Grievous Page 3

  “Figure it out, Scarlet,” I grumble mockingly as he goes into the bathroom and shuts the door, leaving me kneeling here. Rolling my eyes, I get up and head straight downstairs to where Leo and Melody still hang out in the living room.

  Leo looks up at me when I appear. He has questions, I know, but I’m not in the mood to talk about those things, so I beat him to speaking.

  “Hey, Leo, you know what a trombamica is?”

  His eyes widen. “Uh, yeah...”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s a... friend.”

  “A friend.”

  “Yeah,” he says, “one with benefits.”

  “A friend with benefits.”

  “Just a, uh, more vulgar term.”

  My eyes narrow.

  Leo’s about to say something else, but I don’t give him the chance, walking back out and stomping upstairs. Unbelievable. I hear the water running in the bathroom and don’t even hesitate, opening the door and walking right in since he never locks anything.

  Grabbing the shower curtain, I fling it open, glaring at a naked, soapy Lorenzo. “A fuck-buddy? Really?”

  He stands beneath the spray, water cascading down his bare chest. It distracts me momentarily, detracting from my anger, as I follow the trail of water down his body.

  “Didn’t take you long to figure it out, trombamica.”

  I scowl, looking back at his face. He’s grinning. Smug son of a—ugh. Before I can respond, he grabs me, yanking me beneath the spray. I nearly trip over the edge of the tub as he pulls me into it with him, fully dressed.

  “What the hell, Lorenzo? You’re getting me wet!”

  “Don’t I always?” he asks with a laugh, grabbing my drenched clothes and tearing them off, flinging them onto the floor before drawing the shower curtain closed again. He shoves me back against the tile wall, and I gasp as he grabs my thighs, lifting me up. I wrap my legs around his waist, my arms around his neck, holding onto him. “Guess I owe you some reciprocation, huh?”

  “You’re damn right you do,” I say. “You better make it good, too.”

  He grins, kissing me, whispering against my lips, “I’ll do my best.”

  Chapter Three

  “You son of a bitch,” I growl, squinting, hunkered beneath the glowing lamp in the library with my gaze fixed to my lap. “I swear to God, if you don’t go in that fucking hole, I’m going to lose my shit...”

  Carefully, I aim, lining up for what feels like the twentieth goddamn time, but my hand slips right past my target, once again, instead somehow making me stab myself in the thumb.

  “Fuck!” I yank my hand back, watching as a bead of bright red blood bubbles up on the surface. I pop my thumb in my mouth and shove up out of my chair, sending it flying halfway across the room. “Motherfucker!”

  The word’s jumbled, since I’m sucking my damn thumb, sounding more like a bitch ass shriek than anything resembling English. Frustration builds up inside of me as I kick the table, lashing out, making it screech along the floor.

  “Boss?”

  Seven’s hesitant voice calls out from the doorway just in the knick of time, because I was three seconds away from pulling out my gun and shooting something, which would’ve probably just pissed me off more. Goddamn bullet holes.

  I turn, regarding him. He looks like his usual self, fresh-faced and wide awake, despite it being around five o’clock in the morning, the sun not yet shining. He has probably already eaten breakfast. Probably fucked his wife before leaving his house. Probably got some extra snacks stashed in his pockets. Probably did it all while I sat here like a fucking schmuck, struggling to thread this stupid ass needle.

  “Everything okay?” he asks. “What happened?”

  What happened?

  His favorite goddamn question.

  “What happened,” I say, pulling my thumb from between my lips, “is I can’t take Tab A and stick it in Slot B properly because my brain thinks the world is fucking flat so nothing appears 3D.”

  He stares at me cautiously, like how you regard a wild animal, like he’s afraid of what I might be getting myself into this morning.

  “Come thread this fucking needle,” I say, throwing the sewing kit down on the table, pieces of it scattering, “before I stab myself again.”

