1. Barrett
1
BARRETT
Present Day
There were days when I swore the chief put me on the shit cases as punishment. He didn’t and wouldn't ever know I had an agreement with Jordan Altair Sr., but he knew something. He sniffed around, trying to catch me doing shit I shouldn’t. I wasn’t an idiot. I always had a reason for stopping by one of Jordan's or his partners’ places, where others could see me. If I was in my personal vehicle, I made damn sure I didn’t have anyone following me. It didn’t matter if I was doing something for Jordan or not. I couldn’t stand the thought of another cop on my ass.
When I finally climbed the stairs to my second-floor apartment, I was ready to collapse. The living room was dark when I unlocked the door and went inside, but light came from the partially closed door in the third bedroom down the hall.
I dropped my keys on the counter and walked through the darkened space until I reached the door and rapped my knuckles against it. “Mars?”
“Hmmm?” That was code for I heard you, but I wasn’t fully paying attention.
Slowly, I eased the door open, not wanting to disturb him. I had to make sure he was doing okay. My brother had paint on his fingers and an easel in front of him with a canvas on it. A single light shined down onto the canvas, the rest of the room dark, which meant he’d been painting for hours and hadn’t realized the sun had set.
I walked into the room, careful not to disturb anything he had on the floor. Marshall wasn’t the cleanest in this room. It was one of the reasons why I wanted to find us an affordable three-bedroom. He was meticulous with his bedroom, but this space was a different story.
Stopping behind him, I peered over his shoulder and a lump immediately formed in my throat. My brother had an uncanny ability to paint scenes from his memory. It didn’t matter if they happened yesterday or a decade ago. He remembered them and, when the moment struck, used his talent to bring them to life again.
In the painting, he and I were sitting on the front steps of the apartment building we grew up in. I was maybe twelve, which would make Marshall four. We each had a popsicle, mine chocolate, and his strawberry. He always went for the fruit flavors rather than chocolate or vanilla. The sticky sweetness dripped onto our fingers as we laughed. Every detail was perfectly captured, down to the chunk of stone missing from the right side of the bottom step. We had to be careful running down them. One wrong move and that stone would cut our calves.
There were no adults in the painting, no parents. Just Marshall and me enjoying ourselves. It was rare for us to be happy when we were home, but when the ice cream truck came around our neighborhood, the owner knew most of us couldn’t afford it. If some could, he’d collect the money, usually less than a dollar. I was sure he gave them a discount. But some of us couldn’t afford it, like Marshall and me.
“I saw him the other day,” I murmured, not wanting to startle my brother.
“Who?” Marshall asked without taking his eyes off the strokes he was making with his brush. He was detailing the garbage cans tucked against the side of the stairs.
“Mr. Martin. He doesn’t drive the ice cream truck anymore but is doing well. He was getting a bite to eat at the café around the corner from the station as I went in to grab coffee.” I hated the shit they brewed at work. It couldn’t even be called coffee.
“How old do you think he is now?”
“Sixties, maybe. He said he’s retired and just returned from a trip with his wife.”
“That’s good. He was always so kind to us.”
“He was.”
That kindness went a long way. To some, it might have seemed like a small thing. Ice cream cones and popsicles weren’t a big deal to them. To us, they were everything during the summer. Those treats made us happy when we had nothing to do but hang out on the sidewalk or play in the street with our friends. It sure as hell wasn’t our parents doing it. They didn’t care if we stayed outside all hours of the night. We didn’t, but we could have.
“What made you paint this today?” I asked.
“I woke up this morning with it in my mind. I don’t think I dreamed about it since it really happened and wasn’t something I made up. Maybe I was feeling nostalgic. I’m not sure.”
I nodded but kept my thoughts to myself. If I had to guess, it had everything to do with us finding out our dad passed away last week. He’d been in poor health for a long time. Apparently, a heart attack took him. There wasn’t anyone at his home to help him. Our mom had passed away a few years back from cancer.
I didn’t shed a single tear. Marshall was quiet and focused on his painting. That was how he grieved. Our parents didn’t deserve my tears or thoughts. After the shit they put us through, after not taking care of my brother when he needed it, fuck them. All they had to do was keep a steady job and Marshall could have had health insurance while he went to college, but they couldn’t manage it. They were always sure to remind us how much insurance cost them out of every paycheck and how if we weren’t around, they wouldn’t have to work so hard and waste their lives doing jobs they didn’t like. That was just what a child needed to hear. It was amazing Marshall and I weren’t more fucked up than we were.
Although, by some accounts, I wasn’t right in the head.
