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Twenty-five kopecks. That was all it cost to ride either for three blocks or from the north to southside of Moscow. Caked plaster, paintings spanning the high-set ceiling, and chandeliers smiling their gorgeously-vicious teeth down on him as he echoed through the white lobby to catch the train. He arrived on the platform, that was still reminiscent of an empyrean palace, and muted his dress shoes on the polished marble. He captured little confetti fragments in the conversations roasting nearby, unintentionally because of his nontraditional training.
In the distance he heard the clean hum of the train, and marveled at the white posts, and walls void of graffiti. It was a hell of a lot better than New York, and a hell of a lot better than London, even. If his balls weren't clinging so close to his body, he'd consider it.
Once the doors split, he checked his watch -- just once, and shuffled inside to collect a seat along the horizon of cushioned bench. The moment he felt the underground rumbling again, and in the window opposite him, saw the scrolling ads in a language he couldn't understand, he peeled off his lustered leather gloves. He folded over with a gentle precision and beneath the wink of his bowler hat, meticulously unclasped his suitcase with the blades of his thumbs, and tucked them away.
The reserved mother next to him, balancing a mousy-haired little girl in her lap, switched her stare away sharply. She swore she saw a flash of a gun tucked away in that fragrant suitcase, but she knew it'd be best to pretend as though nothing had happened. Her kneecap began to jog nervously, and the four-year-old girl scowled at her with a disappointed whimper until the jittery leg stilled.
When the train stalled at the next stop, she bolted up, and formed a cold glove around her little girl's hand and steered her through onto the platform.
The man hadn't seemed to notice. He crossed his legs, and picked through his side pocket for something. He couldn't camoflauge with the people on the train: the style of his hat for one, the designer quality of his suit and skinny tie, his clever posture, and lastly, his face. It must've been so handsome once upon a time, before it became tracked with glossy scars. Before his left eye became permanently half-closed and tripwired with a strange twitch.
Just before the train caught speed again, she caught him through the window. He tore away a translucent lollipop wrapper and twirled it the candy to indent the canyon of his cheek.
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<center>http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v9...valentine3.jpg
blank frank is the messenger of your doom and your destruction
yes, he is the one who will set you up as nothing
and he is one who will look at you sideways
his particular skill is leaving bombs in people?s driveways.
blank frank has a memory that?s as cold as an iceberg
the only time he speaks is in incomprehensible proverbs
blank frank is the siren, he?s the air-raid, he?s the crater
he?s on the menu, on the table, he?s the knife and he?s the waiter
-- brian eno</center>
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?We know all pigs are they same. You pull a little strings, you feed them a little bit of money, they forget about things. They turn the other cheek. They let you slide on by with your business,? Johnny refused to fall into the stereotype of an interrogator?s victim. He kept his arms hard-pressed in sinew-cabled fold across his chest, and kept his chin hitched high and indignant. His bleached hair caught a shallow glare off the overhead lamp, as he watched with an external glow of triumph as the interrogators, circled him like caged lions, brooding over their cigarettes.
The taller of the two, a broad-shouldered man that was no doubt a boozer judging by the pouches under his eyes, and his unkempt billy-goat goatee by the name of Hoyt, refused to let down. He kept anxiously paddling the table from one side to the other with his hip, until it menacingly screeched like nails on a blackboard. Johnny didn?t budge.
Coates was in the left corner of the ring, side glancing into the two-way-mirror, with a smug grimace and a truckload of sighs. Hoyt never let him play.
?So that explains the body, but you didn?t explain to me how or why even,? Hoyt drowned Johnny in his shadow, leering behind his chair.
?Well, it goes like this: I?ve known Verona for years. When he sent me and another guy--?
?Who is this other guy?? Hoyt interrupted.
?None of your godamn business, let me tell my fuckin? story. Anyway, this other guy and I were over there for a jewelry heist. Not that we were part of it, it?s just that we knew from other sources what was going down, and as soon as those fuckers took their glory strut from the building with bags full of sparkly shit ---BANG--? He pinched his index and middle finger together and mocked a gun blast at Coates. Coates visibly cringed, and earned a snicker from the man in question. ?That?s when we ran into Bates. We thought we made a clean getaway, but no, man, Bates is one slick motherfucker. He?s silent. Really silent, and he crept up on us like -- I don?t even know what. He took out my partner, spared me.?
