11. Tim
11
TIM
SARGE’S CLUB
D ecember, in Copeland City, means darkness hits before the end of a standard workday. It means office-workers commute home with the streetlights on and the snow dropping to cover their windshields.
It’s a miserable existence, spending half your lifetime stuck behind the wheel of your car. Traveling to work. Traveling home. Having just enough time inside the house you work to pay for to do the laundry and stack the dishwasher. Sleep. Make a pot of coffee. Then out the door again.
It’s a cycle I’ve never had to live. Which is a privilege, I know. It’s a lifestyle afforded to me because of the things my father did.
Maybe we can’t stand the prick—couldn’t when he was alive, and those feelings haven’t changed now that he’s dead—but that doesn’t mean his fortune went away just because he did. Timothy the Second quadrupled every cent Timothy the First created. And now, Felix and Micah are multiplying it some more.
Different tactics. Though some remain the same.
With Timothy’s death came a bank account for Felix to inherit. A portfolio that comprised a fuck ton of zeros, properties, cars, boats, planes, and sundry assets. Houses. Land. Buildings. Bars and clubs. The old man was a rich motherfucker, and sure, we could sit on our high horses and say no to the money earned from illegal means.
But that’s not what we did .
It’s certainly not what Felix did. And instead of keeping it all for himself, squirreling his newfound fortune away, he split it five ways and made damn sure we were all taken care of.
But just because I understand my privilege, doesn’t mean I’d give it up and trade my life for an hour-long commute and snow on the windshield.
Cars meander by while I stand on the sidewalk and wait outside a bar—not mine. I rest one foot on the brick wall behind me and watch as commuters attempt to escape the city in search of their homes a little further out. Bumper to bumper traffic, wheels rolling so slowly, they may as well walk. The fact they’re essentially sitting ducks in this part of town makes them desirable targets for the assholes who come around here.
But I’m not their hero, and they’ve locked their doors. Probably . So I keep my eyes to myself and my ears on the bar at my back. I hear the shouts and cheers of men who’ve been drinking instead of working. Many who gamble more than they can afford. Others who have families, either already grieving the man they’ve lost, or clueless to the fact he’s too deep in a world he won’t escape unscathed.
I focus on the voices on the other side of the wall, trying to pick them apart and string conversations together in my mind, and when some wander by and attempt to glance under the brim of my hat, I keep my head down.
It’s not about fear. It’s about not starting a war.
I don’t intend to swing my brothers into something they never started.
“L-listen, man! I was just getting started, ya know?”
Here he comes.
“You cut me off right when I was hitting my streak!”
“You’ve run out of credit, son.” One of Sarge’s soldiers escorts a man through the front door and onto the sidewalk just a mere few feet from where I stand. They shove him back so he stumbles, then they slam a boot into his belly when he attempts to run back inside.
I feel his pain in my stomach, my lips curling with the unpleasant sensation. But I mind my business. Hands in my pockets, eyes down, and the brim of my hat shielding my identity from men who might find interest in Felix Malone’s big brother standing guard.
“I said stay gone!” The soldier sinks his boot into the guy’s ribs, bouncing him on the concrete and lifting him an entire foot before he crumbles again. “Until you’ve paid what you owe, you’re not coming back in here.”
“I can’t pay what I owe till you let me back in!” He heaves, his lungs whistling and his voice crackling with pain. “I lost my money in there, Tio! I’m trying to make it back again. For Sarge.”
“That’s not how that works.” He presses his boot to the back of the guy’s neck and mercilessly pins him to the ground. “You have a week. You’ve received your warnings, so make good on what you owe, or you won’t like what comes next.”
“Let’s go.” A second guard waits by the door and clicks his tongue. “We’ll start breaking your bones next week. The less functionality you have to work, the harder it’ll be to pay us back. You know what you need to do.”
No one rushes in to help the guy. The boy. He looks younger than his twenty-five years. And though there’s a part of me that might find sympathy for the situation he’s found himself in, the grew up in hell and found my own way part of me says fuck it, he’s a grown ass man and should know better.
I’m not here for him. Not now, and not ever.
