Gangster chick lit

I'm glad to get out by 2am. Closing the bar and collating tips typically takes till 4am, but I've been letting the manager handle it.

 

Barra makes a big deal of the body guard thing like he always does, walking ahead of me, clearing the way with his elbows, making the most of his huge frame.

 

Sal walks next to me, handling the call to the driver. He's dying to take me through last quarters sales, and I've been avoiding because I don't quite give a fuck. Don't think I'll be able to avoid it now, his jaw seems pretty set.

 

We step out past the red carpet of the club entrance, onto the gray filthy city side walk. I would have preferred the side entrance, but the dark alley gave Barra a conniption. I'm intent on avoiding the puke and broken beer bottles - people are disgusting - so I think it's Sal grabbing my arm. Barra's howling and Sal's spluttering behind me that make me look up, into the grey green eyes of the broad who's clutching my arm.

 

"What the fuck" Barras already flung himself out from behind the car door he was holding, and grabs her arm, pushing me back but also locking us all into this three way tango. Sal gets his feet trampled behind me, swearing too.

 

"Pls. Pls help me" she rasps.

 

"For fucks sake Barra what the hell is a chick going to do to me..." I start saying, but Barra elbows me aside, without letting go of her arm.

 

He folds one of her stick like arms painfully behind her back - theatrics of that man I swear - and frisks her with the other. I'm about to smirk something out till Barra pulls out the halo tucked behind her jeans.

 

He holds it to her throat, and she stills completely.

 

He tosses her bag to Sal, who wasn't expecting it so drops it. I can almost feel Barra's eye roll. As the purse drops to the floor, the contents spew out, a lipstick rolling past the carpet near my shoe. But sure enough, the telltale butt of a gun is poking out of the bag.

 

I grab Barra's arm before he can go apeshit. It takes a minute of jostling, he's trying to body slam her into the ground, but he has a knife in his hand and he nearly slits my wrist as I stick my arm in there.

 

"What the fuck J" he's in neanderthal mode.

 

"Barra - she's just a chick. If she wanted to kill me she wouldn't be trying to talk" I manage to get that out in a reasonable tone as he's trying to put her in the ground.

 

She's still standing - I don't think she's taken a breath since B grabbed her.

 

It takes a minute, but the panic resides and order is restored. Sal picks up the bag and the contents, holding the gun and halo securely in his binder. Barra clears his head, and is still holding the chick, but no longer trying to kill her.

 

I'm about to get in the car so we can move on, but something in her eyes makes me stop.

 

"Well miss, you sure picked a shitty guy to proposition. What do you want" she's clearly been waiting, what, four hours since I went in. May as well find out.

 

-----------------

 

You fucking moron. This is me, on repeat, swearing at myself like the mother fucking moron I am. This fucking chick was a time bomb, and I should have just lobbed her to the street like the fucking grenade she was.

 

Barra looked at me bug eyed in disbelief when I told them to get her in the car. Sal, resigned, giving me a look that said he'd discuss my poor choices later. Even C, staring, mouth agape, had to be reminded to get in the drivers seat and start fucking driving.

 

She's sitting between me and Sal. He's scrunched all the way to the corner, clearly regretting his committment to presenting the quarterly variances, trying not to let the chick's jeans touch him.

 

I side eye her, noticing the layers and layers of bruises. She's wearing a thin tank under her threadbare jacket, jeans, and open toed sandals, in the middle of fucking winter. I had stripped down to my tshirt and made C turn the heater on full blast, something that made him raise his brows because he knew I hate the heat.

 

I didn't quite know what the fuck to do with her, it's not like I'm running a halfway house for domestic abuse victims. I'm taking her back to my place, and will deal with her in the morning. At the point, we all need sleep.

 

You're just a fucking bar manager. Stay in your lane. You have no goddamn business meddling with those psychotic fuckers. Just give them their cut every fucking month, and fuck off. Why the absolute fuck would you get involved. Why.

 

Barra tries to come with me, and I have to hold on to the car door from the outside to stop him from fucking getting out. One house guest is all I can handle, don't need his fat ass on my couch.

