Obviously crime pays, or there'd be no crime
Author: amberthetired
Prompt #: 13
Warnings: unrealistic portrayals of how gangs work
Wordcount: 3625 (WUT?)
“What do we got?”
“Looks like a GSW to the chest.”
Not the most encouraging words to wake up to. Then again, “awake” probably wasn’t the right word for what I was. I could definitely hear cops and paramedics around me, but I couldn’t feel any part of my body or see anything. My first thought was So this is death. How...underwhelming. My second thought was They’ll have no idea who did this to me. I never told anyone anything. I went through several cycles of overwhelming emotions after that; anger, at having been shot by someone I trusted, grief for all my plans, cut short, guilt for how my mother was going to feel when she was given the news. But mostly, during that ten minutes I thought I was dead, I felt regret. I had no one to blame for this but myself. I had deluded myself into thinking that I could get into crime casually, and leave just as easily, and I should have known better. My mind kept playing back the whole saga, over and over again, as if to punish me for what I had done.
I can pretty much pinpoint the exact moment my life went wrong. I was sitting on a park bench in early August. That September I would enter my senior year of high school. It was the middle of a heat wave, and the sun was beating down so hard that I had absolutely no motivation to leave this bench, in its tiny patch of shade, for at least another thirty minutes. I was trying to figure out if I could pull off having a second part-time job this year. I was smart, and wanted to become a doctor. The problem was, I didn’t think that I was quite smart enough to earn that mythical “full ride” you hear about athletes getting. I was looking at maybe a partial scholarship, if i could keep my grades up while also earning enough money to attend school at all. My mom had tried to put some money away for me, but it’s hard to put money away when you’re a single parent. She worked hard so we didn’t have to live in the ghetto, but it didn’t leave a lot left over for saving. But I wasn’t too worried yet. I had started saving a long time ago, and I was willing to do whatever it took to get to med school, even if it meant saving for a year after high school. Yep, things were right on track for Lexie Simmons. And that’s when this little dude in a suit came and sat on the other end of my park bench.
Despite the fact that I would have many future dealings with this man, I never learned his name, so we’ll just call him Greasy, because his defining attribute was that he was always slightly shiny. I didn’t pay him much attention at first, although it did seem odd that he would be wearing a suit in this heat. But it was a public bench, so a weirdo in a suit was no business of mine. Except that it seemed like I was some business of his. It’s better to nip these kinds of situations quickly, so I turned and asked him if he would kindly tell me what the fuck his problem was. The corner of his mouth twitched, as if he was going to smile, but stopped himself, and he replied, “My problem? My problem is that good help is just so hard to find these days. Wouldn’t you agree, Lexie?”
That got my attention. Creep knew my name. What the hell? And what was with that question he just asked me? This was the point where I should have gotten up and walked away. To this day I could not tell you why, but I was riveted by this man with oily hair and a crappy moustache.
“I suppose,” I replied slowly, “You’ve got to know where to look.”
He chuckled. “Well I’m lookin’ right here. I hear you want to be a doctor.”
This was just getting creepier by the second now. “So?”
“So that’s kind of expensive.”
“Yeah.” I had a feeling I knew where he was going with this, but I wasn’t going to help him get there.
“And you don’t really have a rich family. How you gonna pay for all that?”
“I’ve got a job,” I said defensively.
“Come on Lexie, you’re smart. You know you don’t have nearly enough money saved yet-“
“What are you getting at?” I interrupted him. I wanted this conversation to end now.
“I have...possible employment for you. Tony wants to help you become a doctor.”
I stiffened. By “Tony”, he almost definitely meant Tony Sanchez, our area’s most nefarious crime lord, whose empire was expanding every day. And even if that wasn’t who he was talking about, legit job offers do not come from greasy guys on park benches.
“ I think you’ve got the wrong girl,” I said, getting up to leave. Greasy got up too.
“If you change your mind,” he said, putting his hand on my shoulder so I couldn’t walk away, “Find me.”
