Laith's Monday
I'm high and drunk on ego, can't see straight
So I just feel my way around and
I'm touching and I'm grabbing
Everything I can't be having
-- Mother Mother, It’s Alright
His mind was engulfed by fog, a nebula that usurped every thought forming inside it, a mess of puzzle pieces scattered across the floor, thumb tacks in a haystack. He never knew what the right thing to do was; that was Emily’s job, to guide him and keep him from doing something stupid, which he was always so prone to do, enthralled by the temptation. She kept him from getting in trouble—his voice of reason. It’d worked better when they were younger, before the things that they did had real repercussions, before responsibilities fell over their shoulders.
He was a fucking idiot for doing what he did, hiding like a coward, lying as if he even knew how to do it, as if they wouldn’t figure him out and crucify him for not one, but two—no, three offenses, the worst possible friend. Yet, when he thought of Theo, something deep inside his chest flickered, warm and alive, buried under the debris, a sign of life, breathing still. His body was long dead but his soul still lived—how? His throat closed.
It was nearly time. He wrapped a hand around the grip as naturally as putting on a glove, baseball bat lifted to rest on his right shoulder. He’d lived with this strange tumor for so long, ignoring it, pushing it away, that now that it’d grown malignant, a doctor’s visit would be pointless. He knew he’d gone too far, gotten too attached, flown too close to the sun—it was time to get burned. They might not have been very apparent in the beginning, the signs that this river led to a waterfall, but they’d all been there; he’d simply failed to read them.
When had he ever chosen self-preservation, anyway? He’d burn in the sun and drown in the water like he’d done before, an inescapable cycle. It rendered his efforts useless—what was the point of keeping it casual if he’d catch feelings anyway? Those efforts must not have been very good, or he wouldn’t be here again, a recurring circus attraction; one in the crowd and one up on stage.
“Hey, handsome.” Ms. Intervention’s voice cut through his mind like a hot knife in cold butter.
Staring at her, he heard his front door close behind himself.
It wasn’t uncommon to find both of his neighbors leaning against their respective doorways, speaking to each other on their days off. On a Monday, that was pretty much all they did. Enough people lived here that gossip brewed unassisted, steaming hot cups of tea just two doors down, and on bad days, right across the hall. Today was definitely one of those days.
Always very perceptive, Ms. Intervention arched a highly judgmental and deeply knowing eyebrow that read him like an open book, text all across his face. She was very much like Emily in that respect, a fine comb. “Well, look who’s high again. So irresponsible. If I ran a tabloid, you’d make the headlines every night, you scandalous cat. Who are you beating up this time?”
His hold on the grip tightened. “Brooks and Van de Berg.” Words fell out of his mouth like water he’d forgotten to swallow.
“I thought you saw Van de Berg last week,” D’angela protested. The scowl made her half-shaven eyebrows almost meet in the middle.
“Yeah, I did, but…” He shrugged, bat bobbing over his shoulder. “You know how it is.”
The queens exchanged glances. In the distance, people shouted, frantic and angry, familiar voices that resonated somewhere within him. He knew them—who was it?
D’angela turned to look while he just stared at her, too slow to process that the reason she moved was to observe the fuss. When he finally realized that, it was too late; two of his neighbors stormed down the hallway, shoving him aside. So the distant voices hadn’t been all that distant, after all. His back met with his own door as the two walked past, screaming at each other—none of what they said registered in his head. It didn’t matter; their problems weren’t his. He pushed himself off the door, feet stumbling a bit, trying to steady themselves. The hallway spun overhead—in brief regret, he knew he shouldn’t have finished that bottle of Jack. Struggling, he started for the stairs.
“Easy, Shark.”
“How much did you have?”
The queens’ concerns were entirely ignored, but not on his part, not consciously—he didn’t hear them. Technically, he did, but as soon as their words reached his brain, they were erased, dumped into the trash chute that slid down a black hole. His mind was deteriorating—he was falling apart. With a hand against the wall, he stumbled for the stairs.