 

We go up the lift, and she hasn't made a sound. I'm guessing she didn't have much of a plan, other than escaping that murderous shit. She's probably running on fumes.

 

As we exit into my apartment, I'm flummoxed. Do I let her just run around the fucking place. What if she slits my throat in my fucking sleep? I'm not going to underestimate the desperation of someone backed into a corner with nothing to lose. I suddenly regret letting Barra go home, I could have used another person to keep an eye on her. Yeah and who's going to keep an eye on him? He'd be a zombie tomorrow - worse, a PTSD-ridden gun-toting zombie. Didn't need that shit around. He needed to sleep, I'd have to manage.

 

Best to feed her first. She's a little unsure of what to do as well. She kicks off her shoes at the entrance, following my lead.

 

I flick on the master switch, and light floods the living room. I gesture at her to sit on the kitchen stool. I pull out some pasta, throw it in the microwave, then toss in a fork and hand it to her.

 

She hasn't lifted her eyes from the counter, nor has she said a word. She silently takes the fork, and starts eating, somehow still not making a sound. I'm guessing she's had years of practice of fading out of sight so she's not noticed. Given the age and size of tits, I'm guessing she's a call girl. Caught the eye of the wrong guy, and then got embroiled in seeing too much shit, unable to get out. A frequent and old story. One that ends way too many times with death, from drugs, suicide, collateral damage, or murder.

 

"You can take a shower, and then we'll talk in the morning, ok"

 

Her eyes - now silver - flick up at me, then quickly go back down. She's trying to gauge how mad I am. Despite myself, I feel a twist of pity, what a fucking shitty world. What asshole get his rocks off on hurting people for no reason other than their sick twisted pleasure.

 

--------

 

 

She comes out of the bathroom, her face less gaunt than a few hours ago. Nothing in the world hot food and a warm shower can't help, mum always used to say. She's wearing my sweatshirt, it flops down to her thighs, comically dwarfs her arms. Her hair is wet, but she's dried her hair and her cheeks are getting some pink back instead of being ash grey.

 

 

-------

 

 

I am deep deep fucking asleep, so when I hear a click of an unfamiliar step somehing tells me to wake up, but before I can surface I feel the hand on my throat.

 

Shit. That crazy bitch led her batshit boyfriend to me and he's going to kill me. I'm moving on pure instinct, I manage to open one bleary eye and grab the arm and flip him under me before I get knifed or shot or whatever the fuck he has in mind.

 

Oh shit it's the chick. The "killer" squawks as she's flipped on the bed under my arm. She's goes down as well as a cat in a bath, she's scratching the shit out of my arms and trying to kick my balls. I'm now fully awake, and realize my mistake, but if I let go of her now she's undoubtedly going to scratch my eyes out, so I lean in as gently as I can to restrain her hell cat hands - is she a fucking octopus - and use my legs to stop her from kneeing me in the cojones.

 

"STOP! Sera. Fucking stop." I'm out of breath, because who the fuck wants to wake up like that.

 

It takes a few seconds, but she realizes what's up, and finally stills. And opens her eyes. Well shit they're emerald green today. And I realize I'm so close I can see the fascinating flecks of brown in them. I'm suddenly aware that I'm lying down on top of her. My legs have squeezed hers into submission, and my arms are holding hers above her head. Her sweatshirt - mine - jostled up to her waist so we're pretty much underwear to underwear. Let go, you moron. But my body - it's not moving. Post adrenaline slump?

 

I force my fingers to unfurl, one by one. Is she going to slash me again? No, seems not.

 

I avert my eyes and lever up on my elbows, moving my legs off her, then manage to manoeuvre off the bed without touching her any further.

 

Her eyes follow me as I stand, and for the first time she really looks at me and I see her eyes get big as she realizes I'm in only my boxers.

 

I suppress the sudden urge to explain why. It's my house for fucks sake, I'll wear what I want when I fucking sleep.

 

"What do you want" we both wince at how harshly that comes out. She's still lying there, wearing her goddamned thong in my bed, her legs miles long, pale white against my dark grey sheets.

 

"I made you breakfast. And I can't find my clothes" her voice is a little shaky, her cheeks bright pink at the manhandling, but she seems to be coming round, pulling her clothes straight and sitting up and avoiding my eyes.

