Ch. 54 – To Make an Omelette

It was like there was something drilling into Derrick’s brain.

The smell of vomit, mixed with the stuffiness in his room, triggered another gag reflex, but this time Derrick sat up right and clutched his chest, staving the vomit away. He must have crawled from the shop to his room after he had blacked out.

He was close enough to the door to crawl to it.

He pushed himself up and reached for the handle, and then let the door bump against his head as he lay on the floor and let the air from the shop wash over him. The smell of plastic and metal from the shop never seemed so sweet. The cold air triggered goosebumps all over, and chilled Derrick’s stomach. He took a deep breath, and then pushed himself off the floor and threw some wrinkled clothes on. The pile of vomit had thankfully missed his bed, but it had splattered over the carpet. It would be another thing to clean up later.

“Shit.”

What time was it? Still the morning. He had woken up on time by some miracle, but cleaning up after, and taking care of, himself was wasting precious time.

Derrick shivered as he jogged over to Tony’s room, keeping his hands in his armpits. He pulled the locked box out of its hiding place, and opened it. Opening it had gotten easier over the weeks; it was probably his frequent and obsessive checking of their remaining funds that had loosened the fastenings.

There wasn’t much cash still in the box: maybe a few thousand. And how much would they have left after settling Tony’s hospital bills? They were going to find out.

Derrick called Tony, and his mentor picked up after a few rings.

“Hey Derrick, it’s that time, huh?”

“Yeah. Did you hear back from the billing department?”

“They sent an automatic reply,” Tony said. “A lot of words, but nothing that cuts my darn bill at all! Are you ready for the group call with billing?”

Derrick sat down in front of the table, with the reference sheet he had prepared, which was filled with IDs for common services rendered, and their average associated costs. The itemized bill from the hospital had listed plenty of common expenses, some of which overlapped with ones that Tony and Derrick had carried out before. For the rest of the line items, Tony had some familiarity with the associated costs, and they were going to have to count on that knowledge to try and get the bills reduced.

“Yeah, let’s do it,” Derrick said. He swiped on his phone to set up a conference call, and selected Sacred Oath Hospital’s billing department. A tired-sounding young woman picked up the phone, and asked them with no great enthusiasm what they were calling for. After some brief back and forth so she could bring up the details of their bill, Derrick and Tony broached the big topic first: the Trauma activation fee.

#

“Okay, thanks,” Tony said.

“Of course . . . have a nice day,” the billing department rep droned.

She hung up, and Derrick and Tony shared a collective sigh over the call.

“That didn’t do much,” Derrick said. The hospital had agreed to put them on a payment plan, and removed a few line items they had added in error, but they wouldn’t budge on reducing the biggest charges on Tony’s bill.

“Ha! We got them on a few of the codes,” Tony said. “Those items were garbage; they caved as soon as we pushed them.” Tony was silent for a bit, and spoke up. “So, how much cash do we have left?”

Derrick counted the bills on the table one more time, as if there was the chance of another thousand dollars just appearing out of nowhere. “Only about five thousand, after all our expenses, and the first installment of the payment plan.”

“Rats. That’s not a lot,” Tony said.

“Yeah, especially if we want to restock on the consumables we need to keep seeing patients safely,” Derrick said.

“So, if all our costs are the same, but we add in the rent increase from Bernard—what a fucking bozo—, and then the White Leopards start collecting our protection fee again, we can only keep running the shop for around . . . two months, right? And that’s if Bernard keeps giving us extensions on the back rent. Can you check my math for me?”

“Yeah, you’re right. I ran the numbers just now,” Derrick said. “That’s assuming that the Leopards start collecting again in one month from now. That’s what Theo’s message said, right?”

“Yeah,” Tony said. He breathed in, and held the breath, before exhaling.

They stayed silent on the line for a while, and Derrick brought up the same, tired suggestion that he couldn’t help thinking of when it seemed like Tony had reached a dead end. The suggestion that came to mind when it seemed easier to give up—to run away—than to wake up another day and wonder how much longer Hack Alley would stay open.

“You could always declare bankruptcy, right Tony?” Derrick asked. “You could move away to another state, maybe an inland one so you won’t get hit by the superstorms. Get away from this whole mess in Chinatown.”

“Ehhh, the whole world’s a mess nowadays my boy. And I’ve been running the shop for too long to let it go now. I’d have to give up Hack Alley if I declared bankruptcy—what would my uncle think?”

