somerealnerd

  The office swam in cigar haze, thick, acrid curls choking the air, clinging to every corner. Plush, dark decadence screamed money, bck leather chairs, a hulking mahogany desk polished to a gleam, gold-trimmed decanters glinting on a shelf, but it was a gangster’s ir, no mistaking it: a pair of bck sleek daggers hung on the wall, a skull-shaped ashtray sat fat with stubs. A massive window stretched behind the desk, with curtains yanked tight, choking out the world.

  Rafael Costa, the Reapers’ kingpin, lounged there, his legs kicked up on the desk, a fat cigar smoldering between his fingers. John just stood across him, looking. Under the smoke’s tease, he was itching to have a smoke too. He had spent days prodding Rex’s old goons, his goons now, for the information about that “big job”, but they’d always come back empty. And then a summon arrived: “Big boss wants to see you, Lalo.” Now, drowning in that cigar scent, and craving a drag for himself, he broke the silence: “Can I have a smoke here?”

  Rafael didn’t flinch, just kept puffing, stone-faced, while his twin meat-sb bodyguards, one fnking each side, snickered low, letting out a dumb heh-heh-heh. John had seen it since joining, the Reapers had a low bar for humor, and they ughed at basically anything, giggle-fits on tap.

  Happy gangsters, lucky gangsters, I suppose? He mused, and rolled his eyes.

  He dug out his pack, sparked one up anyway. Deep pull, lips sealed, smoke streamed slowly from his nose. The guards’ grins faltered now, mockery flipping to disbelief. Even Rafael’s bnk mask twitched, brow creasing faint. One sb stepped up, looming, with his head dipped, gring down at John, who was a full head shorter. “Who said you could smoke here?” John tilted back, and met his stare. He then flicked the cigarette to the hardwood floor, grinding it out with his heel. Guard opened his mouth, ready to bark, when John held his gaze, slow as sin: popped the pack again, slid out another one, set it to his lips, struck the lighter—all in zy, slow frames, eyes locked, dripping defiance, as if he was afraid the guard would miss even the slightest movement he made.

  The guard’s breath hitched, chest heaving now. He clocked John’s upturned face, that nose was wide open, begging for a hit. He reared back, his skull aimed to smash it ft, but John read the wind-up, jerked aside quickly. Then his right fist rocketed into the guy’s throat, nailing his Adam’s apple. The punch was amped and precise. It dropped him quickly, his knees buckling, hacking hard on the floor. Seeing this, the second guard surged, fists coiled, but Rafael’s hand flicked up, halting him cold. John pyed blind to it, shot the downed sb a shit-eating smirk, and stepped back, took a drag, then faced Rafael.

  “No, you don’t smoke here, Mr. Lalo Cohle, not in my office,” Rafael rumbled, voice breaking the quiet at st. John shed the cocky edge quickly, and nodded with a grin: “Yes, sir. And just call me Lalo, please.” He snuffed the smoke, this time in the ashtray, then pyed dumb, all innocent: “No one told me a direct ‘no’, so I smoked anyway.”

  Rafael didn’t snap at his word, but ughed instead, a low, dry rasp. This college-boy-looking punk had balls. Clear as day he’d been told, no smoking here, but he lit up anyway, then pinned it on Rafael and his crew for not spelling it out.

  John had his consideration for the py, even though it was risky as hell: if the Reapers wanted to avenge Rex, there would be no way the top dog would call him in for a chat. Also, this conversation happened too early, too quick. Rafael summoning him only days after Rex’s death meant he saw something in John, something that interested him, or something valuable to him. John couldn’t guess what it was though. So John could push a bit, and as long as it was not too far, the big boss wouldn’t sweat small fries. It’s funny to say this, but John kind of had “faith” in Rafael: a thug hooked on respect games wouldn’t climb to where Rafael was.

