Arthur crept down the corridor towards Taylor’s apartment, suddenly aware how dark and full of shadows the passage was. It was a windowless lobby with dim yellow lighting, so baleful he was surprised he’d never considered the misery of its outlook before. His breath was shallow, and his heart thumped so fast in his chest he worried he might be having a heart attack.
He’d found her crying in his living room, shaken. There were dark rings around her eyes and she’d shrunk from him when he’d approached. When he’d convinced her to tell him what had happened her explanation ended with a venomous, ‘No cops. I don’t want cops in my house!’
Arthur hadn’t understood. He’d get the cops involved the second he found someone had broken into his home. ‘What is it with you and the cops?’ he’d asked. He’d tried not to raise his voice.
‘Arthur’, she’d said, ‘the cops are in the pockets of the gangs. If you go to the cops, the cops will go to the gangs. You don’t believe me? Fair enough. But the cops and gangs have danced together since before I was born. They feed off one another.’ She’d tilted her head toward him, fought back the tears. ‘Sure, some cops might start out with good intentions, they might think they can bring gang members back to the right side of the law by talking to them. Or at the very least, maybe they think that talking to them might lead to some information, some lead, that will put a bigger crook behind bars, or maybe they want to stop some crime or other from happening. I’m sure some cops might start out like that. Like…like… a saint, or something. But those goddamn gangs will corrupt anyone.’
Arthur had listened and nodded as she’d rambled, her words spilling out in a rush. ‘Where I grew up, the cops worked for the gangs, for the guys who ran the streets. It created an order of sorts. The cops left the gangs to do their thing and the gangs kept every two-bit crook who operated there in check.’ The place Arthur had been brought up in wasn’t exactly crime-free but it was a million miles from Taylor’s experience of childhood.
He’d held her hands in his as she’d recounted her childhood experience, clasped her fingers tight in his, and fought the urge to wrap his arms around her, to tell her everything would be okay. Instead, he’d sat in silence while she continued. ‘Honestly, if someone stole a candy bar and that theft wasn’t sanctioned by the gangs, those gangs’ bosses were on the crime before sunset. But those gangs didn’t operate in a vacuum. They needed info… stuff only the cops had. So, the gangs put sweeteners out for them cops – inducements; gifts; indulgences. Even the saintly cops would be undone, eventually. The gangs would use anything and everything to break them. Sometimes, that would be threats instead. Sometimes bribery. Whatever it took to convince a cop to supply information. And from that moment, the cop was compromised. The gangs had him. And the gangs would go back to him time and again to get access to any piece of intelligence they needed.’ She’d started to babble and Arthur had indulged her. ‘Even a decent cop was beat with that Arthur, ‘cause he’d no way to deny their request without them tipping someone off that he was on the take. And when they did that, that cop was done. Finished.’
Her eyes widened and swelled with wet tears, and she was beautiful even in this distress with her mascara smudged across her face. She would have hated it if he’d mentioned that. Besides, she hadn’t finished: ‘Those gangs had – still have – ears all over the place. Not just other cops listening for the slightest way to gain favour, but also the creeps who sit in bars or hang out on the streets and in the whorehouses. Every one of those guys takes in the gossip of the ‘hood and recites it back to their handlers in the gangs. That’s how the gangs discover everything. And when it suits them, they’ll share that intelligence to those who can use that info. The gangs stir up the mob against perverts that way, drop hints about drug dealers, too.’ She’d hesitated, licked her lips, shivered. ‘And I don’t doubt the gangs have kept track of me, know where I am. And I’m certain,’ she’d stood up agitated, paced the room, ‘I’m certain they’ve passed my whereabouts onto Manny.’
He’d stood as well, slowly rising to his feet, unsure how to help her.
‘Manny is in with the gangs and the bent cops, with the hookers and the barflies, Arthur. And the gangs and the cops use him for messy jobs they don’t want traced back to them. And it all works, in its horrible little way. It all works for them.’
‘Do you think they’ve given him your location in return for some work?’ he’d asked.
She’d wiped her nose with a tissue, ‘Yeah. I think so. I know so.’ She’d sobbed, then. Giant shoulder heaves that shuddered through her body. Arthur had reached out to hold her but she’d shrunk away. ‘He scares me, Arthur. If he comes near me, touches me, harms my kids… I can’t have him near them, Arthur. I can’t… I can’t…’
‘So, tell the cops. Let them sort him out.’
