Bets, Months and Wilted Flowers
Janvier had not been too surprised when Rose pulled out the gun, a tiny Kel-Tec hand gun, and shot him. He honestly thought the crazy bitch would’ve tried it earlier.
And if he had known his week would start with him nearly getting crushed by a naked white guy dropped from a ten story building in Downtown Oakland he honestly would’ve stayed home in his nice warm bed, seriously.
+++
It all started on a Monday, which came after a Sunday Janvier couldn’t really remember. He rolled out of bed, washed, got dressed, pulled his hair into a messy ponytail, fed his dog, grabbed his bag and left for work; Janvier had a feeling it would be a very productive afternoon.
An hour later he was ambling down Telegraph, completely at ease looking down alleys and on corners for junk he could clean up, wash, or buff to look like it had not been covered in grime for god knows how long to sell at the flea markets. Janvier had started his ‘business’ two years after he graduated from high school and a failed stint at community college, just wandering the streets looking for crap and evading the IRS.
Two hours later, half of which was spent fishing change out of fountain to buy lunch and evading security, when stepping back onto the side walk from a back alley- his bag cheerfully filled with all kinds of neat things- that a pale something whooshed passed his face and splattered, with a meaty thud, in a shower of blood and gore on cooling cracked asphalt.
Janvier nearly shat bricks.
He stumbled back clutching at his chest and heaved until his throat burned and tears prickled at the corner of his eyes. Janvier hastily wiped the flecks of blood and what he really hoped wasn’t brain from his face and looked up.
There, leaning casually over the edge of the building the body was obviously tossed from, was a man; staring right down at him. Janvier froze, a deer in the headlights. The man then, very slowly; almost tauntingly, reached for something below Janvier’s line of sight. His hand reappeared loosely holding a hand gun and pointing it downwards. Janvier nearly screamed and fell back, his hands scrapping on broken glass, and froze; eyes wide and nearly popping out of his skull.
The bullet whizzing past his right leg and shattering into the dirty concrete of the alley, leaving a nice tear in his jeans and a burning gash in his leg, snapped him out of his stupor, making him swallow a scream and a few choice words. He practically crab walked backwards and dived behind a dumpster, two more shots ringing out and pinging into the side of the dumpster acting as Janvier’s shield.
The alley was silent, the echoes of gunshots fading away, and Janvier felt like he was about to pass out as he frantically dug a ratty cell phone from his jean pocket and quickly dialed a number.
The phone hummed for a moment, ringing for what felt like an eternity.
“Allo?” The voice on the line sounded peppy and the pulsating beat of techno music echoed in the background, Janvier nearly cried.
“Berceuse?” He was surprised he sounded so calm.
“Janvier, is that you?” He and a couple of his friends rented rooms from Berceuse who at the tender age of twenty-five bought a house, at the prompting of her father, and rented out the rooms without really asking any questions of her tenants. Janvier paid her in cash, always.
“Berceuse I need you to come and pick me up.” The music was turned down, now just a faint beat in the background. “Also, I think someone just tossed Matt out of a window.”
“What?” Berceuse did not sound amused; she obviously thought he was joking.
“Don’t fuck around like that Janvier.”
Janvier wanted to scream at Berceuse but settled for bashing his head against the dumpster, the sting calmed him, and he gritted his teeth, “Berceuse.” The tension now in his voice seemed to throw the woman raging over the line for a loop. “I think the shit has finally hit the fan.”
Janvier heard Berceuse suck in a shaky breath, calming herself down, “Are you sure? I mean, really sure that it’s Matt?”
He clenched his hand into a fist, his palm brown with sludge and bleeding, bits of glass shining in the dimming afternoon light, “Yea, I’m more than sure. I got his brain splattered on my shirt.”
“Shit.” Janvier thought that one word summed up the entire situation pretty well.
“Berceuse, you need to get to the corner of 10th and Clay as soon as possible. The guy who tossed him shot at me-”
“Shit, Shit, Shit… Were you hit?!”
“NO! Just shut the fuck up and get there OK! The cops are probably on their way by now and I need you to be there.” Janvier hung up before she could protest and stood, crouching just in case the shooter was still feeling trigger happy, legs numb and shaking.
