Lilia gives me one last passionate kiss.
"Sweet girl," she whispers with a grin, fangs out. "You did well. Now go."
"Thanks for the ride." I steal one more kiss and send a wink her way as I slip out of her black limo. "I had a lovely time, Miss Vasilovna. You're a real dime piece, babe. All my love. Do sv… Uh. Svidon…"
"Do svidanya," she huffs, waving me off and speaking Russian to her driver.
Since she's standing outside the door, I give Anya a wink too. "Thanks for the throttling. Strong hands."
"And you, easily bruised." She fixes a wayward strand of my hair. "Time to go."
"Yep! I'm–Yes. I am going. So long! Great night! Thanks!"
The limo drives off, leaving me there on the curb.
Goddamn, I'm gonna use those memories for a few decades. My ass is beat to shit and sore as hell. I was toying with the idea of asking for her number but she never even asked my name, so I figured it was best to just enjoy it and let it go. As much as I wish I could have that experience again and again and again. Some things are just that transient.
Nothing lasts. I would know.
I lied about my address to be safe, and they dropped me a few blocks away, so I start the short walk home. The hood ain't in the best of states, with cracked and uneven sidewalks, potholes all in the roads, foreclosure signs and eviction notices on front doors, half collapsed front porches, iron bars over the ground floor windows, rooftops missing more than a few shingles, and road signposts punched through with bullet holes.
When I walk, I get eyeballed hard, but it doesn't take long for the guys who run these streets to recognize me. Not many white girls would be casually wandering around here with a red bandana hanging out their back pocket. Only trading nods, I pass by them and round the corner. The little blue house halfway up the street is in semi decent shape, at least in comparison. I rebuilt the porch a couple years ago, so it's still sturdy. Glancing around as I unlock the door, I slip inside and make sure to lock up behind me.
"Ayooo! I'm home!"
It's a shotgun style house, so straight down the way is the kitchen, with a narrow staircase just to the right. Kicking my shoes off, I let out a sigh and traipse across the creaky floorboards, going for the living room.
"Sorry, honeybee," I say as I enter, finding her in her usual spot–the big lounge chair by the TV. "Got a little sidetracked last night. You good?"
"I'm good," Portia smiles, lifting both arms.
She's big and happy, with braided white and gray hair, thick bifocals, the knit shawl I made her years ago, and a crochet project of her own in her lap. My girl has the brightest smile of them all.
Smiling too, I give her a big hug. "Kids at school?"
"Pssh. Girl, you know the kids are grown. The grandkids are at school, sure enough."
"Hey, 1920 was only ten years ago," I insist, going to refill her glass. Portia's aging like brandy and can't get around so easily these days, but Tyson is supposed to be here taking care of her. "Now, where the hell is that damn son of ours? It's his week."
"Out for ice. Machine's busted again."
"Son of a bitch, I just replaced that." It's true, the ice maker is frozen solid. Another fix on the long, long list. Grabbing the ice pick, I break off a couple chunks and pour two glasses of sweet tea. I sigh as I flop onto the couch next to Portia's chair and kick my feet up on the coffee table. "Fuck. A bitch is bone weary."
"Even with all that ink on you, I see them bruises," Portia titters, sipping her tea and going back to her crochet. "Shit, I wonder why you tired. Not to do with you stayin' out last night…"
"Ohhhh, you know me, ya damn kibitzer." The way my life goes doesn't give me much time for relaxation, so I enjoy this fleeting moment while I have it, mindlessly watching the game show on TV. "Now why the hell you watch this shit, Portia?"
"That right there." She points a finger when the host shows up on screen, some generic handsome Hollywood type square jawed brown haired white man.
I laugh, "Why that dude look like he was made in a factory? I will never understand you straight women. Git on witchu."
"Ah–Git on wih me? Git on witchu! Raggedy ass broke ass white bitch bum stumblin' into this God fearin' household lookin' like your ass just had a hoe down with the Devil. And why you beat like you got tossed in a damn washin' machine?"
I burst out laughing. "Ohh, I love you, honeybee!"
"Mmmhm!" She continues to crochet. "Love you too, robin."
"A'ight, a'ight, but you gotta tell me…" I drop the hundreds on the coffee table. "Who's a broke ass bum?"
"Oh, hellll no. Bitch, who did you kill to get this?"
"No blood on my hands this good morn."
"Highway robbery."
"I ain't steal shit from nobody!"
"Bull."
"This year!"
"Bull."
"This week…"
"Bull."
"Today…"
"There it is. You a damn sneak thief. Now spill it."
I sip my tea. "'Twas a gift."
"A gift?" Portia stares at me over the rim of her thick bifocals. "Girl, tell me you did not prostitute yourself."
"Correct!" I smile broadly and laugh. "I did not! The money and the sex were unrelated. She gave it to me before we even linked up to fuck."