  Seven approaches, assessing things, picking up the discarded needle and cutting a fresh piece of black thread, since the one I used is knotted and frayed. Three seconds, just like that, he holds the needle up in front of him and slips the thread right through it, securing the ends before handing it back.

  Three seconds.

  I’ve been at this for thirty minutes.

  “Bullshit,” I mutter as I snatch it back. “Thanks.”

  “Anytime, boss,” he says. “Is that all you needed? Is that why you called?”

  “Do you seriously think I’d make you come to Queens just to thread a fucking needle for me at five o’clock in the morning?”

  “Yes.”

  I cast him a glare.

  He’s right.

  I would.

  But I didn’t.

  Shaking my head, I reach down, snatching the damn stuffed bear from the floor where I tossed it earlier after swiping it out of Scarlet’s clutches in bed. I motion for Seven to have a seat in my chair, while I slide up onto the table, sitting on the edge of it, beneath the lamp.

  I don’t know where to start.

  With any of this shit, really.

  When building a puzzle, you always start with the border, since those pieces are the easiest to pick out and put together. From there, depending on the puzzle, you either separate by color or you use the picture as reference, if there’s something unique to pinpoint. Regardless, you hit what’s most obvious first, breaking it down into manageable chunks. Divide and conquer.

  Start at the border and work our way in.

  I push the needle through the side of the bear, to close a hole some fluffy guts are spilling out of.

  Seven sits down, still watching. “You ever sewn before, boss?”

  “Sewed someone’s lips shut before when they wouldn’t shut the fuck up,” I say. “Why? Do I look like I don’t know what I’m doing?”

  I’m asking that genuinely.

  I’m trying to not screw this all up.

  “Your technique is a bit... unusual.”

  “What’s so unusual about it?”

  I’m shoving it in and pulling it back out, winding round and round and round as I go, forcing the hole closed. Makes sense, right?

  “You’re using kind of like a double overcasting basting stitch instead of a blind stitch... or maybe a ladder stitch would’ve been better.”

  “What are you going on about?” I ask, brow furrowing. “Stitches are stitches, are they not?”

  “Well... sure, I guess.”

  “You guess.”

  “It’s just that certain stitches work better in different circumstances—like, for instance...”

  He rambles, babbling on and on and on about stitches and fabrics and techniques, while I just keep shoving the needle through the bear, back and forth, until the hole is no more. Poof. I cut the thread and knot it the best I can, looking up at Seven when I’m done.

  Not even kidding. He’s still talking.

  “How the hell do you know all that?” I ask, cutting him off. “Get your rocks off in home ec? Spend your free time whittling out coats for the homeless?”

  He laughs. “The wife is a seamstress.”

  “No shit? Didn’t think she had a job anymore since you got set loose and started making money again.”

  “She still does a bit of work here and there,” he says. “Mends costumes for a couple shows when they need it. She enjoys it, and well, not gonna turn down extra money, you know?”

  “Yeah,” I mumble, examining my sewing job before moving on to the next hole, making Seven rethread the needle for me.

  Extra money is a bullshit concept, when it comes down to it. For most people, the more
they make, the more they spend. Bigger houses, fancier cars, more recognizable brand names. It isn’t like they get to a point where they think, ‘yep, I’ve got enough now, I’ll pass on the rest.’ Which means there’s no such thing as extra. Money is money. It’s a necessary evil.

  “Speaking of money,” I say, sewing up another hole. “I met with Jameson and a few of his guys over in Midtown yesterday.”

  “Why didn’t you call me? I could’ve driven you.”

  “Wasn’t necessary,” I say. “I just had Jameson swing through and pick me up. Got the guns from storage unloaded. Banked about a hundred thousand. His guy wants more, though, so I’m going to have another shipment put together in the next few days and have it brought up.”

  Seven lets out a low whistle. “More? That’s a lot of guns for one man. What’s he doing, starting a war?”

  “Probably,” I say. “Not my problem, though. What they do with it all is their business.”

  “And the rest of the stuff?”

