SHANK (A Wilde Crime Series) (2 page)

“Nope. T
hey have no idea.” Colin shrugged, wanting nothing to do with money stained with the blood of his first wife. “Besides there’s no way to touch it.”

I wasn’t so sure.

******

A
taxi pulled to the curb in front of a dilapidated bar in the worst section of Hell’s Kitchen. The worn sign above the door read:
O’Malley’s
. Or as I called it, home. I’d owned the bar for six years. One of these days I might get around to changing the name. After paying the driver, I squeezed out of the cab, careful not to bump my ribs. When my feet touched ground the cabbie took off, tires squealing. This area wasn’t known for its hospitality.

Hell’s Kitchen
, or The Clinton as it was now called, was home to gangs of thugs and crack dealers, making it into an urban war zone. The rat-a-tat of tech-nines regularly occurred, almost like clockwork at night. My block, scheduled for revitalization in the next decade, housed the poorest of the poor: addicts, dealers, artists, and gangsters. Here a man survived by wits and brutality.

“Hey.”
I waved to a young kid no older than ten perched on a graffiti-coated newspaper box, his brown skin glowing in the sunlight. Joey Dean’s lanky ten-year-old legs barely touched the ground. He used my corner to watch for cops while his big brother sold crack down the street. That’s how it was in the Kitchen. One hustled to stay alive even at ten.

He shot me a wide,
goofy grin. “Frankie’s not going to be happy.”

“I don’t give a shit.”
I smirked, flexing my biceps. “I’m the boss. I make the rules.”

Joey laughed,
unimpressed with my bravado. What was wrong with this city? I couldn’t even get respect from a kid. Shaking my head, I opened the bar door. Stale beer, Jameson Irish whiskey, and cigar smoke hit my nose. It was good to be home. Another odor drifted toward me. Roses. What the fuck? “Damn it, Frankie. I said no flowers,” I said, my fists clenching. Roses lined the bar. I counted six planters in an assortment of pastel colors.

I could feel my temper rising,
but before I exploded, Frankie, a long-legged redhead, threw her arms around me. Her vise-grip squeezed my busted ribs but I didn’t mind. I’d missed her, even if she drove me crazy at times, always pushing me. The flowers were a prime example. I said no so she waited until I was out of the picture and did exactly as she pleased. What Frankie wants, Frankie gets, one way or another.

“You’re back.”
She stared up at me, her bright green eyes scanning my face. “Ian, you should have called. I would have picked you up.”

I untangled myself from her embrace. “You would have
nagged, and that’s the last thing I need.” I leaned down to kiss her cheek. “Lose the flowers. This isn’t a whore house.”

“
I was trying to add a touch of class.” She caught the attention of Merv, a regular. “You like the flowers, right?”

He hiccupped once, took a long swig of beer, and blinked
as if he’d just noticed them. “They’re nice. They make the bar smell nice, like Judy.” I laughed. Judy was a local hooker with a crack habit and missing teeth. She tried to conceal that fact she didn’t bathe with too much perfume. Frankie shot Merv a glare and then stomped back behind the bar.

“Get rid of them.” I picked
up my knapsack filled with dirty laundry and pilfered hospital supplies and headed for the stairs.

Before I reached the last step,
Frankie called out, “Ian? Wait. We need—”

I unlocked the door to
my apartment and groaned. Two things hit me. First, my room didn’t smell like moldy beer and decaying pizza anymore. It looked different too. For one thing, it was clean and a stack of sapphire colored luggage lurked in the corner. “Frankie!” I yelled as blood pounded in my head. She’d be the death of me.

“Talk,” she finished. A few seconds later, she jogged up the stairs.
“Before you say anything let me explain.” She gestured to the clean room, talking fast. “My building manager raised my rent.” I nodded, not buying the mask of contrition on her face for a minute. She quickly pressed on, “I knew you wouldn’t mind if I crashed here for a couple of days.”

