Savage code, p.15
Savage Code, page 15
part #4 of The Porter Series
“I didn’t.” Porter took a bite as she cleaned the wound. The air conditioner in the hotel room was dropped low, and Porter was thankful for the cool air as she worked on him.
“You could at least not eat while I do this. Your big-ass head keeps moving when you chew.”
Porter set his plate down. “I had no clue what was going to happen to you when they took you. I was knocked out, remember? When I came to, I was tied up, and there wasn’t much I could do. Even if I did try to get away, I wouldn’t have known where you were, and then what good is that?”
She stopped cleaning. “You were worried about me?”
“Of course.”
She went back to cleaning.
“I gotta give it to you, it took a lot of patience to stay tied up like that. Especially when you had a gun so close.”
“Not really,” she said. “I was in the same boat you were—even if I got out, I had no clue where you were. So I waited. But I tell you what, if one of those scummy assholes had tried to touch me, I would’ve shot him. You’d have been on your own.”
They both laughed.
Porter picked up his disposable cup with its Hilton logo. The rum was decent, but he preferred vodka. No hangovers with vodka.
Still, with his ears ringing from being smashed in the head by a blackjack shoe and the beating he’d gotten from Harsh, any relief was better than nothing.
“I asked you to sit still.”
“Sue me. I need this,” Porter said as he tipped the cup.
“Does it hurt?”
“What?”
Rivera waved her hand in front of his face. “All that?”
Porter nodded. “It’s not good.”
“That guy, the one fighting for Osito—”
“Harsh.”
“Weird name, right?”
“Suits him,” Porter said.
“He knew what he was doing.”
“Hell yeah he did,” Porter said, standing from the couch. He walked over to the bar counter and refilled his glass. “He was weird. They had the two of us in the same room before the fight. Something about him seemed off.”
“Off like how?” Rivera said as she folded and bit into a slice.
“I’m not sure. I usually have a good feel for people. He didn’t seem like he belonged with Osito.”
“What does that mean?”
“Dunno,” Porter said, and flopped back on the couch next to her. “I’m just glad the fight stopped when it did.”
“Wait a minute… are you scared of Harsh?” she said with a small smile.
Porter snorted. “Not a chance. I was winning at the end.”
“That’s debatable.”
“Maybe. I was just worried that by the time he and I were done beating each other to death, I wouldn’t have enough juice to get out of there.”
“Well, at least we’re done with those guys.”
“Are we?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Rivera said.
“Osito never told me what he did with Royce Michelson. Did you forget why we went there in the first place?”
“Of course not. I just figured that with everything that happened, you’d leave it alone. Back off a while. It’s getting too dangerous.”
“You think getting my ass kicked and us almost dying would make me back off?” Porter asked. “I told you I’d help you, right? I’ll keep my end of the bargain. Besides, if Osito took Royce, who knows how many other kids he could have snatched. You said it yourself—there could be other kids, just like Danisha Hill. Now that I’m involved, I plan to stay that way.”
“You’re serious?”
“Yes.”
“How? How can we even pull this off?”
“I’m not sure yet. Give me some time to think. I’ll come up with something. One way or the other, Osito is going to tell us what he did with Royce.”
Rivera sipped her own rum and looked at him for a moment. “I’m not sure if you have the biggest balls ever, or just the smallest brain.”
“I’m sure it’s possible to have both at the same time,” Porter said.
“Big balls can get you into trouble sometimes,” Rivera said.
“Tell me about it.”
“Like kissing me.”
Porter gulped the rest of his rum. “Me? I was just selling our cover. You kissed me back. What was that about?”
“I was scared. It wasn’t a normal reaction; you can’t judge me for that.”
“Fine. You can pretend whatever you want. But fear didn’t make you stick your tongue down my throat.”
Rivera smacked him with a couch cushion. “You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”
“Why should I? It wasn’t bad.”
“Wait, you liked it?”
Porter shrugged. “Like I said, not bad.”
“Look, this doesn’t have to be weird,” Rivera said. “It was the heat of the moment. It happened. Try not to make things awkward. I mean, I’m going to go ahead and move past the part where you stuck your hand up my dress.”
“I was grabbing your gun,” Porter said. “What did you want me to do?”
“Hey, I’m just saying. We can both agree that things got a little weird and leave it at that.”
“If that’s what you want,” Porter said. “That’s fine with me.”
“I… think that’s what I want.”
“No problem,” Porter said.
The two sat quietly on the couch for several minutes, neither speaking. The only sounds were the hum of the mini-fridge and the muted chewing and drinking as they finished their meal.
Porter broke the silence. “Listen, I know you don’t want things to be weird with us.”
“I’d hate that.”
“Me too. I feel like I should just come clean about everything, then we can move on.”
“Is there something else to come clean about?” she said, and scrunched her face up.
“Yes. There’s something I’ve never told you.”
She leaned in and stared at him.
“My favorite color is purple.”
“What’s that have to do with anything?”
“I just thought you should know.”
Rivera sat for a few moments, staring at him, then looked down at the floor. “Have too much rum?”
“Probably.”
