Season Vining - Beautiful Addictions

“Mrs. Thompson’s cat escaped again. Meowed outside my door for two hours. Fucking beast don’t know what floor he lives on. Pendejo, ” Alex grumbled.

“I think she trained him to annoy you,” Josie said, giving a slight laugh.

Alex had come from a large family, but being the youngest of six boys, he’d never had to play caretaker to anyone or anything. No matter all his pleading, he never had a dog or a cat or even a goldfish. His mother would always say there were enough mouths to feed without adding an ungrateful beast to the mix.

He watched as Josie finally lay down her pencil, retrieved the bag of food, and ate quietly. Alex spun his pistol on the tabletop, a habit that helped him focus. He planned his day, making a list of deliveries to schedule and overdue debts to be collected. Today was going to be either a very profitable day or a very messy day. Alex wasn’t sure which one he’d prefer.

“Do you have to do that?” Josie asked, her cheeks swollen with food.

“What?”

Josie pointed to the gun, still spinning after a recent nudge from Alex.

“You know I hate that thing.”

Alex rolled his eyes and slammed his hand down over the rotating pistol, abruptly halting its movement. He picked it up, released the clip, and placed it on the table. He waved his hands over the disassembled firearm, wordlessly asking if she was satisfied.

“Whatever,” she answered before taking another bite.

Tossing the empty weapon from hand to hand, he smiled.

“Where were you on Wednesday?”

“I went to see him,” Josie mumbled.

Alex thought for a second before realizing whom she was referring to.

“You see him all the time, stalker.”

“I’m not a stalker, just an interested observer. Besides, this time he saw me too.”

Alex turned, checking her face for seriousness.

“You talk to him?”

“His name is Tristan. He remembers me.”

“I guess so. Some metiche watching him lose his shit in the alley.”

“No. He remembers me from New Orleans.”

Alex dropped the pistol, letting it clatter to the floor.

“What?”

“Yep,” Josie confirmed.

“You gonna see him again?”

Josie nodded, pushing the last of the noodles into her mouth. She knew she didn’t have a choice.

“Be careful, Jo.”

She nodded again as Alex stood and headed out.

“Lock the door.”

Josie followed his instructions, threw away the empty food carton, and resumed her position on the floor, completely ignoring the plastic bag of pills.

A dark spot or possible irregularity.

When he’d taken this job, Mort figured it would be an easy case. Eight years after her disappearance, there had been a rumor that the boys in New York screwed up and McKenzi Delaune was alive. All he had to do was go there and prove that she wasn’t. Seemed easy enough at the time.

Mort always found himself in these positions. In the business, he was what’s known as a cleaner. He cleaned up other people’s messes. No matter what kind of failed objective or botched operation, Mort always came through. Entering the situation objectively, assessing the missteps, and calculating a solution came naturally to him. Whatever was needed, from the simplest task to the downright heinous, he was the man for the job. He always succeeded and did so with a heartless resolve.

Chasing paper trails, bribing officials, and navigating his way through her disappearance had been a great deal of work. Moloney’s associates in New York had been useless, cowering behind excuses and fading memories. After learning nothing new, he’d dispatched them quickly, moving on to the next clue. Interrogations of federal agents in dark secluded rooms yielded cries of pain and eventually results.

“You’ll tell me what I want to know or you’ll die,” Mort told the agent.

The man struggled against the ropes that bound his wrists, but it was no use.

“I’ll die anyway,” he said.

“Yes. One way you die fast, the other … well, I’ve got days.”

Mort turned and grabbed a hammer from the nearby table. He inspected the metal head and ran his fingers over the clean and shiny surface. He approached the agent and displayed the weapon of choice.

“Where shall we start?”

The agent flinched but did not answer.

“If you don’t tell me what I want to know,” Mort said, circling the agent, “when I’m finished with you, I’ll pay a visit to your little brownstone in Brooklyn Heights.”

The agent’s eyes widened and he struggled against his bonds.

“You stay away from there!”

“Tell me,” Mort answered.

The agent was silent again, his chest heaving with angry breaths.

“The girl wasn’t dead. We knew her father was working with us to nail an organized crime leader in New Orleans. So we faked her death, changed her name, and she was put into witness protection.”

Tears fell from the man’s eyes now. He felt relief and shame for giving up this girl to save his own family.

“The name? And where did she go?” Mort asked.

“I don’t know,” the agent answered. “The file was sealed.”

Mort swung the hammer hard, landing it on the man’s kneecap. His screams of pain echoed through the empty building, startling a group of pigeons that’d been nesting there.

“I know you worked the case.”

“I work a lot of cases. I can’t remember every detail,” the agent screamed.

“Your wife Bonnie sure is a beautiful woman. I bet she’s a fighter. Is she a fighter, Agent Townsend?”

“Josie! Josie Banks is her name! She was placed in state custody in San Diego!”

Mort smiled, pulled his pistol from its holster, and shot the man in the forehead.

He dialed Moloney as he exited the building. The cool night air welcomed him and he grinned victoriously up at the moon.

“What have you found?” Moloney asked.

“She was alive. They changed her name and sent her to California.”

“Interesting.”

“I’ll follow up and get back to you,” Mort promised.

“See that you do.”

Tristan stood in front of his bathroom mirror, raking his nails over the scruff covering his jaw. He didn’t feel like shaving today. Connie, his cougar of a manager, always said that he looked like a hobo when he didn’t shave, but his tips never proved that. Tristan assumed it was her personal preference and had nothing to do with image. Connie had a way of feigning interest in people’s lives, making them think that she only wanted what was best. All she cared about was the bar’s bottom line. That, and discovering what the young male employees were willing to offer in exchange for a raise.

Once a week she would call Tristan into her office and make him stand at attention while she sat filing her acrylic nails. Today was his day. The leathered skin of her chest was sprinkled with freckles that seemed to cascade into the deep valley created by her silicone breasts. She pressed them together and leaned over her desk.

“How’s it going, Tristan? You still happy with our arrangement?” Connie asked, her voice raspy with tequila and menthol cigarettes.

Tristan huffed, annoyed at her ability to make every conversation sound like a sexual invitation.

“Yes, ma’am. I love my schedule.”

“Ugh, don’t call me ma’am. You make me out to be some old church lady. I’m not your mother. Am I, sweetheart?”

“No.” Tristan squashed his desire to add “ma’am.” “You certainly are not.”

It was the same song and dance each time and Tristan had mastered the steps. Connie searched for conversation, anything to keep him in her eyesight longer. He felt her try to stay professional, but it never lasted long.