Ah, there it was. Tony’s uncle. Tony had inherited the shop from his uncle back in the day, but still acted like he was a guest in his uncle’s house, sometimes.

“Besides, I doubt I’d get away scott-free if I ran. Those White Leopards bozos don’t forget. Hack Alley’s part of their income stream; they won’t just let us go that easy. They know my full name, and if they were to go after my family—I can’t let that happen.”

Derrick sighed. “Well then, what do we do, Tony?”

Bed sheets rustled in the background of the call. “The docs say I’ll be coming back home soon. So even if I can’t help with cases, I can look over the shop’s finances, take some load off of your routine.”

Derrick felt bad to ask, but Tony would understand. “So, nothing that will bring in more income, right?”

“Nope,” Tony said glumly.

“Well, shit.”

“Not until I’m at one hundred percent, at least. I won’t risk operating on patients ‘til then. But, if you’re doing a consultation at the shop, you know you can always count on old Tony, right?”

“Yeah, I understand,” Derrick said. “Do no harm, right? I know how seriously you take this job.”

“Exactly, my boy!” Tony laughed. “Sorry, I can’t get us outta this hole we’re in . . . . I’m supposed to be the older and wiser one for fuck’s sake . . . .” The sheets ruffled again in the background. “For now, I guess . . . pawn off the bling that we talked about.”

The conversation dwindled to a close, and Derrick hung up. They needed more cash, and Tony wasn’t sure how to get it.

What if there was another job Derrick could take? Or maybe . . . he could raid Xavier Williams’s place when its owner was out. It was entirely possible that the sex-addict might have some more stolen cash, nicked from one of the other big gangs. Tch. Derrick shook his head. What was he turning into now, some petty crook? He had better start with the safer options first, before trying something more extreme like robbing one of his own patients, regardless of how undeserving said patient was.

He sighed and went back into Tony’s room, and pulled out the small bag that had Tony’s bling in it. It was time to visit Wong’s Pawn Sanctum after all.

Oh, wait.

Derrick sighed even deeper, grabbed a wet towel and a plastic bag, and opened the door to his room again. The smell of vomit hit him all at once. It was better to clean it up before he left.

#

Wong looked up from his tablet and gave Derrick a once over, until his eyes zeroed in on the bag of bling that hung heavy in Derrick’s left hand.

Wong said.

Derrick stepped over the old lawn mower that had been collecting dust near the entrance for years and made his way to the counter.

Wong said, flicking his hand at Derrick and sending curls of cigarette smoke up into the air.

Derrick pulled out the pieces of Tony’s bling one at a time, setting them on the counter. There were a few that he had left at home—the ones he couldn’t bear selling, because he knew how much Tony would miss them. And then there was the necklace that Mister and Missus Kim had given him. He couldn’t bear parting with it, so it had also stayed at home.

Wong picked up a piece and gave it a half turn before setting it back onto the counter.

Derrick said.

Wong said, snorting.

Derrick said, gathering up all of the pieces with real gold back into his bag. He gestured towards the remaining pieces on the counter, which were convincing fakes. They were modest pieces, with only a small, single gemstone on them, if at all.

Wong squinted at Derrick, but he wasn’t a jeweler, and wouldn’t be able to tell the pieces’ authenticity with any of the common pawn shop tests. Nevertheless, he pulled a magnet and scale from behind his counter, and placed them next to the bling.

Derrick smiled.

#

Derrick waved goodbye to Wong, and left the shop with two hundred dollars. It wasn’t a lot, but it was a steal for the fakes he had just sold to Wong. Derrick might’ve felt a twinge of regret for scamming the pawn shop owner, but he knew that Wong would probably just pass the pieces on to the next unsuspecting soul for a tidy profit.

Derrick took the bus over to New Shore City, staying far away from Dixie territory, in case someone would recognize him from the vibrator heist he had pulled off with Xavier, and hit a series of jewelry and pawn shops to trade the rest of the real pieces for cash.

As the sun went down, Derrick got off the bus to Chinatown cradling in the pouch of his hoodie a package with an additional one thousand dollars in cash, and gripping a bag which used to hold all of Tony’s youthful dreams, but was now empty.

#

Another week had passed, and Hack Alley had earned another three hundred dollars in that time. Their ever dwindling supplies had reached a critical low, and thus Derrick found himself shivering in an alleyway near Saint Marvin’s Hospital.