I shrugged off his hand and walked away. I was fairly confident that I wouldn’t ever see him again. What I didn’t know, was that by this time tomorrow, my mom would be out of a job.
It wasn’t her fault, really. The factory she worked at just suddenly closed down. At first we thought she would be able to find a new job fairly soon, but our hopes quickly dwindled, along with our money. It’s not like we had money sitting around that we weren’t using. I had to start helping pay the bills. My mom eventually got a part-time cashier job, but it wasn’t enough. Finally, one day she sat me down and told me she was going to have to dip in to my college fund. Not all of it, just a little each month to make ends meet. She said she was doing this because she didn’t want to take the money I was earning now from me. Personally, I didn’t see what difference it made which of my money she took, but I could see my dreams of being a doctor starting to circle the drain. I tried to get more hours at work, I went out even less with my friends, and I stopped buying new clothes completely. It still wasn’t enough. By my calculations I still had nowhere near enough money. Finally one day I found myself sitting on the park bench where I had met Greasy. I wasn’t really sure what I was expecting. It wouldn’t be like they were monitoring this one bench in this one park constantly. And yet, after about half an hour, there was Greasy, ambling over and sitting on the other end of my bench.
“Had a change of heart?” He is smirking slightly as he lights a cigarette. The smirk bothers me, as does the cigarette. I frown but don’t look at him as I reply.
“I don’t know. Maybe. What would I have to do?”
Greasy’s smirk widened a little, as if he knows he’s already got me. “It’s real simple. All you gotta do is pick up a backpack at one place, and drop it off at another.”
I chewed on my lip. “How will I know where?” I didn’t want to spend a lot of time with a bunch of gangsters. I didn’t even really want to meet any. I wanted to know as little as possible about this organization as possible, really. I didn’t want them to have a reason to kill me.
Greasy withdrew a key from the inside of his suit jacket and held it up. “This key opens a P.O. box. It’s on your way home from school. Inside you’ll find and envelope with your instructions. Pick up and drop off addresses, and what to say to each.”
“What to say?”
“You know, a word or a phrase that tells the pickup guys what to give you and the drop off guys what you’re giving them.”
“Like a password.”
“Sure.” He pauses for a beat. “Are you in?”
I furrowed my brow at him. I wasn’t quite done asking questions. “How will I get paid?” This was probably the most important thing to me.
“After you’ve successfully made your delivery there will be cash in the envelope along with your next set of instructions.”
I nodded. I felt like there should be more I wanted to ask him, but I couldn’t think of anything else pertinent that he would actually tell me. He made an impatient noise beside me.
“Do we have a deal?”
I gazed into the middle distance, his words bouncing around in my head as I thought. I was about to agree to some illegal activity, probably a felony at least. But I needed the money, badly. I had no doubt my mom would move into an even crappier neighbourhood if it meant me being able to go to college, and I didn’t want that. I also didn’t want to be paying student loans for the rest of my life. I sighed.
“We have a deal.”
“Great,” he said, tossing away his cigarette butt. He handed me the key to the P.O box. “Your first delivery should come on Wednesday.” He gave me his trademark greasy grin and stood up. Before he walked away, he said, without looking at me, “I guess you probably already know this, but I should mention it just in case; if you bring the cops into this, you’re dead.”
*****
I never told anyone about my double life. It was fairly easy to maintain, since my mother was often at work when I would normally arrive home from school. Since I only had to make about two deliveries a week, I didn’t even have to quit my other job. I never had to speak more than the password to the people who answered the door at pick ups and drop offs, but I did receive instructions to meet Greasy in the park every couple of months. He said this was “to make sure I was a healthy and happy employee” which I assume means “to make sure I’m not going to snitch.”
Nobody ever discussed with me what was in the bags, and I never asked. The few times I felt tempted to look in them I told myself it was a bad idea. If I got caught I would seem much more innocent if I didn’t know what was in the bag. I also never once thought about going to the cops with a bag. Tony Sanchez has a pretty ruthless reputation, most of which was built on stories of what he did to snitches. One of his favourite methods of retribution was to draw and quarter the offender with drag racers instead of horses. This was not a fate I was interested in.
