Chapter 11
Luke
The kid chose the tattoo parlor because he thought it made him look legitimate.
Brick front. Old neon sign buzzing even in daylight. A bell on the door that rings when customers come in and when trouble leaves. The kind of place that sells rebellion to teenagers and antibiotics to infections it pretends not to have.
I park two blocks down. Walk the rest. No hurry. If he’s already dead, I’m too late. If he isn’t, timing won’t save him.
Inside, it smells like disinfectant, ink, and something sweet trying to cover poor decisions. A woman with purple hair looks up from behind the counter, eyes glazing over me—boots, jacket, hands—and decides I’m not here for art.
“Back’s closed,” she says.
“I know,” I say, and keep walking.
Last door on the left. Back hallway, past a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY, past a bathroom that hasn’t seen bleach since the last century.
I open the door.
Cold hits first. Then the kid.
He’s twenty-four, maybe twenty-five. Too much confidence for his frame. Hoodie unzipped like he wants someone to see what he’s carrying. He’s counting pills into plastic bags on a stainless-steel table, hands moving fast, sloppy.
He looks up and smiles like this is a misunderstanding.
“Shop’s closed,” he says. “You lost?”
“No,” I say. “But I’ll let you pretend I am, if it helps.”
He laughs. That’s the mistake.
People always think the laugh buys them time. It doesn’t.
“I don’t know who you think you are,” he says, voice rising like he’s hoping someone might hear him, “but you should—”
I move in close—closer than comfort allows—until the space between us turns chemical.
Oil. Metal. The faint trace of bleach that never really comes out.
“You’re playing God with bad inventory,” I say. “I’m here to shut that down.”
His smile buckles. Not all at once. Just enough to show the math’s changing.
“I don’t—”
“You do.”
I let the silence settle, heavy as a dropped tool.
“You know who doesn’t overdose?”
He doesn’t answer. He won’t.
“The ones who never take the first hit.”
I watch him swallow—once, hard.
His eyes dart to the door. There’s nowhere to run. He knows it now.
“I can switch suppliers,” he says quickly. “I swear. I didn’t know—”
“You knew,” I say. “But money’s louder than conscience.”
I take his right hand and lay it flat on the table. He starts to scream before I do anything. That’s another tell. People who know what’s coming always do.
The hammer is already in my jacket. Short handle. Good weight. It was my grandfather’s.
The first strike breaks bone. Clean. The sound is dull, like dropping a melon.
The second one is for memory.
That’s when my phone vibrates.
I pause. Not because I’m done. Because I’m curious.
I look at the screen.
A number I don’t recognize, which isn’t surprising. A number from New York, which also isn’t surprising.
Marin.
It rings twice and stops abruptly.
The kid is crying now, real tears, breath hitching, hand already swelling into something unrecognizable.
There’s a beat. I imagine her standing in that house, phone pressed to her ear, eyes already scanning for problems she hasn’t named yet. I call her back.
“You hung up,” I say.
Her voice is tight. Defensive.
“Bad service.”
She’s lying.
“Right.” I keep it simple. No point dressing it up. “You fall?”
There’s a pause. Long enough to confirm it.
“Why would you assume I fell?”
“Because I told you that board would go,” I say, pressing my elbow to his shoulder when he tries to lift his head. “And because you sound like you’re in pain.”
Another pause. Then quieter: “It’s fine.”
She’s looking down right now. I can hear it in the way she says it.
The kid whimpers—sharp inhale, garbled sob. I lean in just enough for him to see my face. A warning.
“Is that…an animal?” she asks, deadpan.
I almost laugh. She has no idea how funny she is. “Just a stray.”
I tighten my grip on the hammer, tell her I’ll see her soon.
Then I hang up and turn my attention back to the problem.
“You’re moving,” I tell him. “Today. You’re not selling here anymore. Not tomorrow. Not ever. You’re done.”
“I will,” he sobs. “I swear. Please.”
I believe him. Pain is persuasive.
I take his phone and smash it with the hammer.
“You come back here,” I say, “and it won’t be your hand next time.”
I leave him there. He won’t call the police. People like him never do. Outside, the sun feels wrong. Too warm for what I’m carrying.
I walk back to my truck and sit for a moment before starting it.
I’ll need the hammer when I get there, so I wipe it clean.
Which is more than I can say for my hands.