Frankie squeezes into the hut and taps at the ancient laptop computer. I’m shocked it still works. I wait outside, glaring into the night. The dead kid in there bothers me more than I like. Mostly because he got caught up in something he didn’t have a part in. Most of our attendants at our legit lots aren’t actually in the life. They’re just people making a living.
Even if they’re making a living on a money laundering and drug front.
“Got something,” Frankie calls. I move back in. Frankie, a dead kid, and I crowd around the laptop. “Son of a bitch. Look at this.”
The video shows the lot from high above the hut. It’s grainy, but it clearly shows a person walk up to the attendant wearing a dark jacket and a surgical mask. They say something to each other,but there’s no sound. And then the man strikes the attendant in the face and stabs him with something that flashes in the light. The attendant tries to escape into the hut, but the figure follows. Most of the murder happens off camera. But when the man comes back out again, there’s a brief moment where his mask slips. It must’ve come off during the struggle. He’s too busy shoving cash into his pockets to fix it.
Frankie grunts to himself and zooms in closer.
The software is trash. The laptop is a real piece of shit.
But I recognize him anyway.
“Frankie, did Hector ever pay you?”
He shakes his head. “Never heard from him.”
“Motherfucker.” I step out, hands shaking. “I should have asked sooner.”
“Did that stupid asshole kill one of our guys and steal from us?”
“Looks like that’s exactly what happened.”
Frankie gives me a dark look. “I should go pay him a visit.”
“No, I’ll do it. You call the other guys and clean this up. Find that dead kid’s family and give them something for this shitshow. Make them understand.”
“We’ll handle it.”
I stalk over to my car, seething with outrage.
Hector’s home.I honestly can’t believe it.
If I were in his shoes, I would’ve gotten the fuck out of the city a long time ago.
But I hear the low rumble of shitty bass through his thin apartment door.
His neighbors probably hate his guts.
I don’t know. I’m way past the point of being polite. Instead, I rear back and kick the door hard, right at the lock. It splinters inward and takes another shove before it pops fully open.
Hector’s place is a rat's nest. He’s living in a building not far from the parking lot in a bad neighborhood. Water stains cover the ceiling, and the floors flex under my shoes as I storm in, gun drawn. His furniture looks old, beat up, littered with cigarette burns, and damp with mold. His tables are covered in empty bottles and trash. The asshole lives like an animal.
I find him sitting in front of the TV, barely conscious. A heroin rig is left wrapped around his arm, his gear on the cushion beside him. I slap his face a few times, but he must’ve just finished shooting.
I go back to my car, get some Narcan, and shoot a dose right up his nose.
He comes down instantly. The fucked-up part of Narcan is it works too well. The second the stuff hits Hector’s bloodstream, the drug instantly throws his ass straight into withdrawal. There’s a reason junkies hate this stuff. A well-meaningpedestrian armed with Narcan can ruin an addict’s entire month.
“Oh, fucking shit,” Hector says, staring at me with wide eyes. I toss the Narcan aside, grab him by the hair, and shove my gun into his mouth.
He tries to say something. I can’t understand him for obvious reasons. His teeth grind against the metal of the barrel.
“You move too much and I might pull the trigger,” I say right in his face. He stops trying to thrash. “How are you feeling, Hector? How are the hands?” I look down and smile grimly. The fingers are still missing. “I really thought you’d learn your lesson.”
Fear’s written on every inch of him. No surprise, though. There are few people who can have a loaded weapon shoved in their mouth without feeling a type of way about it.
“I’m going to ask you a question and then I’m going to let you answer. If you lie to me, I’m going to kill you. Do you understand?”
