Page 23 of Violent Things
She looks up at my with those big eyes of hers, shiny from the potential tears that might fall—she hasn’t decided yet whether staying at Wanda’s is a big enough deal to warrant tears—and blinks. “Where are you going?” she whispers.
“I’m going to do another job.”
“But you went to work this morning.” She rubs the pad of her index finger against my knee, staring at it, clad in my jeans, apparently absorbed in the feel of the material.
“I know, kiddo, but this is for extra. Extra money. So we can move and get a better place, right?” We’ve talked about this enough that Millie knows how important moving is for us. She gives me a very solemn nod, still not looking at me.
“Away from next door to Wanda and Brandy?” she asks.
“Well, yeah, Mil. Somewhere safe. Somewhere good, right?”
“Can Wanda and Brandy come?”
I have to bite my lip as I stare down at the wispy golden curls on the top of her tiny head. “I don’t know, Mil. Maybe. I think Wanda likes living here, though. We can always come visit her and Brandy, can’t we?” Of course Wanda doesn’t like living in this shitty building with it’s shitty pipes and drafty windows, but you end up telling lies like this to keep the peace. And to comfort, too. Besides, Millie is still going to come here after school while I’m still stuck at Mac’s, so that part is true at least.
“So do you think I should stay?” I ask. I shouldn’t really be giving her the choice, but she panics less if she thinks she’s in control of what’s happening and when. I mean, how fucked up is it that a little girl her age needs to feel likeshe’sin control, because the world is too scary, and dangerous and frightening. It fucking stinks.
“No. No, you can go,” she says quietly. She’s silent for a moment and then her head snaps up, a broad smile spreading across her face. She holds her hands to her mouth, like she’s afraid of even speaking the idea that has just occurred to her. “Um, if you get more money,” she says carefully. “That means I can have a new princess bed.”
This is stated like it’s a foregone conclusion. Brandy, Wanda’s daughter, got a fancy bed for Christmas—a mini four poster thing with pink frilly see-through material that you can pull across to make a sort of den. Millie’s never mentioned wanting one before, not once. She never asks for anything. But now, I can see from the look in her eyes that this is something she wants very badly. I feel like a piece of shit. A bed like that wouldn’t cost a huge amount of money, but it’s more than we have. More than I’m likely to bring home tonight from my very first fight.
“How about we see what happens, huh, kiddo?”
Millie nods, her head rising and falling in exaggerated movements. “Okay.” She’s all too happy to run next door with Roo underneath her arm, then, at the prospect of ‘seeing what happens’ with her getting a new princess bed. I’m all but forgotten. Wanda squeezes me tightly to her massive chest when she opens the door to us. I’ve nearly suffocated in that woman’s cleavage more times than I can count.
“You be careful tonight, you hear me?” she scolds.
“As careful as I can be.” I hold out the tiny backpack with the pink ponies firing rainbows out of their asses on the front of it—at least that’s what it looks like—and Wanda takes it from me without a word. She knows what’s inside: a clean pair of PJs, Millie’s favorite blanket, and her expensive as fuck medication. Wanda knows the drill. She knows what she needs to give Mil if she has a seizure. The woman has never once complained about having to clean up after my sister if she has a fit. Not once.
She gives me another warm hug and then shoos me on my way, knowing exactly where I’m going, hating it, and yet still not telling me not to go. She knows this is the only way I’m going to change things for us.
It takes twenty minutes to drive across the city to La Maison French Markets. Of course, there are no markets taking place right now. The vendors have cleared out their tables and equipment, knowing that Saturday nights are fight nights. I park my shitty truck three streets away as I was instructed by Ben, and then I make my way over to the west entrance of the underground markets. There are already plenty of people slipping down the concrete staircase, doing their best to look inconspicuous and not pulling it off. There’s hardly any point in trying to hide what goes on down here, really. The cops are already fully aware of what goes on, paid off to keep quiet and not cause a fuss or disrupt the evening’s entertainment.
The stairwell smells like piss and stale sweat. Down one level, the large space is filled with bodies, all pushing and shoving against one another. The rush of voices bounces off the low ceiling, making the roaring rumble of shouted conversation and raucous laughter even louder. For a very brief moment, I consider turning around and getting the fuck out of here. It’s all too much, and I have absolutely no business being here.
But then I remember Millie and that hopeful look in her eye when I kissed her goodnight, and my resolve solidifies. I’m not leaving. I’m staying, and I’m going to win my fucking match.
I find Ben at the side of the ring—an easy thing to do considering his red hair—handing over hundred dollar bills to a morbidly obese guy in a sweat stained Cuban hat. My friend grins, slapping me on the shoulder when I arrive at his side. “There he is! Thought you’d pussied out, motherfucker. You’re almost late. Hey, this is Carlos. You need to pay your cover to him, okay?”
The fat guy in the hat arches an eyebrow at me, his facial expression unchanging as he holds out his hand. I go to shake it, but he speaks before I can make contact. “That’ll be five hundred, friend.” He doesn’t want to meet me. He wants my cash. And too fucking much of it.
“Five hundred?” I glance over at Ben, ready to pop him in the shoulder for lying to me. Ben’s already holding up his hands, that look that he gets already forming on his face.
“Whoa, whoa, slow your roll, C. Mason’s an initiate. It’s one hundred for initiates, right?”
Carlos squints, running his tongue over his teeth. “Two fifty for initiates. Buy in went up.”
“When?”
“Just now,” Carlos says, frowning up at the both of us from under drawn brows. He doesn’t look like the kind of guy who particularly enjoys being questioned.
“That’s bullshit,” Ben argues.
“Maybe. He don’t like it, he don’t have to fight, though. Them’s the breaks.”
Ben sighs, shrugs, then casts me a questioning glance.You got two fifty?I shake my head. I was breaking a sweat over the potential of stumping up a hundred and losing it all. More than double that? I just don’t have it. Ben nods, puts his hand into his pocket, and pays Carlos before I can stop him.
“What the fuck, man? No!” I hiss. “If I lose, I can’t pay you back.”
