Hell's Kitchen Page 2

  I take my eyes off the road, arching an eyebrow at him. Who the hell does he think he’s talking to? I’ve been doing this job longer than him, after all. I’ve never blinked. Never not been ready. He gets the point pretty damn quickly.

  “All right, man, I’m sorry.”

  When we arrive at the airfield, we’re directed to hangar twelve, no questions asked. Paddy McLaughlin’s own men would have arrived around now—if we hadn’t already beaten the shit out of them and handcuffed them to a pillar inside an old cardboard factory down on the wharf—so we’re expected. Kaitlin McLaughlin’s plane is delayed. I’m already bored and itching to go by the time the private jet touches down. Sal climbs out of the car and leans against the front passenger door, waiting for the prissy Irish princess and her entourage to exit the plane. When she does, we’re in luck.

  Normally, Paddy doesn’t send his little girl anywhere without two personal bodyguards. Today, she’s only accompanied by one. Sal taps the hood of the car as he goes out to take her bags. I have the engine purring in anticipation as he opens the back passenger side door for her and she climbs inside.

  Huge sunglasses cover her eyes. That full mouth of hers is perfectly visible in the rearview, though. “Where the fuck is Ray?” she asks. Her father may be first generation Irish, but Kaitlin was born and raised in the States—she sounds like a spoiled little Yank bitch.

  “Mr. McLaughlin needed him for something else. He sent us instead.”

  She slides the sunglasses down the bridge of her nose, peering at me over the car’s half-raised privacy screen. “And who are you?”

  I give her a tight-lipped smile, doing my best to keep my tongue in my head. We need the bodyguard to get in the car, and then we’re golden. Until then, I’m Jerry, the friendly town car driver. “Jerry. My buddy there, that’s Gareth. We’re new.”

  “I can see that.” She makes a low, humming sound at the back of her throat. She sounds like she approves. Sorry, sweetheart. I don’t touch crazy pussy. But I will introduce you to my old man, all the same. He just can’t wait to fucking meet you.

  The door behind me opens and I feel the car dip as someone gets in—I didn’t notice before, but the lone bodyguard with Kaitlin is a woman. Must be the chick Roberto was talking about. I get a good look at her in the rearview and find myself taking a second one for good measure. She’s blisteringly hot. Maybe in her mid-twenties? Long dark hair, tied back into a braid. High cheekbones. A mouth to rival Kaitlin’s. Her tits strain against her tight black shirt as she twists to put on her seatbelt. You can tell she works out; her clothes fit her far too well for her not to know she looks good in them, too.

  Just like Kaitlin, she asks, “Where’s Ray?”

  “Busy doing something for Daddy,” Kaitlin informs her, which saves me from spinning the lie again.

  “Okay. Straight to the bar, then.” The body guard’s head doesn’t even lift, but she’s a professional. She assesses me in the mirror just as I’ve assessed her. I pretend not to notice as Sal folds himself into the passenger seat.

  “Of course.” I press the button for the privacy screen, raising it the rest of the way, blocking out all sound from the back of the car. Sal turns and gives me one of his wicked, crazy-ass grins. He’s enjoying this already. “All right, then, big brother. Let’s do this.” He leans forward and hits a button on the dash—and every single door on the town car automatically locks. “No backing out now.”

  I burn out of the hangar to the sounds of muffled thuds from the back of the car. The bodyguard’s not stupid. She’s heard the doors locking and knows something isn’t right. “Motherfucker! Open this up right now!”

  Normally there’s an intercom in these cars, but this one’s different. Sal and I smashed the shit out of this car’s intercom with two lump hammers and ripped out the wiring. We also lined the roof with lead. The girls in the back aren’t striking up a conversation with us any time soon. And they aren’t making any phone calls to dear old Papa McLaughlin, either.

  As I head back toward the city, the shouting from the back gets louder. It’s accompanied by the dull thudding of feet trying to smash out the privacy screen. Sal raps his knuckles against the glass, grinning again. “Bitch sounds crazy back there. I don’t think she likes the modifications we’ve made.”