"Bitch, that is still–Oh my Lord baby Jesus in Heaven, I pray forgiveness for this sinner!"
"Aw. Bless your heart, honeybee. My soul is saved." I sip my tea and mumble, "Whenever I get 'round to dyin'."
"Who gon' pray for you when I'm gone? Ohh, mercy above. I will pass that torch to Nia. So what? Ten Benjamins, and? Where they goin'?"
"Your pocket, honeybee."
"I ain't wantcha hoe ass money."
"Then rent it is, and your disability check will go in your pocket."
She starts snickering, shaking her head. "Payin' rent with hoe money. Somethin' poetic 'bout that."
"Female empowerment, right? Wait, no, choice feminism ain't it…"
"You sold yourself to a woman for one band."
"So she and I are both empowered! See, I was gon' fuck her anyhow. Nice to get a li'l bonus. Really shows her appreciation. If only every dame I slept with were so kindly charitable."
"Yeah, that's what you are. A charity case. You had all this time to make a fortune, but you ain't got a second band to rub together. What's wrong with that picture?"
"I don't see you raking it in neither!"
"My black ass has been systemically restricted. What's your excuse?"
"Uhhh… Mental illness?"
"Hm. Fair."
"Not half as–"
"This ain't no contest."
"I'm just saying that–"
"It ain't comparable. Apples to oranges."
"But the lasting legacy of–"
"Shut yer trap, robin!"
"A'ight, a'ight. I'm aware. That's all. I'm woke, as the kids say."
"You were born right after Reconstruction in the capital of the old Confederacy. Few people as aware of all this as you are."
"Damn, 1887 was a rough year…"
"Why's that?"
"I was born! Ahahaha!"
She slaps my leg with a rolled up newspaper. "You joke to hide the pain. I still see you. Can't slip nothin' by me."
"And why would I ever want to, honeybee?"
The front door opens down the hallway and Tyson calls out, "I'm back, ma!"
"Boy, quitcher hollerin'! You talkin' over my mans!"
"Oh, Lord," he huffs. Tyson rolls in with a ten pound bag of ice on either shoulder. He gives me a hopeful look but my ass is dead beat. "Damn, girl. You good? Look like you got jumped."
"I did. But I liked it."
"Don't need to hear all'at." He lugs the ice into the kitchen and tosses it in the freezer. "Yo, robin, you know 'bout this ice maker?"
"I know. I'll handle it."
"Water pressure's low again too."
"I'll handle it."
"Mycah accidentally knocked a hole in the drywall upstairs."
"I'll handle it."
"And the window unit in Tasia's room ain't running cold…"
"I'll handle it."
"Boy, git on with all'at," Portia scolds, waving him off. "She's grabbin' a flop now. We old bats are jawin', so git."
"I'm just lettin' her know, ma."
"Better that I know," I nod, head back on the couch. "Thanks, T. I'm on it. In a minute."
"For sure. But listen, uh." He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. "I ran into Marshal on the way back. He told me he got a huge offer on all these lots today, and he's gon' close the deal tomorrow. So we'll be under new management soon enough."
"Damn," I sigh, closing my eyes. "That's some quick turnaround…"
Portia gasps, "Maybe they'll lower the rent."
"And other false hopes you can share with your friends. I'm just hopin' we get an actual maintenance crew. Wouldn't that be nice?"
"'Round here? Even less likely."
"God bless America. T, grab me a beer."
"God bless America, says the red blooded socialist." He brings three, cracking a bottle and sitting next to me on the couch. "Ain't this nation grand? I'm sure you feel a special connection to it. Having fought in the war under Washington."
"Oh, yeah, he was a dick." I chuckle, downing some crispy malt. "Fuckin' slaver."
"And how was the Civil War?"
"You a joke. My ass would've been leading the charge to Richmond."
"Yeah, yeah, blowin' the bugle." He and I laugh at the thought, then watch the dumb game show for a minute. Then he asks, "Which wars did you actually fight in though?"
"My first was the Great. 1917. Mostly in France."
"What compelled a commie like you to fight for capitalism?"
"Look. A'ight? The fuckin' Lusitania, that's what. Come that Zimmermann shit too? Ohh, it was on."
"They made a nationalist out of you."
"For those two years? Fuck yeah. The second I got back it was over. Like, oh yeah. This place fuckin' sucks." I pause to drink a good few swigs, damn near getting flashbacks. "Went over again in '42. Fightin' for the same goddamn fields we fought for thirty years before. Like, I could see where the trenches were dug. That shit was crazy. Haven't been to war since."
"Right, right. Skip all that Cold War shit."
"For real. On principle. And kin. Baby girl and all."
"Damn fine at bein' a baby daddy at that," Portia laughs with a warm look shared between us two.