***
Brooks’ store was deep in the Sunset-Amber Guts, five businesses into it, not too far from his place. As he walked, the crowd parted, always avoiding eye-contact, disinterested in starting anything. He’d never hit anyone out in the open like that, but the mere possibility of angering Burman wasn’t worth even bumping into him, though he bumped into them a lot, unable to walk straight. Most of them kept on going as if it hadn’t happened at all, while others took his arm to steady his balance entirely out of instinct. The moment they realized what they’d done, he was quickly let go. It was fine though, he didn’t mind it; his eyes could barely focus. Numb, he stumbled onwards.
All the people he paid visits to were late on their payments. Since Burman ran the economy, new businesses had to turn to her for loans and a place to start. He didn’t know the ins and outs of it, but from what he could tell, she seemed fair; the owners didn’t have to pay rent or any of the loan back for the first year, and if they didn’t miss any payments following that year, she wouldn’t charge them any interest. Her regular collectors visited those clients, while Laith was stuck with the problem ones that usually needed some incentive to open their wallets. Many had tried to deceive him and some had even succeeded, but with time, his practices became so well-known that attempting deception soon became too risky a game. Tangentially, he’d never understood where the nickname had come from. He wasn’t a loan shark, just a debt collector, but they called him Shark anyway. Lost in translation, he supposed; an inside joke that he wasn’t a part of.
Across the stand from Brooks, he grinned, unable to feel his own face.
All joy immediately vanished from the man’s face. “Ah, shit.”
“Are you gonna make this hard on me, bro?”
“Listen, I don’t have it. Here.” A hand pulled some chips from the man’s pocket and held them out in offering. “That’s all I’ve got.”
Bullshit. Merchants in the guts usually kept a pouch nearby, where the day’s savings went. All Laith had to do was lean forward a bit to find it amid some of Brooks’ belongings. A simple reach over the counter snatched the bag away. That prompted protests and complaints, but swallowed by brain fog, Laith could barely hear them. In his defense, the noisy crowd that walked past didn’t help much either.
He fished out the black chips first, which were easy to count, but there weren’t many. Most of them were green, a very difficult number to add in his current state. Two made fifty and four made a hundred—how many did he have in hand? He couldn’t fucking focus. God, why were there so many white ones? There were always so many white ones. Was this nine hundred or a thousand?
It didn’t matter. His inaccurate count would come up short anyway. About two thousand dollars short, if he remembered correctly. Still, he kept the pouch. “Unless you’re holding two thousand, I’m not done here.”
“You can’t take all that. I have children to provide for! What are they gonna eat tonight?”
He pocketed the bag, nodding at the chips in Brooks’ hand. “How much is that?”
The man quickly put them away. “Not enough.”
“Then why did you ask Burman for so much fucking money? You’ve been at this shit for three years.”
“I thought I could pay it off!”
He hummed, swaying delicately on his feet. “That’s a disease, you know—your inflated ego. In the medical field, it’s known as more than you can chew.” He paused, suddenly struck by a piece of information pulled from the depths of his memory. “Don’t you live in Amber?”
“Yeah. The cost of living is extremely high there, so you see how difficult things are for me. I’m living paycheck to paycheck, man.”
His body leaned forward on its own, voice low. “If your business hasn’t turned a profit for three years, how are you living there? How do you afford it?”
Brooks stared at him, eyes growing sharp.
“Unless, of course… you’re bullshitting me.” His left hand joined the other, gripping the bat tightly. “You remember what happens when I’m forced to see you for a third time, don’t you?”
No answer came, only a tight jaw and a glare. Classic Brooks.
“I won’t be alone,” Laith whispered.
“Come tomorrow or in a week; I still won’t have your fucking money.”
“That’s a shame. Maybe go for smaller bites next time.”
He swung the bat down into the stand. All of Brooks’ trinkets flew up as the wooden board bent, bat catching a good few, damaging some and breaking others. Brooks screamed, but locked on autopilot, Laith didn’t hear him, battering the stand. Toys, vases, candles, cups, pictures and other decoration items all scattered about, shattered into pieces. When the board broke, the remaining items skittered across the ground. In the guts, people’s stores could extend for a good twenty feet beyond a single stand, but destroying everything this man ever owned wasn’t the point—this was a message. Laith’s muscles ached as he straightened up, bat once again resting over his shoulder, breathing loud and elaborate.