By the time February rolled around, I felt I was well on my way to being able to pay for my schooling. I had gotten accepted to all the universities I applied to, and I felt like I had a real chance of actually achieving my dreams. That was, until I tried to tell Greasy that I wanted to go to NYU, across the country. He pretty much laughed in my face, told me that wasn’t happening, and stepped away for a minute to make a phone call. We didn’t say anything more about it when he got back, but I got the distinct impression that this discussion wasn’t over, and that I was in trouble for even making such a suggestion. I was proven right when there was a burly bald guy waiting outside the building where my P.O. box was. As I reached for the door handle he put a hand on my shoulder to stop me. He didn’t say anything, just steered me into the back of a van. The only windows were in the front, and I was made to sit backwards. I was instructed to remain silent and sit still. I wasn’t tempted to disobey. I took deep breaths and tried to convince myself that I wasn’t riding to my death, that I wasn’t worth the trouble it would take to murder me and dispose of my body. For once I regretted never telling anyone about my criminal ways.
When we reached where we were going they stuck a blindfold on me, I’m guessing so I couldn’t see where I was, or anything that was in the house. I took it as a good sign; you wouldn’t bother blindfolding someone you were just going to kill right? Once they had roughly pushed me into a chair they removed the blindfold. I immediately wished they hadn’t. Sitting in the chair across from me was a man who could only be Tony Sanchez. I mean, no one who isn’t very high up in the syndicate knows exactly what he looks like because he’s kind of a recluse, but this had to be him. Before me sat a large Latino man with his legs crossed. He was wearing a suit, but there were tattoos creeping out of his collar, up his neck and onto his head, which was shaved bald. He had a sculpted and pointy beard, which he was curling the end of around one finger. All the other guys in the room seemed to be placed strategically so they would be showing deference to him but also ready to take a bullet for him. Nobody seemed to be looking directly at him. For a moment, he just sat staring at me, playing with that beard. Then he steepled his fingers and one side of his mouth quirked up in a half smile, although his eyes remained cold.
“So,” he said, and I gulped. I don’t know how he packed so much menace into just that one word; if I had that voice I probably would have chosen crime as my profession too.
“I hear you were thinking about moving across the country.”
I sat blinking at him for a moment before realizing that I was expected to reply. “Um, yes. For school. I want to be a doctor. Sir.” My voice was weak, and I seemed unable to form proper sentences.
“A noble undertaking. But you understand that I can not allow you to just...” His hand made a circular motion in the air, “leave.” I noticed he had a very slight accent. His voice was so smooth and sure of itself, but mine continued to get worse, adding a stutter to the squeakiness that was already there.
“W-well, sir, I didn’t think you would really, um, c-care that much, sir, because, well, um, I’m just a runner and I, um, thought that you c-could maybe just...just find a new one, sir, since you found me p-pretty easily. Sir.” I gripped the arms of my chair so my hands wouldn’t tremble. Tony raised his eyebrows at me.
“Ah, so you think you are not an important member of my...organization?”
I didn’t see how this could be anything other than a trick question, but I could also tell that I was required to answer.
“N-not...terribly important, no, sir.”
“I see. Have you not been making deliveries for me for almost six months now?”
“Well...yes sir-“
“And do you not possess a key to a P.O. box that potentially incriminating information could be found in?”
“I would give it back-“
“Sure you would, after you had made a copy for the police.”
“I wouldn’t-“A wave of his hand silenced me.
“If I were to let you go to New York, who would keep an eye on you, make sure you are being good? Hm?”
My mouth opened and closed, searching for a reply. It had never occurred to me before this moment that there must be people watching me sometimes, or at least checking up from time to time. I looked down at my lap, defeated.
“No one, sir.”
“That’s right, no one. Now, I know you also applied to some schools here in town, so you’ll just have to pick one of those. Also, although I can not release you from your duties completely, once you start college you will be cut back to one delivery a week. We wouldn’t want crime to start interfering with your grades now, would we?” He smiled in what I assume was meant to be a kindly manner, but was actually just terrifying. After a second I realized he was also waiting for a reply, so I said, “Thank you, sir,” and looked back down at my lap.