  I allow myself a small smile as we hit the George Washington Bridge, heading back toward North Manhattan. So far Operation: Kidnap Kaitlin has been a roaring success. Sal pulls out his cell and starts tapping into it with quick fingers. “Telling the old man we’re on our way?”

  He nods. “Bastard better give us credit where credit’s due. He’s probably still organising his own fucking birthday party. Meanwhile, we have just successfully taken our mark hostage. We’re on the homeward stretch.”

  The fucking homeward stretch.

  The thing about saying you’re on the homeward stretch is that often it’s like waving a red flag at a bull. Fate must hear that phrase and decide to fuck over the poor schmuck who was dumb enough to utter it every single fucking time. It’s only seconds after Sal’s parted with those words that the electric window behind me—the bodyguard’s side window—shatters. We knew the bodyguard would be armed, but we didn’t expect anyone to be shooting out the damn side windows. An eruption of fragmented diamonds explodes sideways, spraying a bright yellow smart car with a million shards of glass. The sound of the firing gun is almost deafening.

  “What the fuck?”

  The smart car veers sideways, smashing into us; I press my foot to the floor, grinding my teeth at the sound of screeching metal and more hammering from the back as I swerve through the traffic. Sal twists in his seat, pulling his gun and pressing it to the glass of the privacy screen. His finger’s on the trigger. “She’s going fucking crazy. I’m gonna shoot the bitch.”

  “Which one?”

  Sal lifts one shoulder, scowling into the back. “I don’t know. Both of them. I need to shoot both of them.”

  I careen over in the left hand lane, trying to find a clear path. We need to get back to the fucking restaurant. Now. This is really not fucking good. Risking a glance in the mirror behind me, I see my brother is right. Kaitlin appears to be crying, thick black streaks of makeup running down her face, her arrogance completely gone now. The bodyguard, on the other hand, is only half visible. She’s … she’s leaning out of the fucking window. I glance in the side mirror just in time to see her aiming her gun. She fires. The side mirror reports the muzzle flash, and then the whole thing is just … gone.

  “Fuck!”

  “That’s it. I’m shooting them.”

  “DO NOT FUCKING SHOOT ANYONE, SAL!” If I can’t pull this car over or get the hell out of this traffic, my brother is gonna get trigger happy on these bitches and we’ll be carting two bodies back into our father’s kitchen. Sal gives me a frustrated look, his eyebrows spiking. A look of surprise washes over him.

  “She’s gonna fucking shoot—” He doesn’t get to finish the sentence. An ear-splitting crack rips through the air. Suddenly glass is raining down on me. Glass everywhere. The bitch in the back fires a second shot; this time the round travels straight through my broken window and shatters the windshield from the inside.

  I can’t see a fucking thing.

  Kaitlin starts screaming even louder.

  I don’t have the car anymore. I don’t have this situation. I don’t have my fucking brother, either. I think he’s about to murder our collateral. My thoughts as the car hits the guardrail, as the car begins to flip: We’d better just fucking die. Because if we don’t fucking die … what the fuck are we gonna tell Roberto?

  TWO

  SCARLETT

  I stare at the broken air-conditioning unit in my tiny walk-up—a room that’s really just a broom cupboard with a refrigerator and a mattress—and sigh inwardly. It’s easily ninety degrees outside, and it’s only eight-fifteen in the morning. New York City is excruciating on days like this, days and weeks that melt into each other, a
constant barrage of humidity and steam and loose wisps of hair that stick to the back of your neck. It’s hotter than hell in this damn city, and all I want to do is get out. The problem is, to get out you kind of need somewhere to go.

  The air conditioner hasn’t worked since I’ve had the place—seven months now, seven months since I’ve been ousted from L.A. Seven months. How is that even possible? It feels like it happened yesterday, the image of his little tricycle rolling backwards behind the car the same thing that haunts me in my nightmares. Seven months since I took a plea deal, a suspended sentence. Which means it’s been—I have to stop and count back. Nine? Yeah. Nine months since the night when I completely ruined my fucking life and ended someone else’s.

