Page 61 of Refrain

“What is it?” My stomach clenches the same way it does at the mention of any new “side job.” I’ve tried to rationalize it in so many ways. At the end of the day, it was even a hobby of sorts. Some people fix cars in their spare time. Mow lawns. Clean gutters. The busywork no one else wants to do.

We all have our quirks, I guess. Mine’s no different—I tell myself that repeatedly. Whatever helps me sleep at night.

“One of our Russian friends survived Arno’s fun and games,” he says under his breath. “He knows something, but he won’t fucking talk. I think you should try to convince him before Arno gets bored and snuffs out this lead.”

“A lead,” I echo. “This have anything to do with therealreason why he had me try to get up Vlad’s ass?”

He might have lost his shit even more than usual, but Arno’s not entirely insane. He wouldn’t push me toward the Russians without a reason—a much better one than the gun-running excuse he fed me when I asked. It has to be something deeper than that. Something he couldn’t ask the Russians outright. Something more than just Dante.

Francisco knows what, at least more than I do. He’s not willing to tell me though. His loyalty to Arno goes deeper than any favors I could ever deliver. “Just trust me on this. You know how he gets when he’s desperate.”

I know, all right—better than anyone. “He gets sloppy. I’ll do it. I just gotta get my kit.”

“Thanks, kid,” Francisco says. He’s smart enough not to sound too grateful though. He still has a soul in there somewhere. Maybe in any other situation, it wouldn’t come to this. “I know it isn’t easy on you. But this fucker is a real piece of shit. Trust me—He deserves it—”

“I’ll get my kit.” The excuse takes me away from him, but not far enough. If I had to get the stuff I keep at the house, maybe I would change my mind along the way. But, whether out of convenience or guilt, I’ve learned to keep a spare kit at the bar.

When I approach the counter, all of those old concerns I’ve pushed to the back of my mind rise again. I’m running low on equipment. I need new thread. New narcs…

“Hey!” Domi flashes me a smile when I slip past her and snag a black case from underneath the sink.

Someone, probably Francisco, wroteFIRST AID KIT, DON’T FUCKING TOUCHon the plastic surface, and I have to snort at the irony as I return to the back.

Francisco’s already waiting for me near the basement. When he opens the door, moaning mixed with laughter wafts out. I can tell just from the stench alone that Arno’s done a fucking number on this guy already.

“You ready?” Francisco asks as his gaze flickers over his shoulder to make sure we’re alone.

I just shrug and fish a cigarette from my pocket. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

It takes ten minutes.That’s the funny thing about the human psyche. Some people break in seconds. Some take hours. The length of time reflects nothing on the strength of the person though. It just shows how much shit they’ve already sufferedthrough. Endurance is like scar tissue. It builds up over time, uglier and cruder than normal skin. A knife can easily tear through most flesh, but when it’s scarred, you might have to saw a little.

As expected, the sawing can get messy. There’s blood everywhere, speckling the floor and the table like sloppy graffiti. I fucking taste it whenever I lay off the cig hanging from the corner of my mouth. So I drag again, flicking ash onto my knee. The shit burns, but my hands are too busy to swipe the embers away. The left one adjusts the knife in its grip while the right pins a trembling wrist against the table.

“Last time,” I say. There’s no point in putting any ice into my tone. I just sigh when the bastard sitting across from me doesn’t answer.

He’s gritting his teeth together so hard that a vein’s pulsing in his forehead, but the pathetic sounds he makes slip out. He won’t take his eyes off his hand. What remains of it. Shock will set in fast if he doesn’t talk soon.

I tell him as much. “I’d say you got about an hour before you really start feeling the blood loss.”

The bastard whimpers, turning his head away.

“Fuck this shit.” Francisco’s at my shoulder. He’s impatient. The longer this takes, the more likely it is that Arno might stumble down here and crash our little party. “Do what it takes to speed this up,” he grunts in my ear.

The magic words. One more drag on my cig gives me enough of a hit to drown out the scent of salt. As the butt glows red, I lift the knife. The tip gleams, even beneath a smear of ruby liquid. I lower the edge close to my handiwork. The guy has one-third of his pinkie finger left, clinging by a sliver of sinew and a chunk of bone. It’s not the most elegant of jobs, but it gets the point across. As long as the fucker talks, he’ll keep the finger. If not…

“Wait! Wait, wait!”

So the asshole speaks. Whatever he has to say, I don’t want tofucking hear it. Instead, I push back from the table, letting Francisco take my seat. He takes the knife without a word; we’ve played this game before.

“I’ll take it from here,” Francisco says.

Two other men lurk in the corners, ready to jump in if shit goes off. Stitching the guy up can wait until later.

It takes a shot of whiskey,and a few good drags on a fresh cig before I can push the images out of my head—far enough away, at least. The icy air helps when I shove the door to the bar open and step outside.

My fingers are cramping, but clenching them into fists doesn’t help. Neither does slamming them against the rusted dumpster outside Mulligans. I have to drag my bruising knuckles against the first brick wall, the skin ripping off from the friction. The faster I walk, the deeper the pain. The reddish streaks I leave behind are a new form of graffiti. They tell the story of a pathetic punk too stupid and weak to skip town. So what does he do?

He sells his fucking soul.

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