Janvier peered from behind his shield and gave a sigh of relief when he saw the empty alley. He stepped from behind the dumpster carefully, wincing when his leg brushed the rough wall of the building, and stepped towards the mess of Matt’s body; retrieving his bag along the way.
Matt was a bookie who worked placing bets in China Town and parts of Richmond on different sporting events, mostly illegal Dog or Cock fighting. He rented a room from Berceuse but never stayed there, the only times he came by was to pay his bill and to try and flirt with Berceuse. He was a rat but Berceuse humored him from time to time.
Janvier carefully stepped over Matt’s body, mindful of the spreading pool of blood, looked up and down the sidewalk before hurrying away; the distant wails of police sirens giving him motivation. He wiped his bleeding palms on his already ruined shirt, finally seeming to notice his stinging palms a few blocks later, and paused, a thought suddenly occurring to him. If that guy shooting wanted him dead he would have just walked down to where Janvier hid and put a hole in his head when he was talking to Berceuse.
Shit.
Janvier turned his head slightly and there, not but a few feet behind him stood the shooter and two others all dressed in neat black suits and dark glasses looking very intimidating. Two were obviously Asian one with red dye streaking his slicked back black hair the other with his hair cut close to his head. The third man and the one guy Janvier knew for sure had a gun tucked into his suit somewhere, stood at least a head taller than his two buddies and probably a few inches taller than Janvier himself; if he didn’t hunch, was a deep brown with his hair in neat cornrows.
Red Streaks grinned, made a shooing motion and Janvier shook himself out of his daze and continued forward, back stiff with fear, all too aware of the three men marching him towards what was probably going to be a very painful end to a Monday evening.
+++
Janvier hated when he was right about some things, he really did.
Berceuse, if you do that you’ll burn yourself; that knife’s pretty sharp, ‘Vem, you shouldn’t do that or you’ll cut a finger off or something; that dog’s going to bi-
Berceuse’s sharp elbow digging into his side jerked him from his thoughts, and back into reality. He sat squished against the right rear door of Berceuse’s green Toyota Camry, Berceuse practically glued to his side in the middle and Close Cut sitting comfortably gazing out of the rear window on the left. Red Streaks was driving, drumming his hands on the steering wheel to the beat of a gaudy punk rock song, while Gun Man sat in the front seat, his head turned slightly so he had a clear view of the back seat; he had been staring at Janvier the entire time, despite the sunglasses he still wore, Janvier was sure of it.
“For what it’s worth, Janvier, we didn’t mean for you to get involved.” Berceuse did sound at least a little sorry, but that was probably because she was going to die too.
Janvier lost himself in thought once more.
Berceuse had been waiting on the corner of Clay, leaning against the hood of her car smoking and playing with one of her many gaudy bracelets, dark eyes wide behind her glasses, her thick hair pulled into a messy bun. When she caught sight of Janvier and his three new friends for a moment it looked like she would bolt, but she only snuffed out her cigarette on the hood of her car and reached, with shaking hands, to fish her car keys from her back pocket. She tossed them to Red Streaks, who caught them and shuffled forward to unlock the car. Janvier spied Gun man, out of the corner of his eye, settling his coat.
He sighed.
Janvier may have known Berceuse for three years but he knew if Gun Man hadn’t flashed his gun she’d have been half way to Berkeley, leaving Janvier to choke on her dust and have his knee caps smashed in.
Red Streaks finally stopped the car. Janvier looked out of the tinted car window, spying shipping crates, all with different flags or company names and logos emblazoned on the side, lined up neatly in rows. The port, they were at the port, Janvier sighed and rubbed at his face-glad he’d picked the glass from his palms on the drive over- and pressed his forehead to the cool window; the mind numbing terror he should’ve been feeling all day was finally settling in.
“Come on, get out.” Gun man had gotten out of the car silently and was tapping his gun casually against Janvier’s window, oh Gods he was going to die. He opened the door and slipped out, the sound of gravel crunching under worn sneakers echoing in his head with such a sense of finality he wanted to cry.