 

"Errr sure. I'll be right out" I'm rubbing the back of my head to get rid of the embarrassment I've made of myself, as she scurries out of my room.

 

--------

 

I walk out respectably clad from my room, wondering what color her eyes will be, but I'm met instead with the unpleasant sight of Sal sitting in my breakfast nook. Sera is giggling at something he's said, and she's serving him some scrambled eggs, completely at ease. She seems to have found the recessed laundry room door and is wearing her tank and jeans, now clean, and I have to give it to Sal, whatever he's said to her has put a lightness to her shoulders even food and warmth hadn't managed.

 

"What the fuck Sal" Sera nearly jumps out of her skin at my expletive, and I almost feel bad.

 

"I thought this would be a good time to go through the variance reports" his flinty eyes brook steely determination. "Sera was kind enough to let me in and give me this lovely breakfast". He smiles at her as she passes him a coffee, and puts another down for herself from the other side of the kitchen counter.

 

Well nothing to be done about it. I lift my chin and glare right the fuck back at him. If he's going to chew me inside out over low sales numbers at 7AM, he'll have to wait till I've fucking eaten. I saunter over, make some coffee and noisily make my protien shake not caring that they both wince at the sound.

 

There's an awkward silence as I catch up on my emails and ignore them completely. Carter sent the closing report - good, want to shove that up Sal's ass - and the new client rep has some good ideas for the campaign which promises an 80% increase in footfall. I slowly give her my feedback, not giving a fuck that Sal is sitting back eyeballing me, and Sera is becoming jittery shuffling from one foot to another as she sips her coffee.

 

I saunter over and load the dishwasher, taking my time. Toss my laundry into the machine. Vacuum the kitchen even though I know Lourdes will be around later today to do the cleaning. And finally, when I think I can't push it any further, causally turn around and say "I'm done now let's go to the office".

 

Sal, to his credit, hasn't whined, and his face tells me he knows exactly that I'm trying to rile him and it won't work. Fine.

 

I hesitate before shutting the door - not sure if I should leave Sera unattended. She's not a fucking prisoner. It clicks shut, and the sound proofing immediately silences everything.

 

"Say what you want to say". Sal takes the wind out of my sails, I was expecting him to launch into the graphs he's holding in the ipad on his lap.

 

"I know we're down 25%, and that seems like alot, but footfall will be back up this quarter. You can tell your boss to calm the fuck down"

 

"The boss doesn't know or give a shit. I do. If you lose your footfall, your little operation becomes useless to me. When you do that, I will have the unpleasant job of arranging for your assassin, disposing your body, and even worse - finding and training some other chump to take your place.

 

"Oh just fucking kill me already. I made you an investor because I needed the capital to revamp and stay in the game. You have your pound of flesh, and I'm turning a blind eye to the assholes selling blow on my floor and moving product in my warehouse because of you. But Sal - I will not get involved in whatever the fuck is happening with the women. I am shutting this shit down right now."

 

"And how are you going to do that? You have Manual's fucking girlfriend in. your. fucking. house". Sal almost never swears, so this lapse means he's really riled. Good.

 

"Girlfriend!? Shes a fucking call girl. A goddamn concubine. He and his thugs did unspeakable shit to her. Repeatedly. Against her will. And when they murdered her friend in front of her, she's just expected to shut up and sit on her hands till it's her turn!? That may happen in your world, it does not fucking happen in mine." I wince internally at how histronic that sounds.

 

Sal calls my bluff. "You don't have any plan, other than thinking with your dick. A little like Manual may I add, keeping her alive when she could be a key murder witness. Keeping her here will make things worse - for her, when she's eventually found, and for you, for getting involved in shit above your pay grade. You're the hired help. Stay out of sight, and do your fucking job, and stay alive. It's as simple as that". Every word Sal spits put spears into me.

 

I take a deep breath, inhaling deeply because this conversation is out of control. What a fucking shitshow. I know he's right. But it's just not sitting right. But what choice do I have? I'm a fucking bar owner with an MBA. I don't know anything about this world. What the hell can I do. Turn myself over to the police? The long line of Sal's regulars include everyone from the police department foot patrol to people in mayor and prosecutors office who regularly do press on TV. I pinch my nose, hoping it will relieve the drowning I'm feeling trying to punch above my pay grade.

