It was the sound of the Falcon’s voice that caused Markus “The Rat” Mungia to freeze. That, coupled with the unshakeable feeling that something was horribly fucking wrong. He had been creeping across the long hallway of the third floor, passing the half open doors of unused offices, when he’d heard her voice, looming and cold, cut the stillness. Beams of rotten yellow light bled in from the thresholds and Markus crept around this regurgitated light in the shadows, only illuminated when his face caught a sunbeam. The Warehouse was unusually quiet that morning. Even the air inside the drug house was still, as if contained inside a pair of lungs waiting to exhale. The workers packing bricks of cocaine below had seemed on edge, muttering to each other instead of filling the floor room with their usual braggadocious bellowing. These should have been warning signs, but Markus had information to gather. He followed the sound of her voice until he was outside of the room in the middle of the hallway, her office. There he crouched, and waited for her secrets.
He was, after all “The Rat”.
“I don’t like to make mistakes Fabian. So I will only ask this once. Not out of disrespect, but because I must know. Are you sure it’s him?”
Markus didn’t need to look to see into her office. The Falcon was a tall, woman. Cloaked in a well-tailored black suit, she would be standing behind her desk, peering down at the man in front of her, with hair that swept along her cheekbones like folded wings. Her eyes were sharp, and when the light hit them just right, gold.
“You give no disrespect, Donna. My men don’t lie. A fuckin’ rat.”
The voice belonged to her right hand man, Fabian Puzo. When he spoke, his words rolled through a Chicagoland accent. When he spoke, it was with an air of confidence. When he spoke, he knew.
Markus did not doubt it. In fact, he should have anticipated it. Puzo was a fat piece-of-shit, but one should never mistake him as lazy. A thread of sweat ran down through the stubble of Markus’ cheek.
A fuckin’ rat.
Puzo could be speaking figuratively. Sure, it was common knowledge that his nickname was “The Rat”. Markus wasn’t the most handsome man, but it was his eyes that had given him that title. ‘They were always shifting’ the other drug dealers would say as they laughed, or smirked, or glowered at him. They were like a rat’s when he found his back up against a wall. It was something that had earned the admiration of the Falcon on a number of occasions, when he’d had information which allowed his men to escape seemingly inescapable situations. But had that been Puzo’s intention, to use his street name?
Markus felt the rivulet of sweat reach his chin. It ripened to a bead and, without a sound, broke from his chin and fell to the floor.
It landed with a plink so insignificant no one could possibly hear it. No one but Markus.
But if Markus could hear it…
“So I should call everyone to the floor?” Puzo asked.
“Yes, but when it’s time, I will do it. I want to get my hands dirty on this one. I want them to see blood. Puzo…” There was a pause. The silence was so thin that Markus could hear her inhale into her glass as she put back the rest of her whiskey. “No loose ends.”
A second glass tipped. Puzo’s chair squeaked as he pushed back from her desk and rose. Markus, understanding that this was his moment, took the sound of this movement to mask his own, slipping back through the web of yellow light and shadows, watching the door to see if it would open. Maybe he had been caught, but he could still escape. He could still be careful.
He had known this day would come. He’d always been a street rat, it was what had drawn him to a life of crime. First, it had been small things. Holding baggies of drugs until a seller could come get them. Then, pushing, distributing to the pushers, and finally smuggling drugs across state lines. It had been a lucrative lifestyle until the police had finally caught up to him.
It turned out, it was just as lucrative to play the other side. Markus had thought this through, which was why the first decision he made as he neared the end of the hallway was to take the stairs. Elevators were too easy. If the Falcon’s orders had already spread, then using the elevator was a mistake, an easy way to get trapped. The door would open, and on the other side would be the barrel of a shotgun. Besides, stairs were quicker, and there were options. You could go back up. You could go down. You could go down fast through the middle, something Markus hoped it wouldn’t come to. There was even a window on the second floor. It would be a drop, but depending on the circumstances that wasn’t a bad thing.
