Can't Let Her Go

He doesn’t get a single step before I trip him. He hits the concrete hard. Before he can scramble to his feet, I kick him in the side. Not too hard. Not hard enough to crack a rib or bust up a spleen. Just enough to take out his wind. He lies on the sidewalk and gasps for air. I stand over him and light a cigarette. That’s how you treat weasels.

You take away their hope.

“Eddie,” I begin. “This is a nice night, a great night. I imagine there are a lot of women down by the bar, wearing tight dresses, drinking cocktails, and looking to get lucky. I wish I was with them. But I’m not and I kinda resent that. I mean, this is too good a night to waste on you, if you catch my drift. So, the way I see it, you got a choice. You can work with me, or you can go through thirty minutes of hell before you work with me. If I were you, I’d work with me and avoid the thirty minutes of hell. But, like I said, you got a choice.”

He looks up at me, and I know the weasel has figured it out. At least, I think so until he rolls to his side to puke into the gutter. If he had thrown up on my shoes I would have had to really hurt him.

When he finishes, he rolls on his back and wipes his lips on his sleeve. I could tell him that he stinks, but I don’t want him to think he has a weapon of some sort. Weasels will use anything they can find.

“That was a lot of good beer wasted,” Eddie rasps.

“Knowing you, the beer was bought by everyone else in O’Malley’s. So, you didn’t lose nothing.”

He laughs, and the laugh is cut short, probably because it hurts his throat. “You’re right,” he says. “The good paddies at O’Malley’s don’t mind paying for a good joke and a friendly smile.”

“If you’re thinking of making this thing last until you can try another run, you’re making a huge mistake. I’ll kick you every time you can take a deep breath.”

“All right, all right, I hear ya, I hear ya. You’re here about the money.”

“It’s always about the money. I’m a collector, Eddie. You pay me, or I hurt you. I’m sure you understand that.”

“Yeah, yeah, and I’m sure you already know that I don’t have the money. I mean, if I did, don’t you think I would give it to you?”

I already know that the mooch doesn’t have it. I knew that when he walked out of O’Malley’s, but in my job, it’s important that the guy admits he doesn’t have the money. He has to know why he’s going to get hurt. That way, he won’t come back with a shotgun like he would if he thought the punishment was unmerited.

I drag smoke into my lungs. “How much you got?”

“Come on, Hunter, I don’t have it all.”

“How much, mooch, and don’t make me go through your pockets.”

“Three hundred.”

“Let’s see it.”

He pulls off his left shoe and shakes out two hundreds. Then, he rifles through his pockets and adds five twenties.

“I don’t get paid for a week,” he says. “Can you leave me something for my sis?”

I pick up the money and drop two twenties on the sidewalk.

“Thanks,” he says, “thanks.”

“Here’s the deal,” I say. “I’m supposed to break your elbow if you don’t have all the money.”

“Aw, Hunter,” he bleats. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I know, but it’s sorta like my job.”

“But if you do that,” he wheedles. “I won’t be working for a while, and it would be tough for you to collect anything from me next week.”

I pick up the money. “Here’s the deal. I’m not going to break your elbow. Stand up.”

He struggles to his feet.

“I’m going to break your rib,” I tell him.

“Aw … come on, Hunter. You know I’m good for it. You don’t have to do that.”

“Hold still, or I might puncture a lung.” I grab his shoulder. “This will hurt, and it will remind you every time you breathe that I’m serious. Because next week, I expect the normal payment, plus what’s behind. You got that?”

“I don’t make that much.”

“Yeah, you do, Eddie. You just got to stay out of O’Malley’s for a week or two,” I suggest helpfully.

“You think I can stay home with my sis? I don’t go out, and all I hear is how effing lazy I am, how stupid. She drives me crazy. She’s the one with the kid she can’t afford, not me. And I’m the stupid one, right?”

“Take a deep breath and then let it all out,” I tell him.

“Aw … please, Hunter.”

I feel him take the breath and let it out. I hit him. Hard. I hear the rib crack, just like it’s supposed to. He’s skinny, so I only have to hit him once.

“What the …” he manages to rasp out.

