Project Northwoods (111 page)

The cot didn’t provide a whole lot of comfort, but it was better than the street, even if the fluorescent lighting was irritating his black eye. Arthur sat cross-legged on the mattress, thin covers wadded up on his lap to prop up the book he was reading. In about an hour and a half it would be lights out, and he’d have to continue reading under the meager glow of the desk lamp placed on the distressingly unguarded nightstand the operators of the shelter provided. He preferred using the good light on the homework he liked. The bad light could make his bad homework seem even worse which, in his teenaged brain, somehow made sense.

Someone sat on the cot next to his and stared at him. Arthur chose not to look up, hoping that his bruised face would be a deterrent for someone to try talking to him. After a few seconds, the kid cleared his throat. “Hey,” he said.

Arthur looked over at him and recognized him as a kid from school that he was… somewhat… friendly with… he guessed. A green skull emblazoned with a ‘PM5K’ glared greenly from his otherwise black shirt, metal-studded belt glaring in the light. His tattered black jeans were probably purchased off the rack pre-worn out instead of the owner investing in the effort to damage them for fashion’s sake. His head was shorn, save for the beginnings of a very curly blond mohawk. “I thought you had a home to go to, Tim,” he snarked, going back to his book.

“You do, too, asshole,” he said, standing up.

Arthur cocked an eyebrow and coughed a laugh. “Yeah, what a great place.” He closed the book and turned toward the other boy. “What are you doing here?”

“Look, dipshit, the semester started two weeks ago and this kid shows up at a villain high school in the same clothes every day. Attitude problem, gets into fights he has no chance of winning, the works.” He crossed his arms across his chest. “I figure his parents either don’t love him or he doesn’t have a place to go.”

“And?” Arthur asked.

“Turns out, I don’t like not knowing.” He bent over and grabbed the backpack Arthur had slung on the floor.

“Hey!” Arthur shouted.

Tim’s hand picked up a sleeve of the bathrobe Arthur had wrapped around his flattened pillow to bulk it up. He snorted. “Nice,” Tim grunted with a nod. “I followed you earlier today.”

Arthur tried to go back to his book. “Whatever, dude.”

“C’mon. I got your bag,” Tim ordered, slinging the backpack over his shoulder.

Throwing himself off the bed, Arthur grabbed Tim’s arm. “What are you doing?”

“Timothy?” someone called out. A tall, blond policewoman walked by the door at the end of the chamber and stopped, recognizing her target and walking toward him. “You found him?” she asked as she walked toward the two of them.

“Yeah, mom,” Tim said, his snarkiness immediately replaced with a much more pleasant tone. “This is my friend Arthur.”

The policewoman knelt down, looking Arthur in the face with piercing, dark blue eyes. She was the most beautiful woman Arthur had seen, which immediately became apparent when he looked away and blushed. “Tim’s told me about you.” She smiled. “We don’t have a whole lot of room, but it’s better than this place,” she said standing up, looking at the dark corners. “I’m Samantha McFadden, by the way.”

Arthur looked up at her, then at the smiling Tim. “I’ll get my things,” he said. He returned to the bed and gathered up his books, wrapping them in the bathrobe he had stolen. Finally, he opened the drawer on the nightstand and withdrew the safe-box holding his mother’s jewelry. He would never let that go, no matter what.

He approached them, Samantha smiling and turning to leave. Tim waited for Arthur to meet him, then walked in step with him. He slapped Arthur on the back, much harder than he probably intended. “First thing’s first, dude: when you get in a fight with a girl, there’s no shame in yanking on her hair.”

His mother shook her head. “I don’t understand what you see in villainy, Timothy, but it’s better than being an assassin.”

“I wanted to be an assassin,” Tim explained.

“Thank you, Tim, that was implied,” his mother said.

The crowded sports bar was loud from the various parties all fighting to be heard amongst themselves. Allison wasn’t paying attention to them so much as she was watching one of the many large televisions hanging on the walls. To her side, Steven and Morgan were laughing while playing one of those trivia games which pitted them against the rest of the restaurant. They were thoroughly engrossed in each other, playfully accusing the other of cheating one moment and shallow flattery the next. Paul, the other surviving Bennetts brother and the other third of Allison’s mob, was at the bar making awkward small talk with a couple of blondes.

Damn, it feels good to be back in action
, Allison thought as her mind drifted over the past couple of days. She checked her watch, outwardly oblivious to the stab of pain from her still-mending bullet wounds. The time ticked closer to 7:30 p.m., and her eyes shot back excitedly to the monitor. The credits of the inoffensive sitcom finished, then the image faded to black. A deodorant commercial followed, and she huffed in annoyance.

An image of a speeding red sports car with the license ‘CAP1’ made her squeal loud enough to silence the other patrons. She bounded off her chair and sprinted to the television as nervous laughter broke out. Despite her stature, she leapt onto the bar quickly and turned up the volume. “
… September, follow the life of the premier criminal mastermind of our time,
” the announcer said without a hint of irony.

The image flicked to Steven and Paul flanking her as they walked, assault rifles in hand, down a steaming alleyway, the red car parked at an improbable angle behind them. “
I shot my sister in the head to save the world
,” Allison’s disembodied voice calmly said as the camera centered on her. “
There’s no
(
bleep
)
s left I can give
.”

