Enforcer: A Prequel Novella to the New Mafia Trilogy (5 page)

          “Miranda, where youse at?” Marco yelled, his voice
echoing out into the still night. She jumped slightly and with a sigh, pulled
away.

          “I gotta go and this never happened,” she
whispered, her eyes seeking mine in the moonlight.

          “Yeah, I get it.”

She turned away from me and continued on up the stairs. In
the dim light I watched her leave, admiring the curve of her ass and the flex
of her calf muscles. I knew then that this encounter wasn’t going to be enough.
I wanted more, but Marco stood in the way.

Fast forward a year to the fall. I turned 21 and was offered
a job at Crimson as a bouncer. Between the late nights and extra jobs Marco
kept assigning, I had a feeling the college route wasn’t for me and dropped out
after the first semester of my junior year. An incident at home was the
catalyst for this decision.

I had been home for Christmas when my sister called me for
help. Natalie really knew how to get into some stupid situations and I’m glad I
was there that night and that my mom was asleep when Natalie called.

When my cell rang and I saw Nat’s number on the display, I
answered right away. It was after eleven and while I wasn’t waiting up for her,
I had begun to wonder when she was going to come home.

          “Nat, where the hell are you?” I barked into the
phone.

          “Grant!” She half yelled, half slurred. “I need
help!”

She managed to tell me where she was, a bathroom in a shady
bar at on Route 30. I told her stay in the bathroom before hanging up, hoping
she understood. I crept down the carpeted hallway, pausing in front of my mom’s
bedroom for a listen. I heard her light snoring through the door, so I quickly
left the house. I had upgraded to a new Passat and the engine quietly purred to
life. Had I been in my old Impala, the shriek of the fan belt would have woken
up the entire neighborhood.

That time of night the streets were deserted and I made it
to the bar in less than ten minutes. A tattered sign advertising bike night
blew in the bitter wind. I went right to the ladies room and burst inside to
see Natalie’s feet sticking out from beneath a partially closed stall door.
Pushing it open revealed my sister wedged against the toilet with her head leaning
against the gray partition wall. Sweaty clumps of dark hair clung to pale
cheeks and her eyes were closed. If it weren’t for her low moaning, I would
have thought she had lost consciousness.  Her bag was on the floor in a puddle.
I didn’t want to think about the dingy liquid and other nastiness Natalie was
sitting in.

          “Nat, can you hear me?” I squeezed one of her
hands and she moaned louder, her eyelids flickered as if struggling to open.
Finally she opened her eyes, which were unfocused.

          “Grant?” she asked, peering up at me. When she
said my name it sounded more like “ground”.

I helped her up and she leaned against me, unsteady on her
feet. “Whoa, easy there sis, I got you,” I said and wrapped my arm around her
waist. We left the bathroom and as we walked past the bar, an older man with a
mullet blocked our path.

          “Where ya taking my girl?” he asked.

I couldn’t believe the fucker was brazen enough to approach
me or he was that much of an idiot. At that moment I wished I wasn’t keeping
Natalie upright otherwise I’d have beaten the shit out of the guy. Instead, I
moved my jacket to the side, revealing my firearm.

          “She’s a girl all right; in fact she’s only
seventeen years old.” The bartender was also on the receiving end of my glare.
He quickly looked away and busied himself by grabbing a towel and wiping down
the bar. “And she’s definitely not yours,” I told Mullet Man, who held his
hands up and wisely backed off.

This asshole had roofied her drink and Natalie was a hot
mess. Off to the hospital we went. Natalie doesn’t remember much of the three
hours we spent in the E.R., she only remembers bits and pieces like getting her
stomach pumped and $2,500.00 cash I paid out of pocket when she was discharged.
Fortunately she was out of it enough to not ask me about the amount of money I
was carrying. Had I not been working for Marco, I would never have been able to
pay that bill and if our mom found out about Natalie’s behavior that
precipitated this incident, I didn’t think my sister would be able to withstand
the wrath. She had already been on the receiving end of cruelty and criticism
for most of her life, at least since our dad skipped out on us.

It was almost two o’clock in the morning when I pulled into
the driveway and parked behind our mom’s car. The house was still dark and this
was a good sign. Natalie was passed out in the passenger seat, her face pressed
against the cool glass.