  And just like John figured, Rafael didn’t harp on the smoke stunt. Instead, he pivoted smoothly to the important: “Alright, Lalo. Let’s talk business. I did some checks on you. And I gotta say it's very impressive: drugs, cop-bashing, arson, kidnapping, assault, and it all happened before you hit eighteen. Dodged a life sentence clean. You are smart, ruthless. Your crimes timed perfectly when the w’s soft. Then no crime record after eighteen, meaning you hid your crimes well. Anyway, Rex’s crew’s yours now, so his job’s yours too.” Spot-on with John’s guess, the Reapers would vet him for sure like what Rafael said. But this was way more straightforward than he’d expected. He anticipated that they would do it, but not say it. Also, this conversation about “business” happened much faster than he’d imagined. He’d braced for a trust test, maybe some blood-in rite, but Rafael skipped it, straight to the point.

  Maybe the gig itself was the test. Pass it, then the real py comes. John thought. “My honor, Mr. Coffee, sorry, I mean Mr. Costa.”

  John was a bit lost in his own thoughts, so he let out something dumb. Mr. Coffee? Rafael’s brow quirked—what the fuck?—but he shook it off, eyes rolling, brushing past the slip. “So the job’s picking up our new stuff, at the east docks,” he said, gaze locking hard, drilling into John like he was panning for cracks.

  That line hit John odd, really odd, but he couldn’t pin why. East docks was the same spot he had monitored with Seo-young, meaning that Rafael was giving the correct information, but still something itched in his head. He quickly steadied, and smoothed the frown he hadn’t meant to show. He told himself he could be overthinking, probably. Rafael didn’t wait for a reply, and just rolled on: “My guy will brief you the details outside ter.” Then, he threw a curveball before John could leave: “Why did you put out the first smoke, then light another one? Drop your polite act, just tell me the truth.” And John blinked at his question, caught off guard. He then eyed Rafael carefully. He’s clearly very intelligent, no fooling him on this one, I guess. So he decided to tell the truth. He nodded toward the guard, who was back on his feet now, throat-bruised, hovering by Rafael’s side. “First one I snuffed was to tell that lug I’d give him face. Throwing it on the floor was a warning to him, though, telling him to not push it. But he still wanted to yap, so I just lit the second, showing him I smoke cause I can. He doesn't tell me what to do. Simple as that.” John then paused for a beat, and added “But when you spoke, boss, I put it out. Full respect to you.”

  Clean logic it was, disrespect deflected, all on the sb, not Rafael. John’s words were nothing but a small-time sleight, and it wouldn’t dupe a kingpin. But Rafael knew the game: fear trumps respect every time, real loyalty’s a ghost in the underworld. John’s answer id his fear bare, which was enough for now. So Rafael didn’t press, just waved him off.

  So John grabbed the job details from Rafael’s guard, the one he didn’t punch. But he was still half-lost, brow furrowed. This gig? Dull as dirt, nothing like the “big move” Seo-young hyped. But then it clicked fast for John, and he was more sure that this was a trust test, pin and simple. If John nailed this deal, and kept his mouth shut to Seo-young, Rafael might start buying his loyalty. It all made sense, and there was no point overthinking it, so he rallied his crew and rolled out. Four of them scored a big truck, but it was a tight fit, no room for all, so John palmed off that Harley outside their ir, Rex’s Harley to JT. JT blinked: “Why don't you have the ride to yourself, college boy?” After all, it was a killer bike. But John just waved it off: “Not my vibe, pal. The bike is simply too cool for a guy like me. Suits you better.” And JT actually flushed, as he felt a bit awkward, and caught off guard. Truth was, John didn’t fit the bike for sure: his tan skin and a scruffy new beard aside, his frame and voice screamed bookish, not biker badass. Plus, he had another angle: he was hoping to pry intel from the two Reapers en route, with JT’s ears out of range. But it was a bust after all, hours crammed in the truck, chatting up the pair, and nothing. They knew squat, not even that this was “new stuff”. Staring at their bnk, almost innocent faces, John fumbled for words, but nothing fit.