After a few more moments, she stood and shook her head. “Purple?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. I’m gonna use the bathroom. While I’m in there, I’ll see if there’s any Tylenol in my toiletry bag. If you’re that drunk, you’ll need it in the morning.”
As she turned, he smiled, reaching into the box of pizza for his next slice.
The door to the bathroom shut and he sat there, trying to quiet his thoughts. Trying to figure out how he’d deliver on the promises of helping Rivera, and finding Candy Man’s brother, all while trying to keep himself alive.
As he chewed, Rivera flung the door of the bathroom open, her dress askew as she tried to pull it down over her hips. “My panties! When did you see my panties?”
Thirty
Harsh sat on the folding chair in the middle of the club. The night was mostly a blur, but it had ended in a spectacular fashion. Once the shooting started, everyone ran and bulled their way out of the club. Harsh watched the Opponent grab the pretty girl with the curly hair, and Camelot Jones, whom Harsh had known for some time.
Harsh had watched as they’d gone into the back with Osito, and watched as, minutes later, Osito’s guards had dragged and carried him out of the back room, leg all shot to pieces.
The group had run past him, and with no one giving him any other information, Harsh had simply waited. He wanted to see how everything was going to shake out. That plan of his was short-lived, and when he heard the sirens in the distance, he’d grabbed his gear and slipped out of the club.
The next day had started like they all did, except Harsh had cut his workout short to save some energy. He’d be going back to Osito’s and he didn’t want to tire on the way. Running shoes on, bag strapped over his shoulder, Harsh ran back to the club, not sure what he’d find.
To his surprise, Osito was sitting in a wheelchair, leg propped up. He was fingering a bottle of pills and barking orders at the men who worked for him. Harsh stood quietly near the wall until the club owner noticed him.
“What the hell do you want? Standing over there looking like Frankenstein and shit. Speak up, you creepy bastard.”
Harsh stepped closer to the club owner. “Mi dinero.” My money.
Osito cranked on one of the wheels, turning himself to face Harsh head-on. “You come all the way here to ask me for money? I just got shot. Doctors say I need all kinds of surgery on my leg—you can’t have a little sympathy?”
“Solo necesito mi dinero.” I just need my money.
“Yeah, you’ll get it. Just sit down and wait. I have things to do first.”
Harsh nodded, then turned to walk back toward his wall. He paused and faced Osito again. “Tengo una pregunta.” I have a question.
“I said I’d pay you; can’t you wait a minute?”
“No.”
Osito cocked his head at Harsh. “Fine. What?”
“El hombre fue honesto?” Was the man honest?
“What man?”
“Anoche. Es verdad?” Last night. Is it true?
“Is what true, you big idiot?”
“Secuestraste un niño?” You kidnapped a kid?
Osito looked up at him. “What business is it of yours, huh? What gives you the right to question me?”
“Es verdad?”
“Who are you to ask me something like that? You’re nobody. A big dumb con. You can’t ask me about my business in my own house.”
Harsh looked down at Osito, then at the three security men who were stepping closer, drawn by the noise.
“I tell you what, Harsh,” Osito spat out, “you better be glad the pills I’m taking have me feeling happy. If not, the kid wouldn’t be the only one missing.”
Harsh didn’t break his stare, boring holes through Osito. “No más.” No more.
“No more what?”
“Lucha.”
“No more fighting? Why? What else will you do to earn money, you big dumb asshole? Huh?”
Harsh turned to walk out of the club. Two of the guards took up the space in front of him. He turned his head back toward Osito, who had a smile on his face.
“Look, Harsh, let’s just relax, okay? You know, things are smooth right now. You fight hard, I pay you. Mi madre always said ‘If you have a good thing, don’t let it get away.’ You’re a good thing, Harsh, and you aren’t going anywhere. Tell you what, I’ll forget all about what happened just now. No hard feelings. You just go in the back with my guys and they’ll get you your money. Sound good?”
Harsh looked down at Osito, then to the men who would escort him to the back. He’d never understood why Osito had thought he was so stupid. He was big and chewed-up, but he was no fool.
The only thing waiting for him in the back was one of Osito’s barrels.
Harsh nodded and took a step toward Osito. “Okay.”
“Glad you came to your senses, you dumb bastard. Trust me, we’ll work everything out.”
Harsh took a few more steps, then lashed out. He pushed Osito out of the wheelchair, sending the man sprawling to the floor. As the men turned toward their fallen boss, Harsh turned and shoved the men behind him, sprinting away from the group. Driving for the door.
His steps were slowed. Someone was grabbing at the back of his shirt, slowing his progress. Harsh lowered his head and kept churning his legs, trying to rip free of the impediment.
It almost worked. He could see the light streaming through the glass door when his knees buckled, someone having tackled him to the ground. The rest of the men dogpiled on him, and he was at the bottom of a scrum of shoes and elbows and fists.
His arms pinned to the ground by the bodies, he was hit over and over, blows raining down on his face and neck. Harsh kicked his legs, trying to get free. Instead, a boot heel slammed into his already broken nose, sending blood spurting down his throat. The darkness of unconsciousness started closing in.