“Good girl.” He motioned to the other guys in the room. “Take her home now.”
Two big dudes and Greasy - who I hadn’t even noticed was in the room until now, because he had been standing in the shadows - came up and hustled me out of the room. Greasy slipped the blindfold back over my eyes and helped me into the back of the van. He talked to me most of the way home, but I wasn’t listening and didn’t reply. When we pulled up in front of my apartment building Greasy pulled the blindfold back off and slid open the van door.
“You start work again on Thursday,” he told me. I nodded but still didn’t say anything, just went inside.
Over the next few days, things started to niggle at me. It seemed odd that I, a simple drug runner, would be hauled in front of the boss man himself for wanting to leave. If movies and TV were anywhere close to accurate, drug runners were a dime a dozen, and there would be plenty of young initiates willing to prove their loyalty. Then again, I was only assuming that what I was carrying was drugs. I had never looked in the bag. But what else could possibly be in there? And why did they need me in particular to carry it? It just didn’t make sense. The more I thought about it, the more I knew I needed to open the bag. But not right away. They would be watching me closely for a while, since I was now a flight risk. I decided to see if I could find out at my next meeting with Greasy whether I was still in trouble or not, and decide how long I should wait based on that. I wasn’t at all sure how this was going to turn out, but I had to try.
It ended up being almost summer again by the time I decided to risk opening a bag. I picked up the bag like normal, but instead of heading straight to the drop address, I went back to my apartment instead. I was trying to move quickly, because I didn’t know what happened if I was late, or didn’t make a delivery at all. It had never happened before. I had always done exactly as ordered. Until now. I set the backpack on a chair in our living room. I stared at it for several seconds before actually reaching out and pulling the zipper open, slowly, as if the bag contained something very fragile. At first, I didn’t quite understand what I was looking at. I guess I had still been hoping to be carrying bricks of cocaine. What I saw instead was that the inside of the backpack was actually made of insulated material, like a cooler bag, and sitting inside the backpack was an actual cooler. My stomach plummeted through the floor. As I reached into the bag to open the cooler, I felt a sickening certainty about what I was going to find inside. I almost couldn’t look as I lifted the lid to peek inside. I put my hand over my eyes, and then slid two of my fingers apart. I dropped the lid as soon as I had seen, and turned away. My brain started to go at a million miles a minute. Yep, that’s a human kidney in there. I slapped my hands to my face. I had been transporting human organs. For months. Where were they coming from? Certainly not from willing donors. And where were they going to? And also, what the fuck, what the FUCK, WHAT THE FUCK?! I began pacing around the room, trying to put all the facts together in a way that made sense. The only theory I could come up with was that they wanted to get me while I’m young, make me loyal, and then somehow use me to get more organs when i worked in a hospital. But this seemed like an awfully long term investment. There must be some nefarious middle part I was missing. Before I could figure it out, Greasy and some big guy busted through the door. Greasy looked at the open bag, at me pacing, and motioned to the other guy to shut the door behind them.
“So. You opened the bag.”
“Yeah I opened the bag! Are you people insane?” I may have been a bit hysterical at this point.
“Human organs are quite profitable.”
I stared at him. “Profitable? PROFITABLE? This is terrible! And wrong, and horrifying, and-“
“I get it, we’re big bad criminals. So now you know.”
I felt like I was going to be sick. “I can’t do this anymore.”
“You don’t have a choice.”
“I won’t do this anymore.”
He looked at me sadly. “I was afraid you’d say that.”
And then he pulled out his gun and shot me in the chest.
a/n: I feel like if I had written this over a period of months instead of days there could have been a lot of fun foreshadowing/hints about what was in the bag, and maybe some fun scenes of individual deliveries Lexie made, but I didn't, so there isn't.
a/n: I can no longer remember if I mentioned this in the story or not, but this story takes place in the LA area.
a/n2: I feel like this only loosely fulfills the prompt, but it was one of those stories where once you start writing it you just have to keep going.
