Chapter 8 Stellan
STELLAN
My tires crunch over gravel as I pull into a parking lot out in West Philly. It’s not our most popular location, but there are a few vehicles tucked into the dark corners. Frankie’s car is right next to the attendant’s little hut, and Frankie himself is crouched out front, smoking a cigarette.
He stands when I walk over. Frankie’s a few years older, with a square face, craggy chin, and built like a brick house. We’ve known each other a long time, and there are few people I trust more than him in this world.
“You call anyone else?” I ask, peering over his shoulder at the hut. The front’s plastered with peeling, faded signs advertising day and overnight rates. Mostly tourists and Drexel visitors stay here. Nobody else wants to fork over the obscene amount of money it costs.
“Only you.” Frankie takes a drag before dropping the butt and stomping it out. “It’s a fucking mess.”
I step past him and peer through the door.
The attendant was a young guy. Black, skinny, no older than twenty at most. I try to recall his name but can’t come up with anything.
He stinks like sweat and shit.
Blood pools around his body, sticky and dark in the low light. His chest is a mess of stab wounds, his hands twisted to the side, his face bruised and battered like he took a nasty beating.
“Anyone see what happened?”
Frankie grunts a negative. “I can pull the cameras, but you know they don’t work half the time.”
“Grab the footage.” Anger rolls through me. The idea that someone would come onto one of my family’s lots and kill one of my people is like blasphemy. We’re the fucking Corsettis. Nobody hurts our people. Not even the most twisted and pathetic junkie is stupid enough to stab one of our own.
Frankie squeezes into the hut and taps at the ancient laptop computer.
I’m shocked it still works. I wait outside, glaring into the night.
The dead kid in there bothers me more than I like.
Mostly because he got caught up in something he didn’t have a part in.
Most of our attendants at our legit lots aren’t actually in the life. They’re just people making a living.
Even if they’re making a living on a money laundering and drug front.
“Got something,” Frankie calls. I move back in. Frankie, a dead kid, and I crowd around the laptop. “Son of a bitch. Look at this.”
The video shows the lot from high above the hut.
It’s grainy, but it clearly shows a person walk up to the attendant wearing a dark jacket and a surgical mask.
They say something to each other, but there’s no sound.
And then the man strikes the attendant in the face and stabs him with something that flashes in the light.
The attendant tries to escape into the hut, but the figure follows.
Most of the murder happens off camera. But when the man comes back out again, there’s a brief moment where his mask slips.
It must’ve come off during the struggle.
He’s too busy shoving cash into his pockets to fix it.
Frankie grunts to himself and zooms in closer.
The software is trash. The laptop is a real piece of shit.
But I recognize him anyway.
“Frankie, did Hector ever pay you?”
He shakes his head. “Never heard from him.”
“Motherfucker.” I step out, hands shaking. “I should have asked sooner.”
“Did that stupid asshole kill one of our guys and steal from us?”
“Looks like that’s exactly what happened.”
Frankie gives me a dark look. “I should go pay him a visit.”
“No, I’ll do it. You call the other guys and clean this up. Find that dead kid’s family and give them something for this shitshow. Make them understand.”
“We’ll handle it.”
I stalk over to my car, seething with outrage.
Hector’s home. I honestly can’t believe it.
If I were in his shoes, I would’ve gotten the fuck out of the city a long time ago.
But I hear the low rumble of shitty bass through his thin apartment door.
His neighbors probably hate his guts.
I don’t know. I’m way past the point of being polite. Instead, I rear back and kick the door hard, right at the lock. It splinters inward and takes another shove before it pops fully open.
Hector’s place is a rat's nest. He’s living in a building not far from the parking lot in a bad neighborhood.
Water stains cover the ceiling, and the floors flex under my shoes as I storm in, gun drawn.
His furniture looks old, beat up, littered with cigarette burns, and damp with mold.
His tables are covered in empty bottles and trash. The asshole lives like an animal.
I find him sitting in front of the TV, barely conscious. A heroin rig is left wrapped around his arm, his gear on the cushion beside him. I slap his face a few times, but he must’ve just finished shooting.
I go back to my car, get some Narcan, and shoot a dose right up his nose.
He comes down instantly. The fucked-up part of Narcan is it works too well.
The second the stuff hits Hector’s bloodstream, the drug instantly throws his ass straight into withdrawal.
There’s a reason junkies hate this stuff.
A well-meaning pedestrian armed with Narcan can ruin an addict’s entire month.
“Oh, fucking shit,” Hector says, staring at me with wide eyes. I toss the Narcan aside, grab him by the hair, and shove my gun into his mouth.
He tries to say something. I can’t understand him for obvious reasons. His teeth grind against the metal of the barrel.
