Page 62 of Tortured Eyes
I turn and look at Mama in the doorway as I start to leave, using her eyes looking behind me to ensure no one tries last-minute heroics in my back. She smiles lightly, as if she’s seen all this before, was ready for it. Maybe she was. Maybe that was the point of her chat. Glue, she said. That’s what the threat of me is now. It’s their glue. Her frail hand touching my shoulder as I leave, as if my menace means something to her and her city, proves it.
"Have them clean it up for you," I murmur, walking through the door.
That’s it for my day. I’m going somewhere better than this if he’ll let me back through the door. What a fucked-up life I lead. Two more men shot, this time from my own team, and now I’m going to head back to a church and what? Talk to him about our last meeting? Try to make him see the reasoning behind me being the way I am? I’d be better talking with a certain little redhead about that kind of shit. She’d understand what it takes to stay in control of your emotions, keep them clean and cold. Being alone, and remaining alone, makes that easier for me. For her, too, presumably. It’s not something the world outside can comprehend. And it certainly isn’t something my priest will ever understand.
I sneer and stop walking, looking around the empty and dimly lit avenue. A couple walks arm in arm around the corner in the distance, doubtless enjoying the thought of celebrating the holidays together. The vision makes me pissed at life, for some reason thinking about the fact that I will never be able to do that with someone.
Ever.
Too many threats. The wrong people to give a damn for.
He’ll have finished mass now. Led his flock like the good shepherd he is. I can see him now so clearly. Robes in place. His fingers anointing people, showing them the way to truth and light and honesty. I carry on walking for my car, wondering what the other person I’m thinking about is doing with her time. Maybe she’s watching the tape again, trying to tell herself she didn’t enjoy me inside her as much as I enjoyed being there.
My phone rings, breaking my musing. I reach for it and find Carter’s name staring at me. It halts my feet again, some part of me thinking about answering. It eventually stops ringing. Good. Maybe he’ll realise voicemail is the only way forward. It’s not like we’ve got anything to say. I left, gave him his city and returned to my own out of some sense of sentiment for his last words. I still can’t fathom them, or why he let them out of his mouth in the middle of my angst. Brotherly love?
Asshole.
I’m about to start walking again when the damn phone rings for a second time. “What?” I snap into it.
“You don’t know how hard this is, so take the goddamned tone out of your voice.”
“Why should I? You’re a dick.”
“As are you. Doesn’t stop the fact that I need you, though.”
I stare into the road, half a breath away from telling him to go shove something up his ass. Needs me? He doesn’t get the right to need anything from me. But then I think about the home and family I’m trying not to think about, about Mama and Samuel and those words. “What’s wrong?”
“You were right.” He’s damn right I was.
“About what?”
“There’s something I can’t handle on my own. Don’t want to in reality, but it needs cleaning up.”
“And?” My mouth twitches into a slow grin. I can’t help it. Big bad brother, all alone in his clean life and needing my help to wash down the dirt he’s let outmanoeuvre him. I start walking again and continue saying nothing. He’s got some begging to do if he expects me to come sort out his fuck-up for him.
“Logan, don’t be a dick any more than you are.”
Still, I don’t speak. Not going to. I’m not hearing any begging yet, nor a fucking apology for all those years ago when he made me look like a cunt.
“I’m not begging.”
“Yes, you are. Get on with it before I cut you off.”
The sigh on the other end of the phone makes me chuckle, and my eventual smile turns wider than I could have guessed. It’s nothing to do with making him beg. It’s just to do with hearing him on the line as if something in me has missed it all this time. That thought flattens my features as I slide into the car and transfer him to speaker, annoyed with what is circulating in my brain.
“With Mortoni gone, the right side of the river is causing problems. I’ve got nothing to deal with it anymore. Emilio’s people are fighting amongst themselves, and the run of shipments has increased while the minors squabble for seniority.” Whatever. That’s usual business in Chicago, short of Mortoni being dead.
I turn out onto the road and start travelling to Samuel, still waiting for an apology or some begging. “The cops are fucking useless, no idea how to bring it to heel,” he continues. My thoughts drift to my redhead again, enjoying the image of her running the streets, guns in her delicate hands while shit explodes around her. Although, I frown at the image of her in trouble, apparently worrying about her. The fuck is that? “Narcotics could barely keep on top of how it was before, let alone now. Deaths on the street, gangs letting rip at anything that moves trying to claim their hold. People are getting caught in the crossfire, and I can’t get in the middle of it to close it down." Yeah, guess that clean image would get all screwed up if he did. "I'm going to be a father, Logan. I can't-"
“I’m still not hearing begging.”
“For fuck’s sake, Logan. Grow up.”
“No. Don’t want to. Beg.” I press hard on the accelerator, part of me itching to get hold of that damn city.
“What do you want, a please?”
“No. I want you to tell me that you were wrong to chastise my ass like a child all those years ago. And then tell me that you trying to keep it clean all these years doesn’t, can’t, and would never have worked.” Silence. Good. Let that fucking sink in for a few minutes.
