Note: These notes will probably disappear now that I have a little more peace and quiet. Anyway, enjoy?
3.
Compared to Dock 12, The Brand was a hotspot. At eight, the interior of the twentieth century factory turned bar was filled to bursting. As soon as Jon pulled open one of the tall, heavy metal doors, the mixture of beer, hubbub and combined body heat came out to meet him like a warm embrace. Inside, he began to weave his way through the tangle of animated conversations and peals of laughter, pushing his way up to the bar.
Jon leaned forward on his elbows. There were three girls working tonight but the one he needed was bent over the bar at the far end, chin resting on the palm of her hand as she listened to the young man who gesticulated, grinning. Jon watched as she threw her head back in laughter, the thick black hair slipping over her shoulders. The hand came down, slender fingers floating down to touch the man’s hand. As they did, her head turned, still smiling and dark eyes found his, staring back in faint amusement. She shot over a message: I’ll be there soon.
Jon gave a nod and faced the lit shelves in front. A few beats later Ava, one of the other regular girls, stopped by. She had a sweet look about her, with the heart-shaped face and the big green eyes peering out from beneath the reddish-blonde bangs— something she tried hard to mask with the heavy eyeliner, the tattoo sleeve crawling up one of the skinny, freckled arms, and the haircut that looked like someone had taken a pair of hedge clippers and started hacking away, a teased, irregular bush that strove for shoulder-length.
“Hi Jon,” she said, her smile seeming to move up through her body like a shiver.
“Hi Ava,” he said, offering a smile in return before he glanced away from the brazen fire in her eyes.
“So, what’ll it be?” she said, almost bouncing while she said it.
“Scotch.” He paused. “Make it a double.”
“Rough day?” she said, turning with bottle and glass.
He watched as the amber liquid began to spill into the glass. “Who can say anymore?”
“You could tell me about it, if you want.” He could see the want in her eyes as they flitted up from the glass.
Jon smiled. “That’s okay, Ava.” He picked up the glass, tipped it at her. “Sure fire cure.”
She opened her mouth to say more but one of the other customers saved him by getting her attention. Ava glanced off, looked at him again, torn. In the end she turned back to her work with a look of annoyance.
Jon brought up the glass, downed half the contents in one go. The liquor burned its way down his throat, igniting at the centre of him. Warm fingers began to spread outward, worked the chill from his bones. He stood at the bar, eyes closed, the rim of the glass resting against his bottom lip as he savoured the feeling. As the fire began to settle, he poured down the rest, the flames leaping up once more.
When he put down the glass, she stood in front of him. Pale and dark, she had a sharpness that belied her soft, delicate features. It was in the lifted corner of her full lips, the amused glint in the black doe eyes that had kept her comfortable in tips for close to a decade. She was flushed, roses blooming on the cream-coloured skin.
“Having fun, I see,” Jon said.
“I can say the same about you.” Following her eyes, he found Ava, shooting glancing at them from a few feet down the bar.
“Sure,” he said in a dry tone of voice.
“She has it bad, you know.”
“Please stop.”
Her lips curled into a cat’s smile. But she kept quiet as he slipped a hand into his pocket and pulled out a bundle of cash, held together with a rubber band.
“Your cut.”
She took it. “From twitchy guy?”
Jon nodded.
One thumb, lacquered black, ran across the bills. Then she looked up at him, scoffing and shaking her head in disbelief. “You know he’s gonna be back here soon, complaining about the next psycho asshole they put in charge.”
“No, he won’t.”
She gave him a sardonic smile. “Bleeding heart.”
“Hardly.”
“Whatever you need to tell yourself.” She studied him. “Is that why you look so peaky?”
“I don’t know,” he said, casual. “Do I look peaky?”
This earned him a flat stare.
“I may have overdone it a little,” he admitted. “It’s been a while since I reached out directly.”
“Couldn’t you just make him one of your little… trinkets?” she said with a flutter of her fingers. “I thought you preferred it that way.”
“It was a spur of the moment kind of thing.”
She raised her eyebrows. “You? Mr plan-in-advance? You always said that was too dangerous.”
“It is,” he said, not surprised when she rolled her eyes. “Not that that ever stopped you,” he said, looking down at the rings of moisture left behind by long-gone drinks. Among them, curious designs pulled at his eyes and mind.
“Harmless,” she said, but her hand brushed through them all the same, wiping out the patterns.
“So far,” he corrected.
A coldness slipped into the smile now, making him think of moonlight running along a blade. Whenever she got like this, his heart gave a little twinge, seeing how much she resembled their mother. Both beautiful women that became haunting in their sadness and displeasure.
“Are you lecturing me, Jon?” she said, sweetness in her voice like a bear trap’s spring straining.
He looked away. “I’m not, Elena.”
It was the truth. The last thing he wanted was another argument. They’d had a few of those over the years but during the most recent one, Elena had thrown their mother’s words in his face, asked him which one of them she would’ve found the biggest disappointment. Elena’s anger hadn’t lasted—it never did. But the words had stung, more so because of the ease with which she’d raked these glowing embers of truth from beneath the coal black heap of his own justifications. For years, he’d deluded himself into thinking his sister didn’t have the complete picture. As it turned out, she saw his life more clearly even without all the facts.
He still thought she was reckless, wielding the power in passing. True, most of her interventions amounted to nothing more than nudges. But people were fickle, their lives and thoughts a complicated web of connections, of conflicting desires and fears; it was easy for the influence to have unintended consequences. The lovers she helped join could inspire heartbreak and violence in others without her knowledge. Or murder. Something that had to be avoided at all costs. Because murder was a debt that could never be repaid.
That was one of the reasons he preferred to use the items. Because the items never lied.
And neither did the words.
He reached out, touched her hand. “Have a drink with me?”