Prompt #: 13
Warnings: unrealistic portrayals of how gangs work
Wordcount: 3625 (WUT?)
“What do we got?”
“Looks like a GSW to the chest.”
Not the most encouraging words to wake up to. Then again, “awake” probably wasn’t the right word for what I was. I could definitely hear cops and paramedics around me, but I couldn’t feel any part of my body or see anything. My first thought was So this is death. How...underwhelming. My second thought was They’ll have no idea who did this to me. I never told anyone anything. I went through several cycles of overwhelming emotions after that; anger, at having been shot by someone I trusted, grief for all my plans, cut short, guilt for how my mother was going to feel when she was given the news. But mostly, during that ten minutes I thought I was dead, I felt regret. I had no one to blame for this but myself. I had deluded myself into thinking that I could get into crime casually, and leave just as easily, and I should have known better. My mind kept playing back the whole saga, over and over again, as if to punish me for what I had done.
I can pretty much pinpoint the exact moment my life went wrong. I was sitting on a park bench in early August. That September I would enter my senior year of high school. It was the middle of a heat wave, and the sun was beating down so hard that I had absolutely no motivation to leave this bench, in its tiny patch of shade, for at least another thirty minutes. I was trying to figure out if I could pull off having a second part-time job this year. I was smart, and wanted to become a doctor. The problem was, I didn’t think that I was quite smart enough to earn that mythical “full ride” you hear about athletes getting. I was looking at maybe a partial scholarship, if i could keep my grades up while also earning enough money to attend school at all. My mom had tried to put some money away for me, but it’s hard to put money away when you’re a single parent. She worked hard so we didn’t have to live in the ghetto, but it didn’t leave a lot left over for saving. But I wasn’t too worried yet. I had started saving a long time ago, and I was willing to do whatever it took to get to med school, even if it meant saving for a year after high school. Yep, things were right on track for Lexie Simmons. And that’s when this little dude in a suit came and sat on the other end of my park bench.
Despite the fact that I would have many future dealings with this man, I never learned his name, so we’ll just call him Greasy, because his defining attribute was that he was always slightly shiny. I didn’t pay him much attention at first, although it did seem odd that he would be wearing a suit in this heat. But it was a public bench, so a weirdo in a suit was no business of mine. Except that it seemed like I was some business of his. It’s better to nip these kinds of situations quickly, so I turned and asked him if he would kindly tell me what the fuck his problem was. The corner of his mouth twitched, as if he was going to smile, but stopped himself, and he replied, “My problem? My problem is that good help is just so hard to find these days. Wouldn’t you agree, Lexie?”
That got my attention. Creep knew my name. What the hell? And what was with that question he just asked me? This was the point where I should have gotten up and walked away. To this day I could not tell you why, but I was riveted by this man with oily hair and a crappy moustache.
“I suppose,” I replied slowly, “You’ve got to know where to look.”
He chuckled. “Well I’m lookin’ right here. I hear you want to be a doctor.”
This was just getting creepier by the second now. “So?”
“So that’s kind of expensive.”
“Yeah.” I had a feeling I knew where he was going with this, but I wasn’t going to help him get there.
“And you don’t really have a rich family. How you gonna pay for all that?”
“I’ve got a job,” I said defensively.
“Come on Lexie, you’re smart. You know you don’t have nearly enough money saved yet-“
“What are you getting at?” I interrupted him. I wanted this conversation to end now.
“I have...possible employment for you. Tony wants to help you become a doctor.”
I stiffened. By “Tony”, he almost definitely meant Tony Sanchez, our area’s most nefarious crime lord, whose empire was expanding every day. And even if that wasn’t who he was talking about, legit job offers do not come from greasy guys on park benches.
“ I think you’ve got the wrong girl,” I said, getting up to leave. Greasy got up too.
“If you change your mind,” he said, putting his hand on my shoulder so I couldn’t walk away, “Find me.”
I shrugged off his hand and walked away. I was fairly confident that I wouldn’t ever see him again. What I didn’t know, was that by this time tomorrow, my mom would be out of a job.