  As I slam my door and take the nine flights of stairs down to the lobby, I realize roughly halfway down that I didn’t even try the elevator to see if it’s working yet. For three weeks, I’ve been hauling my ass up and down these stairs, because the building super refuses to do anything about it. And it’s not like I’m about to knock on his door and ask again after the way he creeped me the fuck out last week, standing in his doorway and not letting me out of his apartment for almost an hour. Jimmy. You know what? I’ve never met a Jimmy who wasn’t a dick, now that I think about it. This one is a total creeper, though. The guy is a date rape waiting to happen.

  Thick, muggy air hits me square in the face as I leave my building, sucking the air out of my lungs as my feet hit the sidewalk. I’m still not used to this damp, oppressive kind of heat after growing up on the west coast, still forget to ready myself for the onslaught every time I go outside in this goddamn city since summer has begun.

  I cross the street, threading my way through the cabs and town cars that choke the city at this hour. As I pass over a subway grate, a thick billow of steam blasts up into the street. It’s forceful enough that I cough on the acrid air as it forces into my lungs and coats my face with a filmy residue.

  Motherfucker! My makeup is probably ruined, and I’m already running late. I don’t have time to run back up nine flights and reapply, so I keep walking. It doesn’t matter what I look like anymore, so why do I care?

  I don’t look at anyone as I walk to the diner. I keep my face down, my eyes skimming the sidewalk and the crowd just ahead, only enough to make sure I don’t collide with anyone. They don’t like that here. In New York, you walk in a straight fucking line and you stay out of everyone’s way. I’m maybe three blocks from my work when I hear it: a high-pitched scream from a child, a car braking so hard its tires squeal in protest. I can’t help it. My knees turn to liquid and I’m in serious danger of passing the fuck out and being trampled to death.

  It’s bizarre, the way sounds affect me these days. The way most things affect me. The inconsequential things that other people don’t even register are the same things that set terror alight in my heart. You know, the way dogs howl at sirens and cower, terrified, when they hear thunder. That’s me with everything.

  I just need to get to work. I’ll get to work, swallow one of my little white pills, and I’ll be golden. Three blocks. Three blocks. Three blocks.

  I don’t want to turn my eyes toward the scream but I can’t help it; it’s like my mind revels in my frightened state, my awkward inability to block out the simplest of things. I might be a person nobody knows, a girl with my face turned down to the pavement so nobody sees me, but I see them. I see all of them. I hear them.

  And it hurts.

  My eyes scan the ever-moving sea of people in front of me, everybody with their own purpose. Me, I feel like I’m just floating along from one day to the next, eating and working and sleeping and trying to stop the weight of my sins from pulling me under. People say drowning is a peaceful way to die. But I’ve been drowning for nine months, and I can tell you, there’s nothing peaceful about clawing at the air in front of you every time you wake up in the morning, unable to breathe, trying to stay afloat.

  I finally find the source of the screaming: a boy with a mop of blond hair, thick and shaggy, but cut blunt all around the bottom. I imagine his mother placing a bowl on his head as he wriggles on a stool, taking great pains to cut the hair that hangs in his eyes without accidentally cutting her antsy child.

  I can only see him in profile, but he’s turning toward me, and I know if he does I’ll see the color of his eyes. Don’t be blue. My own eyes don’t work quickly enough, can’t swivel to the side before he’s facing me, still screaming, blood on his knee. They’re fucking blue.

  He fell over on the sidewalk and scraped his knee. Of course. He didn’t get hit by a car. He didn’t go underneath the tires with a sickening thud. He needs a Band-Aid, and I need to chill the fuck out. The relief that floods my limbs almost dizzies me. He’s not going to die. He’s not going to die.

  My cell phone beeps loudly, making me jump. I reach into my handbag, seeing a text from my cousin Elliot. I swipe the screen and read his message.

  ELLIOT: Hey Scar. Got some friends who need a place to crash tonight. You know the drill. Is your place free?

  I fight the urge to roll my eyes. The last thing I want is someone crashing in my tiny walk-up, but it wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened. I owe Elliot big time after he helped with the court case. Without him, I’d be rotting in a jail cell somewhere. I slow my pace so I can tap a reply message into the screen.

  Me: Sure thing. I’m off work at six. There’s a spare key in the plant next to my door if they arrive earlier.