There were worse alternatives.
Markus turned around, pushed open the door to his right, and began his descent through the stairwell. As he did, he removed the phone from his stiff, khaki’s pocket, and dialed his wife’s number.
The phone rang once.
Markus slowed his progress so his footfalls, which were clattering against the cement walls, wouldn’t echo so much. His pulse thundered in his neck. He hadn’t noticed this before, and for the first time since hearing his boss’ voice wondered if there were other things he hadn’t noticed. When he’d sauntered into The Warehouse earlier that day, heads had turned to look at him. Had they turned because they heard someone come in, or had they turned, the heads of feasting hyenas, to watch prey approach the watering hole?
The phone rang a second time.
Dayana would be at home, Markus thought to himself. The baby would be on her hip, she’d be smoking a cigarette and burning some eggs, but she would be home. She would have told him if she was going to run to the store that day. They had decided that.
The phone rang a third time, and Markus stopped on the landing between the third and second floor.
It had been weeks since his arrest; since he’d decided for his sake, for her sake, that the only way for him to beat the drug charges was to sell out the Falcon. It had been dangerous, but they’d taken precautions. There were safe bags stashed around the house. If she was on the move, her phone would be silenced.
The phone rang a fourth time, then there was a click.
“Hi, this is Dayana, I can’t-“
Markus hung up and tried again. He heard no footsteps behind him, and found himself lost in the view from the window. In the early afternoon sunlight, skyscrapers winked at him.
“Can’t come to the phone? Won’t ever come to the phone?” The distant buildings whispered. A train blew its horn somewhere far off. It sounded like screaming.
The phone rang, had been ringing, and there was a click.
“Hi, this is Day-“
Fuck.
Markus hung up the phone and began to move again, this time not concerned by the sound his footfalls made. He pressed the blue talking bubble under his wife’s name and began to type.
<Sweetie, I need you to grab some milk.>
He sent the message and tucked the phone back into his pocket. Again, he used their words. She would know. If she wasn’t-
“Markus, hey bud!”
He looked up at the familiar voice. The emergency exit was open, and a large man was standing in the threshold. The shadow inhaled the last of his cigarette, exhaled twin jets of smoke from his nose, and then flicked the butt out to the gravel. Markus froze. He was five steps from the bottom. If the man wasn’t expecting it, he could bolt past him and make it to the parking lot. That, however, was a big “If”. He could run back up the stairs, and try to lose him on the second floor. But Markus was close.
He was so damn close.
Markus stepped forward, and the angle allowed him to see who it was. Tyson cocked his head, and then closed the door behind him.
“You…uh… you ok?” The large man asked, tucking the pack of cigarettes into his shirt pocket. Markus regarded him in the dim stairwell. He had known Tyson from the beginning. Hell, he’d learned everything he knew about the drug trade from him. Was it possible that, even if Ty knew what he was, that he would turn him in?
It was. Tyson took a step towards him and Markus realized he’d been standing there in silence for too long. He took another step forward.
The man was pale green. He looked like he was going to be sick, and by the time Markus figured out that the man knew something, Tyson had pulled him into a quick embrace. When his large friend released him, he looked Markus over. Sweat stained the armpits of his grey shirt.
“Jesus man, where the hell have you been?” Markus legs trembled, but he willed himself to remain standing. “You don’t look so good buddy.”
“I’ve been better.” Markus muttered, “Hey, I’m just going to step outside for a quick smo-“
The Rat made a move for the exit and, as he did, the door to the stairwell opened. A man Markus had seen only a handful of times, but recognized as “Delatorre” peered at them.
“The Falcon’s called a meeting. Everyone’s required.” The man looked at Markus, then at the Rat’s hand placed against the bar of the exit. “Now.”
Delatorre moved so that the threshold of the door was open, and held it for the two men. The veins in Markus’ neck pulsed. He had his window. If he bolted for it he might make it… but given that the parking lot was on the other side of the building, if he went for his car, he would probably be gunned down. Even if he made it off the property, they would be right on his heels.