He paused to take a sip of his coffee, it looked like tar but tasted like a filmy heaven.
?When I asked him why --he said it was cos he said I looked English. So I severed ties with Verona for a bit, started following Valentine around. Now, Valentine was never no boss. He took orders from other people, but he was so much more sly than the people that were ordering him around. If he wanted to, he could take them out any time of day. And sometimes, he did. He was really generous with splitting money with me, and I think we even became sorta friends. Verona sent guys to Wales looking for me, since I got away with so much money. That was their heist, you know.
But I was guarding Valentine?s little girl with this guy named Reaper. She was staying with her grandma or aunt or something, and we?d walk her to school and all that. Only because Valentine was pissing on so many people and ripping them off he had to be careful.
I was drunk one night, and I told Valentine about Verona, and all this money he had, and just how essential he was in the drug-trade. He was a direct link to Columbia, and he was--and still is pretty godamn significant. Valentine?s a hitman, and just that. He kills people cos he?s remorseless and all that jazz, and he does it good and he?s smart about it too. ?Never leaves no evidence behind. But, he got this idea in his head that he was going to the States cos he could make a better living there. The U.K. was getting a little too suspicious of him. Cops everywhere, people looking for his little girl. Hell, he just had killed his wife like two years before. Or so the legend goes?
So I travel with him. He tells me that he wants me to befriend Verona again. I said, ?No way, man?? He shot both hands up, his eyebrows furrowing incredulously. ?He?ll fuckin? kill me. But Valentine gave me a case of money and said: ?This?ll make up for it.? So here I am, walking to Verona?s mansion, scared to death he?s gonna kill me. Well, if the fucking flake doesn?t kill me, then Bates surely is, so I don?t really got much of a choice. ?Turns out Mr. Glass is a very forgiving man, and let me back in the circle. Like it was no big deal, and no one seemed to resent me. I kept contact with Valentine, and that was before Ramirez and Bates killed Verona?s little girl --- Mary Jane. So it wasn?t that risky then.?
He hung his head, and Hoyt stood back, and swayed his hand expectantly, as if to say: well?
?Hold the fuck on, I?m thirsty. It?s a long story.? He took another detailed sip, and drew it out to make the boys anxious.
?Along this time, he met Valencio. And I always laugh and call them all the three ?V?s? two Spanish bastards, and one English guy. Those two made some sorta partnership and while they were busy in New York City, Valencio decided that he wanted to strike. Now, don?t ask me why they got it in their heads to hold the little girl hostage, besides the fact that it?d make Verona piss his pants--but they did. And I don?t know how the story goes, but supposedly Valencio had her gagged too hard and the rope too tight, and she either suffocated in the middle of the night, or I don?t know what. Either way, it was a shit thing to do to a little girl. But that wasn?t my place. Valentine was my man, and you could tell that he felt bad about it, having a little girl of his own and all.
Before I knew it, Verona already hunted those two out. He found out who did his little girl wrong, and he shot Valencio in the head and beat the shit out of Valentine. I was one of the men that beat the shit out of Valentine. And if it wasn?t for me, he wouldn?t have lived. I told Verona to consider some of his morals, and I told him to beat the shit out of Valentine, but don?t kill the bastard, cos you know, I wanted to save my friend. Besides, I said that since Valentine had a little girl, they shared that same paternal thing, you know? Rub that in his face. Make him live with what he?s done. I felt bad kicking Valentine in the ribs, and throwing him out into an alley somewhere out of a backseat. But Valentine understood. He was thankful.
So Verona started keeping a close eye on him. Valentine kept moving to try and avoid Verona, but he always had men stationed wherever he went. Valentine wasn?t so slick anymore. It was so hard even trying to contact Valentine at this point, cos Verona?s men were on him like the fucking F.B.I.
