Lies He Told Me

Chapter 3 Episode 3

Like an angry wasp, he always comes back for more. He’s not going anywhere either—even if I didmanage to get a good hitman past his mansion security that rivals Guantanamo Bay. The Skull KingsMotorcycle Club would just find another piece of s**t politician to eat their cash and shoot offlegalese and lawyers like they’re firecrackers on f*****g New Year’s.

I stride up to the small group, nod to my project manager. I smile at the suits in turn. “Gentlemen.Thank you for coming. You can go now.”

“What?” They’re still smiling too. Don’t understand yet.

“No.” One grabs a sheet of paper out of his suit jacket pocket and waves it high, raising his voice forgood show. “We have a right to be here. Your permits are out of order.”

“We’re shutting this place down,” the other confirms.

“Ah, I see,” I say.

And then I rip the paper out of his hand, and tear it a few times, letting the scraps fall where they may.When their stupid f*****g paper is nothing but dust in the wind, I quirk a brow at them. “Anythingelse?”

“What you just did doesn’t change anything!” the loud-voiced one blares. “You are conducting illegalbusiness here and you have no choice but to comply with the law.”

Beside me, Ludmil steps forward, but I stop him. I want to deal with this myself. I do not like to betold how to run my business. I do not like to be told I have no choices.

I walk up to them, nice and close, so there’s no more room for them to misunderstand me. “Listen,” Itell them, so reasonably, “I know who signs your check, and I know why you’re here.” One of themstarts to speak. I hold up a hand. “Stop. Whatever you’re about to say, I don’t care. Point is: I own thisproject. The permits, the labor, the land. And one thing you need to know about me is that I don’ttolerate delays. Not from my own men, and certainly not from hired suits waving around documentsthat can’t be found.”

They tremble and swallow their fear. They are starting to understand.

“When I’m delayed, I take measures to combat that. To speed things along.” I spread my hands. “Atthe end of the day, I’m a businessman. I do what it takes—whatever it takes—to ensure business runssmoothly.”

Ludmil gets his cue, pressing both pistols into the back of both of their heads.

It’s remarkable, what happens to a man when his life gets wagged in front of his face. He becomes sovery amenable, so perfectly understanding.

The mouthy one swallows again, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “We understand.”

I nod to Ludmil. “Please walk these gentlemen out. Unfortunately, we won’t be able to buy whatthey’re selling.”

Behind them, the men are on their feet, the workers too. They’re too far away to see or hear anydetails.

The foreman claps me on the back. “Welcome back.”

I look from him to the foreman. “Next time anything like that happens, call me. Business must go on.”

On my way back to the SUV, where Ludmil is waiting, I allow myself one look at the constructionworkers. All are back on the job.

That was solved easily enough, but Walsh probably expected just that. He doesn’t need to actuallystop any of my projects—just stall them, and the distractions are enough. I don’t like being distracted.

The Skull Kings haven’t taken our nice hints to back the f**k off lately. We’re ramping up to less-nicehints soon.

Inside the car, Ludmil is waiting. “They got the message.”

The suits are nowhere to be seen. Probably zoomed off in their limo to go crying to Big Daddy Walsh.

We sit in silence as the drive begins.

“Is it about last night?” he presses.

“No. It’s about just now. I’m tired of the delays, of Walsh.”

“We could try to see if we could hire one of our boys to …”

I shake my head. “That would solve the issue for a few weeks, maybe a month. Problem is, the citycan always be bought, for the right price.”

Ludmil doesn’t bring up the related problem—my refusal to buy us a city official of our own. I’vewatched the news, seen the movies—corrupt politicians, cops—the bigger web you weave, the morespaces there are for it to collapse with a gust of wind. Of course, we have some on our payroll—suchis the cost of doing business. But not big-league men—more like city councilors and the like.

Besides, city councilors might help you when it suits them, but they have none of the Bratva’s to-the-death loyalty tying them to our aims. If it’s in their best interest to fold and give us up, they’ll do it.Every single time. Unnecessary risk like that is best avoided.