And besides, what if the rat wasn’t him?
If he rode it out… it was a gamble, but it might pay off. Puzo had said “A rat”. Not “THE Rat”. It was known that there were some who whispered in secret, through clenched teeth or into their beer mugs at the bar, that they didn’t care for the Falcon’s methods. There were undoubtedly others who would snitch on her. Markus had never given her a reason to doubt him. If anything, he’d played his role too well, putting his own ass on the line to ensure shipments made it safely. Slowly, he pulled his hands away from the door. He was aware of how clammy they felt. Markus swallowed. Delatorre didn’t say a word.
Tyson continued to look at him. He looked like he was ready to bolt as well. Markus noted his friend’s appearance and, acutely aware of how he himself looked, did his best to calm his breathing.
Only a second or so had passed, but he was conscious of its passage, and so he stepped away from the exit. He would hang back, knowing Delatorre would be behind him until they entered the room. From there he would wait until the man walked past him, and then, if things got sticky, would bolt.
“Ride this one out,” the voice in his head told him. “Just play it cool.”
He moved forward, and Tyson followed. Once they were through the door they turned left and together they walked back towards the distribution floor of the warehouse.
Already, a crowd had appeared in the center. There was murmuring. No one acknowledged their approach. Markus noted, briefly, the piles of cocaine bricks, and the gallon-sized baggies filled with marijuana. If he made it out of this one and could slip away, he would grab one.
Insurance, he told himself.
Delatorre moved from behind him and joined the throng. The Falcon was standing among them, in the epicenter, stoic. She looked in Markus’ direction and, for a moment, Markus felt as if she was looking at him. Her gaze passed, and Markus let out a gasp of air. Trembling, he clutched his hands in front of him to stop them from telling. The crowd went silent. Then, she spoke.
“Bring him forward.”
Markus felt something to his right and leapt to the left, but the figure paid him no attention. Instead, the shadow took Tyson by the arm, and another fell in on Markus’ large friend’s right. The three hundred pound man between them sagged, and yet the two holding him up carried him with ease. The sounds of Tyson’s blubbering bubbled up through the silence of the floor.
“OhgodohgodpleaseIhaveafamilyitwasformyfamilyohGOD.”
Markus tried to swallow. His mouth had run dry. The man who had brought him into this underworld was carried forward through the parting crowd. Once the three men were in the middle, the goons released Tyson. He fell to his knees, out of Markus’ view. All he could see was the Falcon, towering over everyone, her hair shading any expression.
Markus took a step backward into the shadows.
“I did not anticipate your betrayal Tyson. For that I apologize to you. I allowed friendship to deceive my intellect. In that sense, it is understandable if I lost your respect.”
Markus saw her shoulder rise as she leveled the pistol. Markus took a second step back, aware that he could visibly see the beat of his heart through his black, button down shirt.
“It wasn’t me. My God, it wasn’t me,” he thought.
Tyson let out one final plea, and then the rapport of the .45 echoed through The Warehouse. Markus took another step back, feeling along the edge of the plastic folding table for a baggie. He had it in his fingers. He began to turn his head, to slip away into the shadows, when he felt the piano wire wrap around his neck. Before he could get a hand between his throat and the garrote, it tightened and he was dragged up and backwards. Tears sprang in his eyes. His hands leapt to his throat. His legs were still running. Dust floated on sunbeams. Somewhere in the distance the Falcon was speaking. She was calm. Her eyes were watching him.
“You wanna know how to catch a rat?” Puzo whispered in his ear. His breath smelled of scotch. “You set the nest on fire.”
It took only fifteen seconds for Markus to lose consciousness. In that time he thought of his wife, who lay dead on their kitchen floor. He thought about how close he’d been.
And man, he’d been so goddamn close.
Genre: Thriller
Character: Drug Dealer
Action: Snooping
The Word and The Song 