Baroque Ransom. The most bizarre name that I ever came across in my ventures. But…it’s a name. When you need a fix, a name isn’t going to stop you. Baroque is a link on a chain, nobody’s ever seen him; he’s got people to distribute the product for him. Under him, there are about three really reliable guys and two questionable girls. That might be backwards…oh well. Above Baroque is Urban, the highest that street demons like me would hear about. Massive operation, crooked cops, scandals, the whole nine. A lot of territory covered. How I got as deep as I did…well that’s another saga. Maybe not. Everything’s worth debating, unless you’re outside freezing your ass off…then keeping warm is your primary concern. Least it should be. Getting a fix is mine.
Coat’s buttoned, layered as much as possible - you wait. There’s an art to this, years of practice put to use perfecting the idea. I’m standing here like a damn fool waiting for one of Baroque’s boys. I refuse to do business with the softer sex – can’t trust them. Yes, I know, I’m a sexist asshole. Whatever it takes. A girl around here will fuck you in more ways than one to get what she needs. Lives are gambling chips. Still here waiting - shaking uncontrollably. Whether it’s from cold…or chemical issues…well, you get the idea. Stand bent down in the alley, watching the people pass. Jesus, where is he? Look down the alley, the walls, everything, the usual shade of dying gray. Sound a few yards off, another victim being beaten for his stock. Oh…fuck. That’s my guy. Might as well join in the fray, it’s a sure way to keep warm.
There was a bit of a scuffle, a few hard hits, but nothing achieved. The attackers fired a few shots at my contact, leaving me whole. Feeling bad for the poor sap, I held him close like a child as the breath left him. In a matter of minutes, he was ivory blue. Nothing of value left on his person. Damn it.
This night was a complete waste. No fix, no more contact, I’d have to go through someone else. No big deal, just fucks with my night. Oh well, that’s the story of my life. Mistakes…
Who am I to lecture on bizarre names, mine might be just as bad. It’s a generation of parents that were slightly too high for their own good.
My unfortunate title – Saint Crowe.
Don’t ask.
Most people just call me Crowe because the Saint part is too religious for them. Or too drastically ironic. Either way, it’s just a name. A mere title to distinguish me among men. It don’t have to be fancy or anything, it’s just a name. Or so they keep telling me.
Walking home, chilled by the bastard cold…and I’m being followed. I shouldn’t have gotten myself involved. Closer…faster…Fuck.
“If you could please come this way?” The voice is local, I recognize the thug as Baroque’s.
“Of course.” Note to the reader – this is the only right answer. Or, “yes, sir.” Anything less – don’t bother.
So, walk back through the cold, past my buddy’s blue corpse, on to places of purpose. I was going to be shot for intervening. Killed for my kindness. Lady Luck’s a bitch…
Upstairs, climb to your damnation – climb higher to fall harder. The thugs take their leave, as expected, and I knock on the door. Things can’t get much worse, though…there are exceptions.
A woman answered my knock, no, a girl. She had hard features, etched into her face from stress…you couldn’t begin to determine her age. She made way for me to enter, seating herself casually at a larger, older man’s side. Ownership – possession – His. I was shown to a seat, the room cleared, leaving the couple. I focused on the man’s rigid expression. He kissed the girl on the cheek, whispered a few words then turned to face me.
“You be nice to my little girl.”
“Yes, sir.”
And he was gone. She glanced at me, her eyes hollow. I let loose a sigh of relief. The master of the house had left - this was a turn in my favor. She got herself a drink, lit up a smoke, and looked me over.
“I heard what happened, here’s what I’m willing to propose…”
“Is he your father?”
She laughed, “Urban? He acts like it…but no. That’s just big brother.”
“That’s Urban? I thought he was Baroque.”
She laughed again, “Urban Ransom.”
“And that makes you…”
“Baroque Ransom. The pleasure’s all yours, I’m sure.”
Fuck.
And she merely smiled. That demonic, Cheshire cat grin that seals your fate. Figures. She sees through me with those hollow red eyes, searching my soul. Well, this is a switch. Change gears, full reverse, turn charm on full throttle, seat belt fastened - beware of turbulence.
“A job.”
Come back to reality, tune back in. “What?” I mutter.
“Would you like a job?”
“A…job? Why? What did I do?”
She sighed, exhaling smoke. Her patience was wearing thin. “Do you question God?”
“Constantly.”
And she smiled wider, getting up, her palms on the table, looking down at me. “Good.”
So then we got into real negotiation. Right down to business. Really real business.
YOU ARE READING
Volume V: The Tragic End of Treason
Teen FictionThey say that nothing truly changes, and the retired hoodlums of the block set out to prove it. Dean Crowe left behind his life of danger and deceit hoping to get by just like everybody else – until a broken young girl falls into his lap. Finding hi...