Gun man seized his arm and frog marched him towards an open shipping crate. Berceuse was kicking and screaming, Red streaks and Close cut made no move to quiet her shrieks just held her failing limbs and headed towards the crate. Even if someone heard Berceuse’s screams no one would call the cops, they probably knew not to get involved.
The crate was empty save for a simple metal desk covered in stacks of bills and a huge portable flashlight that blinded Janvier for a moment. He blinked the spots out of his eyes and forgot his mind numbing fear when he spotted Rose sitting primly, legs crossed, on the metal desk
Rose was Matt’s accountant and quite possibly the most terrifying Asian woman Janvier had ever met. Whenever Matt came around to pay his rent Rose always stood silently in the doorway, eyeing everything with obvious distaste. She always wore a dark skirt and blouse, as opposed to Matt’s dirty jeans and striped shirts, with her hair pulled back into a severe bun, lips pressed thin and dark eyes narrowed. Rose was the type of person who exceeded all levels of creepy.
Rose stood and walked forward, her heels clicking against the cool metal of the shipping crate. Berceuse had stopped struggling and had been released, both Red and Close stood by her side; ready to restrain her at any moment, her face was twisted in rage and shock.
“Rose?” Berceuse was always an emotional woman, ready to fly off the handle at any moment, but now she seemed almost frighteningly calm.
Rose smiled, showing too much teeth and managing to look like some sort of demented cat, “Yes, Berceuse?”
Berceuse exploded, “YOU BIT-”. The quiet click of the safety release of a gun silenced her. She took a deep breath, calming down, “Rose, Janvier, you know he isn’t involved.”
All eyes turned towards Janvier and for a moment he wanted to hit Berceuse.
Rose waved her arm dismissively, “Why do you think I had Matt killed?”
Berceuse gave a start, the abrupt change in subject seemingly throwing her for a loop, “Aren’t you working for the people we took the money from?” She gestured towards the metal table, “That’s it, isn’t it? All the money from the bets Matt hid at my place?”
Janvier wouldn’t be surprised if Rose was working to clean up her bosses mess to save her own ass; Berceuse and Matt were so obvious in their dealings with each other Janvier was surprised no one had dealt with it earlier. Matt had always skimmed money from all the bets he took but when Berceuse got involved they got sloppy.
Rose gave a short laugh, “Oh, no, I’ve taken care of that problem before it could even come up. I’ve been tweaking the numbers for years so our clientele are none the wiser.”
Janvier twitched. He did not like where this was going.
“Why? Why’d the fuck you kill Matt then?”
“Oh, Berceuse,” Rose laughed again, “I want to control what Matt controlled. He had standings in many hoods, and power many can only dream of; the fool wasn’t capitalizing, I will.” Rose looked crazed and Gun man twitched.
“Rose,” Janvier rasped before clearing his throat, “You know if the crews find out you had Matt offed, they’ll kill you.”
Roses face scrunched and Janvier flinched before continuing, “You’ll never have the support and money base he had, no one will trust the accountant whose boss was tossed from a building.”
Janvier knew Rose was going to kill both he and Berceuse and he steeled himself; if he was going to die for Rose’s crazy ambition he was going to plant a seed of doubt in her and her goons head before anyone put a hole in his.
Rose glared at Janvier, a snarl twisting her small face. “You know nothing! I can worm my way into good standings, I’ve nothing to worry about!” She snapped her head towards Berceuse and Red, “Kill her.”
It happened quickly, before Janvier or even Berceuse could move, Red reached into his jacket and drew his gun pressing it to Berceuse’s temple and squeezing the trigger, all in one smooth movement. Blood splattered and her body crumpled to the ground, the thud she made drowned out by the ringing in Janvier’s ears.
He fell back, eyes on Berceuse’s twitching body; a million thoughts bouncing around in his head. Janvier heard the sounds of Rose’s heels clicking as she walked towards him but he ignored her.
Who will feed my dog? Did she kill him? Why didn’t I get out, why didn’t I get ou-
Dark cloth whished in front of his face and Janvier looked up. Right into the barrel of a tiny gun and Rose’s face, she was grinning slightly, and before she could squeeze the trigger and end everything Janvier spoke.
“They’ll kill you before you even take one bet.” At least he’d get the last word in.