She stared at him, smile struggling up to the surface. “Asshole.”
“Guilty as charged,” he said as she turned to fetch the bottle and a glass.
“So,” she said, as she poured the drinks, “what about the suit?”
He stared at the glasses. “Complicated.”
“You tell him to fuck off?” When he remained silent, she thumped the bottle down on the bar. “Tell me you didn’t.”
Curling his fingers around the glass, he sighed. “He’s in a bad place, Ellie.”
“Tell me.”
He didn’t have to worry about being overheard. Elena had taken the necessary steps to ensure their continued privacy a long time ago: a ward carved into the underside of the bar that kept whatever words they exchanged from being retained by the people around them. It was another dangerous act since wards required a tremendous amount of power, and Jon knew that even their mother would’ve scolded Elena for using one outside of her home unless it was a matter of life and death. But considering the many other thoughtless things she did, he figured a bit of protection was probably not the worst idea in the world.
Sipping his drink, he began to tell the story, giving her the salient points. Elena listened, chin in palm again. She asked a question or two— some of the same ones he’d asked Walton. And by the time he was done, she was shaking her head.
“This is bad,” she said, without lifting her head from her hand. She didn’t look at him, her dark eyes moving with her thoughts.
“I told you.”
Her eyes rolled toward his. “No, I mean this is bad.” She paused. “You can’t do this.”
“I don’t have a choice, Ellie.”
Now she raised herself. “I can’t believe you, you know that? Come in here, lecturing me—“
“I didn’t lecture,” he corrected.
“Whatever,” she said, eyes narrowed to slits. “But you see no problems in putting your head in a fucking hornets’ nest?”
“I’m careful. You know that.”
Now she raised herself. “Bullshit,” her eyes crept over his face “How do you intend to do this?”
His hand twirled the glass on the bar. “Three instances, maybe four. Five, if you include Walton.”
Elena scoffed. “Who are you even right now?”
“What?”
“If I tried anything half this crazy, I wouldn’t hear the end of it. All the shit you’ve given me in the past about ‘making sure’ and ‘considering the angles’, what happened to all that?”
Jon stared into his glass. “I’ll make sure.”
She gave a bitter chuckle. “You can’t. Not with this. If he doesn’t even know where they are, how are you going to find them?” She leaned across the bar. “This would be blind. And suppose it is how he says it is —which is a big if— and he does get what he wants. He intends to confront these people. Someone’s gonna get hurt. Or worse.”
His head snapped up. “Someone will get hurt either way,” he hissed. “Don’t you see that?”
“You don’t know that. He could keep paying and doing what they want. He’s done it so far.”
Jon thought about it. In his mind’s eye he saw Walton again, the confident, affluent salesmen that had burned down to a slumped-shouldered wreck over the course of the conversation. He saw the desperation in those intense, round blue eyes again, a man drowning and clutching at straws. A promise of tragedy waiting in the wings.
He shook his head. “Something bad is going to happen. I can feel it.”
“Okay,” she said, gentle. “Suppose that’s true. Suppose he does stop paying and they go after the wife. Maybe—“ She hesitated. “Maybe that would be better than the alternative.”
His eyes found hers.
“At least it wouldn’t be on you.”
Jon stared into her eyes, searching. As usual, he was left trying to guess at the true meaning behind her comments. Elena didn’t know much about the other side of the coin she spent with so little thought. His sister lived by different rules and despite his misgivings, he knew precious little about her gift. And he was almost certain that she knew even less about his. The mention of death caused by their interventions was no doubt inspired by the teachings of Mamma Doma, more dogmatic than anything else. But there was more than one way for death to come back around.
“It’s on me either way,” Jon said.
“Why is this so important to you?” she said, searching his face. “I’ve seen that guy. I know you can’t stand his type.”
“Elena—”
“There’s something you’re not telling me,” she said. Her voice had taken on a dream-like quality, and he could feel her running her fingers over his shell, working to get in.
“Elena, stop it,” he said, pushing back.
She straightened, scowling. “I don’t understand this. Doma always told us to keep it simple, keep it straight. Now you’re talking about five different instances, traveling who knows where, all for a guy you don’t even know! Why are you making it so complicated?” She jabbed a finger in his face. “And don’t tell me it’s because of your bleeding heart. I know you’ve turned down other shakedown cases.”
“This one is different,” he said, swirling the scotch. It wasn’t a lie but it was close. “I just want to make sure nobody gets hurt.” Again, mostly true. “That’s all.”
He swallowed his lie with a mouthful of scotch.
She shook her head, jaw working. “You’re taking risks. And this is me saying it. Why don’t you just go down to the therapist’s office and deal with it yourself?”
“Because—“ he said, cutting his eyes away. “Because it’s safer this way.”
“No,” she shook her head again, “it’s not. Those trinkets of yours, they’re a liability. Why do you insist on using them? Mom always said: leave no trace.”
A ghost of a smile played around his lips. It wasn’t pleasant. She had said that. But he remembered another piece of advice, meant only for his ears. It had wrapped around his heart with the cold trembling fingers of his mother’s dying grip and refused to let go.
Be careful, Ori. Be afraid. Stay hungry.
He pushed the thought away, like he had pushed so many things away. His life now, nothing but a construction of balancing acts and opposing forces, until every thought became worn and smooth with endless turning, something that no longer felt his own.
He looked his sister in the eye. “Because the trinkets don’t lie.”
She lifted her lip in a sneer. But she knew it was true.
“Maybe he won’t show,” she said at length. “Maybe he won’t get what he needs. It won’t be easy to get something personal of these men, I imagine.” She sighed. “Let’s hope he’s a no-show.”
Jon nodded, eyes fixed on an inner vista. The glass came up and downed the last bit of scotch in a big swallow.
“Yeah. Let’s hope.”