The Divorcee Murder Club

Sesenta Y Seis ~ 66

            These trash bags are heavier than a mountain as I haul them toward the club’s back entrance. The bar is alive tonight, so the bins keep overflowing with empty bottles, and the barback, Katarina, can’t keep up with her backend duties. Like the gentleman I am, I offered to help carry out the trash. She’s so tiny, she looked like a toddler fighting with a bag of toys.

I slam my back into the crash bars on the double doors and exit the club to fling the trash into one of the metal dumpster bins. The night is crisp, with a thin veil of clouds, so I take a moment to inhale deep breaths to feel at peace with my new reality. Earlier, Emilio Suarez introduced me to his companions as his friend, and I’m still unsettled by it. Never in a million years did I believe I’d be laughing in the same atmosphere as the Cartel, sitting there listening to the men crack jokes like I’m part of the gang. 

A shiver zips down my spine to my toes. I need a stiff drink! And a cuddle.

But life has decided to use me as a punching bag instead.

The double doors burst open, and before I can turn around, Kay’s meaty hands are on me. My feet leave the pavement as he flings me into the dumpster the same way I did Richie that night he threatened me. It happens so fast that I’m still registering what happened and peeling myself off the ground when Kay drives his steel toe boot into my abdomen. 

Fuck.

The air explodes from my lungs on a gasp like shards of glass, and I don’t have a chance to recover when he does it again and again. I recoil, using my arms to guard my stomach and ribs, but his boot rams right into my forearm, and the bones snap.

Fuck.

The pain doesn’t fully click until he grabs my face, and I swing at him with my broken arm. The pang radiates across my arm and shoulder, then to my brain as if acid was poured into a wound. As if that wasn't bad enough, Kay's knuckles are like sledgehammers colliding at once and rocking me so hard I see stars when I blink. The blows keep coming, and I become too weak to swing or claw at him. Instead, my arms dangle at my sides like a rag-doll.

I can’t die like this.

My eyes roll back, so Kay gives me one last punch and releases me. My body sinks into the trash bags, where bottles poke into my back like needles, pinching me to stay awake. However, everything still goes black.

∆∆∆

When I come to consciousness, I have no idea what day or time it is, and I have no idea why Katarina is crying above me, my head cradled in her lap.

“Miguel!” She taps my cheek. “There you go. Open your eyes. Squeeze my hand. Something!”

“Washz go on…” I mumble, and my ribcage is like shattered glass when I breathe.

“You got mugged,” Katarina cries. “I came out here to throw away more trash and found you like this. I called Jude on the walkie-talkie. He’s on his way. We’re calling an ambulance.”

“Nah mug…”

“What?”

“Nah mug.”

“Miguel, please don’t move. You might have a concussion.” 

“I gah gut up.”

“No, stay put. You shouldn’t move,” Katarina cries. 

Regardless, I don’t listen to her and stagger to my feet in a clumsy attempt that has me collapsing to the cold, damp cement like some drunk at a bar. Katarina pleads for me not to move, but I’m too stubborn. I push myself up again with my good arm and roll onto my knees. Searing pain cuts through my ribs, so I clutch myself with a groan. They must be broken.