A lock of black hair swayed in the periphery of Spade’s vision. He regarded his newly dyed hair in the side-view mirror of Silas's short red truck. A sunken-eyed boy smirked back, strands of dark hair in his face.
Spade had changed in the short time since the orphanage, although it felt like a lifetime ago. His face and body had filled out since the orphanage, no longer appearing famished. He seemed older. Stronger. The kind of guy that people noticed and took seriously.
His seat jostled as the truck puttered down the crumbling road, breaking his attention. The wheels creaked with every bump, and the engine screeched, begging for mercy.
Janky old garbage.
Silas swelled with pride, fingers caressing the worn steering wheel with the love of a fine luxury vehicle. His pale hair was slicked back, revealing a receding hairline and sharp widow’s peak. An open bottle of beer rattled in the cupholder between them. “Nothing like that new truck smell. One of the best things in the world.”
Spade let out a strangled laugh. “Is a new truck supposed to smell like shit?”
“Watch your mouth. This is the finest truck in the world. I won it in a game of cards.” Silas reached to shift gears with effort. The truck lurched in response. “You want to walk to Dockside on your own?”
Spade rested his elbow against the door. “Might as well. It’d be faster.”
“Why do you have to sour the good times? I told ya I’d buy you as many drinks as you want.” Silas whistled cheerfully and drummed the steering wheel. “Didn’t you grow up in an orphanage? How are you so spoiled? How about a chariot, your highness?”
“I left that place behind. I want nice things. You should see the car I’m going to be driving.” Spade could already see it; a shiny black sports car with leather seats and a detachable roof. He wanted to feel the sun on his face and the wind in his hair as he drove along the coast. He wanted to feel alive.
“Is that so?” Silas said with amusement, breaking him from his fantasy. “Big man. Big fucking legend! I can’t blame ya. The first kill always feels the best. And then it starts to get, eh, routine. Like sex with the same person, I guess.”
Spade shook his head. “Yeah, right. It’s great every time. I’ll never get bored.”
“Maybe you’ll be a real legend one day.” Although Silas sounded as sarcastic as usual, Spade detected a note of sincerity. “You’ll be the next Jackboot Knave. Knave the Skullcracker.” Silas snorted. “Legends get the best names.”
Years ago, X had been famous for its legends, prolific killers of incredible violence and cruelty. They were the few greats with epithets to match their legend: Charien the Executioner, Jackboot Knave, Crow the Black Feather, and Toby the Hound.
Now, all of the old legends were dead or diminished. Or legit. Spade thought of Knave Heart’s political turn with disgust. Only Toby was still active, albeit he was loyal to the Lenores. Spade was certain that there wasn’t a single person in the Gate who could take him.
What would they call Spade when he reached the apex of the criminal ladder? A list of flashy epithets rolled in his mind, like the credits for a movie. Spade the Wicked. Spade Vicious. None of them sounded quite right. Oh well. He wasn’t the creative one. He’d leave the cool monikers for the imagination of someone like his brother.
“You’re thinking of names, aren’t you?” Silas grinned, unable to help himself. Spade had seen this look enough to know a sly comment would follow. “I got one. Sourpuss Spade.”
Spade shrugged. “I’ve been called worse.”
The truck careened through an intersection where narrow side roads crossed. Silas pressed the pedal to the floor, the engine squealing, driving as fast as the truck would allow. The vibrations shook Spade. The rattling of the beer bottle sounded violent. He grasped the seat for stability.
“Slow down!” Spade cried. “You’re making me sick.”
“I’m just trying it out! Think of it like it’s off-roading. And with these roads, it pretty much is.”
Spade’s expression dropped. “This thing? Off-road? The tires look like rubber bands.”
Silas grabbed the beer bottle and swigged deeply. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and switched gears. “Let’s just say this truck’s got an off-roading spirit. I believe in it.”
A blind turn was ahead, sharply cutting off from the road they were on. Spade saw a group of children disperse from the road, carrying a ball with them. Vehicles were a rare sight. The children gathered along the sidewalk. They observed the truck hurtling down the road with trepidation and awe.
This was enough for Spade. “Slow down already, you’re going to hit someone.”
“Why do you care, killer?” Silas replied.
Spade wondered if Silas even noticed the children. He grit his teeth and punched Silas’s arm, hard enough to make a point. “I’m serious.”