“As long as the city is out of our control” I say, thinking out loud now, “it will be our enemy.”

Ludmil knows the look on my face well. “What are you suggesting then? We conquer the city?”

We chuckle. It’s just like Ludmil to word it like that. “In a sense. Why not beat the Skull Kings at theirown game? Only we don’t buy the politicians; we become the politicians.”

“By we, you mean …”

“I mean that I’ll do it,” I decide with a nod. “I’ll run for mayor.”

In chaos, there is also opportunity.

I know when I get close to home because of the smell.

It’s the kind of eye-watering noxious assault that you can’t imagine real-life human beings actuallyhaving to deal with—until you yourself do. All because some genius decided to sell a plot of land inthe shittiest part of town to a dump contractor who cared about properly burying and sterilizing thetrash as much as he cared about saving the koala bears. Which was, apparently, not a whole lot.

So, as I dodge raggedy grandmas with vacant stares, roving around with fake pearls and rubbish-filled shopping carts, skinny junkies looking at me like I might be hiding loonies in my teeth, and anunhappily married couple pretending that he doesn’t beat her, I get to enjoy eau de our-life-is-shitwafting in my nostrils.

Inside 55 Clair Creek isn’t much better. The apartment owner keeps the lobby just okay enough topass inspection. He cleans it every few weeks or so, but only so no authorities look too closely atwhat lurks further in.

Like how the antique elevator skips every floor but four and decides to trap someone for a day withclockwork regularity. Or how the hallways are littered with so many cigarette-butt-filled dust balls,rat turds, and strangers that your best bet is sprinting down to your door as fast as you can.

On our floor, the third, some doors are open permanently—Mr. Anderson’s for instance. Even as I runpast, his high-pitched voice calls out, “Joy, is that you? Joy, honey? Say hello to your Uncle Andy!”

Ms. Dalulua’s and Mrs. Paul’s doors are closed, not that it’s making much of a difference with theway their babies are apparently having a who-can-scream-the-loudest competition.

Even the rats are crouched in their holes, heads poked out warily.

Our door is the only one decorated, a white wreath and purple flowers from Dollarama that Mom andI made. I jam the key in, fight with the unwilling, gummed-up lock, win, get in, then finally exhale.

The first thing I see as I’m taking off my sneakers is Damon, his flab parked on our sunken, sinew-colored couch, with a bunch of empty beer cans around his feet, and a Molson in each hand. His eyesdon’t so much as flick my way. He’s clearly deep in his Hockey Night in Canada trance.

I bite back my standard sarcastic, “Hi to you, too.” There’s a reason I call him the DD—short for‘Deadbeat Damon’—behind his back.

The story is that he ‘injured’ his arm in some unspecified way at some unspecified factory job, so willhave to be on disability for life. Miraculously, that disastrous injury doesn’t prevent him from haulingthe twenty-four-pack beer cases from the bodega down the street to here, but what do I know aboutsoft tissue damage?

It’s Mom. Her thin face is beaming with enough genuine happiness to almost make me forget what ashit day I’ve had. She bustles forward and throws her arms around me, her marmalade scent settlingaround me like a hug of its own.

I sink into it, into her. Warm. Mom. Safe.

This time, though, I almost knock her over. She forces a giggle, and I force one too, although I don’tlet her go.

Mom’s been losing weight. She loses weight when she gets stressed. We both know what Mom’sstressed about.

“Haaappy birthday to you! Happy birthday to youuu!” Mom breaks away to sing, that determinedsmile on her face now. As if she can sing away all of this—our s**t lives, Damon, the day I just had.

“C’mon, Damon!” she calls over to him, but continues bustling me over to the kitchen regardless,even when he doesn’t bother to reply, “Happy birthday, dear Joy! Happy birthday to you.”

And for a few seconds, when I see the cake—heart-shaped, all lit up with twenty little candles—I doforget.

All there is for me is Mom’s love, big as its always been. So big that I can hardly believe it, evennow.