Lies He Told Me

Chapter 2 Episode 2

Ruben pouts, sneaking over a furtive look like he wants to pluck it out of his dad’s sausage fingers,though he thinks better of it. “Uh … it’s legal?”

Ding-dong, wrong answer. Try again.

Ruben’s finger jabs at me. “But, uh, Joy gave it to me!”

“She’s been doing it a bunch.” Ruben’s belly-flopped onto his ship and is going full-speed on it.“Said I should try it.”

“Liar!” I snap. “I’ve never smoked a day in my life.”

Johnny holds up a hand, squinting at me. “You calling my son a liar?”

My hands clench on the end of Johnny’s shitty fake-wood desk. God, I hate them. I hate their stupid,slack-cheeked faces. I hate their blank eyes, devoid of anything worthwhile. I hate that these idiots arein charge of me. I hate that I’m actually considering finding a way to talk myself out of this one.

Maybe I could manage it. But right now, I don’t really care anymore. I’m tired of twisting myself intopretzels for idiots who barely know the alphabet.

I smile at Mr. Boss Johnny. And then I begin. “Yeah, I’m calling your son a liar. He was notorious forbeing stoned at our high school. He constantly has red eyes. You’ve been complaining about thesmoke problem since before I was even hired. Two plus two equals four, you know?”

Fact, fact, fact, and …

I can almost see the gears turning in Johnny’s pea brain, as it tries to find a way to reroute the obviousconclusion.

“I’ve got allergies, you know that!” Ruben bursts out.

“Oh yeah—to what?” I ask.

“We’re in a grocery store—where’s the grass?”

Johnny is nodding. At what, I couldn’t say, but whatever it is, he seems like he’s in pretty enthusiasticagreement.

Until he opens his mouth and speaks.

“You’re fired,” he drawls bluntly. He jabs his thumb at me, then the door. “Get out.”

“With pleasure.” Surprising even myself, I flip him a double bird. I stride to the staff room, grab mybackpack, and head for the front door.

“Hey, Joy—wait up!” the last voice I want to hear calls after me.

I drop my water bottle, I’m so surprised. Picking it up, I shake my head. “You have got to be kiddingme.”

Ruben’s confusion is written on his face. His pug nose is flaring wider, his curly lashes fluttering likehe just found out Santa isn’t real. Clearly, all this time he thought I’ve been civil to him just from thesheer freaking pleasure of his company.

“Back there, my dad was freaking out. I had no choice, y’know. And if you’d just been more chill—”

“You lied to him. Threw me under the bus.”

Ruben tipped his head to the side. “I mean, you could put it like that, I guess.”

“I’m not putting it like anything. That’s what happened.” I turn away. I’m done with this conversation,this place.

“Hey, I’m still talking to—” Ruben grabs my arm.

Oh, hell no. He did not just do that.

The next millisecond, my other hand jabs out, and snatches up the chip bag I was fantasizing aboutweaponizing not so long ago. And, just like that, I know what to do: rip it open. Dump it on Ruben.Enjoy the fireworks. It feels every bit as good as I imagined.

As the chips rain down on his stupid head, Ruben makes a sound like a mongoose being strangled andreleases me.

“f**k your stupid dad!” I hiss as I toss the empty chip bag on top of his head. “And f**k you, too.”

And the piece de la resistance: halfway out the door, I trill back over my shoulder in the sweetestvoice I have, “You know what, you are right, though. Maybe I just needed to be more chill.”

Outside, freedom smells like gasoline-drenched night air and sounds like cars honking at each otherfor no particular reason. Normally, I’d take the bus, but it won’t be coming for another—I check mywatch—yeah, forty-five minutes. Faster to just walk.

Besides, on a night like this, my mind still thrumming with all that happened, I could use a stroll.

I glance at my watch again and check the date. There’s something else too, something I almost forgot.

I throw one derisive look back at the crummy little storefront I used to call work.

“Happy twentieth birthday, Joy,” I mutter sarcastically to myself under my breath. “You’re fired.”