“You move too much and I might pull the trigger,” I say right in his face. He stops trying to thrash. “How are you feeling, Hector? How are the hands?” I look down and smile grimly. The fingers are still missing. “I really thought you’d learn your lesson.”
Fear’s written on every inch of him. No surprise, though. There are few people who can have a loaded weapon shoved in their mouth without feeling a type of way about it.
“I’m going to ask you a question and then I’m going to let you answer. If you lie to me, I’m going to kill you. Do you understand?”
He nods, tears streaming down his face. Poor Hector’s probably shitting himself and suffering immensely as he crashes from the drugs.
“Did you rob my parking lot and kill my attendant?”
He goes very still. I pull the gun away, but keep it aimed at his forehead.
He licks his lips. White spit speckles the edges of his mouth. “I didn’t want to do it,” he whispers.
“But you did.”
“They made me, Stellan. I swear to fuck. I had no choice.”
I tilt my head to the side curiously. “Who are you talking about?” I’m not sure why I’m listening to this piece of shit. He’d say anything to save his worthless hide. But there’s a strange lucidity in his eyes. I bet he hasn’t been this sober in a very long time.
“A guy named Yusuf. He’s seriously connected.”
“The Turks?”
“I went to them after you—” He raises his mangled hand.
“I didn’t have the money. I’m sorry I lied to you, Stellan, but I didn’t know what else to do.
Yusuf said that if I did this, I could keep whatever cash I found.
He said it was a message for you or something.
I swear, I planned on giving all the money I stole back to Frankie. ”
“Only after you bought some heroin.”
He sobs once. “I’m fucking pathetic. I know I’m messed up. I’m so sorry, Stellan.”
“Where’s Yusuf?” I’ve never heard of this guy before. I have a good knowledge of most of the criminals in Philadelphia, but the Turks don’t have much of a presence around here. They’re mostly up in New York and west in Chicago.
“Staying in Delco. It’s a place called the Ridley Inn. You want to hear more about them? I can tell you more, I swear.”
“Why would I want that?”
His eyes flick to the side. A creaky floorboard is all the warning I get.
A shape slams into me from the side. I have just a fraction of a second to twist out of the way of a knife.
It slices across my ribs, cutting a deep wound through my flesh.
I grunt in pain and try to get the barrel aimed at my attacker, but he’s fast. He hits my wrist hard with his knee and slams his forehead into my face.
Blood pours from my chest and down my brows. I roar, lashing out wildly, and manage to knock my attacker off balance enough to send him crashing over the coffee table. I awkwardly topple after him, grabbing for the knife.
We struggle, wrestling as I bleed all over the place.
Hector’s howling and I have no idea what he’s going to do.
I catch a glimpse of my assailant: dark skin, thick black hair, an ugly sneer.
I’d bet my family’s good name that this is Yusuf.
Probably went out for drinks or smokes and Hector was stalling until he came back.
Something smashes me in the back. I gasp, releasing the knife, and roll sideways. Yusuf stabs at me, slashing downward, but misses. I scramble away, diving to where my gun’s left jammed up against the wall beside a rotting armchair. I wrap my fingers around the handle and come up firing.
Yusuf scrambles out of the way. He slips and rolls forward into the front hall. My shots miss, and I’m about to go after him, when Hector screams in terror.
I turn the gun and pull the trigger. His mouth bursts apart, blood and gore splattering the wall behind him.
He slumps down, gasping and making his horrible clicking noise as blood fills his throat.
He convulses, hands grabbing at his throat.
I get to my feet and run after Yusuf, the pain in my side burning with each step.
I make it out front only to watch a white van peel out and drive off, tires kicking up dust.
“Motherfucker,” I growl and storm back into the apartment.
Hector’s still alive. He stares at me, terror in his eyes. He makes a gagging, choking sound that I think is some kind of question.
But he can’t tell me shit now.
I raise the gun, ready to finish him off.
I could give him a quicker death, but he deserves this, the fucking bastard.
I watch him die while I run through my options.
I’m lucky to be alive. Yusuf, or whoever that was, nearly got the drop on me. If Hector had been a little smarter and slightly more patient, that knife would’ve found my back instead of cutting me across the ribs.
This is very bad. The fact that someone just tried to kill me means at least some of Hector’s story is true.
My family’s vulnerable right now. The council is ineffective and I’m still not raised into the boss position. Which means I’m working at half strength at best.
Blood soaks through my shirt and drops down into my shoes.
The cut's at an awkward angle. I doubt I can sew it myself, but a trip to the hospital means questions I don't want to answer.
First, patch myself up. And then I'll have to find that Yusuf fucker and have a nice, polite conversation about proper knife safety.
One step at a time.