It wasn’t her fault, really. The factory she worked at just suddenly closed down. At first we thought she would be able to find a new job fairly soon, but our hopes quickly dwindled, along with our money. It’s not like we had money sitting around that we weren’t using. I had to start helping pay the bills. My mom eventually got a part-time cashier job, but it wasn’t enough. Finally, one day she sat me down and told me she was going to have to dip in to my college fund. Not all of it, just a little each month to make ends meet. She said she was doing this because she didn’t want to take the money I was earning now from me. Personally, I didn’t see what difference it made which of my money she took, but I could see my dreams of being a doctor starting to circle the drain. I tried to get more hours at work, I went out even less with my friends, and I stopped buying new clothes completely. It still wasn’t enough. By my calculations I still had nowhere near enough money. Finally one day I found myself sitting on the park bench where I had met Greasy. I wasn’t really sure what I was expecting. It wouldn’t be like they were monitoring this one bench in this one park constantly. And yet, after about half an hour, there was Greasy, ambling over and sitting on the other end of my bench.
“Had a change of heart?” He is smirking slightly as he lights a cigarette. The smirk bothers me, as does the cigarette. I frown but don’t look at him as I reply.
“I don’t know. Maybe. What would I have to do?”
Greasy’s smirk widened a little, as if he knows he’s already got me. “It’s real simple. All you gotta do is pick up a backpack at one place, and drop it off at another.”
I chewed on my lip. “How will I know where?” I didn’t want to spend a lot of time with a bunch of gangsters. I didn’t even really want to meet any. I wanted to know as little as possible about this organization as possible, really. I didn’t want them to have a reason to kill me.
Greasy withdrew a key from the inside of his suit jacket and held it up. “This key opens a P.O. box. It’s on your way home from school. Inside you’ll find and envelope with your instructions. Pick up and drop off addresses, and what to say to each.”
“What to say?”
“You know, a word or a phrase that tells the pickup guys what to give you and the drop off guys what you’re giving them.”
“Like a password.”
“Sure.” He pauses for a beat. “Are you in?”
I furrowed my brow at him. I wasn’t quite done asking questions. “How will I get paid?” This was probably the most important thing to me.
“After you’ve successfully made your delivery there will be cash in the envelope along with your next set of instructions.”
I nodded. I felt like there should be more I wanted to ask him, but I couldn’t think of anything else pertinent that he would actually tell me. He made an impatient noise beside me.
“Do we have a deal?”
I gazed into the middle distance, his words bouncing around in my head as I thought. I was about to agree to some illegal activity, probably a felony at least. But I needed the money, badly. I had no doubt my mom would move into an even crappier neighbourhood if it meant me being able to go to college, and I didn’t want that. I also didn’t want to be paying student loans for the rest of my life. I sighed.
“We have a deal.”
“Great,” he said, tossing away his cigarette butt. He handed me the key to the P.O box. “Your first delivery should come on Wednesday.” He gave me his trademark greasy grin and stood up. Before he walked away, he said, without looking at me, “I guess you probably already know this, but I should mention it just in case; if you bring the cops into this, you’re dead.”
*****
I never told anyone about my double life. It was fairly easy to maintain, since my mother was often at work when I would normally arrive home from school. Since I only had to make about two deliveries a week, I didn’t even have to quit my other job. I never had to speak more than the password to the people who answered the door at pick ups and drop offs, but I did receive instructions to meet Greasy in the park every couple of months. He said this was “to make sure I was a healthy and happy employee” which I assume means “to make sure I’m not going to snitch.”
Nobody ever discussed with me what was in the bags, and I never asked. The few times I felt tempted to look in them I told myself it was a bad idea. If I got caught I would seem much more innocent if I didn’t know what was in the bag. I also never once thought about going to the cops with a bag. Tony Sanchez has a pretty ruthless reputation, most of which was built on stories of what he did to snitches. One of his favourite methods of retribution was to draw and quarter the offender with drag racers instead of horses. This was not a fate I was interested in.