“Wait!” Osito screamed. “Not yet.”
Several strong hands grabbed Harsh and pulled him off the ground. The men dragged him toward Osito, who was being helped back into his wheelchair.
“Can’t kill him yet. Getting beat down, that’s just too good for you. Way too good. This needs to take some time.”
Harsh struggled feebly against the arms holding him up.
“Yeah, we need to think of something good, don’t we? Maybe I’ll tell your boys in the Trinitarios you’re out in the streets bad-mouthing them? They’d probably love to get their hands on you. Bet they’d pay me well to turn you over to them. See? Entrepreneurship. That’s one thing you don’t have, Harsh. You can’t think about the important things.”
Harsh looked down toward the floor, where his mouth drooled blood on the colorful industrial carpet.
“Hell, I think I’ll do that. Make a few bucks off you before you go. Shame Nina’s gone. I’d love to make you watch me cut her toes off before she died. That’s what you really deserve.”
At the mention of his wife’s name, Harsh struggled, renewed energy coursing through his veins. He fought and fought to get toward Osito, trying anything he could to get to the club owner.
“But she’s already dead, and that’s better for her. Because you’re an idiot. Now you’re gonna be dead too.” Osito motioned to his men. “Take this fool in the back and tie him up. I have to make a few calls. If he tries something, cut an ear off.”
Harsh tried to get his footing, but his feet were no longer on the ground, and he was nearly floating as he was dragged to the back.
“Excuse me,” a voice from somewhere behind them called out.
Osito’s men stopped and turned toward the voice.
A black man in dress slacks and a shirt and tie, wearing a trench coat, was standing in the doorway of the casino. On a chain around his neck hung a shiny NYPD badge.
“I’m Detective Simmons. I’m supposed to come by today and ask some follow-up questions about the shooting here last night. Am I interrupting something?”
The men looked to Osito, who had wheeled around and was facing the man. “Detective?”
“That’s right,” Simmons said as he pointed to Harsh. “You okay, man?”
Osito cleared his throat. “He’s just fine, Detective. He’s a fighter, just here to do some training with me and the guys. Guess we went a little rough.”
“Really? Now, he wouldn’t be the same fighter who was involved in the illegal fights here last night, would he?”
Osito smiled. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about, Detective. We didn’t do anything like that.”
“Right,” Simmons said. “Why don’t you let him go?”
The men looked to Osito, who didn’t say anything.
“I’m not asking. I’m telling. Let the man go, or I make one phone call and the rest of the Seventh Precinct will be here so fast, it’ll pucker your asshole.”
Osito nodded to the men, who dropped Harsh in a heap.
Dazed, legs still not entirely under him, Harsh pushed himself to his feet and shakily stumbled toward the detective.
Simmons met him halfway. “You okay, buddy?”
Harsh looked at Osito through blurry vision, then toward Simmons, and nodded.
“You sure? We can talk more about this if we need to.”
“No. Estamos bien.” We’re all good.
“Sure you don’t need an ambulance? I’m glad to call you one. You don’t look very good.”
“He said he’s fine, Officer,” Osito interrupted. “I don’t think we nee—”
“It’s Detective,” Simmons snapped. “And I didn’t ask you.”
Harsh took several deep breaths through his mouth and spat on the ground.
“You good?”
Harsh nodded.
“Your call. I’d suggest you go get some medical attention when you get where you’re going.”
Harsh turned from the detective and stumbled toward the door. He paused for a second in the doorway, looking at Osito. The club owner pretended to scratch his neck, making a small, almost imperceptible motion with his thumb—left to right. The meaning was clear, and Harsh didn’t need any translation.
He pushed himself into the bright light of the day, and took another few deep breaths. The detective was right, he did need to get looked at. But there was something else he needed to do, something more important.
He needed to find Camelot Jones.
Thirty-One
The late-morning sun knifed through a slit in the blackout shade, stabbing Porter in the eyes. He rolled over to escape it, only to find a new place on his face that hurt. He’d been up and down most of the night.
In reality, he hated rum. The taste and the texture. With every sip last night, he’d known he was condemning himself to a morning hangover. He much preferred vodka, as the clear liquor never left him a wreck in the morning.
The problem was, his face was killing him. He was puffy and swollen from the beating Harsh had given him, and he’d known it would be a tough night of sleep as soon as he’d left the warehouse.
So he’d drunk the rum.
Sitting up in bed, he first saw his pillow, stained pink from blood. Then he saw Rivera, tucked underneath the comforter.
Once she’d finished chiding him for looking up her dress, the pair had polished off the rum and the food. Porter had announced he was going to bed. Rivera said it was hers and he couldn't have it. He reminded her that once he fell asleep, there was no chance she could move him, and started toward the bed.
In the end, they’d shared. Rivera changed into a more modest outfit for sleeping and climbed into the bed. Porter had debated retrieving his spray can of Lysol and drowning the entire room, as he usually did, but he couldn’t muster the energy. He peeled his bloody shirt off and slept on top of the comforter.
There was no reason to slide beneath it.