‘You ain’t listening…. The minute I go to the cops, the gangs will know, and they’ll tell him, and he’ll get mad, and… shit… shit… shit…’
He hadn’t believed her, but she was so certain that going to the cops was a bad idea that he’d been forced to agree. ‘So, what do we do, then?’ he’d asked.
It took her a long time to reply. In the interval, she’d paced his living room like a tiger in a cage. Finally, she’d turned to him. ‘Arthur, I need you to do something. I think it’s risky, but I can’t see what else to do.’
‘What is it?’
‘The girls and I need some stuff. Clothes. Toiletries. I’ll make you a list if you can go to my place and fetch them. But, please, make sure you ain’t followed back. If we’re lucky, the gangs don’t know about you or where you stay, and Manny won’t find out and come knocking.’
‘Sure.’
Her expression had been inscrutable. ‘Sure?’ she’d said. ‘Just like that. No hesitation or nothing?’
The entire thing didn’t feel real, the danger mere theory. ‘Yeah. Of course I’m sure.’
‘Why, Arthur? You should throw me out. You should have walked out on me when I told you about Manny the other night. You might get hurt, or worse.’
He’d considered that. The prospect of her not being around wasn’t one he’d wanted to entertain, the idea he might get injured remote. ‘Nothing will happen to me.’ It was a lame response, even to his ears. ‘Just answer me one thing.’
‘Sure, if I can.’
He’d inhaled deeply, unsure how she’d respond to his request, but he’d suddenly needed to know the answer to the question. ‘Why Manny? I mean, how did you and he get together? He sounds like a douchebag and you ain’t that, you ain’t that at all.’
She’d all but collapsed onto his sofa. ‘Arthur, I was such a different person back then. Just a silly girl, really. I didn’t know who I was, or what I wanted. I was… I was no angel, you know?’ She grunted as she recollected. ‘I remember stealing candy from the local store, just because it was fun. I remember bunking off school, dressing up and going drinking, considering myself so grown up. My mom and dad despaired off me.
‘And Manny, well, he wasn’t like the other guys. He was a handsome man – still is, I guess – and he made me laugh, paid me compliments, and I lapped it up. If I wanted clothes, he’d buy them, jewellery too, or perfume. Anything. He always had plenty of money. And he didn’t ever lay a finger on me. And I kinda turned a blind eye to how he got his cash, ‘cause I didn’t wanna know. And it was good, you know? It was good. Right up until shortly after Francesca was born, right up until the night Sergeant Smail paid us a home visit.
‘God, Arthur… I’d never seen Manny so helpless and impotent. Smail ordered him to take out this no-good kid who’d started dealing in the area. When Manny resisted, Smail threatened to arrest him for some crime or other and Manny was forced to do whatever the cop wanted.’
Taylor began to sob. ‘After Smail left, Manny was in a rage. Such a rage. I remember Francesca wailing in her cot. I remember Manny’s temper. His fists.’ She rubbed her stomach, not noticing she was doing it. ‘That was the first time. There were others. Many others. But it wasn’t like that in the beginning. It wasn’t like that, at all…’
Silence fell between them. Not the awkward quiet of people distancing themselves from each other emotionally, but a stillness that came from being comfortable with each other. She’d become wrapped in his arms. Arthur had no recollection of reaching for her, but he’d gradually became aware of her touch and her scent and her soft breathing, and he’d held her tight, not wanting the moment to end. Finally, though, she’d drawn away with a sniff. ‘I’d better make that list. You please be careful out there.’
And he’d agreed he would be.
As he folded the list into his pocket he’d asked, ‘Did that meeting lead to Manny killing Smail? Is that what happened?’
She’d smiled sadly. ‘No, not directly.’ Her words were fragile, dragged out by painful memories. ‘You know, Smail was a monster. A crooked, sadistic bastard of a man who wrapped Manny around his little finger, made him do the worst of his dirty work. But that wasn’t what tipped Manny over the edge. Jealousy did that. Manny accused me of fucking Smail. He caught sight of the cop trying it on with me and concluded that we were at it. As if…’ She was exhausted, there was no denying it. ‘So, now you know. Now you have everything. Do you still want to be around me? Do you still want to go collect my things?’
He’d only nodded, pulled her close, and kissed her. That kiss had been all that mattered.
