Page 35 of Fight

Eight

P

The fartherI got away from the shopping center, the tighter the knots that twisted my stomach got.

I hated doing this, hated it more than anything else, but do it I would. So I continued walking briskly, though I was in no hurry to reach my destination.

Still, no need to linger, drag my feet. Doing so wouldn’t make the task any more pleasant, and the sooner it was over, the better.

Which sucked.

Because the small part of me that wasn’t twisted in knots was excited.

Despite everything, I still loved her. Loved seeing her, knowing that she was okay, seeing and remembering the way things had been, the way they never would be again.

The day was moving past morning and edging into afternoon, but the streets were pretty empty, something I was grateful for. I was in no mood to turn down panhandlers and deal with catcalls.

This visit would be trying enough as it was.

When I reached the building, I headed straight to the back. There was one person in front of me in the line to the “rent” office, which was really just a converted room with a half wall and thick Plexiglas window. The owner, property manager, whatever he was, sat behind the window. He’d never offered his name or his title and I hadn’t cared enough to ask.

But every time I’d come here, day or night, he’d always been there, behind the glass.

This place was part hotel, part apartment complex, entirely miserable, and for the owner, a gold mine. It was in horrible disrepair, and I was certain that not a single cent of the money that the tenants paid went into upkeep. Still, I couldn’t begrudge whoever owned the place, not really.

Perhaps in an ideal world the owners wouldn’t have profited off people’s misery, wouldn’t have taken the opportunity to get every dime they could from people with no other choice. But on the other hand, it wasn’t as if this was a paradise for him. The man in the office had to sit behind the Plexiglas for very good reasons, and I couldn’t begin to imagine the other annoyances and dangers he faced, large or small.

So who was I to judge? He or whoever owned this place profited off misery, but I was about to pay him with a mobster’s money.

The person in front of me finished and I stepped into the place she’d vacated.

“How far behind is she?” I asked, not bothering with preamble.

The man behind the glass didn’t look up, apparently deeply fascinated by the television doctor who was extolling the virtues of green coffee beans, but he knew who I was.

“Three months,” he said.

I peeled the bills off, more than half of what Ioan had given me. Then I peeled off a few more. Part of me wanted to hold onto the money, but I didn’t know when I’d have this much again, whether I’d even be alive the next time rent was due, so I’d pay extra.

“Here,” I said as I slid the money through the window. “This should get her through the end of the year.”

That statement got his attention. He grabbed the money quickly and then looked at my empty hand and then at my face. “Is it a good idea for you to be walking around with that kind of money?” he asked.

“You have it now so I guess I won’t be walking around with it,” I said, irritated he was asking questions, but knowing much of my annoyance wasn’t directed at him.

He looked at me suspiciously. “I can’t take money that I suspect came from illegal channels,” he said.

“And why would you think it came from illegal channels?”

Ridiculous question. Especially since ninety-five percent of the people here had no other channels besides illegal ones. Plus, there was no way I could come up with that kind of money without some sort of scheme. Still, that wasn’t his business, and I didn’t understand or appreciate his sudden interest.

“I don’t want to know where you got this from,” he said.

“Then don’t ask,” I responded, letting my annoyance bleed into my voice.

He glared at me, but any worry that his expression might have caused was washed away by him sliding the bills into his drawer.

So much for his sudden worry about the money’s provenance.

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