The Gangster's Wife

A bite of a bedbug made Emma's eyes flick open and she found herself in a hot, dark room. She was lying on a bed, facing a window. Through the slats of the blinds, faded streams of neon light fell through and pooled on the floor. Pink mixed with purple and blood red, spilling on the carpet, the worn tables and chairs. An occasional ugly color touched the glass. Puke green. Piss yellow. The lights strobbed. On off on off on off. Her head hurt. She sat up. And saw she wasn't alone. There, at the foot of the bed, was a bare, knotted back. The tight coils of muscles in it stood out in the eerie play of light and shadow in the room. There were long, nail scratches on the skin. And she recalled they were hers. Her stirring and the light jingle of her bracelet, made the head turn, and the sharpness of the face that showed itself to her made the air in the room grow thin. Whatever vague feeling of protection lurked in her head, fled at once. She shrank instinctively, her back touching the headboard. The man was not a stranger. She'd seen him for the first time at Matthew's party, a year ago. In the congregation of gangsters and black marketers and people who shot anything and everything, this man had strode in, hands tucked in pocket, shoulders loose. His jacket was lame brown, faux leather and unfitted. He wore a silver caduceus around his neck which swayed with every step. He was classless and crass and tight-lipped. He carried out odd jobs, dirty jobs, bloody jobs and sins, hoping to make it big in the world of crime. He was called Poet because he said so. No one knew his real name. At present, he was Matthew's right hand. One eyebrow raised at her as if to ask, "What are you staring at?" She dropped her gaze to his hands. He was polishing a silver gun. There was a cigarette tucked between lips. It was lit, glowing a bright orange at the tip. A thin, ghostly strand of smoke rose into the air. "You made me drink something,"she said, trying to appear unafraid and flippant- She reminded herself of who she was. She was his Boss's lady. Poet turned away, returning to his cleaning and reminded Emma of her panicked response. At the first streak of bullet hitting the counter in the bar, she'd curled into a ball on the ground, unwilling to move, unwilling to heed Matthew's instructions. Even after the rapid firing stopped and all was supposedly calm, she had refused to unfurl back, trembling on the cold, smelly floor. Then someone had pressed a finger between her lips, parted them at the risk of being bitten and poured a warm liquid into her mouth forcefully. A look of annoyance and disappointment on Matthew's face floated up into her memory. Matthew had chosen to leave her, his wife, in that destroyed, bullet shredded club. And Poet seemed to have taken her away to safety. She noticed a shirt he'd draped over her. It smelled bad-of salt and leather. She threw it aside with more than a bit of frustration and revulsion. "Where are we?" "Someplace safe."He gestured with the gun, pointing to the washroom. "Go take a bath." Emma raised her brow, surprised by his tone. Poet never spoke to her, let alone order her around. "No,"she whispered,"I'm fine." He put the gun on the mattress, letting her notice the lethal brilliance of silver, the heaviness of it. And his authority. "Okay,"she said. Reluctantly, she passed by him, keeping her head low. Her mouth tasted bitter, the tongue dry as if dust had settled on it. Perhaps it had. She imagined herself being hoisted onto his back, drooling embarrassingly, the dust and smoke clinging to her half open mouth. She cringed and rubbed the crust on the corner of her lips. The water was only lukewarm and the shower stall was small. There were black spores growing on the bottom tiles while others were cracked, showing the plaster beneath. In the drain, a clump of hair looked alive and writhing. She tried to keep to the center but her head almost bumped into the shower head so she bent a little and let the water stream down her body, letting the exhaustion, shame and defeat swirl around the drain and disappear. She was relaxing and the knots of tension in her body were coming undone, when a sharp thud on top of her head made her wince. A shampoo bottle had toppled from the upper shelf. And along with it, a huge, fat cockroach. She cried out in disgust, watching it struggle, the six prickly legs wiggling, wet wings buzzing and hissing. When it managed to right itself on its belly, she called, "Matthew!" even though he was nowhere around. But she was answered. The bathroom door creaked open. With a sharp clatter of the rings on the rod, the translucent curtain drew back. Soon though, she was pressed up against the wall, half coated in soap, glistening with water, bared and vulnerable. Her hair was wet, flat and brown on her head. The eyes slightly red rimmed, knees knocked together, hands clenched to her side. Poet stared at her. Hard. She pointed to the cockroach. His eyes narrowed. She worried he'd walk away but he stepped into the stall. She clutched the plastic curtains to her chest. Still, the closeness made her heart beat faster, uneasily, worriedly. But Poet did not look up at her again. He simply reached out and grabbed the cockroach in his palm and left. His tattooed fist was tight enough to crush it. "Poet,"she called, when she stepped out of the bathroom and found him standing near the window. He did not turn. "Where is Matthew?" "At home." "Oh. Then shouldn't we go there as well?" No answer. Emma tucked a wet strand of hair behind her ear, touching the small diamond in her lobe, scratching behind it with irritation. She found herself staring at the tattoo running down his left arm. Although it had smudged and turned a shade of blue-green, she could make out a cluster of roses and a cross running through them. She was wondering what it meant when he spoke. "You're not going home." "Alright,"she answered and sat down. "Some deal Matthew doesn't want me to see, huh?" "No, it's not that." "There is some sort of threat to him?" "No,"he said and finally turned her way. The stillness in his eyes made a chill run down her spine. "What's going on?" He pulled down the blinds and walked away with a slow, steady prowl. He took a seat in the chair in front of her and took the gun resting on the table. "Your husband has ordered me to kill you."