"A'ight, now," I cough, taking another drink and smiling, fangs out. "How 'bout that? Uhh… What else? That was it for my military career, but I went in on my own for Bosnia and Rwanda. Fuck everything about the imperialist ass Middle Eastern crusades. And if I didn't have y'all to take care of, I'd be in the Ukraine right now. Or Gaza."
"Best not," Portia huffs. "We need you here."
"Don't you fret, honeybee. I ain't goin' nowhere."
"Yeah, please don't." Swirling his beer, Tyson asks, "Did you ever fight another vampire? On a battlefield, I mean."
"Multiple times." I sip my tea and then my beer. "Back in '17, we'd kinda just ignore each other. '42? If they had that red armband, I put 'em in the dirt. Real shit. Kept an iron tent stake on me at all times."
"Fuck yeah. Fuck yeah. But how did you keep it a secret? I mean, how many times would your squadmates confirm you KIA? Then thirty minutes later, oh shit, the robin's back up."
"Uhh. A mutual understanding. Them boys were my kin those days, and they knew I was lookin' out, so they kept my bizarre tendencies to survive against all odds on the low. The first few times definitely spooked 'em. Pfft."
"I just remember," Portia snickers, "you told me a story of when you got shot nine times outside a saloon in West Texas, stumbled inside for a shot of rye, and died right there at the counter. And not ten minutes later you were back up and at 'em."
"That town most definitely has a legend or two about me for that one."
"Oh, sure, the mysterious drifter who could keel over and die from alcohol poisoning three times in one night."
"You looove me."
"And I regret it every day."
"Mama, I'm home!" The front door opens down the hallway and Nia calls out, "You heard anythin' from Daddy–Oh, there you are!" Nia comes right over to hug me. Straightening up and stealing her brother's beer, Nia asks, "Now, why the hell you so beat? Nevermind, you always be showin' up knocked around."
"I do engage with frequent fisticuffs."
"Has D hit you up, Daddy? Shit's hot out there…"
"Aw, hell. What is it now?"
"Sounds like some of your folk toeing the lines."
"Fuckin' hell. I'll handle it."
I race upstairs and change into some short black soccer shorts, a black sports bra, and a ripped up band tee I cut into a tank. Lacing up my black industrial Docs, I grab one of my forty fives and slip it into my back waistband. Dropping back into the living room for a second, I tie my hair back and sigh, counting heads. One, two, three, the rest are elsewhere entirely.
"Same shit, different day. Y'all stay put."
"Yep." Nia hands me a fresh beer. "Go get 'em, white savior."
"Please don't call me that…"
"It's just funny to see the dismay on your face."
"I changed your fuckin' diapers, chile." The two of us laugh and I ask, "You got yours?"
"I got mine, Daddy, don't you worry."
"Good. T, got yours?"
He answers by chambering his nine millimeter.
"Don't even ask," Portia says, lifting the shotgun from between the chair and couch. "All good, baby."
"I'm so proud of my family." On the way out, I blow a kiss to Portia. "Back soon, honeybee."
"Mmmhm. Try not to get shot again, robin."
"I'll try!"
When I hit the streets, Nia locks up behind me and points my way. As I'm half jogging over, I catch sight of a few other soldiers going the same direction. Waving them down, I catch up and ask for more details. Nobody knows much except that these guys are white, they're not barking but they are lingering, and shots have not been fired. Sounds like I may have a decent chance at settling this without bloodshed.
The crew is mostly lined up at Cleveland Avenue, which is where I find Domino, the captain for this chapter of the Red Devils. As I'm on the approach he starts calling me, and my phone buzzes in my waistband as I manage a laugh.
"Bruh, I'm right here."
"Shit. Good timing." Dom's a tall skinny black guy with short bleached dreads and a tasteful amount of stubble who tends to dress like a skater boy, meaning flannel, denim, and Vans. Today, it's the high tops, black and white. "This one might be all you, Red. Showed up not ten minutes ago. Looks like they're casing. For what? Hell if I know."
"Hm. Those guys over there?"
"Yeah, yeah. Jay thinks they're AB, but I ain't never seen no white trash skinhead in a fitted suit."
They're talking amongst themselves on the far side of Cleveland Avenue, stealing glances this way. Plenty of buzz cuts, yeah. I have damn good vision with my vampirism, but I don't see any of the usual tattoos. What I do see tells me with certain dreadful clarity that these guys aren't Aryan Brotherhood.
They're much worse.
"Fuuuck," I let out under my breath. "Fuck. Me. This is… not good. Yo, keep everybody cool over here, Dom. Cool as ice. These guys are cold and we need to be colder than that."
"The fuck? Why? Shit, is this Italian?"
"Worse. Most of that ink is done by hand. Stick and poke. Traditional styling. Fuck, yeah, now I see it. Orthodox crosses."
