Walking out the door of Stynx, I'm met with three pairs of bewildered, then annoyed eyes in the dark.
"Ladies and gentlemen! We've got a hierarchy system in hand, us scum of the earth can't even get a fucking drink without the pub being graced by il giullare eletto!" Aussie, the woman standing closest to the entrance, declares with a forcible sway behind her steps gaining straight at me, to which I let the itch at the back of my palm turn into a smirk on my face and get in character.
"You wanna play three straight hours of poker with Lev for a tab old enough to be my son?" As I walk through the small gap Warden squeezed out for me, she stops practically inches away from the door slide. Pale breasts sagging every year are strangled in place by a black halter top under overdryed horse leather, resulting in a shimmer of sweat on her cleavage that shines an eerie lit of teal and green by the neon sign. And my shoulder got way too close to that wolf of a woman that my nose’s filled with unbalanced hormones and cheap opium perfume.
My eyes met her green ones dapper with sleeks of black. And they speak quite a contrast to her lousy demeanor before rolling up to warden behind me.
"Pleasure?" The hunk asks.
"Pleasure." Aussie responds with a tilt of chin. The tail of her 'r' can roll a man to the sky.
Two steps forward by the turn of stairs, Baboa's leaning his back and left boot sole against the wall. His eyes circle around my wrist and neck from a foot above and gives a nod, walking off to the only man that's as physically intimidating as him.
The third pair of eyes are Ginger's, the little shit seems to be in a bad mood today. Sitting on the stairs, staring straight at the graffiti on concrete wall. As I walk around him on the decrepit stairs, all he does is nudge his leg over the other. Didn't even mention seeing me with the cop last night. And truth be told, I would've neglected it anyway.
***
6:34 Lanes tonight felt bleak. Not as run-down, just inert on purposes. I crack a few tense joints from cramping up on Lev's counter and head west, letting the notions in mind run their course to the other side.
What I gather today are fragments and rumors, myths. Two of the best broker up north the results are a pile of sand mixed with sharp glasses and cat shit.
I'm not surprised about Xiao, anyone who was brought up to light usually had a thorough background wipe, especially considering she's afflicted. But Nan now bothers me more, with his fucking attitude and personality it's hard to imagine how little folks know of him, add to that constant reminder to not seek who he was before the Qin's came to power.
A slither of light from above runs slothfully by, as the cab driver spits through the window before accelerating again. I watch it gun through the inside lane in a roar and a squeak at the red light as he pokes his head out, shouting famine pronoun for animals. And not a soul told him to shut the fuck up.
The NDU raid at east got the lanes in its best behavior. Shame, that's the end for me tonight. Not many reasons to stick around gossiping, folks would be fixated on the national reapers at their doorstep that they wouldn't even realize their house's on fire. Besides, I'm tired. Of all the little things, and the constant pressure from all sides, and the lasting, growing scratch in my head, telling me to puff it all off to liquor and random companies....
Drifting thoughts spouting wiled at the expansion of my weariness and the running neons waiting at every turn and blink.
Fuck me. It's only been three days. I squint my eyes to the uninvited purples under my eyelids and found myself back on the same street this noon. Dean's tacky sign devoid of any prominent feature hangs across the block and a clearing. One of the windows at the back of the kitchen shows a dim light.
A strangely fitting idea materialized in mind. The idea of walking in with a bottle to trade dinner and a chance for another talk. An idea before my phone rings.
I fish the blasted thing out of my pocket with a grunt and flip it open, at first glance I thought it was some fuck-knows-who but as my line of sight lowers a single inch below the numbers, it reads:
Scrooge up north.
I sign unconsciously and turn towards where I came from. Bringing the phone up, my heart a mix of directions leaking adrenaline and a yearning for easier nights.
"Callejero, get over here." Not a forcing tone, more of an exhaustion.
"Good evening old man, wasn't expecting you to be this quick." A series of static in the form of broken potteries came through with a murmur. "Did you find anything?
"Eh, well.....just get over here! It's faster to see for yourself." With that ambiguous comment, he hangs up. Somehow at that moment I just knew, I ain't going to get much sleep tonight.
