Dark Therapy

3– Aiden

The alley smells like rotting garbage and stale rain. The door swings shut behind us. The music from inside fades to a muffled throb and Vincent comes up to me immediately. “You have no idea who you just f****d with.”

“Vincent Caruso,” I say calmly. “Private lender operates out of a storefront on Fifth Street. You’ve got three guys on payroll. Tony, Kendall, and Bricks if I’m not mistaken. You launder money through a car wash on the east side.”

“Who the hell are you? You a cop?”

“Nah, but I do want you to stop.”

He laughs, like full-bellied laughs. “Stop? This is business, asshole. She borrowed money and now she owes me.”

“She’s a mother working 60-hour weeks to support her kid. You charged her 300 percent interest.

“That’s my rate.”

“That's exploitation.”

“That’s capitalism.” He spreads his hands in mock innocence, “Don’t like it then take it up with Congress.”

He turns to walk away, but I can't let him so I move fast. One step and I close the distance, my forearm catches him across the throat and drives him back against the brick wall. His head cracks against it, not hard enough to knock him out but enough to disorient him. He tries to cover his mouth with his other hand.

“You don’t get to walk away,” I say quietly. “Not this time.” He thrashes and tries to knee me but I shift my weight and pin him harder. “How many people? How many lives have you destroyed?” His eyes are wild with fury. “You won’t stop, even if I let you go or scare you. You’ll just be more careful when you find new victims.”

I don’t feel anger or pressure. I feel the same thing I feel when I file away a closed case when I lock my office at the end of the day and I know everything is in its place. Order is the feeling, satisfaction. I press harder and his struggles weaken and his face darkens. The muffled sounds behind my hand grow fainter. I counted 15 seconds. 20 seconds. 30 seconds, and when his body goes slack, I hold for 10 more seconds then release. He crumples to the filthy ground.

I check his pulse, he’s gone. I straighten my jacket, adjust my collar and pull the latex gloves and wipes from my inner pocket. I carry them always, just in case, and wipe the contact points. His throat, the wall, and the door handle. I don’t rush this either because that’s how best to create mistakes.

His phone is in his jacket pocket, I remove it, power it off and take it with me. I’ll destroy it later, his wallet stays because if I take it, that's a robbery and an investigation would ensue. This needs to look like what it is, a disagreement that went too far in a bad part of town.

When I’m satisfied, I step back into the glow of the streetlight at the mouth of the alley. I walk calmly toward the corner, hands in my pockets, just another man heading home after a long evening. The woman is long gone and she’ll never know what I did. She will just know that tomorrow, Vincent Caruso won’t come looking for his money.

By the time I reach my condo, the tension in my chest is gone. The world feels balanced again and I pour myself a glass of water as I remove my watch and sit down. This time I finally breathe easy as one less predator stalks this earth. The scales, for tonight, at least are even.