By the time February rolled around, I felt I was well on my way to being able to pay for my schooling. I had gotten accepted to all the universities I applied to, and I felt like I had a real chance of actually achieving my dreams. That was, until I tried to tell Greasy that I wanted to go to NYU, across the country. He pretty much laughed in my face, told me that wasn’t happening, and stepped away for a minute to make a phone call. We didn’t say anything more about it when he got back, but I got the distinct impression that this discussion wasn’t over, and that I was in trouble for even making such a suggestion. I was proven right when there was a burly bald guy waiting outside the building where my P.O. box was. As I reached for the door handle he put a hand on my shoulder to stop me. He didn’t say anything, just steered me into the back of a van. The only windows were in the front, and I was made to sit backwards. I was instructed to remain silent and sit still. I wasn’t tempted to disobey. I took deep breaths and tried to convince myself that I wasn’t riding to my death, that I wasn’t worth the trouble it would take to murder me and dispose of my body. For once I regretted never telling anyone about my criminal ways.
When we reached where we were going they stuck a blindfold on me, I’m guessing so I couldn’t see where I was, or anything that was in the house. I took it as a good sign; you wouldn’t bother blindfolding someone you were just going to kill right? Once they had roughly pushed me into a chair they removed the blindfold. I immediately wished they hadn’t. Sitting in the chair across from me was a man who could only be Tony Sanchez. I mean, no one who isn’t very high up in the syndicate knows exactly what he looks like because he’s kind of a recluse, but this had to be him. Before me sat a large Latino man with his legs crossed. He was wearing a suit, but there were tattoos creeping out of his collar, up his neck and onto his head, which was shaved bald. He had a sculpted and pointy beard, which he was curling the end of around one finger. All the other guys in the room seemed to be placed strategically so they would be showing deference to him but also ready to take a bullet for him. Nobody seemed to be looking directly at him. For a moment, he just sat staring at me, playing with that beard. Then he steepled his fingers and one side of his mouth quirked up in a half smile, although his eyes remained cold.
“So,” he said, and I gulped. I don’t know how he packed so much menace into just that one word; if I had that voice I probably would have chosen crime as my profession too.
“I hear you were thinking about moving across the country.”
I sat blinking at him for a moment before realizing that I was expected to reply. “Um, yes. For school. I want to be a doctor. Sir.” My voice was weak, and I seemed unable to form proper sentences.
“A noble undertaking. But you understand that I can not allow you to just...” His hand made a circular motion in the air, “leave.” I noticed he had a very slight accent. His voice was so smooth and sure of itself, but mine continued to get worse, adding a stutter to the squeakiness that was already there.
“W-well, sir, I didn’t think you would really, um, c-care that much, sir, because, well, um, I’m just a runner and I, um, thought that you c-could maybe just...just find a new one, sir, since you found me p-pretty easily. Sir.” I gripped the arms of my chair so my hands wouldn’t tremble. Tony raised his eyebrows at me.
“Ah, so you think you are not an important member of my...organization?”
I didn’t see how this could be anything other than a trick question, but I could also tell that I was required to answer.
“N-not...terribly important, no, sir.”
“I see. Have you not been making deliveries for me for almost six months now?”
“Well...yes sir-“
“And do you not possess a key to a P.O. box that potentially incriminating information could be found in?”
“I would give it back-“
“Sure you would, after you had made a copy for the police.”
“I wouldn’t-“A wave of his hand silenced me.
“If I were to let you go to New York, who would keep an eye on you, make sure you are being good? Hm?”
My mouth opened and closed, searching for a reply. It had never occurred to me before this moment that there must be people watching me sometimes, or at least checking up from time to time. I looked down at my lap, defeated.
“No one, sir.”
“That’s right, no one. Now, I know you also applied to some schools here in town, so you’ll just have to pick one of those. Also, although I can not release you from your duties completely, once you start college you will be cut back to one delivery a week. We wouldn’t want crime to start interfering with your grades now, would we?” He smiled in what I assume was meant to be a kindly manner, but was actually just terrifying. After a second I realized he was also waiting for a reply, so I said, “Thank you, sir,” and looked back down at my lap.
