Page 36 of Devious Corruption
Dropping the mail on the kitchen table, I open the window over the sink, trying to get fresh air inside. Once breathing is more acceptable, I turn back to the apartment.
It’s a wreck. No more than the other times I’ve been here, though. The apartment is a two-bedroom/one-bath. The bedrooms are large enough for a twin bed and a dresser, and the living room and kitchen are combined into one room with a kitchenette set against the exterior wall. It’s cramped.
They’ve definitely not been here for days. Empty beer cans litter the countertop next to the sink. When I check the garbage can, I find it full, as well. I jump back as a roach crawls out from beneath the can and onto my foot.
I check their rooms and find their clothes are still here. Some are even clean and hanging up in the closets. Nothing suggests they’ve left town for an extended time. Maybe they went away on a job.
Digging into what that job might be isn’t going to doanything other than worry me, so I push it to the side and continue looking around. No drugs. No piles of guns. Nothing that suggests they’ve taken things into their own hands as far as sales.
Moving into the living room area, it’s more of the same. Dusty, unkempt, but otherwise nothing suspicious. Deciding to at least clean up a little, I get a garbage bag from the kitchen and start collecting the empty cans and take out containers from around the small space.
As I pick up a crumpled bag from the taco stand down the street from the coffee table, the black butt of a gun sticks out from a pile of used napkins. My stomach sinks. Brushing aside the old, taco-seasoned napkins, a gun similar to the one they left at my apartment is exposed.
Sinking onto the couch, I drop the garbage bag to the floor and stare at the weapon.
“What are you guys doing?” I push away a dirty magazine and pick up the gun. It’s heavier than it looks, weighty in my palm.
My phone vibrates from the back pocket of my jeans. A text message from Serafina asking where the extra deposit slips for the bank are kept. I shoot back a reply then, open up the message thread between me and the boys.
Still nothing back from them, and I can’t tell if my messages are getting read because they’ve turned off that feature. I don’t bother sending another; they’ll only ignore it like the others. Voicemail messages are better off being sent in a message in a bottle than left on their phones.
No. There’s only one way to get them to come out ofhiding, I think. I open my bag and drop the gun inside. It fits just well enough for me to get the bag zipped up. After scrounging around, I find a marker. Using the back of a receipt I rip off a pizza box, I scribble a note and leave it on the now cleared off coffee table.
If they want their gun back, they’ll need to call me. It’s a game we played only days before, but apparently it’s the only way to get them to keep me in the loop.
I grab my key, lock the door, and head downstairs to the street. The closer to the door I get the louder the yells from the bar become. It doesn’t sound like a party anymore, but shouted directions.
Stepping out onto the street, flashing red and blue lights light up the corner. Police, a dozen, maybe more have several men pushed against the wall of the bar. Jimmy is one of them.
Before I can fully assess what’s happening, a tight grip wraps around my arm.
“Get over there with the rest of them,” the cop growls at me, shoving me.
“Wait. No. I’m not with them. I just came out of the apartment upstairs.” I try to explain, but he shoves me harder until my cheek hits the brick wall. My instincts kick in, and I shove back from the wall only have the cop’s hand on the back of my head pushing me right back into it.
“Hey!” I kick out but he dodges my foot.
“Calm the fuck down.” He grabs my right wrist, wrenching it behind me. My bag slips from my shoulderonto the ground at my feet as he does the same to my left wrist.
As it hits the ground, the zipper breaks and the gun slides out onto the pavement.
“Oh! What is that?” The cop leans into me. “You got a license for that thing?”
He clicks the cuff too tight, sending pain up my arm. His hot breath against my cheek sets me off and I throw my head back, connecting with his face.
A crunching sound rings in my ears right before his cry of pain.
“That’s assaulting an officer, bitch.” He throws me against the wall, this time without my hands to stabilize me, I hit hard.
“No. I was just—ow!” I stumble as I’m yanked back. Jimmy’s face comes into view; his brows pull down when he sees me.
“Stop fighting them.” He warns as he’s dragged off toward one of the cars.
“Let’s go.” A new cop grabs my arm and pulls me toward one of the cars. He starts talking into this walkie talkie strapped to his vest, describing me.
At least he helps me into the back of the car, so I don’t hit my head. Once he shuts the door, I look back at the scene I’ve caused. The original cop has his head forward, blood dripping from his nose onto the pavement. Another cop has my bag in his hands and takes the gun by the handle and places it in an evidence bag.
Fuck. Me.