 

Sal sees an opportunity and pushes forward. "I can fix this for you, but you need to go over, in person, to see him. You will fucking apologize for your shitty numbers, and promise 150% sales increase over the next 3 months. With royalty. You will not breathe a word about the woman. Understood?"

 

It feels like I'm swallowing hot bile. I manage to nod, not trusting myself to speak. I may be sitting behind a desk, but Sal casually lounging on the sofa has all the fucking power and he knows it.

 

I’ll be goddamned if I let that stop me.”25% increase. One month. No fucking royalty.” And I’m pleased to see his jaw tick in annoyance. I’ll take that as a victory.

 

-------

I’ve been dragged along to kiss the ring. I’ve met Manual only once, the first time I had to make the money run. That fucker made my skin crawl, and I made Sal swear I would interact with him again. What he lacked in stature he made up in fucking psychopathy, the kind that makes your skin crawl. If Sal and I were playing chess, Manual was the thug lobbing rocks at our board. If I had known Sal came with strings attached to Manual, I would never have agreed to get into bed with his lot, no matter how desperate I was.

 

It takes us an hour’s drive to reach the estate, and a further 30 minutes just to get to the house after driving into the gate. Fucking rich assholes. I spot the helicopter first, landing behind what can only be described as a fucking castle.

 

“Oh good, Manual’s here then” Sal says cheerily “we won’t have to wait too long then.”

 

We dismount, a fucking butler opens my car door, and I’m trying not to shit my pants as I walk in and see that greasy little fucker. I don’t even notice whatever ornate shit is around, I just try not to touch anything and blend into the background so we can be done and out.

 

Sal shoots me a look to behave, as we walk in to a basement office that feels like a dungeon despite what must clearly be an obnoxiously expensive interior. He looks at the ever present iPad, no doubt telling me to stick to the numbers and fuck off. I notice he’s white knuckling the device, which is unnerving because not even Barra rattles the man.

 

It’s not a business meeting, it’s a fucking Al Capone style showdown. Manual has two beefy fuckers armed to the nines behind him, sitting like a fucking Bond villain behind the desk.

 

“Hola Uncle” Manual get up, kissing Sal’s cheeks, with a smile that doesn’t reach his beady little eyes at all. “I hope you bring me good news about this beautiful city”

 

We sit, and I can see Sal is on his guard. He angles his body so he can see Twiddledum and Twiddledee, two more guards who have come up to stand behind us.

 

“Not too bad, but getting better as your know.”

 

“Good, good.” Manual is keeping up the charade of small talk, but somethings not right, Sal is on edge and I can feel the hair at the back of my neck stand up. I see Manual gesture to a door, and yet another beefcake opens it.

 

Holy fuck, it's Carter, the bar manager. He just emailed me the report. He’s frogmarched in, with the new chick, one of the evening shift bartenders. She is ashen grey under the blue hair and tattoos. Sal next to me is unnaturally still, his hawk eyes watching everything, calculating.

 

 “I have a present for you uncle” Manual sees our expressions, and he likes that what he sees. Abject fucking terror.

“Come come, sit sit” Manual says, his hideous dead eyes crinkling in a mockery of a smile.  I’m yanked into the horror movie tea party, Carter avoiding my eye contact sweating bullets, and the chick – what is her name – cracks first. She’s blubbering, snot dribbling down her nose.

 

Manual doesn’t need a weapon, he’s terrifying as it is. He steps over, jovial, avuncular, and smiles at the girl. “Hello, little girl. Have you been naughty?” he asks like one would address a toddler. Her terrified eyes rise and fall down, her face crumples. “No no no no we haven’t I swear” she says, clutching Carter’s hand. He shifts uncomfortably – “No senor, we would never do anything we swear. We run a clean shop” and then Carter’s face crumples and he’s crying too, his breath hitching like a toddler.

“Then who the fuck has stolen my money” A gun appears in Manual’s hands, glock, nondescript, silencer muzzle on it. He taps my head with it, and I’ve had enough.