"Fuuuck," Domino echoes, staring wide eyed. "Goddamn Russians eyeing the hood. Now I've seen it all."
"I'm… I'm on it. I'll handle it. Just keep our guys frosty. Last thing anyone wants to do here is lose their temper. Got me?"
"Yeah, yeah, yeah. We got you, Red."
With a deep breath, I cross Cleveland Avenue.
"Yo," I call out, watching them carefully and making myself code switch. "What are you doing? These blocks aren't up for contest. They're red. That's that. I have to ask you to move along."
They keep talking in Russian, nodding to each other, then one of them steps up. With a thick accent, he tells me, "Correct, devochka. We not do the gunning and killing. These blocks not for the contest. These blocks ours now. Is done already."
I blink a couple times, then scowl. "Excuse me? What are you even talking about?"
The heavily tattooed and scarred Russian gangster puts on a pair of dainty looking glasses and reads off his phone. "Going East to West from… Metropolitan Parkway Southwest to Highway 29. North to South from Interstate 20 to Cleveland Avenue. These plots and all property holdings built upon them… have been purchased in sum that… Ahhh… It transfers all ownership from South Acres Realty and the private homeowners to the American branch of the Malkov Concern, which is our employer. All rental leasings have been preserved as initially signed and will not be subject to… detrimental change for their occupants."
Fucking shit. The new landlords are Russian mobsters.
"This is not effective immediately," the man tells me, folding his glasses and putting them in the inside pocket of his suit jacket. "But we take initiative. Only looking. Surveying, more or less. We not even armed. No weapons. Empty hands. Friendly smiles!"
He's missing a couple teeth.
I'm still catching up.
"Okay, you…" Hand on my forehead, I think for a couple more seconds. "You can't be serious. But you are. Jesus Christ. How is this actually happening? Why would any corporation want to buy this place? We can't even get government subsidies to clean up the parks. Listen, you've gotta… You need to… give us some time. We need to sit down and talk this over. All of us. You know this is Devils' territory, right?"
"Da. Are you with them?"
"Not officially. I'm not an affiliate, I'm more of a consultant."
"Ah, I understand. These Devils can keep the streets. Our employers don't care for the territory in that sense, only the properties and the businesses."
"Nah, nah, the businesses pay up to the Devils."
"Then I suppose they will be invested in for mutual benefit." He lifts his scarred, calloused, and tattooed hands. "I do not know the full plan. Do not shoot messenger!"
"Right. Right…" Arms crossed, I close my eyes and put the pieces together. "Alright, well, if you're not here to cause problems, there's no reason for us to start any. But you can't be here right now. Our people need to be informed first. Then we'll talk about you looking around."
"Da, moi drug. We thought this too fast, but hoped for the best. Another time then. A few days. We will return. No weapons. Empty hands. Big smiles. Da?"
"Let me get your contact. Any talk to or from the Devils is going through me on this one. We'll make some arrangements and call you for a sit down prior to the transfer."
"Most excellent! Of course!" Once we trade numbers, he backs off with his friendly smile. "Do svidaniya, moi drug. We hope that peace will be kept."
"It will. It better be… Uh. D–Do svidaniya."
They jump into a couple huge black SUVs and take off as I walk back across Cleveland Avenue on numb legs. When Dom finds me, I'm still a little dazed, holding up a finger to give me a second. Once I have my senses, I explain everything.
"They… What?" He scratches his head, glancing around. "Nah, that's still crossing the line. Even if we run the streets, they'd own the roofs over our heads. That ain't gon' fly, Red."
"I don't really know what to tell you, D. Sounds like it's happening. My job is… temporarily done. Peace has been kept. Just… talk to your people and get back to me on a time and place for the sit down. I'll be there."
"Yeah. A'ight. We gon' fight it. This shit ain't happenin'."
"War with the Russian mob is not sustainable."
"We'll see what the generals say about that."
"A'ight, a'ight. All yours, capo. My ass is goin' home."
"A'ight, grandma. We got it from here. I'll hit you up."
I walk away with a dismissive wave. Yeah, they know I'm not quite right but they don't know I'm a vampire. People in this business don't tend to ask too many questions. And like my boys in the World Wars, they know I'm looking out, which is even more reason to keep quiet about it.
On the way home, I pull up my phone and type out a search for this Malkov Concern. Looks like they're big into Russian oil, as well as heavy machinery, aerospace, and weapons manufacturing, worth over forty billion dollars. Fuck me, that's not good. That's very not good. These guys are for real. I might have to make some calls. I have a few favors owed in high places.
As I scroll through their webpage, I stop in place.
A familiar face is looking my way.
A faint smile on her curled ruby lips.
Owner, CEO, and majority shareholder?
Miss Lilia Vasilovna Malkov.
"Bruh. She bought my entire neighborhood?"