Spade made way to the premier hotspot of the Gate—the Elysium Casino—with a new limp and a chip on his shoulder. As the streets wound to the east side of Hells Gate, the buildings became nicer, with less broken glass and windows without iron bars caging them in. The Lenore family's territory was on the edge of Genesi, the popular business sector of Petrone. Such a prime location demanded the same elegance and false sense of security as the capital itself.
Toby was as likely to be found at the Elysium as anywhere else. After all, it was famously the center of the Lenore family’s operations. Toby was known to slouch around the Elysium, drinking and playing the occasional game of cards. He made his presence known as enforcer for the Lenore Family to anyone who entered–and to everyone he threw out.
Spade cracked his knuckles, eager for the challenge. Norma’s admonitions rang in his ears. Rest. Don’t be a hothead. There will be time later for whatever you think you need to do. Push too hard, and your body may never heal.
Spade had no interest in healing. Let his fucking bones fall apart, so long as he could stab Toby the Hound. Toby had been his “savior” a few too many times, holding back, refusing to give Spade the fight he deserved. And then, Toby had the nerve to save Spade from the Youths with such ease that it made Spade look like a wobbly little child.
Toby had crossed Spade too many times. He had it coming to him. Spade sped up, his anger goading him on. The knee of his limping leg creakily protested with each step, begging for rest. A familiar pain throbbed in Spade’s temples. Brain damage? Good. Maybe he wouldn’t think so much anymore.
Norma had said that it had been amazing that he had survived so much in one day. Spade wanted to scoff. Lady, that’s life. What else was he supposed to do but get back up? What could the bastards do? Kill him? Well, they needed to try harder, because Spade was still up and walking.
Spade couldn’t miss the lights as he neared the Elysium. They lined the jutting structures of the Elysium's edifice, twinkling like stars in the night sky. Spotlights as bright as the full moon lit a sign that read Elysium Casino & Luxury Hotel. A tall fence surrounded the Elysium, made of white-painted planks of wood that blocked unwanted eyes. A person standing on the outside could only take in so much of the grandeur—enough to let them know that the Lenores were a totally different breed of criminal. They were nearly royalty.
There were other casinos and plenty of nightclubs, but exclusivity was the Elysium’s business. Nobody got in that the Lenore family didn’t approve. The towering structure was closed off to most, a palace amidst squalor.
But nothing in the Gate could be so magnificent. Outside of the fence that kept out the rabble were piles of trash. The trash accumulated several feet high at the edges of the fence. A few lost souls sat on top of the trash in the shadow of the Gate’s tallest building. Like Spade, they were too dirty and ragged to ever be allowed inside.
A bouncer in a fine suit custom tailored to his bulk stood beneath an archway of clean decorative architecture. The bouncer allowed the well-dressed clientele through the gate while valets drove their cars off the street. Spade imagined that the cars must go to a guarded bunker to prevent acts of vandalism and theft–the kind Spade couldn’t help but consider.
Spade wasn’t about to walk in through the front door. He followed the fence toward the back of the Elysium and around again. He was aimless, unsure of how to get in.
Ideas clunked around his head. If he climbed the trash and jumped over, someone would call for security immediately. He could always mug one of the guests and wear their fine coat to stroll inside. But even he could see it was doomed to fail. It took more than nice clothes to get into the Elysium. The bouncer would sniff him out in an instant—literally, since Spade was often told how bad he smelled.
With a sigh, he scratched his armpit and kicked his boot against the sidewalk. How fat and happy the Elysium’s clientele were, and here he was wandering the degenerate street without a clue for how to get in.
A voice reached Spade from the other side of the fence. A high, lilting voice that was a bit posh.
“It’s too bad that Uncle Toby can’t be here, isn’t it?”
Spade’s ears perked at the mention. This was the break he had been looking for.
A pile of trash gave him the step he needed to hop up and peer over the top of the fence. He grasped the branches of a tree nearby for support as he strained to remain balanced. The tips of his boots were wedged between a seam in the fence’s wooden planks. Reams of barbed wire sat between him and what he saw on the other side of the fence.
Two girls sat in the garden beside the Elysium. An artificial waterfall fell from high on the building into a fountain nearby. Round rocks surrounded the fountain. The lush grass was trimmed as uniformly short as a carpet. Pale flowers dotted the garden in uniform clusters, clearly groomed by an attentive gardener.
