The Enigma (Unlawful Men)

Keep walking.

I make haste to the front of the store and place my replacement brush on the counter with a little pout as the paint mixing machine starts jolting around, and the store is filled with the whirling and banging sounds. “I suppose this one will have to do,” I shout over the noise.

“Broaden your horizons, Beau,” Mr. Hardy replies, frowning at the machine as it jumps toward him. That machine has been on its last legs for as long as I can remember, but since I’m the only one who ever requires paint mixing, Mr. Hardy—understandably—is reluctant to replace it.

“Mr. Hardy, when are you going to retire?” He must be in his mid-seventies by now, and I know for a fact his business limps along. I’m his best customer. I could be his only customer. I never see anyone else in here.

“And do what?” he asks, shutting the machine off and swinging the door open.

“Relax. Take up a hobby.”

He lifts another tub of white base into the machine and taps a few more buttons on the computer before shutting the door and turning it on. “My hobby is working.” He lifts the lid of the first tub, and we’re blinded by the brightness of the pink.

“Perfect,” we say in unison.

While Mr. Hardy sees to the rest of my paint, I help myself to a bag and load my buys in, and then flick through a local newspaper that’s sitting with a pile of others on the counter. My scanning eyes stop flitting when an article catches my attention, and I zoom in on the mug shot of a man I recognize. “Jesus,” I whisper, laying out the paper so I can read the report.

“Oh yes,” Mr. Hardy pipes in, and I look up to see he’s looking at the mug shot too. “They dragged his body out of the river.”

“The Snake. Mom was tracking him for years,” I say quietly, swallowing hard. “He always managed to slip through her fingers.”

Mr. Hardy smiles sympathetically. “Well, whoever sliced his throat before they tossed him in the river certainly didn’t let him slip through their fingers.”

“Sliced throat?” I ask, going back to the report.

“Yes. And the tongue that ordered all those deaths? Cut out. They reckon he’s been at the bottom of the river for a couple of years at least.”

“Nice.”

“Indeed.” Another sympathetic smile. I know what’s coming, but before I can stop him, he asks. “What do you think Jaz would have made of it?” He flicks his head in the direction of the newspaper, and I look at the image again.

“I think she would have been pissed off that someone killed him before she could put him before a judge and jury.” Actually, I don’t think. I know. Mom always said justice wasn’t served by death. It was served by being locked up until death. It was served by being in fear of your life on the inside, where there were endless blood-thirsty inmates just waiting to put you below them in the pecking order. Mark their territory. Wield their power. Justice was served with legal justice. Once upon a time, I would have agreed. Now? Now I don’t believe in justice at all.

“What do you have in that bag?” Mr. Hardy asks as he makes his way back with my second color. I start to fold the newspaper, but something else catches my eye. Another report, one about a local businessman. My father. My lip naturally curls. There he is, all suited and booted, standing outside a brand-new building down on South Beach looking proud. A building he built. I read the article with a scowl, the journalist harping on about my dad’s charity donations and service to the community making my eyes roll. He’s just trying to crush his guilt. Redeem himself. Lessen the chances of him going to hell by doing all these good deeds.

“Is that your dad, Beau?”

“Yeah, that’s my father,” I breathe, shutting the paper on his face. “Or Saint Thomas, if you prefer.” I place it back on the pile as Mr. Hardy chuckles and pulls his pocketknife from his coveralls, levering off the lid of my second color.

“Very nice.”

I crane my neck to see. “She’ll love it.” I pull my credit card from my bag. “I have two large trays, two roller covers, and two non-Beau/Jaz brushes.” I smile sweetly as he rings it through the till.

“Seventy-four bucks on the dot, but we’ll call it seventy for the inconvenience.” He reaches for his beard and starts his customary stroking as I pay and claim my buys. “Good to see you, Beau.”

“And you, Mr. Hardy. Don’t work too hard.”

He laughs as I leave, the bell on the door dinging loudly. I load my things into the back seat of my car, yanking the driver’s seat into place with a loud huff.