He gave me a gap-toothed smile, turned and lumbered down the staircase, all six-feet-five, two hundred fifty pounds of him, muscles and sinew and bone, so much there to inflict pain. Each step creaked a protest beneath his frame.
I closed the door and locked all three locks, and then for good measure, I shoved a chair under the knob. None of it would have stopped him. He became a charging bull under the right circumstances.
My legs buckled, and I hit the floor hard. The flash drive poked into my hip, reminding me I needed to put it in the tampon box with the others. As far as I knew, Richie never came into my apartment. Why would he? He knew I was a scared little mouse watching the cats prowl around the house with absolute impunity. Every step I took, every move I made, brought the potential for the snap of the traps that seemed to encompass every aspect of my life.
Someday…
I just kept telling myself…
Someday…
Someday I would be free.
But in the meantime, I was stuck here until I could do something better.
Then the flash drive joined the other four, which held the courses I’d already completed, in a tampon box in the top of the bathroom closet, each stuffed into a little cardboard tube which I knew no man would ever want to touch.
Chapter Three: Danny O’Shea
The bar lights should have made the place welcoming, but all I felt was sadness. Neon colors split the semi-darkness, creating pools of vibrant blue, red, and green. Some of the lights flickered, and other had burned out creating gaps in the messages. The Chicago sports teams were all represented.
The Bears and the Bulls and the Cubs were all partnered onto signs with Budweiser and Miller Lite and Old Style, as though those multimillionaire players would touch a bottle of something so mundane or drink it with the common guy. I wondered why they bothered. No one who frequented this shit hole had the money to actually go to a game.
To be fair, I guess there was a chance someone would come out ahead on the wagers going down at the tables, but chances were that bonus cash would find its way into a vein or a pussy somehow. The Cubs wouldn’t see a dime.
All the lights made my head hurt and would have spiraled me into a severe depression if I hadn’t been here for work. As it was, I was eager to get the party started.
I waded through the sea of bodies sprawled across the dirty plank floor in various stages of consciousness. My dad’s buddy, Stan—appropriately nicknamed “Gorilla”— had been hard at work in lieu of my arrival. He was supposed to start a bar fight, zero in on a dude named Archie Dee, then let me save Archie’s ass as a way of infiltrating the South Side Gang, which was headed up by Archie’s best pal, Richie Silvestri.
Stan had been one of the best detectives on the force before he was forced to medically retire after taking a bullet to the brain that would have killed most guys. At six-foot-six and three hundred pounds, it just pissed Stan off. Still, the force deemed him unfit to serve and mustered him out. Now, he worked as a private consultant, helping out cops here and there and earning a few bucks for his time. Having him bust up the place and knock a few dicks in the dirt tonight was the best five hundred dollars I’d ever expense to the job. When he said he’d start something to give me an in with Richie Silvestri, he hadn’t been kidding.
The target of my brawl ruse—the reason for the C-note investment—was currently being held against the bar by a big, burly fellow who looked like he could be Bigfoot’s cousin. He wore greasy jeans, had a scruffy beard, a shaved head, a sleeveless t-shirt that showed off his ham-hock arms, and an old biker’s jean vest that had the name KILLER sewn on the front.
He was not Stan, even though he was holding my target, Archie Devereaux —Archie Dee— the small-time fish playing with the sharks in the big cesspool that was Chicago’s underworld. I knew Archie was allowed to play only because he’d been Richie Silvestri’s best friend since they were baby gangbangers. He was a tall, skinny dude that looked like he might break if you looked at him hard. Another few seconds with this guy’s beefy hand around his throat would have probably made him shit his pants.
“Sorry about that,” a deep vo
ice said from behind. I turned to see Stan staring at the guy who had Archie by the throat. I had to look up to meet his eyes. “That asshole got to Devereaux before I did. You want me to take him out for you?”
“Nah, I have to do this,” I said, taking a deep breath and blowing it out slowly. “Just keep my back covered.”
“Will do.”
“And Stan,” I said with a smile. “If this goes south, don’t let this guy kill me.”
“Roger that.”
“Hey, Bigfoot,” I said, approaching the big guy from behind.
He gave me a hard look, like you would do to a fly buzzing around your ear. A growl rumbled out of the big guy’s throat, followed by a snarl. “Fuck off,” he said. “Or you’ll be next.”
“You’re not supposed to play with your food,” I said. “Why don’t you just put the guy out of his misery or let him go?”
He growled at me again and tightened his grip on Archie’s throat. “I said fuck off, shit head.” He swung around, pulling Archie with him like he was a rag doll. “You wanna take his place?”
“Sure,” I said with a shrug. “I’ve got nothing better to do than knock your fat ass away from the bar so I can get a drink.”
The guy frowned at me like he was sensitive about his weight. He let go of Archie’s neck, and the poor guy dropped like a stone, gasping, his face red, eyes bulging. Bigfoot took a step toward me, stomping on Archie’s hand in the process. A howl rose from the floor as Archie clutched what was probably a broken hand, but the big guy kept his focus on me.