  At the docks, he geared up again, mask, hat, now even with a pair of sungsses. He also ordered the crew to match so they didn't get suspicious: “Safer this way.” It was a smart cover, so nobody disagreed, but really, he dreaded Anthony clocking him. It was in fact an overkill. Only small-fry grunts met them, including the two from that night he and Seo-young staged that “sex show” in the car. Same vibe, same slouch, not even the slightest change happened. Leaning against the truck, watching JT and the goons haul crates, John felt like this mirrored that stakeout night beat for beat, with the only difference being Antony’s absence. It was all too smooth. Three hours ter, every box shifted from container to truck, no surprises. The only thing was that his crew actually muttered that the cargo felt lighter than usual, and John caught it too: a faint rattle, like pill bottles jangling. New stuff, sure, but that was it, no deeper crumbs.

  Trust test, so keep it clean, no extra moves, he decided, herding his crew back for the return leg.

  An hour after dropping the cargo with their contact, when John was sprawling on the foldout cot in the storage unit Seo-young rented for him, his phone buzzed. It was a text from Rafael’s guard: “Cargo all checked out, spotless. You’re solid, Lalo. Now come to your welcome party.” Attached was an address, downtown, a swanky nightclub, the kind only fat wallets hit. John knew the pce because Camil once compined about Bryce always going there. He could guess the “welcome ceremony” drill, booze, girls, and definitely something worse, and his gut churned. No dodging it, though. This was his party, his leash. Skipping was simply not an option.

  Inside the club, he fshed the name “Lalo”, and then got ushered through a maze of pulsing lights and thumping bass, nding at a hidden nook. A beefy iron door loomed, with two grunts guarding it, stone-faced. Pushed through, and the air hit heavy. Smoke coiled thick, neon reds and greens bleeding through the haze, a plush sprawl of velvet couches and mirrored walls screaming excess. Booze bottles glinted on a low table, half-empty. Cigar stubs smoldered in a tray. Rafael’s two sbs were already parked there, grinning, waving him over. They then barked at a wiry guy in a loud shirt: “Hey, Big D. Come over here. Meet Lalo.” The guy named Big D scurried up, beaming and nodding fast. “Hey, Lalo, heard you took Rex’s spot. Big room or small room tonight?”

  Big room, small room? John’s eyes flicked to the guards’ smirks, and immediately caught the drift, but he pyed it cool: “It’s just my first time here, so let my friends pick first.”

  And they roared, pointing at a door behind them. “Big room for us, obviously!” John’s hunch locked, group or solo, that’s the game, and he let his disgust slip: “Small room for me, then.” The guard who was not punched by John chuckled, leaning in: “What’s up, Lalo? Don’t you wanna do a little bonding, maybe patch things up a bit with my colleague here? It’s fun, y’know.” John couldn’t fathom it at all. Anyone seeing this as a way of bonding was just insecure morons—gross and insecure morons. He rolled his eyes, bare and blunt, not giving a fuck if they would mind his attitude or not: “Just point me to the fucking small room now, okay?” And Big D just grinned awkwardly, and then shuffled him towards another door, no words, just a tight-lipped nod.

  A while after John sat on the bed in the room, a girl slipped in. She looked in her early 20s, pure, almost fragile, like a kindergarten teacher with soft eyes and a gentle vibe, glowing under garish makeup that cshed hard with her vibe. She was stunning, long chestnut hair, delicate features, and decked in skimpy lingerie, bare skin gring under the dim light. She hovered, awkward, fidgeting, eyes hollow, fear leaking through the cracks. John clocked her arms, needle tracks all over, stark and ugly. His gut twisted, brows knitting tight. That guard’s “bonding” jab echoed, and now it just sickened him more. No way he’d touch her at all, not because she was a hooker, but those marks, that look screamed that she wasn’t here by choice. So he sparked a cigarette, and offered her one, his voice low: “What’s your name?” She took it, fingers trembling, and didn’t light it, just clutched it, clueless. “Candy.”

  “No, I mean your real name.” He then nodded at the smoke, grinning faintly: “Rex, it’s fine. If you don’t smoke, just give it back to me.” She handed it over, timid, eyes darting.