The hatred in Brooks’ face reminded him of Ryan.
“Be seeing you, Brooks.”
***
Van de Berg was a bit of a different situation. By all means, his bakery was a successful business that drew multiple clients in on a daily, yet somehow, despite his earnings, the man still couldn’t pay back the loan that had been given to him five years prior. Very curious. The bakery was in Sweet Crescent, a Gorgon territory west of here, far enough that Laith should probably just take the train.
While the original tunnels had been built by the city with the intention of becoming a subway system, nothing had ever come from it. At first, what Burman and the rest of the pioneers had put together had just been a place to live; they’d never think their little hole would ever turn into an empire this size. Driven by innovation, Burman had taken care of the electricity, the sewage system and all of the expansions, to the point that their underground space eventually became far too massive to traverse by foot. Ironically, she was forced to dig even deeper and finally create the very transportation system that the town had failed to see through to the end. In that sense, underneath the original tunnels were the new tunnels, with actual tracks and trains that rats used to go back and forth. Everyone could still use the buses above, of course, but they weren’t free. Worst of all, that money wouldn’t even come back underground.
Van de Berg’s bakery was always full. His patrons spotted Laith as soon as he walked in, conversations slowly dying. It was a very lively place when he wasn’t around.
At the counter, Van de Berg offered him a stiff smile, clearly bothered by this little visit before he’d even done anything about it. They’d been at this song and dance for a while; every time Van de Berg made a payment on time, Laith was dismissed, but it never stayed that way for long. He’d miss one and Laith would come over; he’d make one and Laith would stop coming. It couldn’t be good for business, seeing as his visits always drove customers out the door, but maybe Van de Berg was in love with him, utterly unable to keep him at bay for long. A destructive obsession, much like his feelings for Theo.
His heart immediately lunged for his mouth, but he swallowed it back down just in time. Jesus Christ, where had that come from? Not now. Fuck—not now. He cleared his throat and forced a smile, stopping by the counter.
“It’s been far too long, huh?” Van de Berg’s formalities always felt forced, a lion-tamer that had been bit before, hand shaking around the whip.
“I guess you missed me.”
The man’s stiff smile didn’t move. Without a word, he opened the cash register and counted some chips, but not all; Laith could see the rest from where he stood. Van de Berg placed a small pile on the counter and shut the register. “That’s what I have for you today.”
Swiping the pile, Laith counted the chips for himself. First, he picked out the black ones—three. Then, he stacked the others by color. Four greens made a hundred, equal to five grays, equal to ten blues. It was easier to keep count that way. “You’re a thousand short.”
“Upsetting, isn’t it? Right when I made all five thousand last month just fine.”
“Business doesn’t seem slow to me.” He pocketed the chips.
“It’s slow when you’re here.”
“Then stop sending for me.”
With two hands on the grip, he swung the bat into the display case. The glass didn’t shatter immediately, but the sound it made still felt like knives in his ears. One more swing into the same spot did it, glass shards spilling down to pool at his feet, boots covered in them, pies and pastries inedible now. His hands were fine, protected by leather gloves; his face was the only visible part of his body, but it was usually just far away enough that nothing really hit it.
Behind the counter, Van de Berg grimaced.
“Don’t make me come here again.”
“It’s not for lack of trying, I’ll tell you that.”
***
Since the subway was Burman’s project, like almost everything else, the paths it travelled largely benefitted the Dead Ponies. Multiple entrances led into parts of the club, which allowed its patrons an easy commute that, for the most part, didn’t even have to see the rest of the tunnels if they didn’t feel so inclined. It also forced an influx of visitors that might not have wanted to enter the DP at all, but were simply on their way to a nearby location. Either way, these entrances allowed Laith to travel from Sweet Crescent straight into the club, a short distance from Burman’s office itself.
