Chapter 8: Do Not Do This

(For mature audiences)

(This version isn’t finalized. All writings are from its origin and unedited.)

Harris carries an expression of drowning confusion. No doubt, attempting to piece together the situation. As any trained sleuth habitually would. A fraction of me feels sympathy, regardless of the dirty cop role he played. Giving resolution, I sidestep left. His pupils are wide, but his eyes are looping. Can he see anymore? Head pretty much split open. I don’t know my own strength. Harris wouldn’t recognize me anyway. Different story for the duffle bag strap across my chest maybe. Mission accomplished.

Risk life incarceration by sneaking into a police station for a thirteen-pound bag. Was it worth it? A brief startle befalls me, as Quinn strikes the bat on the cop’s face in hasty successions. I close my eyes. Then turn away before reopening them at the black truck. Fleshy sounds meeting the baseball bat continually restore an image I wish broken. One to the collection of many sights I want unseen. Bashes transform into a sickness within the deep corner of my stomach. Quinn’s slight huffs can be heard behind me. I take the key from Trane, or Jameson, while she whacks away.

Trane speaks, “We should go before those bikers catch up.”

We did a dangerous chapter what they believed to be a favor. Tipped them off about three million dollars ripe in evidence; which wasn’t a total lie. License plate, truck make and model, and time of arrival were all handed over semi-reluctantly by Brandon. Unfortunately, we neglected to mention the encounter was staged and we’d be picking up before they could. Mush stops, followed by a sniffle and quick sigh from Quinntella. She’s probably upset we aren’t shooting through the station to build her rep, but at least she got to kill someone. Some “one” actually being an accomplishment from usual efforts of trying to keep a high daily average.

Harris wasn’t joking when he said strangers demand protection from her and even that was a huge understatement. Anybody around her can die and I’ve been around long enough to witness for myself. Trane posing as a cop, myself sneaking in, and handing over three million dollars wouldn’t have spewed from her lips. She made a deal with a powerful man behind our backs and left us no choice. I reach the truck. Climb in back and wait for the others. Quinn’s voice mumbles into my eardrums from outside the car, becoming louder when the doors open.

I catch the tail end of commands, “–the rest to those chumps. We got better shit to take care of.”

She joins me in back. Slides the recently painted burgundy bat between our feet, still choking the grip. Brandon and Trane occupy the front. I pass the bag over my shoulder to reunite the set. Brandon throws on a rock station at normal volume and crashes through the wooden beam barricade to take us out. Before or after any job or deal, Quinn always looks out at whatever only her eyes can see; regardless of how wild the maniac Brandon maneuvers behind the wheel, a moment of peace post-chaos doesn’t seem real.

Those moments always spring over to me. Brings about a glimmer of hope for the future I want yet don’t truly believe she’ll have. Not wanting to seem awkward or weird, I disengage at the road. After not long bobbing through traffic, we herd in amongst normal drivers. As Quinn’s unofficial right-hand, I try eliminating the need to have many loose ends lying around by avoiding problems. Imagine how difficult that is when you have an unmasked tyrant diving, headfirst, into them. If that greedy cop didn’t know what vehicle we’d flee in, I’d say he didn’t deserve the death he got.

Anything and everything is branding, which is why she refuses to wear masks or hoods on any endeavor. If no one knows Quinntella Wallace did it, how would she gain the infamy she craves oh so badly? It just wouldn’t happen; she would be an average woman with average things, living an average lifestyle, like everyone else. Three and a half million won’t satisfy because she’s already loaded with enough stolen money, including drugs, to make more, if needed. Frequently, I find myself asking why she does what she does; the sequel to that being, why do I tag alongside like a starved stray.

Quinn snatches my attention, “Jordan?”

Quick, as if I were caught thinking out loud, my head snaps at her, “What?”

“…You good?”

“No. You?”

“What’s wrong?”

“Thirty or so dead bodies for a box that weighs less than this boot.”

“Sounds like every other Tuesday, except Warren’s not here.”

“Dead COPS, and a chapter that will be out for blood when they don’t get that money they were after.”

“All still dead. And even if, Brandon ripped the footage. We couldn’t get any clearer. Don’t forget, I wanted to be in the front door.”

“Okay, so it’s my fault we get to live another day?”

She shrugs, “Pretty much. You did good. Bikers tried their hand at stealing stolen money and lost and we were never there. We win this one.” She plants a hand on my leg and smirks, “Bask in it.”

I can’t but do pretend for her. Once childhood friends, a noticeable amount of major leeway gets thrown my way. We met when we were fourteen, and I’ve had an unhealthy infatuation, ever since. First sight was an immediate blindness to anyone else that could not be resisted. Now, I regret it every day. Out of the thirteen years since we’ve met, four were spent together; two from fourteen until sixteen and two from twenty-five to present. We leave Lower Manhattan and reach a safe house Quinn frequents in a shitty project of Brownsville. Parked in front of the thirty-story block, we grab bags. Dogs bark, music plays, sleep is never unanimous.

Trane comments, “I fuckin’ hate comin’ down here.”

No one counters positive feedback. I grab two bags and walk the concrete path past a small playground. An adult gang occupies it at night when kids have gone. Barbecuing and chatting as if it’s a bright, summer outing. Members of the same gang are scattered on other sides also. They don’t bother anybody unless they’re roaming without purpose or staring, non-verbally begging to be harassed. Everyone knows Quinntella and that even looking at her wrong can end lives, so with or without, we’re defaulted untouchable. Especially Trane.