  “Come on, no way your name’s really Candy,” he pressed.

  Tears welled, and fear spiking sharp in her gaze. “No, it is Candy.” And suddenly, John’s brain caught up with a cold snap: these were coerced girls who were kept under strict control. They had to stay with their customers in a room for a period of time. And to prevent them from crying for help to the customers, the room was wired, at the very least.

  Nearly blew it, his pulse jumped, but he pivoted fast: “Come on. I can’t get it up tonight, okay? Did one yesterday already. Just wanna have a nice little chat, py boyfriend, can’t I? Fuck’s sake, I’m a dealer, you’re a whore, we are a match made in heaven, right?” His gut churned at calling her that, and picturing the bastard listening, cackling as the Reapers always did. But he had no other choice. She flinched, still meek: “Sir… you wanna talk, we can talk.” John cmmed up, more words, more risk, and this could drag her down too. Hating it, actually hating himself, he swung a backhand cracking her cheek. “Chat? You killed my fucking mood, you dumb bitch!” Then he stormed out, rage boiling, chest tight. She needed help, but he couldn’t give it. What’s worse, he had to py the monster instead.

  Outside, Big D hustled up, face flushed, eyes wet, clearly still wiping tears from ughing his ass off. Good news: John’s cover held. Bad news: he was now the limp-dick Lalo chasing love with a hooker. It was not that bad for him anyway, not until Big D spoke.

  “Done already, Mr. Lalo? Your friends are still busy you see. We got new pills. Need a boost?” Polite words, smug mug, he was practically choking on the word “lover boy” after hearing John’s “py boyfriend”. And John’s rage burst, he finally snapped.

  Gangster mode then, you people’s stupid fucking game, not mine.

  “You mocking me, huh? Disrespecting me, huh?” At his words, Big D quickly paled, stammering an apology, but John didn’t wait. He snagged his hair, smmed his head into a gss coffee table. Shatter, blood sprayed, shards slicing Big D’s face.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Lalo!”

  “Oh, you’re sorry now? Weren’t sorry calling me a limp dick earlier, cause you’ve got a big D, huh?” Definitely no slip about the wire from John, even though he was furious as hell at the moment. He pinned Big D’s head in the gss, then groped his waist for a weapon. No gun, but a knife, even better. He yanked it free, and sawed one of his ears off clean. Screams ripped, but nobody stepped in. He was Lalo, the guy who smashed Rex’s head into pulp with a fucking barbell pte. He was nuts, sure, but Big D asked for it, running his mouth.

  John hauled his head up by the hair again, and roared into his good ear: “That bitch I had today? Mine. Nobody touches her. Next time, if I find out anyone’s id a fucking finger on her, I’ll skin you alive.” Then two stomps to the skull, Big D’s face raked through gss, blood pooling thick, as John walked away.

  Now John was back in that damp, cmmy storage unit again. He couldn’t crash at all, as sleep dodged him hard. Cooling off now, his mind chewed over today’s mess, and he was still tangled, still off. But still there was no other choice for him. All he could do was just to keep slogging through this rotten undercover gig.

  Bored, he fished out his phone, and flicked through it aimless. It was too dicey to ping anyone now. No intel worth squat yet, and any call or text could burn him. Seo-young hadn’t buzzed him either. He tapped randomly, and nded in his email. Nothing particur he saw in his emails at first. And then it hit: a draft, sitting there, uninvited. He never saved drafts for his emails, so he clicked on it.

  “I’ll take out you and your stupid chatbot first. Then I’ll enjoy your women, before sending them to join you!”

  Bolt upright, pulse spiking, John immediately realized that his email was hacked. Sure, he had no case information saved there, fortunately. But this? The psycho killer’s war cry, straight at him?

  He reran it all, everything he’d been through the past few days, and pieces snapped sharp. He then summoned his system, the “chatbot”: “Chatbot, I mean, system, you’re up. I need your help with something.”