Dark Therapy

2– Aiden

After Essence leaves the office feels quiet too quiet. I pack my notes, straighten the chairs, turn off the lamps. I follow my daily routine exactly, lock the cabinet, reset the alarm, and check the hallway twice. It’s muscle memory by now, an easy choreography meant to bring order to chaos. Today it does not work.

By the time I make it home, the weight of the day presses against my ribs. My condo is dim, clean and curated. Could be described as a minimalist because they don’t understand that emptiness can be comforting. I remove my watch, loosen my tie, pour a glass of water and sit.

Nothing in me relaxes so I try to read, to breathe and I try to let my mind settle the way it usually does after a full day of people unraveling themselves in front of me. Unfortunately all I can think about is the tension that bristled off Essence Clark. Her defiance, exhaustion and sharpness and underneath that my urge.

Not about her, never about clients but about balance. About the world and its ugliness and the too-familiar itch that spreads down my spine when the scales feel uneven again. Some people break their own lives, they don’t concern me but others cause destruction with no consequence. People like Mr. Dalton, Mrs. Alvarez’ husband or the stranger who shoved a mother and her stroller last week and laughed about it.

People who don’t fear karma because they’ve never met her.

The quiet in my condo grows thick, suffocating and the silence is supposed to help me reset. Tonight though it’s doing the opposite. So, I stand, grab my jacket, keys and wallet because I need air. I need some form of movement to help me gain clarity.

Some men unwind with drinks or gym sessions but I unwind by surveying the world and finding the rot in it. Then deciding what to do with it.

I head out with no destination, just instinct. The bar a few blocks away hums with predictable human mess. There’s always someone crying in the bathroom, someone cheating in the corner booth, someone looking for trouble near the alley or I could walk. Let the city guide me and the night offer me a problem that needs solving.

The tension in my chest finally loosens, just enough for me to breathe. Tonight feels like a night for correction. A night for balance, when someone will cross a line they shouldn’t and I’ll be there when they do. I shove my hands into my pockets and step into the darkness, letting it settle around me like an old coat.

This bar is exactly where I knew it would be, three blocks west, tucked between a dry cleaner and a shuttered pawn shop. The neon sign flickers, Louie’s and 2 of the letters are out. I’ve walked past this place a hundred times. Observing it much in the same manner an ecologist observes an ecosystem. Except more dispassionately cataloging patterns. Tuesday nights usually bring the after work crowd. Fridays, the desperate ones looking to get laid, weekends are chaotic, with too many people with phones.

Tonight is Thursday, which is perfect. Inside, the air is thick with sweat and spilled beer. The juke box plays something low and grating. A woman laughs too loudly near the pool table. Two men argue over a basketball game that they bet on. I take my seat at the bar, the same one I always grab when I come here. Not at the end of the bar because that draws attention and not in the middle either because that draws conversation. Three stools from the corner, whiskey neat. I don’t drink, I hold it and let the glass warm in my hand while I scope the scenery out.

Three weeks I’ve been tracking him, not obsessively so or the way the amateurs do with charts and conspiracy boards. Just awareness like a splinter when you can feel it digging deeper into your skin. Vincent Caruso, mid 40’s and calls himself a “private lender.”

What he actually does is prey on people who can’t get bank loans, pay their medical bills, about to be evicted and desperate parents just trying to keep their children fed. He offers them cash with a sickening smile and a handshake and by the time they realize the interest compounds weekly, it’s too late.

He doesn’t do the heavy lifting himself though, he’s smarter than that. He has people for the violence of his business, but he manages to orchestrate it and profit considerably from it. I’ve watched him collect 3 times now.

The first was a man in his 60’s who borrowed money for his wife’s surgery who died in the operating room. Vincent didn’t seem to care for the man’s grief and took his car, wedding ring and the deed to his house. Left the man to soak the sidewalk in his tears. The second was a single mother who used the money to cover rent after losing her job during a government power shift. She paid him back twice what she originally received and still for him it was never enough. She ended up in the Emergency Room with a fractured wrist because he sent someone to her apartment when her kids were there.

The third time, I almost got involved, but only almost. I needed to be certain that the nature of the business was going to lead to his malintention. Tonight I plan to remove any of my doubts. She walks in just after 9. She looks early 30’s and is wearing nurse scrubs under a ragged jacket. Her hair is pulled back in a pony tail that’s come a-loose. She looks exhausted like she worked a double, maybe even a triple shift and from the way her hands shake when she orders a water instead of alcohol I get the impression she is not here by choice.

Vincent, who sits in the corner booth, sees her immediately. There is no wave or smile, just watches her approach with the cold calculation of a man who knows he holds all the cards. She sits across from him. I can’t hear the conversation from my stool but I don’t need to hear to read her body language. Her shoulders are hunched, hands clasped together real tight, eyes are cast down like she’s explaining, apologizing and pleading.

He leans back with his arms spread across the booth like a king on a throne. She reaches into her purse, pulls out an envelope and sets it on the table. He never touches it, just looks at it, then to her. He says something that makes her flinch, her head shake in small frantic movements. He stands up and she moves to stand while backing away quickly, before he grabs her arm.

I get up to start moving but I don’t rush that draws eyes and witnesses. I walk steady toward the back hallway where the restroom is located, a route that passes directly by his booth.

“Please,” she begs, voice low with desperation. “I’ll have the rest next week, I swear it–”

“You swore last week,” Vincent counters, his voice smooth as oil. “And all week before that.”

“My son was sick, he had to go to urgent care.”

“Not my problem, is it?” he twists her arm and she gasps. “You got two choices. You pay me the full amount by tomorrow night or I send someone to have a conversation with your employer.” He continues on as if discussing the weather. “See how fast you lose that license when they find out you’ve been skimming medication to sell on the side.”

“I never, I wouldn’t do that.”

“Doesn’t matter if you did or not, it only matters what I tell them.” her face goes white and stop beside the booth.

“Excuse me, I think you dropped this.” I say holding my hand out with nothing in it. Vincent looks at me like I’m a bug.

“Get lost.”

“Are you alright beautiful?”

“She’s fine,” Vincent snaps. “Walk away mother fucker.”

“I wasn't asking you.” My eyes never leave the girl's face. His response was to grip tighter on her arm which made her wince from the pain.

“Last chance,” he says to me. “Walk. Away.”

I finally spare a glance toward the bartender, who pointedly is not looking in our direction. The few other patrons are absorbed in their own misery and I conclude no one is going to intervene. Excellent. “Let her go.”

Vincent stands still holding her and he’s taller than I expected. Broader even, which works in his favor for a man who uses intimidation in his line of work. “You want to be a hero?” he asks, voice dripping in condescension. “FIne then, you pay her debt. 12,000 dollars, right now.”

“Let her go.” I repeat calmly.

“f**k off, buddy.”

“I look at the woman, “Leave and go home to your son, was it?”

She’s not going anywhere until I–”

I don’t let him finish before my hands clamp down on his wrist, the one attached to the hand he is using to hold her arm. I apply pressure to the nerve cluster just below his thumb. His fingers spasm open involuntarily and she jerks free, stumbling back.

“Go,” I tell her once more and this time she runs. Vincent snarls and swings at me with his free hand. I pivot and redirect his momentum and drive him backwards into the booth. The edge catches him in the ribs and he wheezes. “Oustide, unless you want to explain to everyone her what kind of business you actually run here.” I say low enough that no one else hears.