 

“Hey, I run a clean shop Manual. There isn’t any stolen money” you fucking psychopath. I manage to look him in the eye, and see only madness, no logic or reason.

 

He moves his gun to Carter’s girlfriend, who starts caterwauling. “Was it you senorita” She nearly collapses, shrieking her denials, and I know I have to do something, because it’s clear Sal isn’t.

 

I stand up, but a muscled hand shoves me down before I can rise even an inch. “Hey! Manual. I get it. This is a shakedown. You come down, show us who’s boss, and make sure we toe the line. But we run a clean shop. You have the numbers, and they don’t l----”

 

Before I can finish, Manual pulls the fucking trigger, and the bartender's brains are over the wall, the sofa, and mostly on Carter. It’s like a bomb has gone off, the sound is fucking loud, even with the silencer. Sal jumps up, protesting, I think I scream, and Carter’s mouth just gapes open as brain matter leaks down his nose into his mouth. It’s opening and closing, and words are coming out, but I can’t hear. The guards are still standing over us. Cater’s braced for the next bullet, and he’s screaming “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”.

 

I look over incredulous, and Manual lowers the gun to Carter’s forehead “How much” he says, with deadly composure. Carter is babbling about his kid, "I have a child i have a child" begging for his life, not listening, till Manual rolls his eyes and cuffs him on the head hard. “How much”

 

“A million. A million!” Carter shrieks, his hands up defense. There’s a wet patch in his pants, he’s pissed himself.

 

“How”

 

I don’t think I can breath. How did I miss this. He’s doomed us all.

 

Carter seems to get a second wind. Between the piss, snot, and tears, he straightens his spine. “We swapped the liquor. We didn’t touch the drugs, I swear. It was just me and Barbe. Troy and Sal had nothing to do with it” Oh Carter. You fool.

 

I close my eyes, as Manual shoots Carter in the face. Shit my eyes are watering. He was a good fucking kid. I should have kept a closer eye on him, goddamnit.

 

Manual looks at me, and I see my death. He raises his gun, and the black barrel comes towards me. Fuck.

“Sera! I know where Sera is.” I screech with no dignity. my knees are on the ground. I feel more than hear Sal’s sharp intake of breath. 

 

Manual’s gun doesn’t stop. It’s on my forehead, and I stop breathing. Goodbye mom. I’ll see you soon. I feel tears drip down my cheeks to my chin. I can hear the rustle of bodyguards yanking what’s left of Barbe and Carter out the door, completely unbothered by predicament. he's leaving a streak of blood and bone in their wake. My hearing goes out, and my eyes see black, and I fall to the floor because I can’t sit up anymore.

 

Someone is talking. Words. Garbled. What.

 

The guard props me up to my knees, and slaps me. I open my eyes, I’m alive. I look up, and I can see Manual’s lips moving, but I can’t hear anything.

 

“What” I manage to bumble out. He’s looming over me.

 

“What the fuck do you know about Sera” Oh.

 

I look him in the eyes, and they’re not so dead anymore. Something about Sera has made them spark. He doesn’t know what happened to her. Is it possible he didn’t order it!?

 

“Your guards gang raped her and her friend and then murdered them. Sera got away. She came to the bar.” Sal suddenly speaks up. Finally. It’s clear I’m not able to string a coherent sentence. “If we had discussed this first, instead of these… theatrics, I would have told you, just like I told you I had a plan for the lost sales.”

 

I can’t hide my rounded eyes, as I stare agape. Sal fucking knew. The thought it quickly followed by the realization of what played out here. This is why he was so fucking antsy about the quarter sales. He knew. “You knew!?”

 

Sal’s eyes laser in on me, and flick over dismissively.

 

“He’ll make it up in two months. And up your volume by 10%. And I need him to do it” Sal nods my way, dismissively.

 

 

“Make it 25%. In one month.” Manuel says and casually raises his gun again. But this time, he swings his arm and aims behind me. He lets off two shots. And I feel two thumps as the guards behind me die.

 

Sal doesn’t even blink as the blood pools near his Italian loafers.

 

And just like that, Manual walks out without a backward glance.

 

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