Everyone Gets What They Deserve
Full of Grit pt. 6, The End
The kid took a hit. The kid is full of shit. Damn kid. Sometimes I think she sees me through the walls. Lying on the floor above her room. Looking through the tube hole down on her and Moxie and the good doctor. Her two lovers trying to ground her, but the kid is high as a kite. Flying right up to me. Talking robotic, catching up to me. Holding the box with the eyes.
Eyes that are intended for Robert Holm. Daddy to Barton. Son to Isaiah. Rich as fuck. Miss Edith came through with a full dossier. Robert got a bunch of sons, some daughters too. Barton, a failure from the get go. Now daddy is using him for spare parts. The sins of our fathers, man.
The kid is on the move. Means it’s my turn as well. Getting up, closing the hole, storing the tube. Making my way to the lobby via service lift. Find the kid in the lobby, carefully approaching her client. He’s sitting there like he owns the place. His gorilla not half as threatening as he’s supposed to be. The kid is in control. But Holm? Holm pisses me off. Polished and shiny in that rich people way. Totally at ease. Fucker is even staying here. I know what you did. I know what your father did. And his father. I know exactly how you got rich. It should make you lose sleep at night.
Kid scans the perimeter. Damn, she’s good. Almost got me. Turns back to client. Keeps talking. Uh oh, gorilla in trouble. Nice slice, Miss Althea. We have an eary situation. Kid got her envelope, transaction is done. Heading to Holm’s room.
Having a quiet chuckle as I enter. Arthur had his thoughts about the man too. Put him in 280. Nobody lives long once Arthur puts them in 280. The odds are against ya, laddie. Going inside, opening the window. It’s a bit stuck but I get it to go up. Wait for them behind the door. Can’t believe Holm only got one gorilla. Hear said gorilla whining.
“We’ll take care of you as soon as we’re checked out. You know we can’t wait outside for the car.”
Daddy Holmes sounds annoyed. The help is too demanding. Let me help with the help. They're coming inside. Light turns on. I lock the door and grab gorilla. March him through the room and toss him out the window. It’s only two stories down. Probably better for him to get to an ambulance quick. Hearing a splat. Maybe not.
Holm stands there, perplexed. Dossier said he’s got cataracts. Not sure how much of me he can see.
“Who are you?”
“Nobody.”
“Leave me alone. I didn’t do anything to you. I’ll give you money. A lot of money if you let me leave.”
Good old boy knows he’s in danger. Holds tight to the frosty box with the eyes. Sweats into his collar.
“Don’t want money. Don’t need money.”
“Please, just let me go.”
“Tell me, why the coins? You got your son killed. Why put coins after?”
“You know about that?”
I push him. Just a little. He stumbles.
“Alright, the coins. I wanted him to have a safe passage. I didn’t want him to come haunt me.”
Daddy Holms is funny. Afraid of ghosts in his line of work. Chuckling to meself. Killer to killer this meek man has at least ten thousand times the kill count I have. All nice and orderly and government sanctioned, of course. Maimed at least twice as many as well. And not with Godfrey’s surgical precision neither. And now he’s quaking in his polished designer shoes before me. He’s afraid of a ghost. His son’s ghost. He’s made millions of ‘em. And he’s afraid of me. He should be, I’m one of ‘em.
“Please,” he says.
And right there I don’t even care about them coins anymore, or why I was tasked to find out about ‘em. I’m back in action. Fighting, running, seeing my comrades being torn to bits. Bombs courtesy of Holms industries. Noises coming in staccato, booms deafening me ears, air smells like sulfur and smoke, teeth working on a mouthful of grit, feet sinking in mud, spine is crawling and heart is hammering. The barbed wire rusty from all the rain and the cold shakes me from me ailing feet up to the stupid helmet that blows off during explosions instead of protecting me head. My teeth clatter. I duck and fall as shrapnel scatters above me. Someone yells orders, can’t make ‘em out in all the screaming and mayhem. I’m back there.
Got my hands around his neck before I even know what’s happening. Press down to make the noises stop. His neck all soft and pulsing. A little bit of stubble grazing my hands. Trying to make the battlefield go away. The stench of decay and rot in me nose. Trying to keep the bile of fear down. Suffocating the memories.
Holms gurgles, fights in the haphazard way of someone not used to it. Arms wiggling about, sloppy stance, blows that don’t land. Turns red and pisses himself. I can’t let go. Hands clamping down on his windpipe until it’s done. Heart still hammering after. What the actual fuck? Putting Holms on the bed, taking the eyes, getting out of there. Taking deep breaths in the corridor. Taking the stairs down one at a time.
Back to the lobby. Arthur is in his sanctum. Sees me, raises both eyebrows. “Now what?”
I hand him the box with the eyes. “These go in A1. Job is finished.”
He nods. Puts the box in the proprietor’s compartment. “Anything else?”
“Tell Malick there’s a clean up in 280.”
“Noted. May I advise you to go back to your room? You look even more a fright than usual.”
Turning away from him to do just that. Have to smile in the service lift. Fucking Arthur telling me he saw how rattled I was in his most pompous ass way. Fucking asshole, but he noticed. Crazy cousin. Fucking family.
Going to my dingy little room. Welcome its familiarity. Too small, narrow bed, wobbly nightstand with peeling paint, ceiling fan that only runs on too fast or too slow and all. It’s home and it’s warm and dry. Lying down on the stupid bed and taking deep, calming breaths. On the nightstand beside it lie two shiny gold coins.