Chapter 6: Fury

…Meanwhile, in another part of town…



“Steal from me and die!”

A fist jackhammered the plywood sheets that served as a table, denting the topmost and tipping a can of Coke. Its contents spilled onto the concrete floor.

The boss stood, fight-gnarled hands on hips, bare arms, muscled and twitching. Before him, a man in t-shirt and tattered jeans looked down, eyelids fluttering at the fury.

Seated on a frayed couch against the wall, three jesting boys, thin and ferret-faced under dark blue hoods, stopped to look at their leader. His eyes bulged like black marbles and a thick pulsing knot extended lengthwise down his brow.

His voice was low and menacing. “Clean that.”

All three jumped. One ran up, pushed forward by the others. He hovered over the spill, eyeing it, terrified. The boss grabbed him at the neck. “Get a rag, stupid.”

He threw him. He landed on all fours and scampered around the corner, returning with a dirty rag. He fell to the ground and jerked the rag back and forth, spreading the liquid.

“Shit.” The boss kicked, landing a boot into the ribcage. The boy whimpered. “Get out.” He crawled out of range and through the nearby door. “All of you.” The other two darted after him.

He reached into his jeans pocket. He flipped open his cell and pressed a button. He listened for the answer. “Send Junior.”

The boss pointed to the couch and the man, eyes downcast, retreated from the table.

Headquarters was a garage beneath a vacant house. In addition to the table and the frayed couch, two other couches faced each other in a corner. Four men sat, waiting. They wore tight jeans and polo shirts accentuating bulging muscles, younger versions of the boss.

One man cleaned his fingernails with a jackknife. One appeared to doze. The other two occupied themselves with a game of checkers. With eyes, ears and intuition that registered tension in the air, they followed the boss’ activity. When he mentioned Junior, Marco opened his eyes.

He rose, clenching his fists. The muscles in his arms cracked as if breaking out of a shell. Shrewd eyes under thick brows flicked rapidly, scanning the room. He hitched up his jeans, hooking his thumbs between the waist and his rock hard stomach. His white shirt set off swarthy skin. Glints of silver flashed from his Rolex and the thick rings on the fingers of both hands.

He approached the boss who studied a piece of paper, his thumb inching down, line-by-line. Marco recognized the list of drop off times and locations. Another list showed pick up points. Boss knew them by heart but went over them again and again the way some people finger a rosary.

When he didn’t look up, Marco went to the back to relieve himself. He passed a row of red backpacks against a wall. They lay as if waiting for a mob of kids to grab them on their way home. They were his signature. He wanted everyone to know they were his. You messed with them, you messed with him, and then he’d mess with you. It worked well, until lately. People were getting bold. The moron who did it, should know what to expect.

Marco returned to the main room and lit a cigarette, leaning against the cool cement wall. He didn’t fault him for calling Junior. That, too, was his way. He liked keeping things clean. Some guys distributed the product. Some picked up the proceeds. Some guys did special jobs. That way one thing didn’t get tangled with the other. But, Marco didn’t want anyone to think he wasn’t up to it, especially a guy from another gang.

The door squeaked open, admitting a shock of light. Junior walked in. He took off his sunglasses and surveyed the room. Waiting for the boss to address him, he attracted the attention of four glaring men.

Junior stood about six feet. He wore black jeans and a black cloth jacket zipped all the way up. He had a tattoo on his neck, a word in script, “Angela”. His head was shaved at the sides, his hair short and thick on top like a fuzzy cap on a bottle ready to explode.

He gave the impression of being skinny but Marco had seen him before. He was wiry tough. Marco crowded the table. Junior returned the stare.

He stretched his neck towards the intruder. “What you looking at?”

Junior ignored the taunt.

The boss chopped the hard looks with his hand, like a referee in a boxing match. He growled. “This is business.”

Marco leaned back, his eyes still fixed on Junior’s. Junior turned to the man who had called for him.

“Tell him.” The man in the t-shirt came forward. He repeated what he’d told the boss earlier. His voice was small and nervous, as if fearful of sparking the violence teeming around him.

Junior asked a question. His voice was calm and to the point.

He’s not dumb, Marco thought.

When the man finished, Junior looked at the boss who pointed a gnarled finger.

“I want blood and I want my money.”

Junior looked into his eyes and held them. He nodded then left, the door slamming closed behind.

Marco returned to the couch, his thoughts hidden from the other three who searched his face.

He thought about what he’d heard. What if he, Marco, took him down? Junior wouldn’t be such a big deal then. The boss would be pissed. But no one said he’d be boss forever. Imagining how it’d play out, Marco closed his eyes.





The persons and events in this story are fictitious and do not represent any living person or real event.

The next chapter will be posted April 18.