Page 2 of Roses Are Dead
“No wonder they call you, Whoosh.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
The noise that came from Carl used to make me curl into a ball and cover my head. It wasn’t loud, or even all that violent. Just a sigh of contempt. At least one person died after that nonverbal assault.
“Sit. We will wait for your friend in silence.”
“I don’t have to be quiet. I’m a Destroyer. Go fuck yourself.”
Ah. It made sense that Carl’s supplier was the notorious motorcycle gang that thundered down the roads in packs. Good, god-fearing folk warned their children to stay away from that type of criminal.
It made me want to peek around the edge of the couch to see what one looked like up close to satiate my curiosity. But I knew better than to move or make a sound.
“You are not a Destroyer, yet.”
“I will be.”
“Not if you drive to a drop, forget the product, and then anger the club’s best dealer, you won’t.”
That shut him up. For a few minutes. Then he prattled away about nothing important. I settled into a more comfortable position so I could ignore the deal going down. Sketch showed up, and the argument went much like I expected. Lots of posturing, some threats, and through it all, Carl being his infuriatingly calm but slimy self, only agreeing to pay half up front because Whoosh was rude to him.
Then all hell broke loose. It started small, a thump with the telltale crinkling sound of broken glass. The kind you hear in a car accident, but muffled by the house walls and the distance to the back alley.
“What the fuck was that?” Whoosh asked.
Sketch moved. His shoes were harder and heavier than Whoosh’s or Carl’s.
Another thump. Then a scream.
My blood ran cold. That was a woman, not an alley cat, and too high-pitched to be one of the gang members that slinked in the grimy valley between the row houses. Sketch swore and tore open the back door. Carl quickly tapped in the security codes to the alarm system; the beeps were barely audible over the yelling. Bang!
I covered my head to protect myself from the expected return gunfire. But instead, the heavy tromp of Sketch’s boots grew louder as he strode from the kitchen to the living room. “Do you know which gangs wear purple?”
“That would be either the Fifth Street boys, or fucking Maleanta’s asswipes.” For Carl to swear meant he was beyond excited, or pissed. They’d argued over the payment terms, the amount, and everything in-between without him raising his voice.
“Does he buy from you?”
Carl’s hesitation made me hold my breath. He was going to lie to a Destroyer. Probably an armed one because someone fired off that shot from Carl’s back porch.
“Cut him off.” Sketch didn’t bother to wait for Carl’s lie. The shuffling of money was distinct. I’d heard the same thing only an hour ago as Carl meticulously counted the cash he’d need for this deal. “Where does he live?”
Carl gave Sketch an answer that not only included where they lived, but what cars they drove, full names, and where their favorite fast-food restaurant was.
The Destroyers left, and Carl reset the alarm. Cautiously, I crawled out of my hiding spot. His gaze landed on me, and I froze. “Come here, Rose.”
Shit.
I stood and joined him, pretending that this kind of thing happened all the time. That life was as normal as… well, some crime drama.
“Do you know who those men were?” He pointed toward the alley.
“Destroyers.”
A soft noise of satisfaction emanated from Carl. “That’s right, Mary-Rose.”
I hated the way he said my name like that. He traced the rows of tiny lines carved into the door frame. The house was so old, the scars weren’t out of place, but there was something incestuous about his fascination with them. When he reached the bottom of the rows, he traced four small lines under it with his thumbnail. Then he sighed. “You were listening. If they ever find out you were here, you’re dead. They don’t leave witnesses.” His tone shifted to the same pace and cadence his father used during sermons.
Then why are you still alive? I stuffed the question deep, along with any defiance that would betray me.