Derrick beckoned Nathan to come closer into the alleyway. “Hey, what took you so long?’

“Carrying this stuff out of the hospital is a big pain in the ass,” Nathan replied, setting his duffel bag down. “Check the goods.” Nathan unzipped the bag, revealing the boxes of gloves and face masks that were stacked inside.

“Okay, it looks good,” Derrick said, zipping up the duffel bag, and taking out a small bundle of cash and handing it to Nathan, who licked his finger, and flicked through the bills.

“What, no tip?” Nathan asked.

“Sorry buddy,” Derrick said, shrugging. “I just don’t have the cash. That’s why I started coming to you in the first place, instead of buying these items from a retailer. But now, it’s gotten even worse.”

Nathan shrugged, and pocketed the cash. “If you bring me some more cash, I can bring you better stuff.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Derrick said. “But right now, we’re just using what we can get . . . .”

#

Another week and a half had passed. Derrick had done a handful of prosthesis tune-ups, repaired a home security system, and even unclogged a toilet. But the money still wasn’t enough.

The supplies from Nathan, and their leftover cash, were both running low. Derrick tore his eyes away from their inventory management screen and put the phone back up to his ear.

the older patient said. His jaw clanked and clicked as it worked on getting the next sentence out.

The patient needed a specialty component to complete the repair on his jaw. Tony had contacted the supplier, who was perpetually ‘out of stock,’ and he had even tried hunting down the scalpers who had cornered the market. If Tony still had pull with the suppliers, they might have spared a reserve component for him, or bumped someone else off the waitlist for him, but those days were apparently long gone. And Hack Alley simply didn’t have enough money to afford buying from scalpers until the prices went down.

Derrick said to the patient,

the patient said. He sighed, and his exhale sounded like air blowing through a plastic tube.

Derrick said. He hung up the call and put the phone down on the desk near the shop laptop.

An email had come in the morning, from New York state’s Division of Small Business. It was just one of the many government offices that Derrick and Tony had applied through for grants, loans, or other financial help. But was it worth the effort to read the damned thing?

Derrick hovered his cursor over the email in Hack Alley’s inbox, closed his eyes, and clicked it. He then started skimming the email.

[Thank you for your recent business application . . .]

[With reference to your application dated . . .]

[Regretfully, we are unable to approve your application at this time . . .]

[Your business does not qualify for funds from the Superstorm Restoration Program . . .]

[Your business also does not qualify for Special Assistance for Disadvantaged Neighborhoods—]

Derrick closed his eyes and tilted his head back. Every application had ended in failure, but this boilerplate rejection letter stung. Chinatown wasn’t a disadvantaged neighborhood? Chinatown, where the White Leopards ran the place and the police were ‘wise’ enough not to investigate their crimes? How was the Division of Small Business deciding who was ‘Disadvantaged’ and deserved help, and who they’d leave by the wayside??

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There wasn’t much time left until the White Leopards started collecting protection money again.

Well, maybe it wouldn’t be too bad? Hack Alley had been behind on protection money in the past. If Big Mike was the one collecting, maybe they could once again get away with bribing him with a free tune-up for his leg?

His phone buzzed. His next appointment with a customer was in half an hour.

Derrick grabbed his jacket, yanked the tool bag off the floor, and trudged to the front door. It was time to do some more plumbing work for chump change.

#

Derrick glanced at the calendar widget on the shop’s laptop. It was three days before the White Leopards’ moratorium on collecting Hack Alley’s protection fee expired.

Theodore had sent Hack Alley the message with the exact date, and they had decided to ignore it. Tony had no desire to do Theo’s undisclosed—and probably shady—jobs, which warmed Derrick’s heart, even as it sent a chill down his spine. How were they going to get the money to keep Hack Alley open?

Not a single knock had come on their door the whole day, likely because the few senior citizens that would’ve come in for a mod check-up already knew that Hack Alley was still scraping together supplies.

But the Leopards. They would be coming. The White Leopards didn’t let go of a single frayed dollar bill until people got murdered, and most times not even then.

But no one had knocked. Not yet.

The numbers on the spreadsheet on the laptop screen became more and more like squiggles, as Derrick’s eyes glazed over. This is completely unproductive.

It was time to get up and stretch.