          “Nat, we’re home, come on,” I said, tugging on her
sleeve, trying to wake her. She moaned and shrugged my hand off.  The way she
was curled up, her dark hair accentuating her pale face in the moonlight, she
looked so vulnerable and rage burned through my veins. The fucker that did this
to her wasn’t going to get away with it.

After trying to rouse Natalie a few more times, I gave up
and walked around to the passenger side. When I opened the door, she would have
fallen out because she was pressed so close, but the seatbelt held her place. I
unbuckled her and scooped her up into my arms, shutting the car door with my hip.
I entered the house as quietly as possible; pausing just inside the entryway to
make sure our mom was still asleep. Sometimes she suffered from bouts of
insomnia and would sit at the dining room table in the dark. Fortunately, this
was not one of those nights.

Once again in stealth mode, I crept down the hall to
Natalie’s room, the layout committed to memory so I didn’t have to turn on the
light. I dumped her on her bed then turned on her bedside lamp and took off her
shoes before tucking her underneath the covers. She mumbled something
unintelligible before rolling over so her back was facing me. Seconds later her
breathing was slow and steady. That’s when I noticed the hospital
identification bracelet still on her wrist. I had a small Swiss army knife on
my keychain, so I pulled that out and sliced through the heavy translucent blue
plastic.

I didn’t know what was going on with my sister, but I
intended to find out…after I dealt with the asshole who drugged her.

***

The bar had already closed, but lights were still on so I
pulled around to the back and parked next to two cars I assumed belonged to
employees. Turning off my car, I sat in the dark and waited. Twenty minutes
later the rear entrance to the bar opened up and two men stepped out; one of them
was the bartender. If he left first, I planned on following him, but luck was
on my side and the other employee left while the bartender sat in his beater of
a car and lit up a joint, which fell from his hand when I wrenched his door
open and grabbed a hold of him.

          “What the fuck?” he yelled, struggling against my
grip. I succeeded in pulling him out of the driver’s seat and slammed him
against the side of his car. Jarring him hard enough that I hoped his teeth
rattled in his skull.

          “Do you remember me?” I growled and the loser’s
Adams apple bobbed when he swallowed right before he nodded.  “That underage
girl you served tonight is my sister. If she comes in again, kick her out
immediately. You don’t want me coming back here. Do you understand?”

Once again the bartender nodded, his eyes wide with fear and
he ceased struggling. “I want to hear you promise me,” I said, shaking him.

          “I, I promise,” he stammered. “Your sister isn’t
welcome here anymore.”

          “Good. Now, if you want to keep your face intact,
you’re going to tell me who the cocksucker with the mullet is who roofied my
sister.” I lifted him, so his feet left the ground, and slammed him against his
car again, causing it to rock, its suspension squeaking.

          “Okay, alright, his name’s Leonard Williamson. He
goes by Leo and I think he lives on Maple Street.”

With a final shove, I released the bartender and he crumpled
to the cold asphalt a quivering mess.

After a quick search using my phone, I located an address
for a L. Williamson on Maple Street. I was familiar with the neighborhood since
it was a few blocks over from where I grew up. We didn’t live in the best area
of York; ours was more the older, blue collar neighborhood that straddled the
line to public housing.

Leonard lived in a duplex and both sides were dark. I parked
a few doors down and then cut across the small patch of brown grass that made
up the front yard, moving around to the back. Using only the light of the
almost full moon to guide me, I navigated a mine field made up of discarded
garden tools and two trash cans lying on their sides. There were two wooden
steps leading to a small porch that was spongy under my feet as I walked to the
back door. Pulling black leather gloves out of my jacket pocket, I slipped them
on. Using my Swiss army knife again, I jimmied the lock open and entered the
duplex, recoiling immediately from the stench of cigarettes, weed, stale beer
and body odor. Fighting a gag, I continued into the kitchen, moving slowly to
catch any movement or noise. As I climbed the stairs to the second floor, one
of the steps creaked and I stopped, barely breathing to see if that attracted
anyone’s attention. Seconds went by and the house remained silent.

