The Resurrection (Unlawful Men)

“Anything,” she says, her tone begging.

“Did someone say shopping?”

We both look up the stairs, finding Beau’s uncle in all his drag queen glory. “Only Walmart,” I admit. “I need to pick up some soccer supplies for my boy.”

“Oh, Beau can’t do Walmart. Not at this time of day.”

I wince, throwing her an apologetic look. What time of day it is slipped my mind.

“Yes, I can,” she declares, thanking Fury when he opens the door for her. “Because you’ll be with me, Aunt Zinnea.”

I look at Lawr—Zinnea and smile, seeing how elated he is by Beau’s statement. “Ready?”

He motions down his sparkly form. “Born ready, darling.” He struts down the stairs like it could be a catwalk, cocking his arm out when he reaches the bottom. “Do you think Walmart is?”

I laugh, letting him lead me out. He’s found his armor. His medicine. Alter ego or not, he’s better, and that’s a weight off Beau’s mind.

15

JAMES

* * *

“What did I miss?” Danny asks as he enters, eyeing the backs of the two men in the chairs before me. I can tell by the look on his face that he’s surprised they’re still in one piece. Or alive, even. “Not much, apparently,” he muses. “Still no words?”

“They’re Russian.” I drag a chair over and sit on it back to front, resting my forearms on the backrest.

“How’d you know?”

“Well.” I reach behind me and slide a gold letter opener off Danny’s desk, twirling it in my hand while admiring it. “When I stick this in one of their legs . . .” I flip the solid gold piece of stationery, catch it by the handle, and plunge it into one of the men’s knees.

“Blyad,” the man barks.

“That happens.” I twist and turn the blade, and the Russian starts to dribble and mumble. Then I yank it out. “Translated: whore. Or fuck. Whichever you prefer.”

“That’s my pops’s letter opener,” Danny says, collecting his own chair and joining me.

I look at the blood tricking over the gold. “Sorry.” I press the length onto the Russian’s bloodied jeans and drag it slowly, wiping it clean. Both sides. He hisses, jolting in his chair, his hands fighting with the cable ties. I place the letter opener back on the desk.

“It wasn’t a dig.” Danny claims it and does his own inspection, smiling fondly at it. “I was just saying, it was my father’s.” He tosses it, catches, stands for that extra bit of power, and sinks it into the other guy’s thigh.

“Pizda!”

“What does that mean?”

“Pussy. Cunt. Vagina. Take your pick.”

He pouts as he sits again, reaching for the handle and ramming it down some more until it hits the wooden seat of the chair. More dribbling. More hissing. “Is that a new rug?” Danny asks, looking at our feet to the oriental piece of rich reds and golds that’s rolled out beneath our prey.

“Easier to replace than the whole carpet,” Goldie says from the couch, not glancing up from her phone.

Brad chuckles, heading for the Scotch. “Drink, anyone?”

“Here.” Danny raises his hand, as do I. “May as well get comfortable. It could be a long afternoon.”

The unmistakable widening of the Russian’s eyes makes me smile. “Know any translators?” I ask, accepting the crystal cut tumbler that’s half full.

“Yes, actually. I just had one call me.”

I look across to him as he necks half of his drink. “Which one?”

“Our friend Volodya.” Danny waves his glass at the two men. “He didn’t mention you two, though. So I’m thinking—”

“Sandy,” I muse.

“Either or, bad news for these guys. Do you think they can understand?”

“No idea.”

“I think so,” Otto muses, tossing a burner phone on the desk. “They seem to be able to text in English.”

“Oh good.” Danny smiles brightly at the men. Bright but dark. “As I was saying, bad news for you two. You see, I did a deal with Volodya a few years ago, but he got a bit pissed up on power. Decided I should die. And Sandy? He sent some Russian whore into James’s”—Danny points his glass at me—“girlfriend’s hospital room to kill her.” He reaches for the blade and yanks it out, then cranes his head, looking at the rug being pounded by a steady flow of blood. “Shit, I think that hit an artery. That seriously limits the time we have to torture information out of you.”

“Torture,” I whisper. “Not how I’d like to spend my last half hour.” I put my hand out to Danny, and he graciously surrenders the letter opener. “I don’t think they’re going to talk.” I stand and move in behind the Russians, holding my hand out to Otto. He drops a pair of pliers in my hand.

“Ouch,” Danny says, as I pry open one of their mouths as he jerks and squirms, doing everything he can to hamper my intention.