Verona loved to torture him. He started walking Bates? little girl home from school and made sure Valentine knew about it. That was when Valentine snapped and came to me. The last thing he ever wanted was his little girl getting hurt. That was never Verona?s intention, but Valentine thought he was dog-crazy and was out to get revenge for Mary Jane. In some ways, yeah, he was, but he wasn?t gonna kill Rebecca.?
?Wait--? Coates interjected. ?Who?s Rebecca??
?Valentine?s kid.?
He nodded, and motioned for him to continue.
?Then, Verona?s old broad, some girl---named Lethe started seeing Valentine. I don?t know how they met, but man, Verona was fucking pissed off. He felt betrayed, and rightfully so, cos it ends up that girl was playin? Verona too, just like me, cos she was a friend of Valencio?s. A close-friend. A sister-type. So Verona decided he was going to kill them both, but he wasn?t gonna hurt Becca.
I told Valentine this, and Valentine just sat in this one chair for hours, and just stared. Finally, he said to me: ?Well, this is how we?re gonna stage it.? The rest is history.?
Hoyt cut a path to the other side of the room, and considered the mirror for a second before scribbling an imaginary note on his pastel-gray beard with a stroking thumb. Coates remained lame.
?So what happened to the plan, Johnny? Why did Verona almost get killed--he was just let out of the hospital last week, and why did the Valentine?s girlfriend get stabbed??
?Well, it?s a harsh fucking world out there, and there was nothing I could do. Verona stabbed her, he didn?t want to use the gun. Valentine shot Verona cos he hated the bastard, and wanted to see him die. He was too paralyzed by the squibbs to even get up and finish him off. Lethe did that--well, almost--considering he?s still breathing. I watched a few good guys get killed. I set it up so they would be. Valentine shot down some of my friends, but I made a promise to him, and I stuck by it. Besides, I was kinda attached to his kid at this point. Rebecca?s a great little girl.
I was waiting in the hallway, as soon as I heard shots, I was supposed to usher Lethe and Rebecca to the neighbor?s down the hall--which I did. But we ended up having to call an ambulance cos Lethe got stabbed. I ran back in, and it seemed like Verona was dead, I helped Valentine up ---?
?Wait, wait --what did you use again? What gun did you set Verona up with??
?It was a squibb. Not blanks. It feels like a gun, and it even gives the blood effect. But it isn?t a real gun. I handed it to Verona right before we rushed into Valentine?s apartment.
I helped Valentine up, and he was still a little dumbfounded cos of Lethe. He kept asking if she was alright, and I told him, ?yeah, she?s fine? and we ran as fast as we could to the laundry mat downstairs, took the body out of the closet, and set him where Bates was laying.?
?What was the point of that??
?So if and when Verona woke up, and when Verona?s men found out about it---they were fucking loyal, they wouldn?t feel the need to stalk Rebecca, and Lethe anymore. They?d think Bates was dead. Fuck, Rebecca and Lethe don?t even know. They think Valentine is dead. And he wants to keep it that way. He knows that by being around them, by being alive, he?s constantly putting their lives in danger. So everyone thinks he?s dead. Everyone. All those motherfuckers he fucked over, and whose friends and partners he killed, all those people he ripped off. Everyone in the crime world is breathing peacefully. No one cares about Lethe and Becca no more. ?Last I heard, Verona got out of the hospital with a smile on his face. The body we used was some poor janitor. ?Didn?t look a godamn thing like Bates, but the police didn?t care once I paid them off. They cremated his body, Bate?s girlfriend and his kid, and sister, and they poured it off somewhere, thinking it was Valentine all sentimental-like. They don?t know.?
Finally, Hoyt?s chin took a nosedive, and he rounded the other side of the table to face parallel to the stone-faced narrator.
?So where is Bates now??
Johnny laughed. ? ?Booked a flight to Europe five months ago. I don?t know where he is. He might be dead, but he?s probably alive. Cos he plays everyone like a pawn. And you can tell this to all your little Fed buddies: you aren?t gonna find him.?