“I do mind.”
I rubbed my eyes. Fuck, I was worn out, tried to my very core. I couldn’t remember the last time I felt this kind of crushing exhaustion. “Mickey will let you stay with him.” Mickey was Frankie’s older brother and my best friend. He and his wife, Beth, had plenty of room in their two-bedroom apartment a few blocks away. Why wasn’t Frankie staying there? Unless….

She interrupted my thoughts, “But
Mickey just got married. Besides, this is the perfect solution.” Her tone was innocent, a little too much so. “I need someplace to stay and you need someone here while you recover.”

Damn, she was a good liar
. Too good, but the sparkle in her eye gave the game away. I’d warned her before—never overplay your hand. “Did Colin come by?” I asked. When I’d left the hospital, Nurse Becket insisted I receive in-home care. She had recruited Colin in hopes of convincing me. He wanted me to stay with him but I’d refused. I didn’t need a babysitter, especially one with boundary issues and a smart mouth. 

“No, why do you ask?” Frankie blinked up at me, all innocence and bright eyes.

I glared at her.

She
laughed. “Too much, huh?”

“
You can’t stay.”

“I’m staying.”
Little lines of stubbornness tightened around her mouth. “Besides if I stay I don’t have to worry about leaving here at night. It’s not safe.” True. The city was a dangerous place. But, damn it, I didn’t want her underfoot day and night. She touched my arm. “Just last week I got groped on the train and mugged by the time I reached 10th.”

And
with that I lost the argument and gained a roommate. I motioned to the couch. “You sleep there.” I shook my head at the dust ruffle covering the worn, lumpy sofa. Women. I would never understand them. “But for God’s sake, no more ruffles. And if I see any potpourri you’re on the street.”

She
jumped up and down, offering me a glimpse of the hell I made for myself. “This is so great.” She bounced again. “You’ll see.”

What the fuck had I done?

Living with Frankie wasn’t so bad. The first night we stayed up talking about the bar. She knew more about the business than I did, having spent the last ten years of her life running it. Old man O’Malley had hired her right out of high school. At the time, Mickey hated the idea of his innocent baby sister tending bar, but came around when the free beer started flowing. After that O’Malley’s became our hangout and, later, my albatross.

Six years ago
I’d won the bar in a crooked card game, and then stupidly spent the night celebrating. When I awoke the next morning, hung over and in way over my head, Frankie was there with a Bloody Mary, an aspirin, and some much needed guidance.

O
ccasionally we butted heads, each quick to unleash our shared Irish temper. Mostly though we argued over little things like atmosphere or expensive beers. She wanted to upgrade. Buy new bar stools and mugs without chips. I thought, why waste the dough? It wasn’t like our clientele cared one way or the other. As long as the beer was cheap they’d drink it. Hell, they’d drink piss if it got’em drunk. She’d roll her eyes and storm away. Problem solved.

W
ithout her help I wouldn’t have lasted a year. I respected her opinion, and did what she asked more often than not. She certainly voiced that opinion enough, reminding me of an irritating little sister. Today was one of those days.

I woke up at noon
and stiffly made my way to the bathroom. My chest felt like a vice and the stitches seeped trails of blood down my abdomen. Glancing in the mirror, I rubbed a hand across the five-day growth of whiskers. My face, gaunt and hollow from the hospital stay, exaggerated my lifeless green eyes. My short black hair had grown out, leaving me with a shaggy mess graying at the temples. I looked older than my thirty-three years. Not that I gave a shit. Yet lately I noticed new twinges in my knees and aches in my bones. Getting old was a bitch.

Opening the medicine cabine
t, I located a pair of clippers and gave myself a military buzz cut. Quick and efficient. Once finished I felt more like myself. It was six weeks since I’d been home, had slept in my own bed, and it felt good to be here. But in the back of my mind I knew it wouldn’t last. Violence ruled my world, and always would. The scars covering my body told the stories of knife fights and barroom brawls. That life was all I knew and all I would ever know.

I turned on the shower and
waited for the water to warm. The building was old, like its owner. The pipes screeched in protest as rusty water pushed through them. I tugged at the shower curtain, and it opened to reveal a black thong and matching bra.

