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Winter, part ten

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PostPosted: Fri Oct 26, 2012 2:12 pm    Post subject: Winter, part ten Reply with quote

Dave's phone rang and he fished it out of his pocket. It didn't ring nearly as often now as it did when he was in the business of selling drugs. In fact, sometimes he wondered if he even wanted to own one, anyway. For emergencies... But naw. Who cares. Dave had lived through a lot. He knew firsthand how fleeting life could be.

Dave pulled it out of his pocket and saw the name. It was the name of an old associate of his. An old crimey. Someone he once enjoyed being around, but now wanted nothing to do with. Vosco knew Dave was on the straight and narrow... But Dave picked it up anyway. “Hey bro...” Vosco said as Dave pictured his skinny tattooed self fidgeting in his couch as he spoke to Dave.

“Yeah.” Dave growled back into the phone. “I need to talk to you, man. I'll be in town in two weeks. You gonna be around?” Vosco asked as Dave muttered “If no more wolves stop by, then yeah.” “Huh?” Vosco said. “Nothing. Yeah. I'll be around. And no shit in my house.” Dave said, referring to drugs, although he knew Vosco didn't give a shit. He'd have meth and heroin bulging out of his pockets anyway.

“Hey, I thought you lived in an apartment, man.” Vosco said, almost scoldingly. “Whatever. No shit in my apartment.” Dave said, shaking his head, wanting this conversation to end. “A'ight.” Vosco said. “Late.” Then hung up. A chill swept through Dave's soul as he hung his head low. It never ended. You were never “out”. Dave didn't like the feeling he got when he spoke to Vosco that day. He hoped nobody ever pulled his card, but left little hope that he would live the rest of his life out in peace.

Dave didn't bother wasting time wondering why Vosco might want him dead. His secrets maybe... Something someone said Dave said, to cover their ass... Dave was no snitch. But in the underworld, people believed what they wanted to believe. Dave grabbed the wadded up and bloody sheet and t-shirts and rags and walked out of his apartment to throw it into the dumpster in the alley by his front door.

Margie was watching Dave. “Hey, what the hell happened?” She said, Dave shooting around, looking at her forty something face, his face still cold and hard. “She's on her rag.” Dave growled. “You take her to the doctor? Damn!” Margie said, thinking Dave had girlfriend she didn't know about as Dave just shrugged. Margie never really liked Dave. She was his neighbor. A disgusted look fell over Margie's face as she glared at Dave and shook her head. “You got no heart, Dave.” She said.

“The hell I don't.” Dave growled. “It's just too black to see.” He said with a smile so contrastingly bright against his uncaring demeanor, Margie turned and walked back into her apartment, disgusted, and slammed the door shut. The lid opened with a squeak as Dave shoved the sheet and towels inside the dumpster.

That's another reason Dave was still alive. He was a cold bastard. When he was dealing, even his friends knew they'd get blasted if they looked at him funny. It was a cold hatred that burned in him, that he felt he might never be rid of.

Today, Dave struggled with a lot of things. A lot of fears... But the cops coming to his door wasn't one of them. Nor was someone kicking his door in and gunning him down, taking his drugs and money, either. Hey, those are two pretty big worries in a criminal's mind. The darkness that plagued him, though, he thought Winter would see it and maybe scratch his eyes out with those pink claws, or something when she first came to. She kinda had that air about her, an air it took someone with Dave's past to see.

But she didn't see it. Or, if she did, she was comfortable around it. Which was strange. Dave shook his head, hoping he'd see her again, but knowing he never would. For what it was worth, her presence in his life was exciting, and fun. He enjoyed his time around her. Dave shook his head. What was he doing, thinking about her anyway? She was a Naakaanee, and you didn't mess with a Naakaanee. You just didn't. It was the unwritten law.

Dave sighed as he lingered by his door, the black paint cracking and peeling, the number six hanging upside down, but the seven nailed to it was right side up. Dave stared at the dented, worn dumpster for a moment, then bowed back into his apartment and shut the door, locking the deadbolt.
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