Part 11
Theresa stood at a dull brown metal door at the end of a darkened alley. From beyond the door she could hear faint shouting emanating from beyond it. She glanced back over her shoulder, seeing a car pass by the entrance of the alleyway.
She kicked at the metal door and waited for a moment before an eye slot opened from inside. A pair of dark eyes peered out at her.
“What’s the password?” A voice asked from behind the door.
Theresa thought for a moment before answering, “Peanuts.”
“Nope,” the voice said.
The eye slot slid shut and she quietly sighed.
She leaned up against the brick building, obscured by the darkness and waited. The shouting continued behind the locked metal door. Hundreds of voices cheering and booing, occasionally a mixture of both. For brief moments there would be silence only for a loud wave of shouting to erupt from hundreds of mouths.
A few minutes passed and a figure appeared at the end of the alley, walking towards Theresa as she hid silently in the shadows. His shoes scuffed across the asphalt with each step. Theresa pressed herself tightly against the brick wall behind her.
Finally the figure crossed her path, immediately she stuck out her leg and seized the man’s right arm as he tumbled face-first into the asphalt. She stepped on his shoulder, pinning it tightly to the ground; wrenching his shoulder.
“What is the password?” She asked calmly.
The man groaned, clenching his teeth. He looked up at her with his left eye, blood trickling from his nose. Theresa twisted his arm, slowly pulling his shoulder from its socket.
“I can do this all night,” she said. “Tell me the password and I will let you go.”
The man let out a groan through his teeth between labored breaths, “Autumn,” he growled, “rain.”
Theresa released his arm and casually returned to the metal door at the end of the alley.
Once again she kicked the door and the eye slot slid open.
The same eyes peered out at her.
“What’s the password?” The voice asked.
Theresa stared back into the eyes through the slot and answered, “Autumn rain.”
The eye slot slammed shut and there was a loud click. Slowly the door swung open and Theresa stepped across the threshold into the entry room.
The door swung closed, revealing the small, gray-haired doorman.
“Arms up,” he said gruffly.
Theresa lifted her arms upward, interlocking her fingers behind her head. The doorman’s stubby-fingered hands patted along her sides, feeling the straps of her shoulder holsters through her jacket.
“Hand ‘em over,” he said.
Obligingly Theresa crossed her arms, reaching into her coat and withdrew her pair of handguns. She tucked her arms back, blindly handing them over to the man.
“You got anything else or do you want me to feel you up some more?” He asked as Theresa glanced back, seeing him scribble on a small piece of paper on the desk behind the door.
Sitting on the desk was a clear plastic bin filled with various weapons from chains to knives to guns, even the odd sword or two.
Theresa shook her head, “No, those are my only weapons.”
“They all say that,” the doorman said.
He finished scribbling and returned his hands to Theresa, patting his hands over her hips down to her ankles only to discover she had been honest.
“Fair enough,” he said with a shrug.
He handed Theresa a pair of business cards. On the front of both cards was a picture of a handgun. Theresa flipped the cards over and scribbled on the back was the maker, model number and serial number of both of her guns.
“Very official,” she said with a smile
.
“We got enough to worry about without you dumb fucks shooting each other,” the doorman said as he returned to the chair behind his desk, barely visible beyond the weapons bin.
Beyond a pair of double doors with the windows painted over was the source of the shouting. Cautiously Theresa approached the doors and pushed the right door open to be met with a near-deafening volley of yelling. She passed through the doorway and before her she found hundreds upon hundreds of people cheering and booing and milling about the swarming crowd. In the center of it all was a twelve foot-tall cage built from chain-link fence.
Along the length of the building hanging from the ceiling on the sides were catwalks. Posted every few yards was a man, dressed in black, holding a rifle. They were obviously meant to keep the peace, by any means necessary.
Gradually Theresa began to find her way through the crowd, shimmying and twisting her body to get through. The concrete floors were stained with ancient oil from past machinery and slick in spots where drinks had been been spilled. Against the left wall was a neon sign hanging above the bar where four bartenders worked ceaselessly to fill the drinks of the crowd. Every few hours a delivery men would arrive with a carts of alcohol to slake the thirst of the masses.
This was the Wolves’ Den; a haven for career criminals, bikers, and gamblers. In its former incarnation it was an abandoned warehouse until Iago had found the owner and bought it outright. At the end of the building in a skybox with a narrow metal staircase leading up to it was his office where he could look down upon the crowd and watch the cage fighters in luxurious safety and solitude.
Theresa felt countless eyes watching her, studying her as she moved through the crowds towards the center cage. They knew her or knew of her. Those injured by her, imprisoned by her, tortured by her at some point. Friends and associates of her victims. She was aware of them, she recognized some as she passed them. The familiar feeling of their eyes locked on her. She could practically feel their hatred seething, yet she felt no fear.
Within the walls of the building she was safe. Weapons were seized at the door and the gunmen along the catwalks kept were under orders to shoot any troublemakers. No trespass went unpunished unless it were ordered by Iago himself. Those quick to pick fights were summarily gunned down.
This was a well-known fact among the frequent visitors. Those new to the den learned quickly or were shot.
