Present day, Chicago
When the neon sign in front of the Lavender entrance blinked into darkness three weeks ago, I went downstairs into the subbasement. It was dark and quiet, the same as every day for the past few years. I knew there were police officers upstairs. Swabbing, cordoning, photographing. Doing whatever the police do. I was hidden under it all, still a prisoner in my home, still unable to see the light of day. But then it came. Imperceptible at first, then so obvious I wondered how I’d missed it. The change in my life. I started to sleep better, to breathe deeper, to savor the taste of the food I was putting in my mouth. My hacker friends Lu-Na had urged me to use the secure access to the internet to browse online shopping sites. Lavender’s new interior formed in my head like a sketch receiving its first strokes of color. I chatted to Sophie as she healed, and I made tentative attempts at video calling Thomas. But we had been apart so long it was difficult to start talking. Small steps, small hopes, small happiness. Since a very long time, everyone around me was safe.
For a few weeks, there was nothing to worry about. Then the message from Tanya arrived and reality came crashing in. Not everyone is safe, and I have a duty to protect those who rely on me. I am eager to shake off the identity of the Lavender Phantom, an entity superimposed on my being with no real merit. Now that I’m no longer a hostage, I can use my hands and my head to find myself again and build a life that I want. The first step of that is ensuring there are no painful loose ends.
I look over my shoulder as I follow the four boys down a dark street. A shy light flickers in the middle of it. One of them picks up his bat and smashes it, plunging their path in black. Soft neon colors reflect off the wet concrete, giving the whole scene a poetic highlight.
I pull my baseball cap lower, hiding my face from security cameras and passersby. I try not to look at the composite sketch on the small digital billboard on the wall. It depicts what is roughly my face, a line running through the middle where there is a massive crack in the screen. Sophie told me #hotcriminal trended on Twitter when the sketch was first published. Both flattering and insulting, that artist’s rendition of my features forces me to stay inside during the day and only venture at night with a cap and a hoodie on, trying to blend in with the muted haze of Chicago’s dim streets.
But tonight I’ve left my bags at home. With my hands in my pockets, I squeeze the brass knuckles, the metal warm in my grip. Tanya told me two of her girls had disappeared. One day they were there with her; the other, she couldn’t get ahold of them. We had found their phones discarded miles away from where they were supposed to have been.
The four boys in front of me look barely in their twenties, green and fearless. The worst combination. I click my tongue when one of them kicks a bin and everyone laughs as it rolls sideways, spilling rubbish across the street. Penelope and her Jesters are a disgrace. Years ago, she had said she liked that my father ran a tight ship with minimal violence. As she’s got the power to herself, her ideology has taken a one-eighty turn.
“Being a Jester is the shit now. To hell with all those old gangs. You should come join us. There’s a recruitment lineup next week,” one of the guys croaks, his voice rough from smoking.
“I don’t know, man.” One of the others scratches his head.
“Come on, dude. It’s the best. We can do whatever we want. If it turns crap, we’ll just leave. But I doubt it will come to that. As long as we follow the orders of the woman on top, we’re good.” To punctuate his point, the boy who says this takes out a spray paint can and starts defacing the nearest wall by creating a bright yellow line. I’m expecting him to sign off his artistry somehow, but no, he just draws a sloppy, curly line that drips down.
“Police, stop,” says a stern female voice from ahead.
Both I and the group of boys still in place as they’re faced with two police officers: a short Black woman and a man thrice her age with a distinct beer belly. The female voice makes me step sideways to hide. I press my body to the damp wall and listen in.
“Can I see some ID?”
One of the boys laughs in her face. He is tall and thin, his spine the shape of a poorly written question mark. I creep closer. The boys are my lead for the night. I can’t let them slip away.
“Calm down, boy,” the other police officer says. His voice is commanding but betrays a tiredness one can’t conceal at his age. Both of them have their hands on their weapons. “It’s quite late; what are you doing here?”
The boy straightens, quiets, and steps toward the man. “I. Don’t. Answer. Questions.” He emphasizes every word, his tone victorious. I shake my head. Bold, stupid boy. I move farther in; they are almost within reach now.
The woman’s eyes dart between the four guys and her partner. She looks uncertain. She must be new because when the boy dares to point his finger at the man, she grabs for her gun and takes a shooting stance. But it remains in its holster, the button safely holding it in place. I frown, secondhand embarrassment settling in. It’s awkward to watch—but it’s also getting dangerous.
The boys have moved closer to their tall spokesperson, and as the gun scene unfolds, a short butch boy jumps the policeman, tackling him to the ground. The other two charge the woman. The tall boy remains standing, his hands in his pockets. Gangs within gangs. Does Penelope have all these random groups under control?
Metal bats clank as they hit the ground, missing their mark. Fists connect with flesh. Grunts and whimpers harmonize with the hustle and bustle of nighttime Chicago. The policewoman has curled up in a ball while two boys kick her. Panting with violent excitement, sadistic grins paint their sweaty faces.
I crack my neck to the right and then to the left. Only one side cracks properly, and I roll my eyes. I always pull something when I fight without warming up.
The policeman manages to get to his knees and is fumbling with his gun. His holster is unbuttoned, but blood is running down his shaking arm. Someone has pulled out a knife. I squint, trying to see who it is. I must take them out first.