“Good girl.” He motioned to the other guys in the room. “Take her home now.”
Two big dudes and Greasy - who I hadn’t even noticed was in the room until now, because he had been standing in the shadows - came up and hustled me out of the room. Greasy slipped the blindfold back over my eyes and helped me into the back of the van. He talked to me most of the way home, but I wasn’t listening and didn’t reply. When we pulled up in front of my apartment building Greasy pulled the blindfold back off and slid open the van door.
“You start work again on Thursday,” he told me. I nodded but still didn’t say anything, just went inside.
Over the next few days, things started to niggle at me. It seemed odd that I, a simple drug runner, would be hauled in front of the boss man himself for wanting to leave. If movies and TV were anywhere close to accurate, drug runners were a dime a dozen, and there would be plenty of young initiates willing to prove their loyalty. Then again, I was only assuming that what I was carrying was drugs. I had never looked in the bag. But what else could possibly be in there? And why did they need me in particular to carry it? It just didn’t make sense. The more I thought about it, the more I knew I needed to open the bag. But not right away. They would be watching me closely for a while, since I was now a flight risk. I decided to see if I could find out at my next meeting with Greasy whether I was still in trouble or not, and decide how long I should wait based on that. I wasn’t at all sure how this was going to turn out, but I had to try.
It ended up being almost summer again by the time I decided to risk opening a bag. I picked up the bag like normal, but instead of heading straight to the drop address, I went back to my apartment instead. I was trying to move quickly, because I didn’t know what happened if I was late, or didn’t make a delivery at all. It had never happened before. I had always done exactly as ordered. Until now. I set the backpack on a chair in our living room. I stared at it for several seconds before actually reaching out and pulling the zipper open, slowly, as if the bag contained something very fragile. At first, I didn’t quite understand what I was looking at. I guess I had still been hoping to be carrying bricks of cocaine. What I saw instead was that the inside of the backpack was actually made of insulated material, like a cooler bag, and sitting inside the backpack was an actual cooler. My stomach plummeted through the floor. As I reached into the bag to open the cooler, I felt a sickening certainty about what I was going to find inside. I almost couldn’t look as I lifted the lid to peek inside. I put my hand over my eyes, and then slid two of my fingers apart. I dropped the lid as soon as I had seen, and turned away. My brain started to go at a million miles a minute. Yep, that’s a human kidney in there. I slapped my hands to my face. I had been transporting human organs. For months. Where were they coming from? Certainly not from willing donors. And where were they going to? And also, what the fuck, what the FUCK, WHAT THE FUCK?! I began pacing around the room, trying to put all the facts together in a way that made sense. The only theory I could come up with was that they wanted to get me while I’m young, make me loyal, and then somehow use me to get more organs when i worked in a hospital. But this seemed like an awfully long term investment. There must be some nefarious middle part I was missing. Before I could figure it out, Greasy and some big guy busted through the door. Greasy looked at the open bag, at me pacing, and motioned to the other guy to shut the door behind them.
“So. You opened the bag.”
“Yeah I opened the bag! Are you people insane?” I may have been a bit hysterical at this point.
“Human organs are quite profitable.”
I stared at him. “Profitable? PROFITABLE? This is terrible! And wrong, and horrifying, and-“
“I get it, we’re big bad criminals. So now you know.”
I felt like I was going to be sick. “I can’t do this anymore.”
“You don’t have a choice.”
“I won’t do this anymore.”
He looked at me sadly. “I was afraid you’d say that.”
And then he pulled out his gun and shot me in the chest.
a/n: I feel like if I had written this over a period of months instead of days there could have been a lot of fun foreshadowing/hints about what was in the bag, and maybe some fun scenes of individual deliveries Lexie made, but I didn't, so there isn't.
a/n: I can no longer remember if I mentioned this in the story or not, but this story takes place in the LA area.
a/n2: I feel like this only loosely fulfills the prompt, but it was one of those stories where once you start writing it you just have to keep going.