Broken Wings (A Romantic Suspense) (33 page)

You get good at reading faces in jail.

“Hey,” he snaps at me.

This guy pilots a desk at the biscuit factory headquarters. I’m not in the fucking mood. I walk past him to the sink and wash my hands. I’ve got my blood from the broken tile on my right and Eve’s pussy juice on my left. The water goes down the sink pink. The paper towel sticks to my hand. I like this bathroom, it reminds me of a casino. It would be a terrible shame if one of those nice porcelain urinals was cracked in half by this asshole’s head. The probability of that is rising by the second.

I pull the paper towel away. A few little nicks, nothing serious. I squeeze the paper against the blood and take a deep breath. Count to ten. Conflict management was something else I had to learn. After sitting through enough bullshit anger management sessions I actually started paying attention and
sharing
in hopes they’d stop making me go.

I told them some shit about being angry that my Dad died. I’m not angry with him. It’s not Dad’s fault some asshole ran him off the road into a tree. What makes me angry is that I gave myself completely to Eve and at the first sign of trouble she believed the absolute worst about me. I can still see her father’s smug face behind her as she reacted to the bitch’s testimony at the trial. Martin. The man has the most punchable face. I wouldn’t mind hammering him with my fist. Paisley tie man hasn’t given up volunteering to stand in for Martin today. He’s edging closer to me all the time as I pat my hand dry again, run more water over it. The cuts are already starting to scab. He looks in the toilet stall and then back at me.

“Did you do that?”

“Not now.”

I start walking away.

“I asked you a fucking question.”

He puts his hand on me.

Oh, fuck you.

I duck from under his grip as he paws at my suit coat. Turn, pivot on my heels, and suddenly his fingers are crushed in my grip. A twist and a squeeze and they’ll pop right out of joint, or I can spin on my heel and hammer my elbow against his, snap it clean. I could totally fuck him up, but I stop. I let go. He goes for me again, grabs at my collar with both hands. I slip my arms up between his and spread them apart, breaking his grip. If I hit this guy, I’m going back to prison.

The bathroom door bangs open and Jim Thorpe III walks in.

III. Part of his name is a goddamn Roman numeral. What am I doing here?

“Howard? What the fuck are you doing?”

Howard the Paisley Tie man blinks. Looks at me. Blinks again. He walks off muttering, leaving me to adjust my collar and coat gingerly, trying not to get blood on my fingers.

When we’re alone, Thorpe walks over.

“What the hell is going on?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“You have a history with that woman, I take it. It’s not just a business thing.”

“No, it isn’t. It’s also none of your business. Let it lay.”

“Right. The board has decided to take a formal vote from the shareholders. It’s going to be a proxy fight. That woman has a few big proxies in her pocket already.”

Like I give a shit.

“Give me names and numbers. I’ll handle it.”

“I’m in debt up to my eyeballs, Amsel. If she takes over the company, I’m fucked. Do you understand me? I’m not talking credit unions here. I mean leg breakers.”

I shrug. “I’m not the one who bet on those basketball games, Thorpe. I know exactly who you’re in debt to. I said I’ll take care of it. Eve isn’t getting shit from you.”

He eyes me coldly, nods twice.

“Go bang a secretary, Thorpe. Go two at a time, I don’t care. I’ll make the calls. Everything is going to be just fine.”

With a hard look, he turns and departs. I’m alone in the bathroom and let out a long, deep breath that threatens to turn into a scream. I do not need this pressure right now. I scrub my fingers through my hair, make myself mostly presentable in the mirror and jog to the elevator, too late realizing I might run into Eve. The temptation to just throw her over my shoulder, tie her to a chair and
make
her listen to me would be too strong to resist.

You know what? There’s more prayer in prison than a church. People pray, they pray a lot. Save me, help me, forgive me. My prayer was never said out loud. Back when I was a kid and my father was still alive, we used to watch Cecil B. DeMille’s
The Ten Commandments
with Charlton Heston at least once a month. Me and him in the big home theater. He could recite all the lines by memory. It was so weird. I mean it’s a four hour movie, and any time something remotely related would come up in conversation he could start spewing lines from that movie like it was nothing. I never knew how he remembered all that. One line from the movie still sticks in my head. I guess it’s a line from the Bible, actually.
And once more, Pharoah’s heart was hardened.