Blood flowed back into Derrick’s legs as he stood up from the swivel chair. He stretched his arms towards the ceiling, and felt a series of cracks down his spine. He couldn’t focus on the office work, but he had already gone out dumpster diving for spare parts twice. Maybe some fresh air would help.

And that’s when the knock came. It was loud, and uncaring. There was no rhythm or pattern to it, just a violent fist, striking, striking, striking the wood at its whim. No voice called out, asking if Hack Alley was still open, or complaining about trash that had been blown by the wind onto someone else’s storefront. There was only pounding. It had to be the White Leopards.

Derrick inched closer to the door, avoiding the boxes of scrap on the ground. Was the White Leopard in a bad mood? Was it Big Mike? He was just there to collect protection money, right? But he was early . . .

Derrick took a deep breath, and called out in a shaking voice. “Who is it?”

the person from behind the door yelled. It was not Big Mike’s voice.

Derrick gripped the doorknob and pulled the door open in one smooth motion. Too slow, and gangsters would get impatient. Too fast, and they’d get startled.

A tattooed arm pushed past Derrick, and the White Leopard stomped into the room. He had rolled up the sleeves of his white jacket despite the cold—probably to show off his tattoos—and took his white cap off, slapping it across Derrick’s chest. He was a new face, with a fresh, bloody cut on his lip, as if he had just come from a fight.

The Leopard was young, and dressed like it: immaculate faded buzz cut, gold chain around his neck, useless designer watch on his wrist. He was in it for the thrill and the prestige: the type that preferred respect and a little fear, but would turn nasty if it seemed insincere.

Derrick said.

The Leopard’s mouth twitched, like he was holding back a grin. He stepped up to Derrick, and his long gold chain swung into Derrick’s chest.

There was the question. Hack Alley had burned basically all of the score from Xavier’s job on the back-rent and other debts. He really didn’t know when they were going to have the money.

the Leopard said, laughing. Blood oozed from the Leopard's lip as he got up into Derrick’s face and snarled. As tough as he seemed to dress, the man had chubby cheeks: a bit of a baby face. The gangster stared, unflinching, into Derrick’s eyes, and the smell of his cologne came out from his clothes and cut into the air like a knife.

Sweat trickled down Derrick’s neck and he swallowed. How could he get this Leopard off their backs? There was a trick, and well, if it worked for Big Mike . . . Derrick said.

the Leopard shouted.

Derrick glanced down at the Leopard’s body. He was all natural it seemed: no prostheses.

the Leopard shouted, his nostrils flaring.

Derrick said, a chill running down his neck. His body knew he was in danger, but a small part of his mind screamed, ‘Well that’s exactly what the other Leopards do! You’re all a bunch of selfish bastards! So why are you making a big deal out of it? Since when did gangsters have honor? Just take the damn bribe and LEAVE US ALONE.’

the Leopard barked. He wiped the blood that was tricking from his split lip down his chin.

Derrick bowed his head, mustering every drop of sincerity he could, and shielding it from the dry heat of his own seething rage.

Dan-DUN-DUN-DUN. A phone’s ringtone started playing. The White Leopard held up a finger and pulled his phone out of his pocket, squinting at it.

The Leopard turned towards Hack Alley’s front door and answered the phone, while peeking out the door to the right and left.

Derrick backed up away from the Leopard and let out the breath he’d been holding. Could he somehow get the gangster to leave? Just push that asshole out the door and slam it in his face? This Raymond fellow was acting like he owned the place, and the protection money wasn’t even due yet! Even worse, Raymond had decided to stick around after he’d delivered his message. Which meant that if he didn’t get any money, he’d be looking to start trouble.

Raymond spun back around and glared at Derrick, as if he had read his mind. He hung up the phone, and stalked back to Derrick.

Derrick wanted to run, but he couldn’t just leave this maniac Leopard in Tony’s shop. He winced as Raymond patted his shoulder.

the Leopard said.

That’s what you should’ve done from the start, though. Derrick asked.

Derrick asked.

Raymond said, grinning.

Derrick’s heart thumped. Did something happen to Ah Jun, after the surgery? Is that why this Leopard was at Hack Alley questioning him? Did they think Derrick was working with Dr. Devito behind the scenes?>

Raymond fired questions one after the other.

Derrick said.

Raymond stared at Derrick, and licked his bleeding lip, over and over, until he bared his teeth and spoke again.