“That’s totally me!” Allison shouted to the rest of the patrons.

The frame focused on Paul. “
Your girlfriend thinks about me when she’s with you,
” he claimed without moving his lips. The mobster at the bar gave the nearest blonde a poke with his finger and pointed to the screen.

Morgan appeared to be actively considering the statement. “He does look like you, ya know.” Steven squinted at her in mock annoyance as she chuckled.

It was Steven’s turn. “
I’m the guy Arbiter has nightmares about,
” he said coldly. The patrons gave a collective, challenging ‘ooo’ in the television’s direction.

“That line was my idea!” Allison affirmed to the bar.

“No argument here!” Steven shouted back to her.

The camera switched to a four-way split screen of Allison, Steven, Paul, and surprisingly enough, a slightly embarrassed looking Morgan in various stages of interviews. “
With unparalleled access into the mob’s inner workings and interviews with family and friends.
”

Morgan’s picture took up the screen as her eyes narrowed in annoyance. “
What’s it like to date… why are you even asking me this?
” she asked pointedly.

The live Morgan grew red and sank in her chair as Steven gave a whoop and pointed her out. She quickly kicked him in the shin, generating laughter instead of a hiss of pain.

The frame switched back to an image of the three mobsters leaning against the car in slow-motion as wind blew their hair and loose clothing to the side. Allison whistled at the image. “I’d fuck me, that’s for damn sure.”

The words ‘American-Made Goon’ flew across the screen. “
Catch American-Made Goon this fall!
”

The image was a close-up of Allison pulling out a pistol at the camera. “
Or die.
” With a gunshot, the screen went black.

Allison turned back to the restaurant. “Now that’s what I’m talking about!” she shouted. Immediately, the patrons started clapping and cheering her on. “Keep it going! We are
famous
, assholes!”

A light dusting of snow crunched beneath Arthur’s feet in the early spring morning. Walkers on their way to work were joining him, cups of steaming coffee in hand as they trudged quietly down the street. A courier bumped into him as she blinked in and out of existence in the throng of people. Arthur would have been annoyed if he hadn’t felt so sick to his stomach.

Ariana had somehow managed to get Tim to hound him about rent and groceries. There was a hostile loan shark quality to the way the subject was broached, a certain edge that Arthur had only seen very rarely with his friend. It cropped up whenever Tim would disappear and neither Ariana nor Arthur could find him.

No matter what caused it, it was especially acute this time. So Arthur had to do what he always did when he needed money. He sold his mother’s jewelry.

It wasn’t much, but it was a bracelet this time. Beautiful. Old. He threw it up last week on an auction site for what he thought was a modest bid. Apparently a couple of people identified it as something truly spectacular and began a fierce bidding war which, in the end, made Arthur a good deal richer but forcibly cut away a past he wanted to keep.

It doesn’t matter now
, Arthur thought as he struggled to keep himself warm in his threadbare jacket.
Misterjems2001 is going to give his wife or husband a great present, and I’m one step closer to having nothing to my name
, he mused with a huff as he drew closer to his apartment building.

Maybe he’d use some of the excess money to buy Ariana a please-be-my-friend gift after upgrading his jacket. Something shiny he could distract her with so she’d stop being so critical of him all the time. He didn’t even know why he cared about her opinion when it was clear there would never be anything but animosity between the two. There was just something in the way she looked at him, talked to him, behaved around him that made him want to prove–

“Watch out!” someone cried out with a foreign lilt. He looked up and stumbled backward to avoid running into a redheaded girl in blue jeans and a pink fuzzy sweater struggling with a heavy cardboard box. He lost his balance and collapsed onto his ass, cold asphalt biting through his jeans. “Sorry! Sorry!” she repeated, peeking around the corner. “You alright down there?” The accent was a soft Irish, more distinctive in the form of a full sentence. He looked up at her, annoyed. She turned a bright red and hid behind her cargo. Arthur’s anger boiled beneath the surface, even though he knew it was an accident.

He got to his feet, wiping his hands off as he rose. The girl stood still as he fought the urge to yell at her, as though remaining motionless would make her undetectable. He took a deep breath and coughed. “Yeah, nothing broken I guess,” he muttered as she peered at him around the box again. He glided past her, once more burying himself in his jacket.

“Well, don’t just walk on by, jackass,” a decidedly more aggressive Irish accent scolded. Arthur whipped around to see a man wearing a green and orange rugby shirt hefting two large boxes, one in each hand, effortlessly walk toward him. “Be a gentleman and get the door for the lady.”

Arthur’s face flushed as he nodded and went obediently to the door.

“Daddy,” the girl hissed quietly.

“Don’t worry, pumpkin, I was just reminding him of manners,” he said as he neared Arthur. Like a good doorman, he held it open and avoided eye contact. “Isn’t that right, gentleman?” he snarled in Arthur’s face. The younger man swallowed and stared off into the distance as the villain strode past. The girl followed, Arthur only dimly aware of the sheepish smile that crossed her face as she turned her head to look at him as she walked by.