Page 8 of Wicked Things
Mason’s eyes widen. “No way, man. I can’t.”
“Did I give you the impression your new job was voluntary?”
“You can’t justmakeme work for you.”
“If we’re talking, physical coercion, then I absolutelycanmake you. I can make you do anything if I hurt you enough. But that’s beside the point. You have rent, don’t you? You have bills to pay? You aren’t working across the street for Mac anymore, and I don’t see you hitting the streets looking for other work. So congratulations, Mason. You are now gainfully employed at the Blood & Roses gym. Don’t turn up fucking late. And if you arrive here drunk, for any fucking reason, I will make you wish you’d never been fucking born. Do you understand me?”
I expect him to balk. At least kick up some kind of fuss. He just sits there for a second, mulling this over, and then he closes his eyes, relief washing over his tired features. “Okay. Okay, sure. I understand.”
******
I’ve been putting off my flight to New York. I’ve been fucking dreading it, in fact. Leaving Sloane behind is such a bad idea, but fuck. What am I supposed to do? Take her with me to confront one of the biggest mafia crime bosses in the country? There’s no way. No way on earth I would ever put her in that kind of danger, especially now that she’s pregnant. I’ve avoided the trip for an entire month, but now the time has come for me to show my face over in Hell’s Kitchen. Torching my warehouse wasn’t a one-off event. If I don’t go and handle these motherfuckers and soon, they’ll come back and rain down even more chaos on my doorstep, and I will not have that. These bastards need to know. They need to fucking know that I won’t be strong-armed, pressured, bullied or threatened into doing what they want me to do. Comply with that sort of behavior and you’re setting a very bad precedent. The next time they want something from me, they’ll simply burn down the gym next time. Or Sloane’s house. Or the hospital.
So. I book my flight, and I text Sloane. She’s not going to like this. Not one little bit. She’s going to beg me not to go, and I’m going to have to make her unhappy.
Me: I’m going away for a few days. I won’t be long. Michael’s going to come stay at the house with you.
The text bubble appears with three dots, meaning she’s replying. I wait for her response to come through, but then the bubble disappears along with the dots, and it appears that she’s stopped typing. Fucking great. I’ve made herthatunhappy. Not ideal in the slightest.
Michael shows up at the gym at around ten am, with a black duffel bag in his hand. He turns it over to me, and I take it, placing it on the table so I can unzip it and check inside. Knuckle-dusters. Duct tape. A set of pliers wrapped in clear plastic. A bowie knife in a heavy-duty black Kevlar sheath.
“All TSA friendly items, I see.”
Michael just shrugs. “You’ll be fine. Make sure you see Sandra Wilder when you check in. She’s going to take care of it.”
Who the fuck is Sandra Wilder? Who fucking cares? If she can get my tools onto a flight without me being arrested, she’s my new best friend. It would be easy enough to go buy what I need once I land in New York, but I don’t plan on hitting up Home Depot. In and out. I’m not hanging around.
“Don’t kill anyone,” Michael says.
I remain focused on the bag in front of me, studiously ignoring him.
“Zeth.”
I throw the bag’s strap over my shoulder, turning and heading for the door.
“All right,” he shouts after me. “If you do have to kill people, just make sure you don’t get caught!”
******
Michael’s like that overweight eunuch guy from Game Of Thrones. He has spies and accomplices dotted all over Seattle (and the rest of the country, for that matter), ready and willing to lend assistance whenever he calls on them. They’re never who you’d expect them to be, either. Sandra Wilder isn’t a skinny, sexy twenty-three year old flight attendant. She’s not a drug addicted meth fiend, desperately trying to keep hold of her job, either.She’s a middle-aged mom with a plain, brown bob haircut and stylish pink glasses. There’s a picture of Jesus tacked to the corner of her computer screen; I see it when she turns the computer monitor around to show me which seats are still available on the flight.
“Aisle or window, Mr. Mayfair?”
“Aisle.”
She nods sagely, as if this makes perfect sense. “I’ll put you at the very front of the plane. You’ll be able to disembark quickly that way. Sounds like you have important business to take care of in the Big Apple.” She laughs, as if her off-the-cuff comment means nothing, but I stare at her, wondering how much she knows. Michael wouldn’t have told her what’s in the duffel. He wouldn’t have.
“You can go ahead and place your bag on the scale, Mr. Mayfair.” She smiles broadly at me, gesturing to the conveyor belt to the right. “I’ll make sure this is delivered to you at the gate personally once we reach our destination.”
There’s something a little off about Sandra. She’s a little too peppy. Is she medicated? Maybe she does have a drug problem after all. Nothing so pedestrian as meth or heroin, though. Coke, perhaps. More likely it’s pharmaceuticals. Clonopin. Percocet. Demerol. I’m usually really fucking good at picking up people’s tells and figuring out what their deal is, but Sandra’s confusing the shit out of me.
I place the bag onto the conveyor belt, and she laughs a little too manically. “Well, well! Fifty pounds for such a small duffel bag, Mr. Mayfair. What have you got in here? Bricks?”
I flash her a grimace of a smile. “I left the bricks at home this time, Sandra.”
She wags a finger at me. “Well, that’s probably for the best. I can just about manage with this. Don’t you worry now. Here’s your boarding pass. Your flight is leaving from gate 32 in fifty-five minutes. I hope you enjoy your trip.”
I take the boarding pass she slides toward me, slipping it into my back pocket. “Oh, don’t you worry, sweetheart. I’m gonna have the time of my life.”
