A scrawny, nearly toothless man ran up to the stained fold out table I called my desk and gave me the news about my cousin with as much sympathy as a small time drug dealer could muster. He frantically grabbed at things in the rundown shithole I had called home for the last month and a half, all while muttering eerily to himself about the cops coming. I sat perfectly still reflecting on my life as my cousins minions cleared out the house. It was a good run. A trap house in chaos was not my whole story, however. I touched the top of organized crime. No, I more than touched the top. I held it in my hands, I bathed in its glory and looked down from its peaks. You see, organized crime is a circus. The circus has strongmen, beasts and acrobats. But every good circus has a magician. A master of illusions and smoke. That was me. I created a fog so thick that the howling fiends of the government could not touch us. My particular brand of accounting is no less deception filled than war. I loved my work. And that love sharpened my craft to a knife point. I had it all; yachts, mansions, expensive tastes and the respect of powerful men. I reasoned to myself that the invulnerability afforded to me and my coworkers by the spell of invisibility I cast with my magic numbers would last forever. It wasn't until my boss crossed the wrong senator that I felt vulnerable for the first time.
The FBI hunted us. It wasn't long before they began to raid everything. When they finally caught up to me, I barely escaped with my life. My family and friends were watched, I had no one to turn to. The only place I knew I'd be safe was with my second cousin. He called himself Croc for whatever reason. The government lens couldn't focus well in poverty and though we hadn’t spoken in years, he never turned his back on family. That was why when Rick told me how he died and sprinted out the door, I just sat there, more alone than at any point in my life. By then, I welcomed prison. The last man out, the big one in a mesh shirt, blew me a kiss and said ‘See ya later’ before leaving. I hated that guy. When the dust finally settled, I sat alone in almost silence, the faint bustling of the city and distant sirens the only sounds competing with my peaceful stupor. Finally, no more running. It was...peaceful actually.
The sirens were still quite distant when the crash of the front door being broken in snapped me to attention. Boots clanked on cheap linoleum, "clear" I heard one gruff voice say, "check the rooms I'll check the kitchen." The man checking the kitchen scoped around behind his sights barely poking into the room. He was obviously pro, and locked his pistol onto me with a concrete steadiness after he was sure I was alone. I dont know of any cops that use a silencer or bust into drug lairs wearing Armani suits over their Kevlar. He stayed trained on me until he heard an "all clear" from his partner. His response caused a twinge of fear to spike through me, "All clear, I have him." Him? Me? They secured my hands, bagged my head, injected me with a sedative and began dragging me out of the house. The sirens were close now. I struggled for focus as the thugs threw me into a getaway car. The smell of the luxurious leather seats reminded me of my days at the top of the criminal food chain. Before I blacked out, I saw my last look at freedom through a small hole in the bag, a last look at the police swarming the house, the ones who could’ve taken me out of a life of crime even if it was just to prison.
When I woke up, my vision was still blurred but the familiar smell of fine mahogany greeted me. I moved my hands only to feel them pull against handcuffs securing me to an expensive leather chair. I could hear an argument going on in the next room. "You busted in the fucking door in you moronic piece of shit!" A noticeable Japanese accent. "The cops know he's been extracted. You know what that word means fucktard? Extracted? E X T..."
When he finished his verbal attack the familiar gruff voice, who had obvious prowess at biting his tongue, responded professionally "Boss, something went down in there. We found Croc and Kurt dead in the basement. Crocs boys were jumpin' ship, everyone scattered. We knew he hadn't left yet but the cops were closing in and we couldn't wait for him to come out." The Japanese accent would continue to angrily rant for another few minutes before asking gruff voice to send me in. I was taken to an office with gorgeous decor that was saturated with Japanese culture. "Well well, the legend himself! Please have a seat." He hadn't finished his offer before one of the thugs holding my shoulder forced me into a chair in front of the desk. On its polished surface rested a passport and driver's license each with my picture and a name I didn't recognize. "You are a hard man to get a hold of, sir. My name is Asao. I hope y-”
“Bookies are a dime a dozen. Find yourself someone else.” I said in a monotone contempt, looking downward. I knew he wasn't looking for just anyone. For the first time, I cursed my gifts.
“Ahhh, but you are not a bookie. You are an artist. Surely you know this. I heard about Aldus Serrano. The FBI couldn't even connect the dots enough to get a conviction. That was your handiwork.”
I stayed silent and motionless.
“Look, this doesn't have to be so forced. We intend to compensate you handsomely. You’ll have your old life.”
“I don't want my old life, fuck you, do what you’re gonna do.”
“Don’t be like that. One version of how things go down has you eating filet mignon off of a model’s ass, the other has us dumping acid on your skinned body. You don't want to test me on that.”
“DO WHAT THE FUCK YOU’RE GONNA DO YOU FUCKING CHINK FUCK!” it was all I could do to end the life I had. I wanted this to be over.
Asao boiled beneath his clenched jaw and calm demeanor. With a motion of the man’s hand, the gruff voice grabbed me and dragged me out of the room. He bagged my head. This one had no small hole. They must have noticed it.
After walking for some time the gruff voice cleared his throat and spoke to me.
“Look, change your mind. Please, he's not bluffing. I've done this a hundred times and it ain't pretty.”
“You don't have to do this.” I half heartedly pleaded. “Let me go and I'll disappear.”
“You think I don't know why you didn't leave Croc’s place? Asao took a gamble on you. He doesn't intend for you to be telling law enforcement about his interest in you or letting you work for the competition.” Despite his position as a simple enforcer, the gruff voice had talent. I sensed a bit of the same love for one’s work that I once had.
We walked down a long hallway. Whenever we passed by an open door, I could make out some of the sounds of my old life. Women giggling and uninteresting businessmen talking about the office to bubbly feigned interest. Dice on table felt and the cheers of the intoxicated. Credit cards tapping on glass. As they faded and our footsteps became the only sound, the gravity of the impending events began to tug at my mind. No matter. The choice was made. I was never going back to running. The gruff voice stopped us and rested a hand on my shoulder.
“Last chance. Listen, it takes an hour and a half of screaming to die. I don't want this to happen to you, but,” gruff voice shook a plastic gallon container and a liquid sloshed around in it, “I take my job seriously.”
“No more running.”
He hesitated a moment before pushing open a rusty door. I felt the sun's warmth. We must have been somewhere quite inconspicuous for him to bring me out in the open. I heard a bus approaching. The hydraulics hissed and the door opened. The gruff voice pushed me onto the bus and handcuffed me to a metal grab bar.
“This guy gets the special.” the gruff voice said, loading the plastic gallons onto the bus. Another heartfelt pause passed. “You're a fucking fool.”
He stepped off the bus and the doors hissed closed. Despite all this, the gruff voice was a good man. I appreciate good men, men who stand up straight. I sat in silence reflecting on my life when the driver spoke up.
“We're gonna have some fun, you and I.”
I recognized that voice...
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