“Yeah, it hurts, and it’s gonna hurt. Maybe it will help you stay away from the beer.” I pat him on the shoulder. “Look at it this way. You could have had a broken elbow. That would be a huge hospital bill and no work. Think how sis would rag on you then.”

“You’re a barrel of laughs, Hunter, a barrel of laughs.”

“Last thing, mooch. Don’t tell anyone that I did this to you. I don’t want anyone telling me I can’t hurt them real bad because I didn’t hurt you.”

He grasps his side dramatically. “I won’t act the maggot, Hunter. Ya have my word.”

Stop acting the maggot. The words flash into my brain together with the image of a young woman with curly dark brown locks and bright blue eyes. She is addressing the man whose shoulders I’m sitting on. We are on a beach running towards the water. I am clutching the man’s head and laughing. We are all happy. I know instinctively this man and woman are my parents. Then the image goes as quickly as it had come.

I turn away from Eddie and walk away. The memory had only come because of unusual phrasing of Eddie’s words. I push the memories away into that dark place where old memories live. I don’t need the past.

The past can go to hell.

I fling away the cigarette and stuff the money into my pocket. Anakin won’t be happy with me. He wanted Eddie punished. Anakin doesn’t give a damn whether Eddie will be able to work or not. He believes every situation is an exercise in setting an example.

You don’t pay, you get hurt … bad.

Back in my tiny home, I put Eddie’s cash in an envelope, write the name, the amount, and the date on it. Then I pull out the stack of envelopes inside my safe and chuck everything into a big leather knapsack. In an hour’s time I have to deliver everything to T-Man, whose job it is to launder the money.

Hunter

I deliver my stash of envelopes to T-Man. His office is in an old warehouse that Anakin owns. I hang around while he counts the money. His fingers are nimble and in no time, he is reaching for an envelope which he fills with my cut from the collections I’ve made.

Anakin is fair about that. If you collect, you get a cut. It’s an incentive. The more you collect, the more you earn. I’m not sure he believes in capitalism or fair competition, but he understands bonuses.

Without exchanging a single word with him, I take my money and head across town to my meeting with Anakin. With Anakin, you bring in the goods before you go to talk. He is too smart to handle the money himself. If the Feds appear, he can claim he didn’t know a thing. You can’t label Anakin as an idiot.

Anakin’s office is behind his bar. At this time of day, the bar is closed—at least to the public. The enforcers, like me, have no problem getting past Ruffie, the huge bouncer at the door. Ruffie is the kind of guy that you never want to meet in an alley. Unless you’re packing an elephant gun, you won’t stop him before he reaches you. If he grabs you, he’ll snap your neck in an instant. If I had to handle Ruffie, I’d do it with cleverness, not brute force.

I open the door and step inside.

Anakin is a Russian’s Russian. He’s big, bearded, and speaks in short bursts of guttural sounds. You’re never going to read Anakin’s expressionless face. He’ll shake your hand as he shoves the shiv into your gut. “

Hunter, Hunter, sit down, sit down,” he says, with uncharacteristic expansiveness.

I sit because A) everyone does what Anakin wants and B) I’m curious why he is in such a good mood.

“Drink?” he asks.

“No thanks.” I know I am not meant to accept. Not that I would want to. Who sits down to drink with a venomous serpent holding enough poison in its fangs to turn your blood into slimy tofu with one bite? Nah, I want to keep all my wits about me when I’m within spitting distance of him. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t hate him or anything. It is hard to describe my relationship with him. My parents sold me to him when I was four years old to settle their debt. Anakin brought me up. I remember my childhood as a time of unbelievable brutality and cruelty, but the suffering was sprinkled with flashes of kindness from him. A red, blue and white lollipop, a little pat on my head, words of praise, an encouraging gesture. They stood out. Making me long and crave for them. The mind games confused me so much, I mistook savagery for love and became like Pavlov’s dog.

Ah, pain! Good. Kindness is in the horizon.

Years of Anakin’s special brand of parenting and I learned absolute, total, complete loyalty to him. No matter what he asks me to do … I do it without question. My allegiance is so blind I don’t even think about the consequences of my own actions, the men I hurt, the long prison sentence waiting for me if I ever get caught for all those people I have planted into a bucket of cement and thrown off the pier.