That was my prayer. I never said it out loud, not once. Please. Soften her heart again. Help her believe me.

I didn’t fuck that girl, Eve. I didn’t betray you. All I ever wanted was you. Nothing else matters.

The elevator doors open. There’s a driver waiting for me. A narrow man with thinning hair he grows to his shoulders and a pinched, weasely face. I don’t know his name and I don’t care to ask. He doesn’t talk.

My associates are not nice people. I prefer not to talk to them. I ride in the back of the car to the airport, to the private jet waiting for me. I don’t know Eve’s exact itinerary, but we’ll be in the air at the same time, land around the same time. Finding her would be trivial, following her would be trivial. As I sit in the plush seat at the back of the plane and lean back into it, all I can think about is the warmth of her body under my hands, pressed against me, the urgency of her pumping hips as I thrust my fingers inside her. It’s been so long.

Before Eve I could have any girl I wanted, and I did. Often.

Then there was Eve and all of a sudden there were two girls in the world. Her, and everyone else.

I’m not a big sleeper. Never had been. I used to vex my parents by lying awake until past midnight and rising with the sun. Even in high school when I was supposed to sleep in I rarely slept more than six or seven hours. There was just too much in the world to be awake for. Now all I want is a damned nap. A nap and Eve in a bed beside me, curled up the way she does when she sleeps, arms around me, pressed against my back. The plane seat is warm and soft but a poor substitute. Can’t sleep through takeoff, but once the plane is in the air I do nod off. Adrenaline will do that to you. It’s a crash worse than caffeine, just like the high is more intense. I nod off into a dreamless and not very restful sleep and when I wake again, the plane is leaning back into the landing. It’s always struck me as strange how planes tilt
backwards
when they’re going to land, but I guess it makes sense.

The landing is gentle, at least. I want off this fucking thing. Best thing about private planes is no waiting around for all the nonsense. I’m down the steps and walking across tarmac in less than ten minutes after landing.

I stumble to a stop when I spot my jet. Well, the Amsel holding company’s jet. Eve is there. I can’t see her. I don’t have to. I can feel her.

Time to go, before I do something stupid like throw myself at her feet and tell her everything.

Usually, when one flies on a private jet, one does not take the bus. Yet I walk through the terminal and catch the bus out to the short term parking lot. The Firebird is parked way off on its own, a long walk from where the bus lets me off. I’ve seen some shit, but the way the high pressure sodium lamps that illuminate the parking lot leech all the color out of the world is fucking eerie, especially on a moonless, cloudy night. It’s going to rain again, or maybe snow. It’s colder now than it was this morning. I feel like I’ve been awake for three days. I slip into the car and lean on the steering wheel, resting my forehead on the cold metal. I give the key a twist and she starts right up. I need to find the time to get under the hood and check her out, sometime. She probably needs an oil change. Dad would flip out if he knew I just drove her off after sitting for years without a thorough going over.

When I sit up and lean back
 
in the seat the last thing I want to do is drive. Fortunately I don’t have far to go. It’s a short hop into the city, off the highway and back to the parking lot. The bleary-eyed attendant eyes the Firebird warily as I take my ticket and park it. I should probably buy a monthly pass but I’m not putting a sticker on my car. I stick it in my pocket and walk across the street without bothering to look and see if a car is coming, then head up the stairs. I stumble into the dingy little room, slam the door
 
and twist the lock. I don’t bother with the stupid little chain. I kick my shoes into the corner, slough off my clothes like dead skin and flop onto the mattress, then paw around until I come up with about a third of a bottle of Jack. I drink it like it’s water, feel the heat spread through me and hope it’ll dull my senses a little, but it doesn’t.

I drink the rest, too fast. Toss the bottle and it thunks in the corner, clinks against another one. There’s a pile of them over there I haven’t bothered to clean up.

I roll over on my side, and try to sleep.

The mattress is too damned soft. I end up
 
shimmying off of it, onto the floor, grab my bare pillow and tuck it under my head. The hard floor is better, easier to sleep on. My back will be killing me in the morning, but at least I can sleep.

