a glass flute from Shoshanna with a nod of thanks while his troused legs were tense, coiled like a spring.

" I think you've gone fishing before," The man said plainly without looking at him. Before Pike could clarify, the man replied again in the span of a heartbeat. "Oh, yes, you look like the type. "

"Once or twice," Pike half-lied.

" Folks say it's a matter of skill. I say it's a matter of patience. Everyone tries something different. A different spot, something more tasty to dangle onto a hook, wade out into the waters, but I like to wait. The longer you wait, the more satisfying the catch is," The trenchcoated man traced his finger around the rim of his flute before turning to face him. Pike could only see a tooth studded crescent scar cutting through a pepper stubble. " Wonder what it was it was always like for the fish. Caught a trout out at the Merrimac once. Used a little twine and a old tin can. Hook was in its jaw - " The man curled his finger around his lip and tugged at it. " - and I normally would have killed it on the spot but I just stared at it. Look at it in its blank eyes. Trying to see it could speak, frown, say anything to me. "

" That's because it's a fucking fish, " Pike retorted, trying to hide his unease..

"Maybe, but, I'm patient. I'm sure the next one will talk." The man finished off his drink, dabbing his lips with a napkin he produced from his trenchcoat and then, left Pike to wallow in the sea of jazz, spilt drinks and rat piss that permeated the Soiree.