“Gavril, are you sure …”

The early morning sun is too hot. A robin is cheerily trilling my headache deeper into my skull. Myribs itch.

Of course I need to be here.

This and various other plans were already put off by Osip’s incident and the time, effort, and moneyexpended in cleaning it up. Then put off again last night, as I wiled away the hours with whiskey andmemories.

It was wasteful. No longer will I waste.

According to the briefing Ludmil gave me days ago, something is delaying this construction project—and tying up my money. I intend to find out exactly what.

There are some leaders who would send their men to do this, who send their men to do everything forthem.

I am not one of those men. I am not afraid to get my hands dirty.

Of course, in some cases, delegation is inevitable—the minutiae of ordering our weapons, the actualworking on the construction sites spread across the city, the screening of potential initiates. That’s allLudmil’s domain and he’s damn good at it.

But I like control. Control is a lot like power—the more you give it up, the more you spread yourselfthin.

The thinner you’re spread, the easier it is for your enemies to find a spot, any spot, to jab the knife in.

Fact: knowing every detail I can about every project I can gives me control.

Fact: this project is particularly important because it has been delayed.

Fact: today I will find out the cause for the delay and fix it myself.

There is no other option.

“Brief me on this project,” I tell the foreman first. “On all our construction projects.”

He’s got a strong-chinned, no-bullshit face that looks tailor-made for his job. He blinks at me like Ijust spoke Korean.

“I know most of it already.” I give an impatient wave. “Still, let’s hear it in your own words.”

Normally, I wouldn’t bother. But after last night, all wispy ‘maybes’ and ‘what-ifs’ and wonderings, Iwant to hear something tangible. Something I can hold in my hand, crush in my fist, admire from allsides, as I say to myself: This. I did this.

Before solving the problem itself, of course.

“Ah yeah, so this apartment complex is just one of many. It’s a twenty-four-floor luxury apartmentbuilding with an open-air pool planned for the top floor. As for our projects on a grand scale”—theforeman smirks—“yeah, we have a hand in just about every construction venture in the metro area.”

And there it is. I like hearing it like that. Not just a few projects, not even a lot. Every constructionventure in the whole metropolis.

That’s what I like to hear. Not higher-than-expected performance, not even merely beating out thecompetition—nothing less than total domination.

“And this project,” I continue, “what is holding it up?”

As far as I know, the logistical details should be all in order. Nothing separates this project from thecountless others we’ve financed and brought to a successful conclusion: the same immigration dealsto smuggle in cheap workers, the same import and export deals in certain not-entirely-legal marketsfor below-market-price materials.

“Some city politics bullshit—something about permits.” The foreman is scowling, shaking his head aswe start walking again. “Every day, we get a new letter in the mail bitching about how we don’t havethe right ones. Even though the ones we’ve got are the same as every other apartment complex in thecity. Still, after your man told us you gave the go-ahead, we continued construction and …”

He trails off as we come to a stop.

He’s seeing what I’m seeing. Seven different construction workers, sitting on their asses, smoking andchewing on saltines. On my f*****g time.

“What the hell?” the foreman yells at them.

The one closest to us gestures with his cracker to the left. “Ask them.”

One look, and I understand.

“Walsh,” Ludmil mutters like a curse word.

The two men in the suits, with the big hand gestures and the firm frowns who are currently arguingwith our red-faced project manager, have been bought and paid for by the city of Toronto. Or, morespecifically, by Mr. Richard Walsh, foremost city council member and corrupt f**k. The kind socorrupt that he doesn’t even think he is.

“He’s at it again,” the foreman confirms, not moving.

By now, everyone knows what Walsh’s favorite hobby is, when not rerouting charity funds to bankrollhis latest yacht and feeding his enemies to crocodiles: trying to royally f**k me over.

Not that he’s managed to do it. Not yet.

Still, delays cost time and time costs money. And I’m tired of Walsh pissing away my hard-earnedcash.