Mean Streets Of Elizabeth

A horn blasted past the buildings. I felt it in my bones. The tall one pushed off the brick, a scar from eyebrow to cheek. “You were following me.”

“I was walking.”

“With your eyes on me.”

I shrugged. "Maybe you looked interesting." He slapped me. My head snapped to the side. My cheek burned. I tasted blood where my teeth cut my lip. They laughed. The slap wasn't the bad part. The bad part was I had nowhere to go unless I wanted to turn my back on four guys. I kept my hands loose, eyes past them, out to the street. A blue sedan waited. Somebody inside, watching.

“Empty your pockets,” Scarface said.

I smiled without feeling it. “Eleven dollars. Split it four ways?”

Scarface punched me in the gut. I doubled over, grabbed the wall, felt the bricks cut into my knuckles. They started running their mouths—"New guy thinks he's funny." Being new is always a problem. Everybody wants to see what breaks first. I came up swinging. My forehead smashed into Scarface's nose. Something cracked. He stumbled, hands to his face. I slammed my shoulder into the next guy and shoved him into a trash can. The lid went skidding. After that, it was all fists, teeth, spit. Somebody hit me behind the ear, another caught my jaw. I swung wild, knuckles smashing into somebody's mouth. A hand yanked my jacket, collar choking me. I kicked back, heel into a knee, and the grip let go.

I tore out of there and ran. Hit the next street, lungs burning. Tires screeched. The blue sedan crept after me. I cut across the avenue, ducked between cars, headed for the tracks. A bottle smashed close to my head. "Stop, you prick!" someone yelled. I kept running. The fence by the tracks was chain-link, but someone had peeled it open near the service road. I shoved through, ripped my jacket on a wire, left a strip of cloth hanging, gravel sliding under my shoes as I climbed.

I landed on the other side, coughing, clutching my ear where it burned like a hot penny. The blue sedan rolled up to the corner, headlights cutting through the fence. Two guys leaned out, laughing like they just hit the jackpot. I kept low, moving across the lot where grease and old beer cans piled up. My breath came out ragged, steam turning into ghosts under the lights.

A hand grabbed my shoulder. Cold, not rough. I spun, ready to fight, and found Luigi.

He looked unbothered, coat buttoned to the throat, movements small and precise. Coat buttoned to the throat, hair slicked back, eyes small and mean. He smelled like tobacco and cheap cologne. Behind him, the blue sedan rolled off, taillights glowing like little wounds in the dark. Scarface and his crew drifted back to the street, heads down, like they knew the score was settled.

"You all right?" Luigi asked, but it wasn't a question about cuts. It was a line he used to mark men - if you said yes, you were an idiot. Saying no made him want to know why you lied.

I thumbed at the split on my jacket. Blood had dried in my hair. "Yeah. Just a scrap."

He looked past me toward where I'd come from, then back. "You following that kid?"

"Someone had money," I said. It sounded like an excuse, and maybe it was. Didn't matter. The night pressed in, waiting for the punchline.

Luigi's mouth went flat. "You don't follow people for money. You don't follow people unless you make sure you end up holding whatever they had."

"I didn't think - "

"You thought like a kid," he cut in. "You got lucky one way or another. Coulda been worse."

He walked closer and produced a cigarette with the casualness of a man who kept little rituals in his pocket. He lit it with one clean motion, the flame a hard, steady point in the dark. "Name?" he asked.

"Marco Sutter."

He rolled the name over like a coin. "You from around here?"

"Been around." I didn't bother saying how long, or how many nights I'd crashed on subway benches. Luigi's face already knew.

He tapped the ash off his cigarette onto the gravel. "You got a place to go?"

"Rent's three days late," I said. That was honest. The blue on my lip flashed when I grinned. "I got eleven bucks and a bus token."

Luigi chuckled, somewhat kindly. "That's dedication. Listen, Marco. There's work. Tonight. South Broad. Midnight. You deliver something to Victor. You don't ask what's inside. You don't make friends with the thing. You hand it over. He gives you a matchbook. Blue stripe. You bring that back. You do what I tell you, you stay out of trouble tonight."

I wanted to ask who set the rules, why I, why midnight, but Luigi's voice tightened. It was a man used to being obeyed. "What if I don't?" I said.

He shrugged as the question amused him. "Then you keep chasing Yankees jackets and finding out why they sell insurance to idiots."

A car idled two lots over. The freight train groaned again, farther away. The city pressed in, all steel and brick, like it was waiting to hear what I'd say.

I thought about my teeth, about Scarface bleeding when I cracked him, about rent, and that bus token I couldn't use. Mostly, I thought about making it through another night.

"All right," I said. The word slid out small but true.

Luigi flicked the cigarette and crossed his arms. "Good. Come with me. We'll get you cleaned up. Don't stick around talking to the cops or whoever your friends were."

We moved through the yard toward a black Cadillac tucked by an old tire shop. The car smelt of leather and something sharp, new money, lacquered and cold. Luigi opened the back door for me like he was making space for a guest in a house that remembered blood.

As we drove off, I looked back at the tracks. Scarface and his crew were gone, swallowed by the dark. The lamppost on the corner buzzed and flickered. I held the rip in my jacket where the wire tore it. The strip of cloth flapped against my leg, a sorry excuse for a flag.

Luigi handed me a small brown package, wrapped in paper and tied with twine. "This is what you're moving," he said. His voice didn't rise. "Midnight. South Broad. Don't be a hero."

I took the package. Heavier than it looked. My fist closed around it, like maybe it could keep me steady. Outside, the city rolled by, and the train kept rumbling, hauling everything else away.

End of chapter one. 7 more chapters and about 10,399 words in the full book.