The girls sat on a bench near the water, speaking to each other. One of the girls appeared younger than the other. She could have been Spade’s age, but he was a bad judge of such things. The girl’s pursed lips gave her the slight appearance of discontent. Short black hair framed her face, and she had the plump figure of someone well fed.
The other girl was older and slim, but appeared similar to the girl she sat with. Sisters, Spade realized. The older girl’s long hair spilled over her shoulder as she turned to her sister. Her well-manicured hand hovered over her lips, as if she was telling a salacious secret.
Spade had never seen anything like it before. They looked like a painting amidst the quiet courtyard, their hair shining under the Elysium lights. He barely noticed the armed guards surrounding the girls at every point in the garden.
Both girls wore silk dresses and flowers in their hair. Jewelry with polished, pastel stones shined on their hands, wrists, and necks. These girls were cared for beyond any expense imaginable–enough to buy them these silly, ornamental things. Enough to protect them with armed security and let no one near them.
What must it be like to be so cherished and protected? Spade had never known anything of the sort. Every day he lived to spite all the people who didn’t care either way. He was just another orphan. Just another criminal. Just another problem. Some people might even find it easier if he died.
Yet, for all their fortune, these girls seemed lonely, perched on the bench together with no one to talk to but each other. A gilded cage. Nothing could get in, and nothing out. Protected and cherished, at all costs. The Lenores could afford to sequester their daughters from the cruel world.
For a brief moment, he considered freeing these girls, but the desire was gone as quickly as it came. It would be stupid to draw any more heat from the Lenores than he already had, especially for girls he didn’t know. Anyway, they were likely every bit as spoiled as one would think, having been raised in unfathomable luxury. They would turn their noses up at someone like him.
The girl who was his own age drew his attention. She spoke loudly, so her sister could hear her over the fountain.
“Mama must know what a drunk and a lout he has become,” she said. “He’s always at that bar.”
Her sister laughed lightly. A polite laugh, but Spade could tell it could be cutting if she wanted it to be. The laughter made him uneasy, as if it was directed at him.
“Of course she knows, Lily,” the older girl said. “Mama knows everything. She doesn’t think it’s a problem. You’re the only one who cares. Are you that worried about him?”
The younger girl, Lily, let out a small sigh. “Aren’t you? Don’t you see how aimless he seems, Gillea?”
Gillea snorted. “Uncle Toby’s fine. He’s happiest when drunk.”
“But it’s more and more,” Lily said, lowering her voice. “He doesn’t fulfill his duties and obligations. He drives drunk and wrecks into other vehicles. He starts fights.”
Gillea looked at her nails, expressing vague disinterest. “He smells like urine.”
Lily giggled. “That’s so cruel! But isn’t that sad? He doesn’t even shave anymore.”
Gillea shrugged. “If you’re so worried, why don’t you go to the Red Lion yourself and drag him out?”
Lily shied demurely away from her sister, taking her obvious joke seriously. “It’s such a rough place, Gillea. Mama would never let me go.”
Spade rolled his eyes at Lily’s inability to catch that her sister was messing with her. Lily reminded him of Knight. Jokes also went over his brother's head, and he took things too seriously. Spade figured that it must have been a sibling thing.
“It’s no wonder Uncle Toby’s there all the time,” Gillea said. “They hung a picture of him on the wall.”
“Why would they do that?”
“Apparently, he used to be good at baseball, although he never made it to the major leagues,” Gillea replied. “I hear he drinks under the picture of himself most nights. Sometimes he passes out there and mama has to send someone to collect him.”
“Did mama tell you this?”
“No, of course not. Mama can’t tell you everything. Did you hear—”
The gossip between the sisters continued, but Spade had all the information he needed about Toby. There was nothing else to be learned from their chatter. Spade dropped back to the street with a thud and adjusted his jacket.
The jacket was worn, threadbare at the corners with faded spots and creases in the dark brown leather. It had been a gift from Silas, who had said he better not get cold while Toby kicked his ass. The joke wasn’t funny, but Spade had to admit, the jacket did the job of blocking the evening chill. As he hiked in the direction of the Red Lion, Spade was thankful for its warmth.
Spade was only vaguely aware of where the Red Lion might be. It was one of the low-end bars by the docks, the type that Spade used to pass by and not think much about. He might have forgotten about it entirely if not for the striking sign hanging from the front.