Silas let off the gas slightly, the truck slowing to an idle. Black smoke billowed from the exhaust, obscuring their view of the turn to their left. Silas cursed and turned the key in the ignition, but the truck wouldn’t budge. The engine emitted a croaking noise.
“I put gas in it,” Silas said. “What’s going on?”
Spade kicked the dash. “It’s a piece of shit. You should get your money back.”
“I told ya! I won it.” Silas scratched his head. “It’s these awful roads. We didn’t hit anyone, did we?”
Spade gripped the door handle, fully prepared to jump out and check.
Something smashed into them from the left. As the smog lifted, Spade glimpsed a bigger truck hitting their bumper at an angle. The truck jerked violently to the side, skidding over broken cobblestone roads. Spade’s body smashed against the interior of the door, head thrust against the pillar between the windows.
Pain split his head in half. His temples throbbed. He blinked, struggling to focus his blurring vision. The world had been white, and then it looked like a smear of grease. He craned his head, peeling his face off the car.
The door opened, and Silas stood above him. The worried scrunch of Silas’s brows told Spade that something was wrong. Silas’s mouth moved, but Spade couldn’t make out what he said.
“--buddy! C’mon, buddy, talk to me!”
“I’m okay,” Spade muttered. The shock wore off, allowing the pain to pulse in full force. Spade uncurled his fingers, relieved that he could move. Everything was in place, even if he had felt the force of a battering ram. Spade managed to shift his legs from the seat.
“That’s why you wear a seat belt,” Silas said, helping Spade out of the truck.
“Shut up,” Spade said.
“There you go. You’re going to be fine,” Silas said. Spade inhaled sharply as Silas’s fingers parted his hair. Warm rivulets of blood ran down the side of his face. “You’ll want to stop the bleeding.”
Spade took off his shirt and saw a bruise developing on the side of his ribs. He wrapped the shirt around his head and secured it. Blood soaked through the fabric.
His nose bled, and Spade held his nostrils shut with his fingers. Bleeding didn’t always mean the injury was serious. The key was to encourage the wound to clot, allowing the body to take care of itself. Maybe he could walk it off.
Silas stood upright with no indication of injury, although his hair was mussed. Greasy strands waved above his face as he studied the state of the truck. The bumper had been torn off, lying several feet away. The front had been partially crumpled. Overall, the old truck was worse for wear but still intact. It might make it for a few more miles.
The bigger truck that hit them was parked nearby. It showed fewer signs of the crash–a busted headlight, a dented bumper that nonetheless retained the shine of chrome, and a dark streak from the impact.
A man kicked open the door and hopped out. Toby stalked toward them, waving away the smoke in the air. His bruiser face was anything but welcoming, his pug nose scrunched in a perpetual snarl. His wiry frame was lean but muscled. He stared down at Spade, his deep-set eyes giving him a hard look.
“Everyone okay?” Toby said gruffly, his breath stinking of liquor.
“No!” Silas gestured at the mangled bumper. “Look at this! You hit us, you maniac.”
Toby flicked his gaze at the truck. “Why were you stopped in the middle of the road?”
“It stalled! I was trying to get it to start again.” Silas gripped his head in frustration. “How do you crash when there are only two fucking cars in the whole Gate?”
Toby lightly kicked the side of Silas’s truck. “Might as well junk it. Probably wasn’t worth much anyway. But if you wanna try, I can give you the number of a mechanic and a guy who does bodywork.”
“You’re paying for it, guy!” Silas jabbed his finger at Toby’s chest. “You better have the cash.”
“It’s not worth a single krak,” Toby replied calmly. “I’m telling you to junk it.”
Silas chomped at the bit, furiously turning to Spade. “You hear the line of shit this guy is selling? He ran into us, and he won’t make it right.”
“You did hit us,” Spade said to Toby.
Toby’s stern face broke into a smile. “Maybe I did. So what?”
“You’re gonna regret it,” Silas snapped. “Get him! Get him, Spade!”
Spade squared his shoulders, taking this as his cue to get serious. Toby the Hound. One of the old legends. Perhaps Toby was next rung on the ladder. Spade flicked open a switchblade from the pocket of his pants.
Toby’s smile widened. “Are you serious?”
“How about you throw a punch instead of staring?” Spade said.
Toby shook his head while crossing his arms. “I’m not fighting you.”
“What, are you scared?” Spade waved the blade. “Are you gonna run?”
“You’re bleeding,” Toby said. “Go deal with your head, kid. You can only handle so much brain damage.”