I wait where I am, not moving a single muscle until Tio and his buddy head back inside the bar filled to the brim with hepatitis and bad choices, then once the area is clear and the guy on the ground attempts to climb to his hands and knees, I swoop in, fast as a rattlesnake, and scoop my arm beneath his.
I pull him to his feet in one quick move and have us walking away just as quickly.
“What are you…” Dazed, he sends an ocean blue stare my way and gulps when our eyes meet. He sees me, even in the dark and under the shadow of my cap. “Shit.”
“I told you not to go there anymore, Duane. Owing money to dudes like Sarge is a dangerous predicament to be in. And when you don’t pay your debt, guess who they come looking for next?”
“No, they?—”
“Yes.” I swing him around and slam his back to the wall, pinning him with my hand at his throat and my thumb digging into his trachea. I’ll probably get in trouble for it someday, if Aubree ever found out I was manhandling her baby brother. But hell, maybe she’ll kill him first, for being a total fucking idiot. “I’ve talked to you about this. I’ve had my men talk to you.”
“If you could just?—”
“I’ve paid your debt more than a few times, but you’re not learning a lesson here, kid. I bail you out, and then you buy a new shovel and keep digging.”
His eyes wheel around, and the stench of cheap whiskey sizzles in the air between us. He’s already two-thirds of the way drunk and incapable of making sound decisions.
Which is precisely the moment Sarge will empty a man’s pockets and put him on the street until tomorrow.
“I’ll let you die before anyone comes knocking on your sister’s door. Do you understand that?”
His lips curl higher, wonky and a little too inebriated to take seriously. Though I note Sarge’s men don’t mess up the kid’s face. If you beat him up so his mama notices, the gravy train stops.
I give him a little shake. Maybe someday, a speck of sense will rattle around. “Are you hearing me, Duane? Do you know how guys like this collect from junkies?”
“I’m not a junkie.” He attempts to tap my hand away. And completely misses. “I never do drugs. Drugs are for dummies.”
“Uh-huh. So is getting blasted every day and gambling money you don’t have. If you owe Sarge, then you owe Booth, and if you owe Booth, you’re gonna find yourself in a world of fucking trouble, cement boots, and if she’s really unlucky, with a medical examiner named Aubree Emeri, standing over your body and grieving the idiot little brother she lost. Is that what you want for your sister?”
He lazily shakes his head side to side. “You’re taking this wayyyyy too seriously, bruv. This isn’t life and death stuff. This is… gotta have a better day tomorrow . ‘Sides, you’re loaded, and I didn’t tell my mom my sister is dating a fuckin’ gangster yet. So it seems we can be kinda mutually ben’ficial for each other, huh? You swing me a few dollars every week, and I won’t get you ejected from family dinner.” He flashes a smug grin. “I heard you were at the house last night. Didn’t know you and Aubree were tying the knot.”
“You know what that’s called, bruv ?” I drag him from the wall and slam him back again until his head slaps the concrete. “A death wish. I take care of me, and I sure as hell insulate your sister. You don’t get to trade Aubree for money, dickhead. But you will lose your life if you stay on this road for much longer. Booth isn’t a forgiving man, and I won’t step in his way to protect you.” I give him one last shove and release his throat till he crumbles to the ground. “Go home, Duane. Sober up and straighten out, then do the right fucking thing. Aubree would be heartbroken if she had to attend your funeral when you still have so much life to live.”
I turn on my heels and start back toward the club, nodding when a sleek black SUV rolls up to the curb and Frank slides out. “Head inside,” I tell him quietly. “Pay his debt and warn them: if they let him in again, they accept the consequences that follow.”
“Yes, Boss.”
“Keep your ear to the ground for me. I wanna know if Booth is looking to get messy.”
Like the true soldier he is, trained by Timothy the Second and supplied by Felix, he repeats, “Yes, Boss.” Then he drops the car keys into my palm so we trade places. He heads inside Sarge’s shitty ass club, while I slide into the front seat and check my texts, because I have eyes everywhere. Alerts keeping me sane, and an appointment with a certain seamstress who might like to discuss color matching ties and pocket squares.
Best of all, Aubree will be there. As will her bad attitude and pretty mouth.
It’s my favorite way to spend an afternoon.