  I lock the phone and drop it into my bag, irritated that I won’t be alone tonight. It’s a lot harder to get drunk with strangers in the room. Which makes me think—I need a drink. The Victoria’s Secret perfume bottle in my bag weighs heavy on my shoulder, full of vodka instead of flowery scent—just a fifth, because I’m supposed to be stone-cold sober as part of my parole conditions—and my mouth practically waters at the thought of locking myself away in the bathroom and having just a little sip to make the day slightly less shitty. Booze and pills, the things that get me through the days, until I decide I don’t want to get through them anymore and jump off this express train through hell.

  The diner is already busy when I arrive, morose and with the image of two little boys with blond hair and blue eyes stuck firmly in the front of my mind. One from this morning, and the other from nine months ago. It strikes me as strange that the sound of a kid’s voice sets me off. The boy nine months ago didn’t scream; I never even heard his voice. I saw him on the news once after I’d been arrested. It was a home video the reporters had somehow gotten their hands on when the media frenzy was at its peak. He liked Spiderman. He had this excited little voice when he spoke, a rasp in his throat, the tail end of a cold. In the video, he was showing his dad how he could climb a tree.

  His name was Ryder. He was five years old, and then he was dead.

  “You’re late, Scarlett,” Sylvia hisses as I pour coffee and take a sip, burning the entire roof of my mouth. My throat protests as the bitter liquid scalds on its way down, settling uneasily in my stomach where it will churn until Serge hands me a plate of leftovers and tries to slap my ass around ten-thirty, when the breakfast crowd slows.

  Sylvia’s a bitch. I know she steals my tips when I’m with other customers. For some reason, I’m the highest-tipped waitress in Cabrezzi’s. Something about my shiny white teeth and my convincing smile? Or maybe it’s because they feel like they know me, like I’m familiar, a washed-out, slightly chubbier version of the actress who used to appear on their TV screens every Tuesday night and save the world. It’s the only reason she doesn’t fire my ass. Italian Sylvia owns the place with her Russian husband, Serge, and together they’re the oddest couple I’ve ever met. She wears the pants, bossing everyone around as she taps her taloned fingernails on her chipped coffee cup that says Cabrezzi’s down the side, black letters on a yellowed white mug. She talks a mile a minute, makes me serve her family every time they come in, even though I’m the only waitress who doesn’t speak Italian. And
they don’t tip. Like, at all. And Serge, her husband, fifty, with a paunch and a hint of his Russian accent still lingering on after thirty years in the Big Apple. He cooks greasy breakfast plates for the hungry hordes and tries to shove his hand in my dress whenever I have the misfortune to pass through the kitchen.

  I choke a little, put the coffee down on the pass, and try to compose myself. In the first few months that I was here, I used to get angry when she spoke to me like this. Now, I barely even notice.

  I pull my long brown hair up into a messy bun, the ends crunchy and dry as they slide through my fingers. I used to visit this hairdresser on Rodeo Drive every four weeks when I was back in LA, get my roots done and my ends trimmed, conditioning treatments, the works. I was sad in the beginning, after I’d lost everything, after all the money was gone and the best I could do was a package of dye from the supermarket that promised chocolate brunette but delivered dull black strands that looked oily all the time. Since then, I’ve barely bothered. The black has mostly faded. I don’t even care anymore. When you’ve already lost everything, you eventually get to this weird place where you’ve got nothing left to lose, and no good reason to try and get anything better. I guess that’s why I’m here, slinging coffees and waiting tables with my split ends and the ten pounds I’ve gained since my agent stopped passing me coke to help me starve myself. The camera adds ten pounds, they’d all said, but there were no cameras pointed at me anymore. Coke’s an expensive habit, and I’m a poor bitch these days. I drink vodka, and I take as many Oxycontin pills as I can afford. It’s better than fastening bricks to my feet and throwing myself in the Hudson. I think.

  The first twenty minutes of my shift are predictably dull. The place gets busy. I smile until my face hurts, pocket my tips, duck off to the bathroom for a shot of the good stuff, keep my eagle eyes on both Sylvia’s sticky fingers and the fingers Serge wishes he could get sticky in my pants, and then shit. Gets. Interesting.