  “It’ll all be out to market in the next few days,” I say. “Three can handle it, like usual.”

  Look, while I’m sewing this hole closed, let me give you a rundown about how all of this works:

  I help acquire shit. Illegal shit, mostly, some of it that way because of where it comes from. You see, a long time ago, when I was still swimming around in Charlie Gambini’s nutsack, the government said ‘fuck Cuba’ and banned everything to do with the place. No imports. No exports. Couldn’t even step foot on the island without going through a bunch of bullshit. And people, you know, when the government tells them they can’t have something, it just makes them want it even more.

  Hence, the blackmarket boomed.

  After my stepfather wreaked his havoc and took over the groves, he decided to capitalize on that demand. The convenience of having property in Florida meant they could slip shit in and out from Cuba under everyone’s noses. After he died and I took it all back, I kept the market running. Most of the product still stays down south, and some guys run it all as they keep up with the groves, but special orders are brought to me up here.

  You want it, I can probably get it.

  Whether or not I will depends on how much you’re willing to pay and if I like you that day.

  So in summary, we bribe a bunch of motherfuckers to look the other way as we funnel the good shit in from Cuba. I deal with our connections and handle the money. Three distributes the inventory, while Seven makes sure I keep my head on straight through it all. Eye on the prize. The rest of the guys, well, they mostly do the brunt work, and it pays pretty damn good, so they don’t complain.

  You bored now? Yeah?

  Can’t say I blame you.

  That part of it bores the shit out of me, too. I wouldn’t bother doing it, except I rely on that money to keep the groves running, since there isn’t much money to be made in oranges. I’d break that reality down for you, but it might put you to sleep.

  All caught up now? Good.

  Back to sewing.

  “Anyway, so I asked around about the Russian, figuring one of them would have an in with the guy since most are undercover with that crowd.” Oh yeah, did I mention most of the select group that buys my illegal shit up here works in law enforcement? I have Seven to thank for those connections. “They say they can’t get near him. They’ve tried. He keeps it all close to the chest, but somebody has to have an in with him since he’s always a step ahead. So I’m figuring, you know, I’ve got Jameson in my pocket because he works organized crime, but they aren’t building a case, the locals are, which tells me whoever’s supposed to be investigating the Russians has gotta be bending over for the guy.”

  “Makes sense,” Seven says. “Most likely a detective in the area.”

  “Ding, ding, ding, we’ve got a winner.” I finish sewing up that hole, assessing the bear’s leg, the bottom part of it pretty fucked, a chunk burned away. “How am I supposed to fix that?”

  “Cover it up,” Seven suggests.

  “What, sew a sock onto it or something?”

  “No, make a patch,” he says, “like when you get a hole in your pants.”

  I glance down at my jeans, covered with holes.

  They were made that way. No patches.

  “Sometimes you seem a lot older than me, Seven.”

  He laughs. “You’re just young at heart.”

  “Is that your way of saying I’m immature?”

  “I’m just saying you don’t seem to be in any hurry to grow up,” he says. “Which there’s nothing wrong with. But me? I’ve settled into my life. You’re still finding yours.”

  “Well, I appreciate the validation, but that’s not helping get this goddamn bear fixed.”

  “Why are you fixing it?”

  Man... that’s a good question. The only answer I’ve got is, “Who knows?”

  He laughs. Again. “Look, find some fabric, cut it to fit the space, finish the raw edges and sew it on.”

  I toss the bear down on the table beside the sewing kit when he says that. It sounds like a lot of work with a high probability of something going wrong. Can’t do much about the rest of the bear, either. Can’t replace its ear. Can’t put it in the washer without it falling apart. And certainly can’t give it back its missing eye, considering I’ve only got one myself.

  It’s just fucked.

  “She had a file on me, you know. Scarlet.”

  Seven’s eyes widen.

  “She swiped it from a detective’s office. Gabriel Jones. You know him?”

  Seven makes a face. “Unfortunately.”

  “Any chance he could be our Senator Palpatine?”