Located in the very heart of the Dead Ponies, her office was always overlooked by a couple of guards who were much bigger than most, sitting by the door, keeping each other company. Good friends by the looks of it, how they made each other laugh, always on the same wavelength. Lovers?
Laith leaned a hand against the door to keep his balance; he guessed this was how it felt to be on a boat. The number pad on the right side of the door didn’t seem to have any numbers on it this time, bright red with white sparkles moving around. On second thought, the sparkles must be the numbers; he just couldn’t steady his vision long enough to see them. No matter; the passcode had long been burned into his brain. He’d gotten through in much worse shape before; he shouldn’t have too much trouble now.
“Hey, Shark,” one of the guards called.
He turned to see the two of them sitting by the door, grinning from ear to ear. No doubt they’d been watching him. It was already difficult to tell them apart on a regular day, since they were both extremely strong men with no hair, dark beards, same skin color and same clothes, probably the DP uniform. In his state, he’d never be able to figure out who was who.
“Seeing double?” the first guy asked.
Snickering, the other one held up three fingers. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
Goddammit. As the two cracked jokes and made one another laugh, Laith went back to the lock, left hand gripping the door frame as if his life depended on it. He knew he’d land face-first against it otherwise. His fingertips pressed on the number pad even though he couldn’t feel them, focused entirely on the beeping sound that each number made. Done with the sequence, he touched his index on the scanner for fingerprints. A second later, the door unlocked.
“Try not to trip on the stairs!” one of the guards suggested.
That comment got a big, fat laugh out of the other one. They must be fucking.
The entrance hall was just as dimly lit as the Unicorn Rave, except there were no flashing lights in here, only red neon tubes along the walls. Immediately across the door was a stairway that led up to Burman’s office, with nowhere to go on the left and a short hallway on the right. He’d been down this hallway once before, just not all the way; he knew there was a bathroom right before it bent and disappeared off to the left, but everything beyond that point was a mystery. Burman had told him she lived here, but he found it hard to believe that seeing this hallway to the end would take him to her bedroom; it must be more protected than that. Either way, he wasn’t stupid enough to check. Last time he’d acted dumb, he’d spent two days in bed.
The space upstairs matched the same aesthetic, with dark red carpets across the floor and red neon tubes as the only source of light. The only difference was the long office-like windows that lined the hallway, one-sided mirrors that allowed the ones inside to watch the ones who came in, while all they could see was themselves. Laith’s reflection bent and swayed, the perfect image of a drug addict high on horse tranquilizers. To be fair, he always looked like he was high on something, even when he wasn’t. Incidentally, how did these potted plants grow in here? They must not be real.
As he ventured further onto the floor, the echo of Burman’s voice became easier to hear, a very distinct pitch that was perfectly sexless. The door to her office was left ajar, but he still knocked before going in. His body moved on its own, performing a well-rehearsed song and dance; it leaned to the right just a bit, so the bat dropped against the wall as he walked in. No weapons allowed.
The long glass table came into view, with Burman sitting close to the door and the Crow standing across from her. The moment their eyes met, his blood froze. He didn’t think the Crow would be here on a Monday.
In his peripherals, he saw Burman turn to look at him too, meeting interrupted. The attention broke him out of the spell and pushed him into the room, heart lodged hard into his throat. Memories of the other night promptly flooded his mind; Theo in his arms and Ryan kissing down his neck. He swallowed thick, hands retrieving his earnings and laying them on the table, each amount in its own bag. A finger pointed at one of them.
“That’s Brooks’.” Then, he pointed to the one next to it. “Van de Berg’s.”
Another, less exciting part of his job was to randomly check up on the businesses that he knew owed Burman money, just to see if they had anything to spare. Those visits were unannounced, and if the owners didn’t happen to have anything, they weren’t penalized for it. Only scheduled visits could turn ugly. He’d stopped at some of them on the way back and pointed each one out to his boss.
Leisurely, Burman took the closest stack to herself, back leaned comfortably against her seat. Her long, see-through sleeves coupled with her coattail and pants turned her figure formless, a bundle of light flowy fabric inside a heavy jacket. Her gold bracelets glinted as she counted the chips, fingers wrapped in rings, nails long and sharp, much like Sherry’s. The disgust on her face was openly displayed—Brooks and Van de Berg had been giving her trouble for quite a while now.
