Page 3 of Sealed in Ink
“You need to take some action,” I told him. “You did good tracking it down, but you should’ve taken it.” I stood up and checked my watch. It was nine p.m. “The last bus is at ten. Lonham, right?”
“Yeah.”
“I sometimes go to the kickboxing gym down there. Come on.”
“What…now?” He sprung to his feet, shaking his head. “We can’t do that.”
“Do you want your sister to stop crying or not?”
“It looks like they’re having a party,” Brad whispered as we stood on the other side of the street, looking at the rundown apartment. This was a bad part of town. It’s not rough by city standards, but there are quite a few addicts and petty criminals. Music boomed from the small apartment complex.
I stood tall to my full five-foot-nine height. I was long and wide for my age. My body was strong from two years of training, and I was calm. I didn’t care. I think it was then I realized something. I could use my coldness to help people. Even if it didn’t matter tome, I could still do something.
When I walked across the street, Brad trailed behind, muttering about how we shouldn’t be there and should turn back, but I wasn’t hearing him. I slammed my fist against the door.
“What the… man?”
The door sprung open. The man was maybe six feet and covered in tattoos. There was an arrogant sneer on his lips right away,a cigarette in his hand. He was used to intimidating people. I’d met people like him in the gym. “Can I help you, kids?” He took a drag of his cigarette. “Or should you maybe fuck off and sell your cookies somewhere else?”
“Is this your apartment?” I asked.
“Pfft. Get a load of this. Maybe it’s your whore mother’s apartment, eh? What about that?”
Brad later told me he was shaking in terror by this point, and I couldn’t say I blame him. He was just a kid with mostly regular parents who always loved and supported him. He didn’t fight grown men twice a week during sparring sessions. He’d never seen his dad bounce his mom’s head off the kitchen tiles.
“You’ve got a Cross ornament in your window.”
A shit-eating grin smeared across his lips. He leaned against the doorframe, smirking. “Ah, I see. Yeah. It’s a family heirloom.”
“Give it back,” I said.
He laughed and threw his head back, making a show of laughing too much. I wondered ifhewas nervous because I was giving him no reaction. “Yeah, good one.”
I spoke to Brad without taking my eyes off the man. “Brad, are you sure it’s the same Cross?”
“Uh, yeah, and he’s the one I s-saw with Sebastian?—”
“Don’t start throwing names around, kid!” the man yelled, stepping forward. It had the intended effect on Brad. He whimpered and flinched away.
I glided into the man’s path. “Go get that Cross.”
“Kid, I’m only going to tell you once. Get your ass gone. You don’t want none of this.”
That night changed a lot for me. Even during the argument, I remember thinking how untidy the snake tattoo twisting up his arm was. Sometimes, after training, I’d draw pictures when my body was sore. I only did it because it emptied my mind when I was too achy from fighting. It was more like meditation, but that work wasshoddy.
“You’ve told me, and I’m not gone,” I said. “Now what?”
He wasn’t aware of this, but my feet were already in a fighting stance. He was standing with his feet shoulder-width apart, like a squat, which is terrible for striking. Suddenly—but I saw it coming—he sprung at me. I slipped on the outside and torqued my entire body into a lead-left hook. I felt his jaw crunch against my two big knuckles. He stumbled, slammed his head against the doorframe, and slid to the floor. I was relieved when I heard him whining and groaning. I wouldn’t be able to train if I ended up in jail.
Leaving him there, I ducked into the apartment. People were sprawled all over the couches, smoking cigarettes and weed. There were pipes and white smears all over the glass coffee table. Somebody said something, but I just grabbed the Cross and ran for the door.
I kicked the man twice in the gut when he tried to get up, then knelt down and growled in his ear. “This is the end of it. If you try to get me back, I’m calling my uncle. You ever heard of Paulie Marino? The fucking mob, you dumbass?Have you?”
He wasn’t so tough anymore and covered his bloody face with his hands. The lie worked. They never tried to get payback on me.
I found Brad across the street, his twelve-year-old eyes wide as I handed him the Cross.
“We need to get out of here,” he said like he was lost in a dream.
