14I
Her scratched watch face read 3 AM as she trudged through the run-down neighbourhood, littered with graffiti and needles. The heavy weight of a semi-automatic pistol strapped to her leg felt comforting, grounding her firmly, reminding the sky to be careful around her.
The only people out at this hour were either pissed drunk and delusional, a crazy chain-murderer, or a thoroughly lost and stupid kid. Cassandra "Caz" Callaghan considered herself to be the former two.
Hours earlier...
Caz stalked The Broadway alongside Rodriguez, searching for one of the gang's regulars: a homeless man, skin and bones slumped on the street corner. A shit case, Caz had scoffed. Her boss, Zahi, had insisted they need the business.
"SS Latin Kings to deliver," Cassandra prodded the addict with her steel toed boot, reaching inside her long coat to let her head rest on the butt of a gun. They couldn't risk another drug ring busted.
Rodriguez nodded at the scuffed man. "You got a name, vato?"
"Reg," he said in a raspy voice. "Reg Murphy."
"You got the money, Reg?" A strong Spanish accent was embedded in his voice.
"You black."
"He's Mexican," Cassandra snapped. "Part Latin. You live in this neighbourhood, you know enough Spanish to get around." She shifted her eyes downwards, testing him.
" 'Urry up, then. I don't got another day not using."
She then nodded to Rodriguez, who reached into his jean pocket, the same time as Rey shifted to reach for his money. They touched briefly, and not a split second later, Rodriguez's hand was already in his pocket, dropping the wad. Onlookers would have thought they were shaking each other's hands in greeting.
That is, if you were completely dense.
Zahi laughed, loud and exuberant.
Not that there was anything remotely funny- Just that it was silent, too silent. Not an echo bounced off the damp walls, no footsteps could be heard, although his stolen Rolex provided him with the time- 2: 47. He leaned against the wall. At this time, the enemy gang would be strutting by Broadway to tag the walls, the sides of high- end glass stores. Of course, they didn't walk; walking would not describe the way those Blacks held their chins up, laughing and jeering at the homeless, kicking away trash and little white kids. No, the Sons of Samoa definitely did not simply walk.
He ambled along the side alleys, inwardly patting himself on the back for the win in their last fight. Of course, Cassandra had to be the one to take the fat one down. Although she was slighter compared to the muscular dudes, that was an advantage, the Samoans were all fat and muscle- nothing else. Yes, he nodded; Cassandra ain't just a pretty face.
With that in mind, Zahi produced a spray can out of his hoodie, searching for a blank spot - or preferably an S.o.S tag - to cover with SSLNK13's gang signature. Although the protruding, red bricks were plentiful, nary a S.o.S sign could be spotted. What the hell? They're not marking territory anymore?
More important factors have come into play, he grimaced. Something's up. Guess it's high time we go on a raid again.
-line-
She looked down. Her boots were spattered with blood. Gray clouds rolled in, shrouding the moon and illuminating her dark figure trudging across the street. Removing her hood defiantly, she glanced at the familiar buildings, etched into the back of her head, and mouldy walls. This was her palace, and a part of her more than anything else. The street was her runway, the stores her property. And the residents, she knew as well as a King, his jesters. Enemies could not touch her here.
Seeing a red neon hand at the intersection, she slowly, almost leisurely, crossed the street, aware of a rush of water in the distance. A flash of a silver bender, and a blue Oldsmobile screeched loudly to a stop.
"What the hell is your problem, lady?" The driver yelled.
She tapped the window and gave him a look: You're out of your 'hood, buddy.
He stared at her, seeming to pause, then read the gleam in her eyes and leaned back as if it was natural to stop at a green light in the middle of the city. His eyes followed as Caz strolled to the other curb. He waited until she stepped foot on the cracked concrete, then rolled through the light and drove on.
She stood on the curb, smirking after him.
Before
Three teenage figures looked at each other in the dark lot. Two were larger, and obviously on the verge of becoming men, but the third one was leaner, and spoke calmly and evenly.
"What now?" One asked. "Lodgings secured?"
"Apartment building on Ralph's and Fifty-Sixth," The teenage girl informed them.
"Good. Rodriguez and I are on Queens'." The first one approved.
"I say we ditch our parents. Agreed, Caz? Can't get into no shit with them around." The other responded with a Spanish accent.
"They are of no use to me. I have severed all connections with familial relations."
"Are you quite sure?"
"Quite," she said sharply, causing the two the arouse suspicions immediately.
"You're a bastard."
"That, I am."
It started to rain, a light drizzle evolving into bullets and drenching her skin. Drawing a knife out of her pocket, she tilted the blade so as to catch the slivers of moonlight shining through dark clouds. The natural light revealed splatters of blood covering most of the blade, of which had already turned a dark red and started to emit a foul scent. Caz covered her nose with one baggy sleeve, and proceeded to wipe off the blood with the other damp one, grimacing at the smell. There was yet to be nothing worse than wiping off a prick's blood off your knife. The red mixed with rainwater with each plop, and dripped off the hilt to meet the ground, where diluted blood trickles had already started to flow into a manhole.