“They’re both short,” Laith informed her.
Despite his comment, she still finished counting. Her hands slowed down as they reached the bottom of the bag, head nodding with a very dissatisfied look, lips pursed. Two fingers pulled one last chip from the pile and placed it on the table—his cut. Then, she moved onto the next one.
“Get back to Brooks on Wednesday.” Her eyes remained glued to the chips, focused. The red glow of the neon tubes shone over her jewelry, a chain that connected her nose piercing to her ear. “Bring the dogs with you.”
His jaw clenched, breath coming in sharp. He still remembered the knuckles that had connected to his face, the hands that had shoved him down and the dozens of kicks that had followed. It all still felt like it’d been yesterday.
God, how he hated the fucking dogs. Even before what had happened, those guys had always been trouble. Unpredictable, they’d smash someone’s business to shreds before Laith was even done talking, acting on impulse, not there to follow any rules. More often than not, he didn’t need them to break anything, just outnumber the client for an emotional pull. That was what he liked to say instead of using the word intimidation, since thinking of it always made him feel sick.
At the bottom of the second bag, Burman pulled a few chips out and laid them on top of his cut. Each of the amounts he’d brought back, regardless of how small they were, earned him a percentage.
“As for Van de Berg, let’s give him the week; he’s not important enough to clutter your schedule with another visit. Focus on Joules, Paulie, Evans and that coffee shop in Atlantic, the one with the fish pun. What was it again?” She clicked her tongue. “Fin-tastic Coffee, that’s the one.”
Okay, that worked for him; he didn’t want to see Van de Berg for a while. He didn’t even like being in Gorgon territory, but some things came with the job. If it were up to him, though, he’d skip both Van de Berg and the coffee shop, despite how much they owed.
Nodding his understanding, he swiped the chips off the table and stuffed them in a pocket. In the background, something moved, sliding across the glass towards him. When he glanced at it, he saw a picture of Ryan.
His heart stopped.
“Before you go, do me a favor.” The Crow’s voice made his hairs stand on end, eyes frozen in place, fixed on the picture. “That’s my wife’s son, Ryan. I want you to find out everything you can about his associates. He lives right next to campus, near Burnt Cane. If he’s involved with anyone, I suspect they’re in the Alvorada, but do let me know if I’m wrong.”
Laith reached for the picture in slow-motion, mind reeling dumb. His hand shook, but hopefully no one noticed it, fingers pulling the picture off the glass. Burman knew he was friends with Ryan. She knew all of them actually, very often patrolling the club with a watchful eye. That was how they’d met. He knew she was looking at him—her gaze burned the side of his face—but he couldn’t find it in himself to return the glance, a victim of slow-aging poison.
Hesitantly, he looked up at the Crow, the spitting image of Theo, with icy blues as light as the sky and sandy blonde hair, except thirty years older. He couldn’t breathe. “Why me?” His voice was so quiet that the words on his tongue barely left him. His hand threatened to tremble—had he been any soberer than this, it would’ve succeeded.
“You’re competent, aren’t you? Diligent and thorough. I’ve heard much about your work, how seriously you take it. We both know the dogs don’t have much in terms of IQ, but you—I can trust you, right?”
They held the stare in perfect silence.
A heartbeat later, he nodded. “Yessir.”
That word brought the feeling he’d said it to Theo before, but he couldn’t remember when or why. He regretted using it here.
“I want this information as soon as you can get it.”
“I’ll need some time for research, sir.”
“You have exactly forty-eight hours.”
Oh god, two days? What the fuck could he do in two days? With his heart choking him alive, he nodded and excused himself. Two days to come up with something, an answer, a plan. Two days to save himself. Oh my god, what was he going to do? If he lied, the Crow would know—the Crow always knew. He’d lose an eye. The dogs—they’d break his bones and leave him to die. He’d be worthless, untrustworthy, a liability. His body moved absently, bolting for the stairs, seized by flight-or-fight.
There was nowhere to run.
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