***
I hailed a cab with a broken meter, and got there as soon as possible. During the ride, a sense of tension keeps gripping sides of my chest like a cage, it's purely intuition and prophecies from chemical reactions in my head as the voice in my head keeps warning me about something to come. Midway, out of boredom I roll all the way back to check the last time Uncle called me. By the time I found it, the driver had reached the narrow horizontal street leading to the loan shark's neighborhood.
"Here's fine." The driver rolls his eyes back and pulls over. With much on my mind, I give the biggest tip I've ever given but that's an afterthought.
Vieja Tortola's lights are off, and there's no sign of Cal or his crew. Hell, there's no sign of life on the entire street. The shops that are open look pretty eager to shut early as well, the pedestrians walk with hands in pockets and eyes rolling left and right.
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
Few lights, feeble blows of wind, the signs above are still on like fire exit light in an empty, perfectly smooth hallway. I can feel the gaze of almost every single passerby followed by quickening steps as I do too.
About two shops away from Javier's place, I turn and dive into the alleyway where I first met him. Standing next to a dead rat being chewed by other rats, I pull out the bulky 9mm and check for safety as well as the condition of the chamber. Lifting up my left sleeve, I pull the first centimeter of the dagger out to release the resistance from the detent bump. Covering it up again, I stretch my arm and pull all my focus to both my ears.
20 paces from the alley. Standing in front of the bulletproof door. I knock in three quick successions and place both hands on waist, right on top with my thumb nudging the butt of knife.
Listen. The pawn shop's floor is cheap tiles plated, responding to the slightest clacking and there are no mats on the first floor. And now, a step forward tilting to the side. I can hear a pulsating but cadaverous set of plops, behind the thick bulge of steel the sounds are as if chains wrestling. And it's growing louder.
I draw my left foot back behind torso and change my left hand to position on abdomen as my line of sight slithers to the surrounding of mostly empty alleyways.
The plops turn to thumps and to steps that contradict my growing heartbeat as it skips between one and two.
On the seizing of steps, the slide opens at eye level for a single instance, halfway. During that blink of an eye I caught uncle's tiresome glance of dim grey before it closes follow by a series of bolts against locks. The door swings open a seam on the left.
His expression goes through multiple stages before uttering as boredom, alertness, and bewilderment come in line while his eyes move up and down my hand by jacket before letting out a breath tainted by the smell of that putrid Indian smoke. In fact, he reeks of it, more than usual. The hand on door frame, lips sucking in and out glistening, his soiled tank top.
"If you're not in a hurry to kill me, get in. I just finished." Leaving that two inch wide seam, Javier turned back inside barefooted.
I let out a short smirk scorning my gradually worsening intuition and push the door open with my arm on the frame.
***
The second I walk in, an extremely unpleasant stench engulfs you, from behind, under your shirt, your skin, as if hugging and dissecting you with its mix of rotten egg, chemical burning scent and actual burning of the fiftieth bidis in that cramped ashtray decorated like a crown by those half done cig butts.
The only illumination is the one above the counter, in the middle of the light is the plastic bag from last night. Only now the blades of lid are open with the blade still shimmering with dots of silver and blue.
Javier didn't even bother crossing the barricade around the counter. He picked up one of the still-burning fag and clench it between teeth in a ludicrous manner as if poking the tip of his tongue out. Left arm on the counter, he takes an inhale then nib it with two fingers in the air, he opens his mouth but nothing comes out as he shuts it in the next instance. He looks much older in a day.
"Did you find out what kind of layer is on the piece?" I encourage him in a nod at the blade looking....identical toyesterday. And it sure as shit got him talking.
"No I didn't find out what the layer's made of, I couldn't even chip a pinkie's worth of metal off the fucking thing!" With an aggressive slap of hand towards nowhere, the tip of ash on the cig flies off to lord knows where though he doesn't seem to notice, and takes another drag. The spark brightens on impact on his thumb as he drops and stomps it on the ground.
"Last night," He mops the remaining ashes off on his tank top. "I left it in the box for an hour or so for a grab. And when I came back, founding this hijo de puta unchanged I switch a recipe, then another, and another...until I give up and use something stronger." His voice's coarse and a thorn, at the end of the explanation Javier made a suggestive gesture to the space between us and the box in question. "And it did jack shit. So I used acid."