The tall boy kicks the man’s hand, forcing a grunt out of him. He looks like he has only weeks before retirement. What is he doing here, getting involved with the Jesters? And with a rookie at that.
A sharp flash catches my eyes. The butch boy is the one holding the knife. None of them see me coming, engrossed in their violence-induced high. I grab the tall boy by the hair and pull him down, slamming him to the ground. His breath knocks out of his lungs; he pants in shock.
I kick the butch boy straight into the chest. As he loses his balance and stumbles sideways, he drops the knife. I kick it to one side. I’ve not drawn blood yet. My brass knuckles glint, catching a faraway night light. Adrenaline floods my system, and I smile. I’ve missed this. The feeling of danger, the high of fighting for your life. For someone else’s life.
“Back off, dude. This isn’t your fight,” says one of the boys still standing. He has stopped kicking the woman and is now trying to get her gun out. She has twisted and grabbed his wrists, her fingers bloody. A brave cop.
I’m not backing off. I step over the butch boy and, reaching the one who dared to speak to me, drive my fist into the side of his face. My hit isn’t strong enough to upset his stance, but his head snaps to one side, disorienting him. His friend looks me in the eye. The night air is permeated with sweat. I hold his gaze, unable to read his expression in the soft darkness. I’m warm in my hoodie; moisture has gathered on my upper lip.
Tall Boy gets up behind me and moves around. He’s probably scrambling for the knife. Without dropping my eyes, I clench my core, ready to hit the boy in front of me. As if reading my malicious intent, he gasps once and runs away.
“What the—” I hear behind me. “Cal, you fucking coward.”
“I would say he’s the smartest one of you.” I turn around. My voice is hoarse. How long has it been since I’ve spoken out loud? At least two days.
After that it’s a free-for-all. Three against one. When the policeman tries to get up, Butch Boy kicks him in the back of the head. He crumples to the ground without a sound. I hope he’s not dead. A dead cop is bad news. The woman tries to crawl away from the melee, but a badly aimed blow from me sends one of the boys tumbling over her. She whimpers in pain and curls up again. She’s whispering something to herself. I can’t hear her over the sounds of fighting, but I can swear she’s praying.
I feel bad for her, imagining it’s one of her first days on the job. Maybe a new partner, a new area. New dangers and only God to protect her.
Well, I’m also here.
I don’t think much when I fight; it’s second nature. I barely register the pain of blows to my sides and kicks to my legs. They won’t topple me. I will win as long as I keep straight on my feet. And I always do. The only person to ever bring me to my knees was Penelope, and I’m still paying the price of that.
Somewhere in the distance, I hear shouting, then whistling, then angry stomping. That little shit hadn’t run away; he’d gone to fetch friends. I’ve been careful not to maim the boys, hitting them as gently as I could to dissuade them, to scare them away. But they are, as I’d thought before, too fearless for their own good. They won’t back down. Especially not now when they know reinforcements are on their way.
Time to get serious then. Three fast, well-aimed blows to their heads incapacitate them before the other group has even turned around the corner. My thoughts don’t linger on the possible lives I’ve ruined. They shouldn’t have followed Penelope. They shouldn’t have attacked the police like idiots.
I pat the policewoman. “Get up,” I say, trying to convey the urgency of the situation. “Get up. Come on, we have to run!”
She looks up, a streak of black hair stuck on her sweaty forehead. “They will kill me,” she utters, abandoning her prayer.
“They will if you don’t get up now,” I grunt back as I pick up her partner and drape his arm around my shoulders, supporting his weight. He shakes his head, confused. I sigh with relief. No dead cops on my watch. “Get up and help.”
This resolute course of action seems to bring her back to a clearer headspace. She gets up, shaky on her legs but moving with conviction, and picks up the policeman’s other arm. The weight on my side eases. The man is coming to his senses too, his feet slowly finding purchase on the ground.
“Turn right here,” I say as we wobble forward. The woman listens well and steers us right after we emerge into the slightly brighter main street.
“Right again.” We duck into another dark alley.
“I have to call for help,” she says, her trembling hand reaching for her police radio.
“Later. We have to lose them first. There’s an abandoned shop here.” I keep pulling them forward. I don’t want her to call for reinforcements before I have a chance to speak to them. We pass another digital screen with my face on it. I can’t be caught for trying to do the right thing.
A minute later, we drag our feet into the neglected shop and hide behind the counter. I press my finger to my lips when my eyes meet hers. The shouting from before comes close, dangerously close.
“Who are we even looking for?” someone shouts, their voice full of annoyance.
“Fuck if I know. A tall man,” someone else replies.
The policewoman hiccups. I glare at her as she brings her hands to her mouth. She looks like she’s about to cry. The policeman is out of it again. He probably has a concussion.
“Let’s do a couple more loops around the block and go home,” a third voice from outside says.
We have to get out of here as soon as possible. The stomping continues forward, and the shop eventually quiets.
I pull out my phone, a cheap burner, my finger still in front of my lips, and dial Mathias.
“We need help,” I whisper when he picks up.
“On my way,” he replies. “I got your location.”
“Be fast and quiet,” I say though he already knows. This is not the first time he has had to bail me out after an emergency. My investigation is, as always, stunted by my talent to get into trouble.
“Who’s we?” Mathias asks.
“I made two friends.” I wink at the policewoman.
She hiccups again, her eyes wide. The poor rookie.