Page 15 of Brick

Let him see what he was missing.

She didn’t think about her brother or her missing license again the entire drive home.

***

Brick

Brick pushed thoughts of Olivia and her surprise appearance at the site out of his mind as he pulled his truck to a red light. Robby said she’d been there looking for her brother. It had nothing to do with him. Even in his head, she had no place in this sewer he called a life. Especially when he was on the job.

His other job.

He had to break in one of Sucre’s newer thugs tonight.

Tre had been roughing up guys for the boss about a year now, but this would be his first kill. He looked a little too excited about the idea.

“What’s your favorite way to do it?” The recruit asked the question for a second time, and Brick didn’t plan to give him any more of an answer now than he did before.

The first time he’d ever taken a life, he’d thrown up on the floor right next to the body. No one knew, but the truth didn’t need any witnesses. Marty Zimmerman’s dead eyes still haunted him to this day. Marty had only been sixteen years old, but at the time, so was he. Sucre had given him no choice. It was kill or be killed.

He’d spent half his life as a killer, and he didn’t enjoy the job any more now than he did then. His body grew bigger, and with practice, he’d become more efficient. He definitely didn’t throw up anymore, but he had no favorite way to kill somebody. It was simply what he had to do to keep his grandmother alive.

Sucre’s crew grew with each passing year, and with it, so did his reach. He also had back-up plans and schemes in place designed to survive even if someone ever took him out. Knowing the consequences of the man’s wrath gave Brick all the motivation he needed to do his job.

Somehow, he thought it would be different for Tre. He’d bet a hundred bucks the kid had a boner right now.

They headed back to Pete’s place. The junkie had come up with a little cash to buy himself a few days, but now the clock had run out. If he had any kind of sense, he’d be nowhere near his apartment.

Then again, no one with sense borrowed money from Sucre.

Tre practically vibrated in the passenger seat of Brick’s truck. “Maybe I’ll slit his throat. Whataya think? Or maybe slice open his gut and pull out his intestines. Send a message.”

He ground his teeth. There was no one to send a message to; everyone in the neighborhood already knew what would happen if they crossed the boss. This was simply the required follow-through. It didn’t matter if it got messy or not because no one would ever see it.

“We’ve gotta dump the body when we’re done, Tre. You understand, right?”

Tre shrugged and glanced out the window. His knee bounced a mile a minute. “Yeah, I know. It’s the principle of the thing. A man’s got to take pride in his work.”

A man. He almost rolled his eyes. Tre couldn’t be more than nineteen. Breaking people didn’t make you a man. It made you a monster.

He pulled into the parking lot and cut the ignition. “This is your show, Tre. I’m only here to make sure it doesn’t go south.”

Tre grinned widely, showcasing the shiny gold tooth where his upper left incisor should be. His remaining white teeth were a sharp contrast to his dark brown skin. “I got this, bro. One day they’re gonna say my name with the same kind of respect they say yours.” He whistled the opening strains of “Time is on My Side.” Sounded creepy as fuck.

Tre elbowed him in the side, but with no force behind it. “You like? I heard it in an old Denzel movie once. Thinking about making it my signature song. People hear me coming, they piss their pants.” He repeated the same notes over and over, anticipation building on his face.

Fear was not the same thing as respect. Tre would learn that one day when he realized no one invited him to their kitchen table. No one wanted to introduce him to their family. No one wanted him near their kids.

It was a lesson learned only through experience.

He followed Tre’s strutting form across the blacktop. Tonight, the cracked pavement was deserted, like something on the wind warned away even the natural predators who called this place home.

Tre kicked in the door without even trying the knob. “Mother fucker!” He swiped at a rickety lamp, sending it flying across the room. It landed about two feet from Pete’s body, which now sprawled out on the living room floor. The junkie lay in his own filth, covered in vomit with a needle still hanging from his arm.

He thanked the dead man silently for doing the job himself. It actually happened far more often than Sucre knew. At least a third of his hits ended up foiled by suicides or overdoses where he only had to clean up the mess. Dead was dead. He got the credit either way.

Tre didn’t share his pragmatism. “Goddamn pussy.” He shook his head. “At least we don’t have to deal with the body now.”

The kid wasn’t thinking this through. “The fuck we don’t. We can’t let people think they can escape Sucre with an O.D. He’s got to disappear, like anyone else would. Otherwise Sucre looks weak. You look weak.” He didn’t explain they’d have to punish Pete’s family if word got out he had killed himself. No way would he touch the guy’s little girl, who by some small mercy was noticeably absent from the apartment.

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