Somebody flips a switch and suddenly there’s sunlight pouring through the windows and it feels like my head is stuffed with pencil erasers. I roll away from the bed onto my hands, get my feet under me and start push-ups. It only makes my head throb more, but I do a hundred in quick succession. If
 
I wasn’t so fatigued last night I’d be clapping with every rep. Get up, grab the pull up bar I’ve bolted to the wall, and start counting, stop counting when I get bored with it and go until my arms and back are on fire. If my head hurt any worse I’d be dead. I look in the small, grimy mirror in the tiny bathroom to make sure there’s no blood squirting out my nose, limp over to the fridge and pull out the bottle of milk inside. I down a cocktail of sinus pills, aspirin, Excedrin, and ibuprofen, wash it down with gulps of milk, eat some cold Pop Tarts and fall back down on the bed.

I sit there for a couple hours, clutching my head. When the pain has faded to merely excruciating, I’m ready to get up and get to work. Clean clothes first, and then the office.

My phone buzzes. I rifle through my shed suit to find it and press it to my ear.

“What?” I snap, yawning.

“Victor. Is that any way to greet your old friend?”

Fuck. It’s Vitali.

Vitali the Hammer.

“Sorry, Vitali. What is it?”

“Early day,
 
yes? How did meeting go yesterday?”

He slips into a Russian accent now and then. It’s weird, jarring when he does it. He does it when he’s upset. He likes asking people questions he already knows the answer to, to test them. I don’t like being tested.

“As expected.”

“How did the girl take it?”

“That’s not your problem. Thorpe is squarely on my side. It’s coming down to a proxy fight. She’ll lose.”

“Yes, you said it would. Give me the names of the holdouts.”

I swallow. “Let me call them first.”

“As you wish. Call me this afternoon and tell me you have succeeded, or give me the names of the holdouts.”

He hangs up. Vitali is only a man for niceties when it suits him, which is mostly when he thinks it’s funny.

They call him the hammer for a reason. He once told me a man’s toes look like grapes after you take a masonry hammer to them.

What have I gotten myself into?

Worse, what have I gotten Eve into?

Before I agreed to any of this I extracted a promise from Vitali that Eve would not be hurt.

Then again, it wasn’t much of a promise, and I didn’t extract it, exactly. When somebody like Vitali promises somebody won’t be hurt, it’s like when they come around and promise your shop won’t burn down if you pay in the insurance money. That kind of a promise.

I’ll keep her safe, I swear.

I start by calling a dozen old men and begging, pleading, arguing, joking my way through to thwarting Eve’s attempts to bring the biscuit company under the Amsel umbrella, and when that doesn’t work, lay down a few veiled threats.

When I call Vitali to tell him it’s a go, I make the conversation as brief as possible. He hangs up on me again.

Dick.

I guess I should be proud of myself. I saved Jim Thorpe’s company from Eve’s claws. I sold them to the Russian Mafia instead. Russian Mafia biscuits. I hope they don’t start putting ground up witnesses in the batter or something. With that done I flop back on the bed.

Air. I need air. It stinks in here. Opening the windows won’t help, it just makes the smell worse. I dress quickly and duck out of the apartment, walk down the street with my hands shoved in my pockets. Two stores down the block there’s a bar. Bad idea. Me plus booze plus crowd equals fight, equals parole violation, equals back to the cell. I walk to the corner and just stand there, ignoring the walk/don’t walk signal. If I stand too long some cop will roll up and ask what I’m doing, so I keep moving. Across Market Street and up 4
^th
. I’m heading in a bad direction. I turn around, start back. The air out here isn’t any better. It’s cold today, colder than yesterday and there’s a breeze off the river, with all the lovely smells you’d expect. I make sure to wait for the signals before I cross, stay in the crosswalk, keep my head down. Last thing I need is to eyefuck some stranger into a fistfight.

As I start up the rickety cast iron stairs to my so-called apartment, I hear shouting, some in English, some in Korean, and a thump, and a scream.

It’s coming from my downstairs neighbors.

A louder scream.

Oh God damn it.

I’ve never been in one of these places before. The only signage is a red paper lantern hanging by the door, a pretty universal signal. It’s a red light. Yeah.