The sign was rustic wood with the image of a lion illustrated in heavy lines and bright colors. There was something childish and unpolished about the rendering. A baseball sat at its paws and a bat was clenched between its teeth. The Red Lion was written in gold ink and fancy font.
The docks were a long walk from the Elysium, but Spade didn’t mind. The night was still young, and he had all the time in the world. He didn’t anticipate Toby leaving the Red Lion anytime soon. From the way the sisters had talked, Toby never wanted to go home.
Probably running away from something, the coward. That was fine. Spade would bring the fight to him.
Spade kept his head down, allowing the sounds of the street—screams, laughter, and loud conversation—to soak through him without leaving any impression. He had too many enemies to draw attention to himself. He had to remain focused.
An hour or so had passed by the time Spade made it to the docks. He wandered past bars and pubs filled with revelers and drunks, but none of them was the drunk he was looking for. Finally, he stumbled upon the sign of the lion he remembered so vividly.
The Red Lion was a small establishment, squished between two warehouses that were vacant late at night. Spade pushed open the door and found fewer patrons than he had expected. He entered without a single person looking up, not even the man he assumed to be the bartender.
Nobody spoke to each other, instead nursing their beverages and keeping to themselves. A jaunty tune played from the radio nearby. The music was awful. It clued Spade in on why so few people willingly patronized this place. A miserable tomb for old, apathetic men. A bar as lifeless as its patrons. Spade would never willingly go to such a depressing place.
Sports memorabilia covered every inch of the place. Portraits of athletes from bygone days hung on the walls. In contrast to the patrons, these athletes were young, confident, and at the top of their game.
Spade scanned the portraits until he caught sight of a red-haired and freckled young man in a baseball jersey with a bat resting against his shoulder. This must have been Toby when he was younger. Beneath the portrait slumped the real Toby, grizzled and tired. A frothy mug of beer was beside him, appearing mostly untouched.
Toby dozed off in his chair but stirred as Spade approached. He opened his brown eyes and regarded Spade through a squint.
“Who are you?” Toby said gruffly.
“You know who I am,” Spade replied.
Toby blinked and took a moment to shake off the drowsy fog. “Oh. You’re that kid, aren’t you? The one who keeps starting fights.”
“You hit my buddy’s truck, you fuck.”
“Fine, how many kraks you want for it?”
“I don’t want kraks!” Spade’s voice rose, unable to quell his rage.
Toby rubbed his unshaven jaw where ginger stubble sprouted unevenly. “Look, can we not do this right now? I’m tired. It’s late.”
“Why won’t you fight me?” Spade said, exasperated.
“Cause I don’t want to. Being tough doesn’t always mean fighting, you know. Sometimes you need to know when to quit.”
Spade’s fists clenched at his sides. “Why did you save me?”
Toby’s lip curled, a faint wisp of amusement. “You needed it.”
“You think I can’t take care of myself?”
Toby let out a bark of a laugh. “Well, you said it, not me.”
The laughter cut through Spade. Toby still wasn’t taking him seriously. “Fuck you. You’re a drunk old man. It’s embarrassing being saved by you. People might think I’m pathetic, too.”
“You know what, punk?” Toby sneered. “I didn’t save you. I was sick of your crying. I was in the truck, listening to the game on the radio, but I couldn’t hear it over the noise of you getting your ass kicked.”
Not true. Spade had taken down a number of the Youths, and he could have killed more. It was nothing he couldn’t handle. But this bastard intervened, sending the rest of the Youths scurrying. Spade lost his only chance to cull the Youths number to zero and extinguish them entirely. Now, Spade had to watch his back more than ever.
Spade grit his teeth. “I wasn’t crying.”
Toby cocked his head toward the entrance and leaned back in his chair, as if prepared to take another nap. It was the least aggressive posture he could assume. “The door’s over there. Go home.”
“I came here to kill you,” Spade responded.
Toby sighed deeply. “Is this really who you want to be, kid? You don’t want to do better for yourself?”
“I am doing better for myself. You’re in the way.”
“Is that so?” Toby’s attention drifted to the wall, his disinterest clear. “What a shame.”
“Get up! We’re doing this!” Spade kicked the table, rattling Toby’s beer so that the foam spilled over the brim.
Toby was hardly enlivened by Spade’s aggression. He swigged from his drink and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “Can you wait? I’m not done with my beer.”