Too late. Spade was certain his brain was already broken. He could handle more. He took a step in Toby’s direction, making the threat clear. “Come on! Let’s fight!”
Toby walked toward Spade without a trace of fear, as if he was going to the grocery. Before Spade could make a move, Toby gripped his wrist. Spade’s grasp loosened, the blade falling to the ground.
“You’re not worth it,” Toby sneered. The hard cast of Toby’s snarl must have been the last thing his enemies ever saw. Spade should have felt lucky to get away, but it only inflamed his anger more.
The moment Toby let go of his wrist, Spade clenched his fingers and threw a punch. Toby ducked as Spade’s fist flew above his head. Toby stepped back, disengaging with the skill of a practiced fighter.
“That’s it?” Toby said. “Well, I should get going. Good luck.”
“Fight me!” Spade’s face was red. “Fight me, you fucker!”
“Nah. I don’t fight kids.” Toby turned his back. “Come back when you’re a man.”
Toby strolled back to his truck. The door slammed shut. The engine roared as he backed up and left them in the dust.
“Bastard!” Silas shook his fist. “Didn’t know legends were so damn cheap!”
Silas dragged the bumper along the ground and struggled to lift it into the trunk. “Give me a hand, will ya?”
Spade staggered to help him despite his head sloshing with each step. Was it a concussion? The shoulder that had smashed the door ached. Spade grit his teeth, determined to tough it out.
They clambered back into the truck. Silas turned the key, begging for it to start under his breath. The engine sputtered alive. The noise it made was less than the healthy roar of Toby’s truck, but it would do.
A tense silence prevailed. Spade stewed at the thought of Toby. The sneer. The derisive look in his eyes as he appraised Spade as beneath him. And the way he called Spade kid. That was the most infuriating.
Spade hadn’t anticipated being written off so easily, not after Dral. He narrowed his eyes at the tattoo on his forearm. It was a lie. After all, he hadn’t really killed anyone. He wasn’t strong enough, no matter how hard he tried. Without Ashe, he would be dead. Why was he fooling himself?
“Damn it!” Silas hit the steering wheel. “I finally won something, and here comes Toby the Hound, driving drunk! And he crashes right into me.”
“You’re driving drunk, too.”
“Everyone drives drunk!" Silas hit the steering wheel again. "Everyone’s always drunk, haven’t ya noticed? Life is a pit of shit, and then you die in it.”
“He wouldn’t fight me. He walked off like I was nothing.”
“It’s because he’s with those uppity Lenores now,” Silas grumbled. “They think they own the Gate, and they can get away with anything they want. You gotta make them take you seriously, Spade.”
“I’ll kill him,” Spade said simply. “I have to.”
“Him underestimating you is a good thing,” Silas said. “They never see the little guys coming.”
Spade didn’t respond. A million ways to stab, gut, and maim Toby ran through his mind. Spade would chop him up and sell him his parts for however much an old alcoholic was worth on the guts market. Silas was right. Toby would never see him coming.
“How am I supposed to get the money to fix this thing?” Silas chewed on his lip, deep in frantic thought. His face lit up when an idea occurred, his fretting sharpening into something more cunning. “It’s time to call in some old debts. You remember Louis?”
Spade nodded. “He made all the greasy food.”
“Toby and I agree on one thing: the ribs are pretty good.” Silas’s toothy smile stretched across his face. “Louis still owes me money. A lot of it. He’s a bit of a gambling hound, just like me. But ever since he hired Toby, I’ve been avoiding pushing him to make good. Not anymore. Let’s get everything we deserve. If Toby gets in the way, kill him. If Louis won’t make good, kill him. Simple enough, right?”
“Fine. Let’s do it.” Spade remembered his fist whizzing above Toby’s head. He couldn’t deny that the man was good. Toby was on a different level than Dral. Dral had never dodged a punch, instead taking the pain and dishing it out in equal measure until his body was bruised and broken. Toby was smarter, his movements more precise, never expending more energy than he needed.
It would take a lot to kill him, but Spade was eager to learn.
“I can’t believe Toby is bothering with someone like Louis. Guess they can call him Toby the Watchdog now.” Silas laughed. “Let’s go make things right, partner.”
“Let’s fuck them up.”
“And make a lot of money doing it.” Silas firmly turned the steering wheel and backed the car around in the opposite direction–toward Louis's BBQ. They would make good on all the wrongs against them, one hit at a time.
Comments