Derrick said, holding his hands up.

Raymond said, glancing around the shop.

Derrick swallowed. He and Tony had come up with a backstory a long time ago, back when the fire had just happened, and the Leopards were searching for him, or at least for a kid who looked like him. But he hadn’t recited the story in so long; no one had asked him in years.

Raymond asked.

Derrick couldn’t stop his eyebrows from snapping together in anger. No! Dad always had a warm smile or charming grin on his face as he worked in the kitchen. He was a handsome man, and a hard worker, and the best dad Derrick could have asked for. But Derrick couldn’t let anyone know that, now that he had a new face—a new identity. Derrick said, struggling through the words,

Raymond said, chuckling to himself. Derrick grit his teeth and felt his face flush. He had already punched Raymond in the face a hundred different ways in his own mind, but his body did nothing: Derrick’s balled up fists hung by his side.

Raymond asked. It was one of the questions that Derrick and Tony agreed he should try to avoid answering. There were too many ways to confirm the details of a person’s death. A determined person could unmask a fake persona if they spent enough time digging through obituaries and public databases; any sort of lie here would melt away under pressure.

Derrick said.

Raymond said.

Raymond asked, cutting Derrick off.

The red, hot flush crept farther up Derrick’s face. Shit. Shit. Shit. He couldn’t answer this one either. Schools kept records of their students over the years. What was a good excuse not to answer? Derrick said, keeping his tone as steady as possible.

Derrick swallowed.

Raymond said. He grabbed Derrick’s sleeve and his callused finger came up close to Derrick’s face.

‘Don’t touch me!’ Derrick screamed in his head. But he held his tongue, and instead held his hand out, ready to grab Raymond’s hand, or push him away. he said.

Raymond said.

Dan-DUN-DUN-DUN. Raymond’s phone’s ringtone started playing again. Raymond let go of Derrick’s sleeve and shoved him backwards, before answering the phone. Raymond hung up the phone and cracked his knuckles. Raymond said. Raymond paused for a second, before his eyes drifted towards the back of the shop.

‘The money isn’t for you to use,’ Derrick thought.

A tattooed hand shot out, and Derrick’s vision went fuzzy, before the pain set in. A stinging, blistering pain on his cheek. That motherfucker was wearing rings.

Derrick kept his head bowed, and watched as blood dripped from his swollen cheek, and splattered onto the floor. ‘You bastard,’ he thought to himself. ‘You’ve never done an honest day’s work in your life. You don’t deserve to have our money.’ But pursed his lips and apologized instead.

Raymond said.

The ringed fist came from below and WHUMPED right below Derrick’s heart. Derrick gasped, but there was no air—he clawed at his chest, trying to dig out the Leopard’s rings, which were no longer there. And then the ground came rushing at him. It was hard, like a bed of stones at the bottom of a lake.

the Leopard’s voice came from above, as he gave Derrick a kick—what the fuck did he put in those shoes??—before stepping over Derrick and into the shop.

There were breaking noises, and cracking noises. Papers scattered on the floor. The noises moved farther back into the shop—towards Tony’s room. Derrick opened his mouth, and the air came rushing back in through his bruised lips. The blood that had welled up on his eyelashes smeared on his hand as he wiped it off and put his hand to the ground. The floor was hard, but that just meant he could push off of it.

the Leopard yelled.

The Leopard’s steps came closer and closer. He was holding cash in his hands: some of the stacks of cash that were left over from Xavier’s job. It wasn’t all of it, as Derrick had hidden the payout in different places, but it was enough that losing the amount would hurt.

Derrick wheezed. His heart was still pounding in his chest.

The Leopard walked straight into Derrick’s and threw a small box of parts at him.

Dodge! Derrick shifted to the right, but the box clipped his shoulder and burst open, sending whatever was in it jangling around all over the floor. And Derrick tried to move, tried to reach out to grab the Leopard’s shirt, but when the box struck, it was as if a switch had been flipped, and his legs crumpled beneath him as the Leopard walked right up to Derrick.

The Leopard slapped the bills against his open hand. he said.

His chain dangled in front of his face, as he bent over and looked down. the Leopard said.

Blood gurgled at the back of Derrick’s mouth as he tried to curse and growl.

But Raymond was gone, and the wind blew into Hack Alley through its open door.

. . .

What the fuck was he going to tell Tony?