Page 30 of Gluttony
Tony lifted his gaze to his sister. “Addiction Center?”
“Like I said, she’s had a shitty past.”
Tony cast his mind back to when he’d broken into her apartment. She’d had a cocktail glass sitting on the kitchen counter. And when they’d left, he caught sight of it still there, untouched. He’d assumed she just didn’t have time to drink it, but maybe there was more to the story.
“How long has she been volunteering for the center?” he asked.
“Since she’s been in the city, working for Nightingales.”
“Could be part of a cover.”
“If it was, she wouldn’t actually be working there. She’d be doing CIA shit.”
“Only one way to find out, I guess.” Tony stood up and pocketed the thumb-drive. “Thanks, Sloan.”
“No problemo, Spazarus.”
Eight
On the morningBailey walked to the sobriety house, the temperature dropped to around fifty. She blew on her hands and wished she’d brought a coat, but all she’d taken from home was a light yoga style jacket. It went with her yoga pants and Sketchers, so she’d thought it was perfect. How wrong she’d been. Summer was well and truly over and Cardinal City was in the grip of a cool fall. The coming winter would be cruel.
She blew on her hands again, and stomped up the steps to Hudson House. It was just another Brownstone type townhouse in a street of identical soldiers, but inside, it was a haven for any youth needing help to unlock the handcuffs of addiction. The place functioned as a half-way house, a sobriety house, and an education and medical clinic. It survived purely on donations, and lately—Bailey spied the holes in the fly-screen on the door—they were running low on funds.
On the stoop, a skinny, brown-skinned boy with a shaved head flicked through his smart phone silently. Beside him, a Latino girl wearing a pink beret over her long hair tapped her own screen. If they heard her coming, they didn’t show it. Bailey didn’t recognize them, so plastered a pleasant smile on her face in case they looked up. She had to be friendly if she wanted the kids to come to her martial arts self-defense class.
They failed to look up.
Not surprising. Most kids who ended up at Hudson were closed off from the start. Many didn’t last longer than a few days before heading back out into the city. Some came from broken homes, others lived on the street, used, and were in gangs; all had suffered addiction of various substances at some point. Bailey’s job was to teach them something, anything she could, to give them focus, hope and a reason for staying. It was important they knew that no matter what mistakes they’d made in life, they could make something of themselves. They didn’t have to let addiction rule them, whether it was theirs, or their parent’s.
Her own pitiful home life had been far from normal. Her mother and father were no role models. They’d believed their money meant they could get away with anything. Bailey had thought so too, at first. She’d thought drinking copious amounts of booze until you vomited or lashed out was okay. And when her girlfriend had pressured her, she’d thought driving inebriated was okay, too.
“You’re making the wrong turn,” Becca screeched.
“I am not!” Bailey yanked on the steering wheel too hard, and the tires spun on the wet street. The landscape through the car windows twisted, making her dizzy. She almost couldn’t see straight through her alcohol-induced mind, but the car stayed on the road. She should have never listened to Becca and driven. “I know exactly where I’m going.”
“Oh my God, Bailey. You don’t. That was the turn off!” Becca pointed across Bailey’s face with a red fingered glove.
Tires screeched.
Glass broke.
Bailey shook her head to shake the memory. She still stood on the stoop, knuckles white as she gripped the old wrought iron handle on the door.
Tires screeched again, and she whipped her head around. At the bottom of the stoop, between the two brick pillars marking the beginning of the Hudson House property, a black Cadillac rolled along the street, blowing smoke from its exhaust. Every nerve in Bailey’s body pinged with danger.
The black car slowed. A man with a handlebar mustache and tattoos on his skin watched them with lurking intent as he passed. Bailey caught sight of another two men in the back. Thugs. And they were paying way too much attention to the house.
They stopped and spoke in Spanish to the teens behind Bailey. Obviously, they didn’t think Bailey spoke the language, but it was one of the many she understood, and one of the reasons she’d been a prime candidate for the CIA.
“El canala, we find you,”the driver said.
The teen boy tensed. His eyes widened. But it was the girl who turned a whiter shade of pale. Bailey’s hands balled into fists. If only she had her pistol.
Instead, she recited his license plate out loud. “And I’ll find you, asshole,” she replied… in Spanish. In English, she added, “Come around here again, and I’ll call the police.”
The two men in the back of the vehicle shifted just enough to show they held onto cold metal weapons. Bailey wasn’t afraid. She stared the men down until one in the back made a gesture for them to move on. She waited until they were long down the road.
“Get inside,” she said to the teens. “Come on. Class is about to start.”