I
quickly turned off the water and sat on the toilet, rubbing my eyes. This was not going to work. Until this moment Frankie’s panties had never crossed my mind. Now, whenever I looked at her I’d see black lace. Fuck. I stared at the damp panties and shook my head. Coffee. I needed coffee before dealing with this.

As I headed
into the kitchen the scent of caffeine calmed me until I saw Frankie at the counter in a pair of faded Levi’s and a tight Army t-shirt. In the back of my mind, I knew she had worn that shirt to annoy me. She took a sip of coffee, leaving lipstick prints on my favorite mug, and smiled.

“This isn’t going to work.”
I opened the crooked cabinet door and grabbed the only clean mug, a chipped one with the slogan Just Do It on the side.

“What?”
She blinked sweetly, reached for the coffee pot, and poured the thick brew into my cup. The aroma reached my nostrils, and I sighed with pleasure. Having her here wasn’t that bad. I took a sip and gagged. How the hell had she burned coffee? It wasn’t rocket science—water, beans, heat—how hard was that? She looked at me expectantly so I took another drink. It still tasted like piss. I spit it into the sink.

“I don’t have much of a future at Starbucks, huh?”
She laughed. The hot pot rested in her hands. I saw disaster looming, but before I could snatch it away from her, coffee splashed on my jeans. I winced as it soaked into the fabric. “Oh, my God.” Grabbing a rag, she rubbed at the wetness spreading across my crotch. “I’m so sorry. Are you all right?”

“
I’m fine.” I grabbed the towel from her hands before she maimed me. “Listen, if you’re going to stay here. We need some ground rules.” Pulling out a chair, I motioned for her to sit. Once she did I blew out a harsh breath. “First, no undergarments of any kind will be allowed to drip-dry in the bathroom.”

“O
h, I forgot.” She smirked and took a drink of her coffee.

I raised an eyebrow.

She laughed. “What? Is mister ex-Navy SEAL afraid of a few panties?”

T
his early in the day, her sense of humor left a lot to be desired. “This is only temporary. Once you find a place--”

She cut me off, “Okay.
”

“I’m not fucking around.”

“I get it.” She stood and rubbed my beard. “You should shave. The gray makes you look old.” With that, she walked out of the loft, leaving me smiling after her.

“Two pair—aces and sevens.” I laid down my cards and rubbed my clean-shaven jaw.

“Son of a bitch.” Andy
Gracen, one of my oldest friends, tossed his cards on the table. I raked in the pot, keeping my eyes trained on the other two players who’d I graciously nicknamed, Dumb and Dumber. They nodded to each other and my hackles rose. This friendly little game was about to take a not so friendly turn. I touched the cold metal of my .38 and waited for them to make a move.

The
.38 wasn’t my favorite weapon. I preferred a nine millimeter, but my Beretta had been confiscated by the NYPD. Cops had a rule about ex-cons packing. The .38 did the job though, and it was lighter than my M1911 semi-automatic. Even better, it was easy to conceal.

T
he two punks really weren’t much of a threat. They were trust fund brats who’d stumbled into O’Malley’s backroom looking for a game. My backroom was well known in New York gambling circles. Cardsharps had won and lost fortunes here, and Dumb and Dumber were about to learn a valuable lesson. Don’t fuck with the big boys.

Andy shuffled the cards.
His wrist flicked them, one after another, in a hypnotic pattern. Keeping one hand on the pistol, I lifted the edge of the two cards in front of me with my other. I picked up big slick—the ace and king of hearts. A good starting hand. I bet seven hundred, eager to pick up the blinds.

Dumb and Dumber looked at the
ir hands. Dumb’s eyes flickered, and I put him on decent cards. He called, throwing some chips into the pot. Dumber wasn’t so lucky. His right ring finger twitched once. A sure sign the cards did not go in his favor. Dumber bumped me, raising an additional four hundred. He was hoping I’d fold, but instead I called, as did the other two players at the table.