  “Who?”

  Sighing, I stand up, taking off my glasses and setting them on the table. “I’m only giving you a pass on that because of the prequels, but if you tell me you’ve never seen Empire Strikes Back, I’m shooting you in the face.”

  “Seen it a few times.”

  “Good, now come on,” I say, pulling my keys from my pocket and tossing them to Seven. “We’re gonna have us a little rendezvous with our little Sith detective this morning.”

  “I’m not sure this is a good idea, boss.”

  Those are the first words out of Seven’s mouth when we step foot into the precinct down near Coney Island. I sort of expected it, though, being who he is. He’s more uncomfortable here than at a strip club, and that’s saying something, since the man has an aversion to any naked woman that isn’t his wife. Allergic to unfamiliar pussy.

  “You can wait in the car,” I tell him. “Won’t hold it against you.”

  “I’m fine,” he says. “Just letting it be known so when things go haywire you can’t blame me.”

  “Oh, I can still blame you. Probably will, too.”

  He shakes his head, stepping by me, naturally taking the lead on this since he’s all too familiar with the procedures in these places. He approaches a woman in uniform sitting behind a desk, clearing his throat before saying firmly, “We’re here to speak with Detective Gabriel Jones.”

  Ohhh, his cop voice—no bullshit, no humor. I guess if we’re playing the good cop/bad cop routine, that makes me the good one. The irony...

  The officer regards him warily, like she might have an idea of who he is. “Name?”

  “Bruno Pratt,” he says.

  Recognition flashes in her eyes.

  “I’ll let him know you’re here,” she says, motioning toward the lobby. “Have a seat, someone will—”

  “Don’t worry about that,” he cuts in. “I can find his office myself, no problem.”

  Seven pushes away from the desk, immediately heading for a nearby elevator. The officer at the desk shoots me a look next, that all-too-familiar expression of dread washing over her as she averts her eyes.

  My reputation must precede me here, too.

  “Officer,” I say, nodding in greeting as I walk past the front desk, trailing Seven.

  The elevator opens and we step inside. He presses
the number three button.

  “Third floor, huh?” I ask.

  “Just a guess,” he says.

  A damn lucky guess, it turns out, because we find the detective’s office in the back against the wall, blinds drawn, his name prominently displayed on the door.

  “Doesn’t look like anyone’s home,” I say.

  “Oh, no, he’s here,” Seven says. “Should probably look away unless you wanna get an eyeful.”

  “No shit?”

  Seven shoots me a look that says just that: no shit.

  I don’t avert my gaze, because well, I’m nosey. Besides, I’ve seen it all before. Nothing’s going to shock me. Seven grabs the door, shoving it open, a high-pitched yelp ringing out from inside as we interrupt whatever’s happening. Uh-oh.

  “Whoa buddy!” I say, letting out a laugh as the detective scrambles to pull himself together. His pants are down around his ankles, damn near tripping him, his awkwardly hairy ass on display. “Might wanna shave that shit, Sasquatch.”

  He’s cursing under his breath as he yanks his pants on, the woman on her knees shoving him away to stand up. Blonde, sickly skinny, which I’m guessing is courtesy of coke judging by the high-as-fuck look on her face. She flees the office, and I grimace as she rushes past me, getting a whiff of something rank.

  “Christ,” I grumble, walking into the office, not awaiting an invitation since I’m probably not getting one. “I don’t even know what to say right now, detective.”

  “Nothing was happening,” he says as he fumbles with his belt. “It wasn’t what it looked like.”

  I drop down into a chair in front of his desk, stretching my legs out, making myself comfortable. “I sure hope not, because I thought you had better taste than that. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’ve fucked my fair share of questionable women, but that’s like sticking your dick in a trash compactor.”

  He glares at me. “I don’t have time for visitors today. I’m busy.”

  “I saw,” I say. “You working on something for that girl? A little head, a little pussy, and what? You’ll give her case a little extra attention?”