Not long ago Theresa too had been a face among the crowd, though it seemed like ancient history to her. The gambling had never appealed to her, she was far more interested in the combat. The two men in the cage fighting as if their lives were at stake, wrestling about on the floor, breaking each other’s bones until one was no longer capable of retaliation.
In the past she had soothed their wounds and set their broken bones. After all their livelihoods depended on their ability to fight. Men who were homeless, weren’t educated, or had low-paying jobs would find their way here and battle each other for glory and a cut of what the bookies had made.
Things had changed since then.
Now there were dog fights in a series of pits carved adjacent to the main cage and authorities were paid off to stay away with money that would have gone to compensate the fighters for their victories. Instead, the greatest fighters were given the opportunity to become Iago’s henchmen who often turned up dead or imprisoned. Those that lost were sent off to find their own medical care if they somehow managed to escape the cage alive.
Theresa pushed blindly through the crowd, finding herself at the bar. She stepped up to the bartender at the left end he smiled wide.
“What can I get you, ma’am?” He asked in a cheerful voice that only masked his fear.
“Port,” Theresa answered.
“Oh, well we have a lovely-”
Theresa interrupted, “I do not care about the specifics. All I want is something that will slake my thirst and taste nicely. Whether that may be a wine bottled yesterday or forty years ago, it bears no relevance to me.”
The bartender chuckled nervously and nodded.
With a glance to her right Theresa spotted a familiar-looking man sitting at the opposite end of the bar, having a conversation with the female bartender. The man had long blonde hair and wore a leopard fur cowboy hat on his head. His eyes were obscured by a large pair of black sunglasses.
Theresa slowly moved away from the bar and into the crowd once again. Gradually she passed through, slipping back out of the mass as she reached the familiar man at the end of the bar.
The female bartender looked to her as she stood behind him. He caught Theresa’s reflection in the glasses behind the bartender and quickly spun around.
“Hello there, sugartits,” he said with a grin.
“Your sobriety is shocking, Sebastian,” she replied.
He chuckled to himself, “The night is still young! What the hell are you doing here anyway? This is the last place I’d expect to run into you, Patches.”
Theresa scowled, “You know what I am doing here. Iago and I have unfinished business.”
“I hate to break it to you, but he’s not here,” he said, taking a sip from his drink.
“Where is he?” She asked sternly, her arms folded.
Sebastian shrugged but gave no answer.
Theresa reached back and punched him in the shoulder.
“Oh baby, beat me more,” he giggled. “No, no, no. He had some business in . . Thailand or something. And you better not do that again, you’re liable to get yourself shot.”
“That would stop me?” She asked rhetorically.
Sebastian shrugged and turned back to the bar.
“Give me the key to the office and I will believe you,” she said to Sebastian, folding her arms.
Sebastian rolled his eyes and spun around to face her once again.
“You know I don’t have the keys, only he does. If the door’s unlocked then he’s in there, if it’s not, then he’s not,” he said, he looked towards the darkened window of the sky box. “The light isn’t even fucking on in there! I’ll fuck anything that moves, but I’m not a liar. You know that, Ghost Eyes.”
Sebastian turned back to the bar. Moments later the bartender standing across from him reached out with a glass of wine.
Theresa snatched the glass from her hand and took a quick sip. She reached into her front left pocket and withdrew her wallet.
She nudged Sebastian with her elbow and he sighed loudly.
“What?!” He asked, exasperated.
Theresa handed him her wallet and said, “Give her five dollars for the wine.”
Begrudgingly Sebastian pulled the money from her wallet and thumbed through the small stack of cash that had been hidden inside. He drew a five dollar bill from the stack and placed it on the bar.
“For the wine,” he grumbled.
“Keep it,” Theresa added as he stuffed the money back into her wallet and handed it to her.
Theresa slipped her wallet into her pocket and turned back to the pulsating mass of people. Standing in front of her was a man with dirt and blood smeared over his mouth and chin, some still trickling from his nose. His eyes glared at her as she had turned around to face him.
Theresa stepped forward, expecting him to move but he stood fast, his eyes locked onto hers.
“Excuse me,” she said.
Suddenly his fist came swinging at her, she leaned away and kicked him in the stomach. He stumbled backwards into the parting crowd. He tumbled, falling into the pit revealed by the parting of the crowd. Theresa stepped forward and stood at the edge of the pit, looking down at him.
“That was a most unfortunate idea,” she said as she took a sip of wine.
The man groaned and sat up. The wall in front of him was stained with blood, as was the floor. He heard a low growl and turned around cautiously to face the noise. Behind him was a scarred, snarling brown pit bull.
In fear he pressed his back to the wall of the pit.
“Good dog,” he said, his voice wavering.
The pit bull leapt at him, the man tried to scramble up the wall of the pit but was seized at the calf by the teeth of the dog. It growled and snarled, dragging him down into the pit. It bit and tore at his flesh, spurred on by the sight of blood. The screams erupted from the pit and echoed off the concrete walls of the building.
Theresa lifted her eyes momentarily from the pit to see the people crowded around staring at her. She looked up to the catwalk to see the armed guards leaning against the handrails with binoculars, gazing down into the pit.
Theresa took a sip of wine and shrugged.