So that's where the smell....
"Wait. What kind of acid?"
"...Mutriac acid...."
So it's not oxide hybrid ....now I'm convinced this man's luck will carry him to immortality.
"Wouldn't that kill you if you got it wrong?" Javier laughs with a nasal grunt.
"By the time I was certain the coating couldn't be dissolved through chemicals. So I moved on to physical approaches." I hum silently, thinking about just how much torture this thing endured.
"I suppose it didn't work either?"
"Oh. What gave you the idea?"
"Your eye bags." Uncle rolls them back.
"En Santa Maria little.... In conclusion, I'm done." With that, he pulls the unblemished piece out of the box and reaches all that way back under the counter to get the sheath as well. "I won't bother with commission this time just get it off my face." Irritation and exhaustion made the words coming out of his mouth winded and low. He forcefully aligns the blade in sheath and pushes it to me in a fist.
The ebony wood and gold-plated locket remain quiet under the light. I grip it in my left hand. The metal’s cold against my palm and all the carves and turns on it hold the textual of a fingerprint.
"And what if I'd like to sell it?" He simply shakes his head and the corner of mouth lengthens to the cheeks.
"Not to me. And I wouldn't suggest trying your luck." Few breaths hang in the air of pungent whiff. "Remember that old auction menu? Well, I made a few calls in between tests. Turns out some of my colleagues's acquaintances were invited to the party." I raise a side of brow.
"What? I get curious too." The bony old man's eyes temporarily find mine before wandering off in recollecting. "It was quite a spectacle in their lane. The house had never released so many items and invitations in one auction before." I hum in encouragement and pull out a pack of black to distract myself from the unpleasant toxin with one more kind to my lungs.
"Now, those cocksuckers weren’t too keen on details. I've found three participants and none of them are willing to discuss the results of the auction, but....." Soon as he draws his eyes back on the vile mountain of cigarette butts, I reach out with the pack of black to stop him from turning this place into a concentration camp shower. He blinks twice in a sulking expression but eventually nib one between his dry lips. I pass him my lighter as well before he pulls another grill torcher out of nowhere.
"Gracias." He mumbles.
"Si...estabas diciendo?"
"Aye, so, the rich cocksuckers. They talk circles around topics but there's one thing that all of their statements aligned. The Zhang Dao didn't show up at auction....." He hands me back the lighter after the sparks passed on to the tip of fag. He takes a long drag, and the lines on his face deepened as well as brows fixated. "It tastes like a bad Valentine picture."
"Appreciated input. Can we get back to the three cocksuckers and the auction?" Uncle takes another puff and frowns as if proofing his own statement.
"They said, it was canceled out of the blue during the break before the show starts which made a pretty big fuzz among the participants. And one of them rumored it was stolen." Javier opens his empty palm and brown-washed filter with a condescending look.
"Sounds about right for a rumor."
"It did. Until I squeeze out the location of the auction from my...previous colleague." Now's my turn to take a puff. And Javier seems quite enjoying himself retelling all of this.
"I'm listening."
The cigarette between his index and middle finger tilts upward as he holds a fist. "Here. It was held at Faust two years ago. At European shoebox." Javier lowered his chin, pupils and brows a twitch. I wave him off as well as a sign to continue.
"The Grand Hotel. I know the place well." Two or four streets south of Club 57, closer to Piao Jie than anything I could think of. It's a block of trees and white pillars, balconies and jazz club, cigar under canopy. Also the shortest building mass downtown, sitting amidst high rises and Embassy Road. Extravagant smell and conservatism look. "Though I fail to see where this is going." I put the cigarette back in mouth and lift my left sleeve. And uncle, as if didn't hear me, continues.
"Any traces of the lot ended at the hotel, the catalog I showed you was its last record...until this morning." A glint by the round edges of grayish white in his eye, we both took a smoke in sync as the quiet simmering sound of tobacco ignited fills the blank between us.
"Querido tío, what did you do?" I ask in a bitter smirk. The old crook grins with teeth out.