Now, he clung to that kiss as if it was a life raft in an ocean storm. Playing the hero was a game for fools and Arthur was no hero. Yet, here he was, tiptoeing towards her home, terrified Manny might emerge from the shadows to strike him into the next life. His heart beat a drum in his ear, afraid and urgent. He was such an impostor, pretending to be Taylor’s knight in shining armour, living for adventure. All that stuff with corrupt cops and gangs and shit, all that excitement, that wasn’t him, that wasn’t his life. All he desired was get out of bed, go to work, and return to an evening of pizza and TV. There was no room for shootings and suicides, drug abuse or break-ins. If that was the lifestyle Taylor craved then she’d hooked up with the wrong guy. That conclusion drilled into him, made him pause. ‘I bet even Superman has a duvet day when the cameras aren’t on him,’ he said. ‘It’s just my turn to be on camera.’
He edged forward again. Christ, he needed someone there to support him. Even his lady passengers. Especially his lady passengers. He imagined how they’d handle this sort of emergency. As it was, he hadn’t seen them for several hours and had only the radio and the occasional crow for company between his home and Taylor’s.
Surprisingly, his passengers had understood his decision to take time off, had almost encouraged him to do so. They’d been too preoccupied by the shooting to care. Although it was the blind man who had been on their minds more than the attack itself. They’d gossiped about the stranger as Arthur drove them back to the depot, outrage and disgust dripping from their tongues. It meant they’d had little appetite to carry out any other business. So, when Arthur turfed them out of his cab at the office, they’d offered no resistance but remained in the car park as he’d swung his cab towards home.
Which left Arthur alone now, in the half-dark.
Taylor’s door was pulled almost shut but the evidence of a forced entry was clear. The intruder hadn’t bothered with niceties: the locking mechanism had been brutalised, splinters of wooden door frame shattered and broken off, and there were pieces of wood strewn upon the floor.
Arthur pushed hard at the door so it opened wide and leaped back, expecting someone to jump him. When no one did, he peered into the chaos inside. It really was a mess: Taylor’s sofa was up ended on its side, her television thrown down and smashed, and a photo of her and her kids broken and torn into pieces.
Arthur navigated across the floor, weaved passed the broken furniture and fragments of paperwork. This intruder was a destructive and messy villain, yet Taylor’s most valuable item – a figurine of a dancing Mexican lady that had once belonged to her grandmother – still adorned a shelf high upon a wall, and none of her electrical goods had been stolen.
The kitchen was in a state of disarray similar to what had befallen the living room. Pans and pots had been flung from their cupboards, food lay open and spilled onto the floor, and the detritus from the trash can scattered across everything.
A nearby vent hissed and the skin on Arthur’s back prickled. With a shake of his head he continued into Taylor’s bedroom. Its carpet was littered with her belongings too, but the bed had been left made up. It was a peculiar oasis of normal. Whoever did this had gone about their task in a systematic way that was intended as a disturbance rather than a robbery. Even through the chaos it was obvious that this was no random break in.
Hurriedly, Arthur pulled the suitcase out from under the bed, thanking Taylor for telling him where it would be, and flung an assortment of clothes into it, not paying too much attention to what he was picking up, while her list remained in the back pocket of his suit.
Unnerved, he hurried to the girls’ room, repeated the packing and failed to notice the way that room had not been churned over by the intruder. He breathed in heavily as he locked the suitcase tight, straightened his back, and made for the door. ‘I won’t run,’ he told himself, ‘I will walk casually. I’m just another Joe going about my business. Having a suitcase under my arm doesn’t mean I’m anything to do with Taylor. I’m an anonymous nobody.’
He strode out, fought an urge to bolt through the lobby, and descended the stairs, forcing himself to place a foot on every single step. He was desperate not to make a scene, not to do anything that might draw attention to himself. It made the climb down take an eternity but, with the lift broken, he’d no choice in the matter.
The entrance hall to the building was large but mercifully empty. It had a narrow door to the rear and a somewhat grand entrance at the front. He hesitated, considered which to take and then, with a shrug, marched across the hall and flung himself against the revolving door that led out to the main throughfare. The door swished lightly on its hinges and he was out in the open before he’d time to reconsider. Nonetheless, he was grateful his cab was parked only a few feet away. Feigning calm, he swung the suitcase into the car’s back seat, and leaped into his. His cheeks were flushed and his hands shook. He really was a poor sort of hero. At the third time of asking he managed to insert his key into the ignition and the cab engine rumbled as he pressed his foot on the gas.
Leave a Reply