Spade saw red, the adrenaline thrumming in his temples. He lashed out, snatching the mug from the table, and threw the liquid in Toby’s face. The beer dripped down Toby’s surprised expression, his wet, sticky hair matted to his forehead. The stench of alcohol wafted off him.
Toby growled and stood up, showing the anger Spade had wanted to see all along. “All right, let’s fight. Remember, you pushed me.”
Patrons started to take notice and murmured to each other. Spade caught only three words: Toby the Hound. Apparently, they were excited to see Toby in action. Perfect. An audience. They could tell everyone that Spade was up-and-coming, the big man in town.
Spade drew the switchblade out of the pocket of his jacket. The look in Toby’s eyes was unlike the lazy, indolent appearance from before. Toby’s brows knit tightly, scrunching his entire forehead. His mouth was a thin, pale line. His pupils were violent pinpoints.
Spade smirked and squared his shoulders. Finally, this was the face of a man who could kill!
Toby grabbed a bat from off the wall, the one that was positioned under his portrait. The end of the bat was signed, likely by Toby himself. He held the bat with a practiced grip and swung it in the air in front of Spade.
Spade maintained his distance and kept the blade between himself and Toby. The bruiser neared Spade by circling the table. Once Toby was close enough, he swung the bat in Spade’s direction. Spade ducked as the tip of the bat narrowly missed his head and slammed into the table. From his position, Spade charged and swiped at Toby with the knife.
The blade sliced Toby’s shirt open, leaving a bleeding cut across his chest. Knife fights were always the most brutal. Toby cursed under his breath, gripping the bat with fists so tight that his fingers turned purple. A red flush spread across Toby’s cheeks.
Spade realized his mistake only when the bat cracked against his ribs, reigniting pain from a wound that hadn’t quite healed. Spade howled and blindly stabbed in Toby’s direction. The blade sunk into soft flesh. After a second, Spade saw the blade was stuck in Toby’s shoulder, forcing Toby to swing the bat with one hand.
One hand was all Toby needed, especially since Spade was disarmed. The knife in his shoulder hardly slowed Toby down. Spade lamely grasped for the knife to no avail before the bat impacted his body again. And again.
Spade’s mind blanked, returning to a place that was all too familiar to him. A place he swore he would never go to again. His body numbed so that he could no longer tell the number of times the bat hit him. He only knew that he was in unrelenting, unceasing pain.
When the barrage ended, Spade opened his eyes and returned to reality. At some point, he must have fallen to the floor. Toby stood over him, wielding the bloody bat with a loose grip. Toby’s eyes conveyed sadness, his exhaustion softened from the cold cruelty Spade had seen earlier.
Toby pulled the knife from his own shoulder and tossed it at Spade. “Get out of here. Never let me see you again.”
Tears streamed down Spade’s face, of the kind he hadn’t even cried when he woke up in the corpse cart. He struggled to his feet and teetered to the exit. Spade was a child compared to Toby. He could see this now. He heard cackling from the patrons and cheers as they congratulated Toby the Hound–Toby the Legend–for putting that punk in his place.
Spade was the punk. He was always the punk. Spade managed to drag his way out of the Red Lion, but collapsed against the wall outside before he could go any further. He stared at the dark sky, his vision of the stars blurred from the tears. His ragged breathing was all he could hear.
Battered bones, bruised flesh. How much more could Spade take before his skeleton collapsed in his skin and his body sunk deep below the ground into a grave? How many more fists would beat him into his place, how much more blood could he spill? How many more times could his eyes swell shut, leaving him to grope blindly for the light?
He had to walk this off. He couldn’t die in the street like so many others. He had to fight, had to live, had to kill. There was no other way.
Spade shambled back to X with fresh injuries for Knight to fuss over. Wouldn’t it be a treat for his brother to have some excitement in his sheltered life? While Spade was out taking the beatings, Knight hung out with Norma and played with plants. But it wasn’t Knight’s fault. Spade shouldn’t be angry at him. Spade needed to try harder. After all, it was Spade’s job to protect his brother.
He needed a new plan. This beating had at least taught Spade something, as he knew going after Toby directly wasn’t going to work. No, how could he really get at the man?
This was when it all fell into place. The ramshackle dump of Louis’s BBQ sprang to Spade’s mind. It was about time Spade paid a visit to Louis.
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