Thumping bass increases inside the tall, under-kept structure. Three things a visitor can depend on in this block at night is a party, good tree, and alcohol. Some people are chatting in the tiny lobby and hallway. Propped against the wall with drinks, but not near the central system of it all. Parties pop on the fifteenth floor, which in my opinion, is the nastiest to live on. Trane parties his ass off from time to time and I only tag along when asked. Does it bring comfort to be around all those drunk gangstas with guns? Yeah right. Sometimes Quinn needs to be alone and Trane wants company. Though the parties can become a crime scene, they are a distraction from trying to think about what Quinn could be thinking.

Each floor has forty apartments, ten on each wing and five on each side. Our busted apartment has horrible furnishing that looks like it all came from a series of dumpsters; nine hundred square foot studio with a tiny bathroom. We have two on the eighteenth floor, and if needed as an emergency exit, one on the seventeenth. The knocked-out wall on our left leads to the next apartment and the small hole covered by tacky carpet. Warren is asleep on the couch.

After we’ve all entered, Quinn whips out the deposit box and slams it on the table, “Brandon, crack it open.”

Huh??? Whatever Yigarin has in that box, obviously, isn’t meant to be disturbed by anyone other than himself. Not to mention, went behind his own accomplice to make it happen. Yet, she wants to open it? Break it open, at that, since she doesn’t have a key.

I drop my bags and quickly command Brandon on approach, “Wait, don’t you open shit!” I face Quinn, “What’re you doin’?”

She slouches in the wooden chair on the other side of the four-way table, “I’m not doin’ anything. Brandon, here, is about to do what I told him to do. Isn’t that right, Brandon?”

Brandon cheerfully agrees, “Righty-O.”

I block his path again and sternly speak my mind at her, “Hey, I did not break into a fuckin’ police station to get this bag back, pulling our asses out the fire, so you can decide you wanna keep it! We might as well have left it there and just dealt with what came at us!”

Quinn acknowledges, “I completely understand… Brandon?”

As he attempts to step around, I block him again, and in response, receive a frustrated chuckle, “Then what’s the point?! Why risk our lives again instead of just handing over the box?!”

“Well, on the way back, I did some thinking.” She leans forward, “I could not figure out why Jordan Greene would be so hellbent on the idea of Bruno Yigarin’s desire to wanna kill us for what’s in this box. I mean is it really that important? Only way I figure is to look inside.”

Once opened, whatever secrets kept for however long will be permanently exposed. In anyone’s care, there cannot be a justifiable excuse for it having been unintentional. If it was my box, I’d assume whatever incriminating crap I stored was compromised and duplicated, then hunt down everybody who made contact. My brain tells me she understands and is also aware she doesn’t care.

“Quinn, I am begging you… do not do this. You can’t just close that box and pretend it never happened.”

She ponders briefly. Struggles to maintain eye contact while her mind wanders wherever it goes. Can she truly think opening this box would be okay? Danielle Melligan sits at the same criminal hierarchy table with Bruno. Why Bruno would have Quinn rob Danielle’s bank to get his box when he could’ve just walked in himself is beyond me. Why she thought it was a good idea to accept? Beyond me. Quinn rises casually from her seat and approaches me. Pauses little less than arm’s length away. Gazes into my eyes and wears a smile. I don’t get lost in the light brown beauties.

She asks, “You know what I like about you?” I am certain that’s rhetorical but remain silent to her softer tone, “You always know what to do. Getting the box back by sneaking into a police station was your idea; coordinating the bank job, excluding my temps, was your idea. I know I like to run in guns bangin’ but you know when not to. We sandboxed it together, and thirteen years later, you’re here by my side, despite everything. I know you’ll always be here for me like I am for you… Open the box.”

Brandon’s feet quickly slide around me. Attempting to halt his path, Quinn swoops into my face and steals my sight. My mind races. Is what she said true? I’ve never told her how I felt because of fear she wouldn’t love me too. Now, I feel a point where it’s too late for her personality to care. Knowing that I won’t leave her must mean she knows. I’ve done my best to hide it. Trane was able to see through, as clear as the day’s light in a pitched cavern. Is she just stringing my heart along for loyalty? Or does she put up with my disobedience for deeper reasons?

Brandon expresses joy like a kid at Christmas, “And here we… go.”

A loud bang dominates my ears, traveling this and the next room. Neither Quinntella nor myself flinch from the obnoxious clash of metals on repeat. Mixes of my speedily beating heart, hip-hop music two floors below, and dueling metals face off. A challenge of which is loudest. Quinn twists slow, not breaking the stare until her neck can no longer resist on the way to her wooden chair. Freeing my eyes, I watch Brandon beating the box on its head with a crowbar. Scathing the steel, until it finally begins caving at the lock. At some point, Warren woke up but hasn’t resurrected from the couch.

Brandon’s tireless effort cause the box’s lock to snap off and he huffs, “Whew! Shit, thought I was gonna have to tag one of you weaklings in.”

Instead of condoning approval via curiosity, I go sit in the adjoining apartment alone. Taking a stand won’t make a difference, at this point, but I can’t suddenly be onboard after that episode. That whole pride thing. When can I just walk away and never look back? Inaudible chatter pours in over the contents they have uncovered; the better the reactions, the worse our lives are about to become when Bruno finds out. I take a deep breath. Remember: objective and ulterior motives.