The first bedroom I came across was empty save for a few
boxes and an old desk. The second and last bedroom was occupied. I heard the
grunting snores before reaching the partially open door. Pushing it open, I
silently stepped inside. A television cast ambient light across the bed where
Leonard lay, sprawled out. He was only wearing tighty-whities, almost the same
color as his pasty beer belly, and he had a hand down the front, cupping his
package. A porn magazine was open on the bed next to him. It was not a pretty
sight and the thought of this asshole touching my sister made me see red.

I slammed the bedroom door shut and Leonard sat straight up,
blinking wildly when he saw me. His eyes traveled down to the gun I held in my
right hand and he started to pedal backwards across the bed, stopping when his
back hit the headboard. His mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for
air, but no words came out.

          “Hello, Leonard,” I said, taking my suppressor out
of my jacket pocket and slowly attaching it to the barrel of my Glock. Leonard
stared at the gun, his chest rising and falling rapidly as hyperventilation set
in. “I bet you thought you got off easy tonight.”

I kept the gun leveled at Leonard’s head and stepped closer
to the bed. He started to shake violently then he leaned to the side and puked
all over his mattress. My nose wrinkled at the hot sour stench and Leonard
moaned, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

          “What, what do you want?” he asked, his voice
barely audible.

          “I want to fucking kill you for what you did to my
sister.” My voice was steel and I stared him down.

It would have been so easy too, to just put a bullet in his
fucking mullet-covered head and be done. He was a sexual predator and putting
him down would be doing the world a favor. This wasn’t me though. Sure, I
killed for Marco, but I got paid for it and those people knew the score.
Playing executioner outside of mob business didn’t sit right with me. I wasn’t
a vigilante. Instead I advanced on Leonard with my weapon raised and he
cringed, rolling over into his own vomit in a feeble attempt to get out of my
way. I didn’t shoot him, but I did pistol whip the fuck out of him. His
cheekbones collapsed under the force and his nose was next. Blood spilled down
his face, leaking onto the drool stained pillowcase behind his head. Leonard
raised his arms at first, trying to block my blows, but they dropped to his
sides when he lost consciousness.

I took a step back, breathing heavily from the exertion and
adrenaline. The sad shitbag known as Leonard wasn’t moving, but he was still
alive; a whistling, rattling combination coming from his mouth every time he
exhaled indicated as much.

Leaving just as silently as I arrived, I quickly walked to
my car and climbed in. Peeling my bloody gloves off, I stuck them in the glove
compartment. Within minutes I was pulling up in front of my house. Before I
went inside, I grabbed a t-shirt out of my gym bag that I kept on the backseat
and wiped the specks of blood off of my face. After a quick glance in the
rearview mirror, I got out of the car.

My mom was still asleep so I washed up in the bathroom and
brushed my teeth. The adrenaline rush was wearing off and I felt weighted down
with exhaustion. Just as my head hit the pillow, the faint beep of my mom’s
alarm clock could be heard through the thin wall dividing my bedroom from hers.
I drifted off to the sounds of her moving around, getting ready for work.

I woke up shortly after noon and went to check on Natalie. I
found her sitting cross legged on the sofa with a can of diet Coke in one hand.
An unopened sleeve of saltines was on the coffee table. Sitting down next to
her, I quietly assessed her. She had changed into flannel pajama bottoms and
one of my old t-shirts that was so big, she looked extra small. I noticed her
skin was already bruising at the crook of her arm from the I.V.

          “How are you feeling?” I asked.

          “Like I have fifty hangovers going on at once,”
she groaned. “What the hell happened last night?”

          “You don’t remember?”

          “Bits and pieces, like I remember being in the
hospital, but everything is hazy.”

I rubbed the back of my neck and leaned forward, propping my
elbows on my knees. “For starters you were at the York Tavern drinking.” I
glared at her and she rolled her eyes, which just pissed me off. “Natalie, what
the fuck? You put yourself in a bad situation last night. Some asshole slipped a
roofie in your drink. Why you were even at a bar and getting served is
something I don’t understand!” I stood up and started pacing in front of the
sofa, deliberately blocking Natalie’s view of the television so she would have
to listen to me. “Jesus fucking Christ, what if I wasn’t home? What if I had
been in Philly and couldn’t get to you – what would you have done then?”

          “I don’t know,” she said in a whisper then started
to cry, which cut through my anger. “I’m sorry.”