Before
Caz looked up at a run down building. It looked as though someone had thrown pieces of rooms and doors together, then slapped mildew on the sides for decor. The stench wafting around the rusted gate was foul, that of piss and body odour.
In one vague word, this place could be described as "home".
She pushed the rotting door aside with a creak, breathing in the familiar scent of mildew, mold, and cement. Nothing had changed since she left it, which was slightly comforting, but also meant that the "lobby" was a cupboard sized space, barely enough for her own self to fit through. She was heard rats scurrying around the nooks upstairs, which was no surprise; the place probably hadn't had a proper inspection since it was to be torn down. A dusty stairway provided the only path upstairs; obviously, the building had no elevator. She fingered a brand new dagger- a symbol and gift of her induction to the family line - once again and started up the dank stairway.
When the rusted sign announced she had reached the 5th floor, Cassandra turned down a narrow hallway, counting the doors with her footsteps until she reached a non- descript, white door, the one to her crappy one room apartment. Again, she pushed the door open with the tips of her fingers, letting a beam of light spill into the hallway before she closed the door. She'd expected Treva to be asleep already, but her mother figure was centered in the glow of the only lamp, stuffing clothes and belongings into a large cardboard box. The bed had been stripped of sheets, and the flat pillows stowed away in a clear, Tupperware container. Cassandra stopped dead when she saw.
"No." Her voice sounded like the resonance of a drum.
Her mother turned to stare.
"What, now you don't even ask me when we switch flats?" She didn't use the word move on purpose; they hopped from one apartment to another so often they never had a home. Or so it seemed that way.
Treva continued to glare. "The government's been on my ass about mortgage, Cassandra."
"I'm not something you can lug around! I have friends here!" When this came out of her mouth, she realized how immature it sounded. Of course she didn't have any friends, just people to run around with and shoot down. Blood pounded heavily in her ears, her temper raising for the second time that night.
Treva turned her back to push the flaps down on a large cardboard box, dismissing the matter.
"Fine," Cassandra seethed. She didn't need Treva. She was old enough for this, no one cared. There was never anyone waiting for her when she got home, never anyone around, and now, there never had to be. Racing around the tiny room, she collected what few belongings she owned and bunched them into a ball. She then stuffed them into a black messenger tote, the one she had stolen especially for school. Right, like she went to school much anyways. She turned towards her… mother, and spoke the final word.
"Fuck you."
She then stomped out the door in her black combat boots, letting it slam behind her. She tripped over the scraggly hallway carpet and ran down the stairs, jumping over the last two flights. Finally, she kicked down the rusted main door and felt the cool night breeze upon her face. How long had she dreamed of doing this? How long had the dreamed of running away, being free to fully join her gang as a full fledged member? Too long. And now, with tonight, the decision was final. The SS Latin Kings were there for her more than this wretched woman.
Caz walked down the alleyway for the third time that night, more attuned to her mental sense of direction than the light from street posts. She ran, feeling the satisfying crunch of gravel below her feet.
It was done.
The drizzle turned into large, fat drops of rain, hitting Cassandra's face like cold, silver bullets. She thought she saw a shadow through the rain, and squinted. Surely the enemy gang wouldn't be in their territory so leisurely, so soon after getting their asses handed to them.
She reached down her cargoes and pulled out a small, hand sized pistol, resting it against her neck with one hand as the other felt around in the bag for her trusty knife. Eventually, her fingers came down on something hard and sharp. Immediately her reflexes came into play and yanked her hand back, to see a deep gash running across three fingers. Shit. Cassandra coaxed that hand through the arm hole while picking up the offending weapon with the other.
At least she'd found it.
Carefully lowering the thin metal into her pocket, she examined the wound. It wasn't too bad, considering her trusty knife had definitely done more damage, way more, than a harmless cut. Countless bodies flashed before her eyes, and Caz waved them away. She wouldn't feel guilty for them, wouldn't think about it. She panned her eyes across the street again...
...And saw nothing.
Shaking her head, she grabbed the messenger bag and hurried in the direction of her small apartment.
She held her new knife with a solemn expression after the two had left and turned around a corner, looking up at the sky. It was custom made by an underground society, and presented to each of the new gang members. It felt too new, too heavy, too clean. Unused, making her feel new and inexperienced.
"No turning back now," she repeated. Grasping the emblem on its hilt, she robotically dragged it across her upper arm, silently shrieking in pain, then turned head to watch the blood seep out, staining her paper thin shirt. She collapsed, clutching her left arm.
No turning back now. Blood had been spilled countless times, and now hers would join in turn. She craned her neck sideways, parallel to the gutter, and watched as her own young blood seeped into its depths.
No turning back now.
She opened her lips to scream...
She glanced at a homeless man curled up shivering under a bench near Fifty-Sixth, and scoffed. How pathetic, to allow people and drugs to tear someone down to a whimpering ball of flesh, sleeping with dirt and worms.
Caz Callaghan would have none of that.
The rain continued.