What detective worked for the local mafia boss and didn’t feel guilty about it? There were others within the East Dremest Police Department who Jordan paid. I wasn't close with any of them though. I went to work to do my job and do it well. I wasn’t there to make friends.
“Barrett?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you for all you’ve done for me.”
“You don’t have to thank me for that. It’s a privilege to watch you thrive.”
He took the brush away from the canvas and turned to face me. There was a smudge of gray paint on his cheek. He probably didn’t realize it was there. “I don’t say it enough. That’s wrong of me. You’ve sacrificed a lot. I want you to know how grateful I am. You keep a roof over our heads and ensure I have insurance.”
“Don’t discount yourself. You work too, Mars. You contribute.”
“Not the same way you do. I only work part time. I could never afford everything on my own.”
“Things will get even better soon. I’m hoping for the sergeant position.” Hoping didn’t mean I’d get it, but it was worth a shot.
“I wish you’d find something you loved too.”
I shook my head. I couldn’t tell him I would much rather work for Jordan than stay on the right side of the law. Being a cop was born out of necessity. Out of the desire to be able to stand up for myself and others in situations they didn’t deserve to be in. I loved helping people. I hated working where I did.
“I’m fine where I am,” I told Marshall instead. “I make good money. We’re doing okay here.”
“I am, but you could be better. Don’t think I miss the bags under your eyes or the way you force yourself out the door for work. All so I can live my dream.”
“Your dream is what matters. You weren’t allowed to do what you wanted when we were growing up. You can now.”
Our parents never fostered Marshall’s love of art. They’d tell him paint, crayons, and other supplies he asked for were a waste of money. And if we’d like to eat, he couldn’t have those things.
It would have been different if they explained to us why we didn’t have money or how they were trying hard to pay the bills and all that shit. They weren’t though. They didn’t try. Skating by was their path, and it didn’t include having two kids who were told they were more mouths to feed, and more money down the toilet.
Instead of continuing this conversation with my brother, I asked, “Did you have dinner?”
“No, I haven’t looked at the clock.”
“I figured.” I smiled and ruffled his shaggy hair. It hung down to his chin now. He’d get it cut when it started to annoy him.
I left Marshall to his painting but kept the door open, so he’d hear me call when dinner was ready. I’d heard more than once from our parents how I shouldn’t enable him, how Marshall should be working to earn a living. They said that so he’d move back in with them and support them. It was never about Marshall. Their needs came above all others. That was what I got for visiting every six months to see if they were still standing. I kept tabs on everyone. It was easier to know if they were doing shit they shouldn’t.
In the back of my mind, I always wished I’d caught them doing drugs so I could have them locked up. God, it would have been so satisfying to see their asses behind bars. But they didn’t. Their crimes were neglecting themselves. They didn’t care how they looked or how they treated others. I still went there to make sure they were alive until they weren’t.
The weight that lifted off me to have them both gone was immense. They were cremated since there was no money to bury them. Then the day came when Marshall and I had to clean out their apartment. It wasn’t a surprise when there wasn’t a thing either of us wanted inside. We walked out of there and never looked back. The landlord could get rid of their shit. I never found out what my dad did with my mom’s ashes. My dad’s were thrown away. Was it harsh? Probably, but ask me if I gave a fuck. He didn’t deserve kindness from me. Marshall was the only family I needed.
In the kitchen, I opened the fridge and pulled out a package of chicken breasts to start putting dinner together. One of my phones lit up on the counter so I turned it to see who it was. When you worked for a mafia boss, you knew how to cover your ass.
Unknown: It’s the twins’ birthday today. I thought you might want to know.
I didn’t need to ask who the sender was. It was Vail or Hartley, Jordan’s partners. No one else ever texted me on that line, unless it was something Jordan needed. Even then it was mostly in person.
An ache formed in my chest, one that had no business being there.
Reghan was Jordan’s bodyguard. He and his twin brother, Raiden, were the ones who watched Jordan’s back, in addition to others. That meant every time I had to be face-to-face with Jordan, there was a fifty-percent chance Reghan would be there.
For all his anger and getting in my face, I couldn’t resist the pull to him. Or the draw to be a complete smart-ass in his presence. He was the one man who got under my skin and stayed there, no matter how many times I tried to remove him.
But I couldn’t have him. I couldn’t have a life on that side of the law. Sure, the money was there, but where my brother was concerned, I wanted to do right by him and earn a living the legal way. I put the money I got from Jordan into a savings account. If anything ever happened to me in the line of duty or doing a side gig for Jordan, I had to know Marshall was taken care of, even if the money was earned the illegal way.