Shaking, and fighting the quiver of my chin, I reach out and tug my dresses to the side to reveal the damn outfit he wants me to wear. My stomach sinks as I pull the hanger off the rail and bring the ensemble out into the light. My chest is tight, my lungs starving for enough air while I carry the damn outfit to the bed so I can lay it out. The design is impeccable, the tailoring something to behold. I can see as I spread it out why Gunter paid so much for this genuine collector’s item.
Regardless of how beautifully classic the style is, I could never stomach wearing it. Somehow I managed to hide the damn clothing before he realized, stashing it away for two clear months before he asked me why he’d never seen me in it.
Because I feel her evil in me when the fabric touches my skin. Wearing the dress makes me every part the narrow-minded assholes they are, and I’m not one of them. I refuse to be a damn Nazi. I live with two of them, but that’s as far as my involvement in their racist exercises goes.
I run my fingers over the fabric, a chill spreading over my skin as I flatten the gray ensemble made for and worn by Ilse Koch, wife of SS member Karl Koch. I Googled her after Gunter gave me the gift. He was so damn excited about it, telling me the elaborate story of how long he’d been searching for something so ‘special’ for me. All I’d been able to do was stare at what I was reading, vowing never to wear the damn thing.
Ilse Koch was notorious for having the Jews who came in to her husband’s concentration camp skinned, and taking the segments of flesh with intricate tattoos on them in order to create book covers and lampshades from the tanned hide. Although it was never proven to be true, it was instrumental in her trial, which tells me it’s real enough.
The woman was a damn monster, and Gunter wants me to wear her dress because the thought of being that close to such an evil Nazi woman turns him on.
I can’t do it. I have to. I have no choice. My fingertips trail over the buttons, each plastic disc burning my flesh when I think of her putting this on. What disgusting things did she do while wearing this? Whose blood was spilled on this dress?
I sink to my knees where I stand, sitting back on my heels as I stare at the garment with glazed eyes. This is my life, this is what I’ve made it, and the fact I’ve decided that I should wear this dress to make Gunter happy rather than starting an argument shows me how unaffected with this life I’ve become. I’m willing to place aside my morals and sell myself for an easy exit. I’m content to live with the knowledge I did this, just to save myself the grief of fighting for my freedom.
A sole tear breaks free and runs over my cheek as I stare at my life condensed into a gray dress. No matter how badly I want to convince myself the ride from hell is almost over, I can still see the truth for what it is—I’ve been given the wheel on this speed trap and I’m only getting faster.
BILLS
Bronx
Eight houses down and we’re finally on to the last one for the night. I’ve broken fingers, slammed an asshole’s head in the door, and threatened two women’s lives if their men didn’t pay up. All in all, just another day on the job. Kind of feels like home.
Gunter pulls the Dodge into a dead-end street and kills the lights. The old car purrs along the road, idling to a stop before the curve of the cul-de-sac. We sit in silence, the glow from Tommy’s phone illuminating the interior of the vehicle. Gunter lifts one of the sheets Ryan marked off and checks the information before we go inside, the same as he’s done for every house tonight. Gotta figure out how to get those lists from Ryan at the next show. I have to give it to the big bastard. He’s thorough; he likes to ensure we’ve got the right place before any of us so much as steps foot outside the car.
“Yeah, this is it,” he announces.
Tommy kills the phone, pocketing it.
“It’s the asshole who threatened Eddie today,” Gunter adds.
“What are we here for?” I ask. “Thought Eddie cut him loose.”
“Doesn’t mean he gets his debt wiped for nothing,” Gunter explains.
Right. Suppose that makes sense. “He expectin’ us?”
“Probably.”
Tommy straightens in his seat, his eyes trained on the house to our right. I stare out at the unassuming single-level dwelling and draw a laden breath. This could get ugly.
“Take it there’s a reason you left this until last,” I say from my position in the back.
“Yeah,” Gunter grumbles. He hesitates and then twists in his seat to look at me. “I’ve been watching the way you worked tonight.”
“That so?”
“You’re not new to this, are you?”
I shake my head. “Been crackin’ knuckles since my voice broke.”
“Thought so.” He chuffs to himself and twists back to the front. “I’m guessing then you’ll be aware of how this is probably going to go?”
“What weapons do we have?” So far, we’ve got by on the element of surprise and sheer size alone. This job’s not going to be so straightforward.
Tommy pops the glove box and pulls out a Glock. He checks the clip, and then sets it in his lap. He selects a knife for me and hands Gunter a simple length of heavy chain.
“You better hope he’s not packing,” I say, motioning to the chain.
“Don’t you worry about me,” Gunter answers. “Just keep your eye trained on him. Don’t want you getting some stupid idea about fucking us over.”
The thought of doing that to Gunter is appealing, but I wouldn’t hurt Tommy like that. He’s too much of a nice kid.
“Ready then?” I poise my hand to open my door. “Sooner we get this shit done, sooner we can crack a cold one.”
“We pull this off,” Tommy says, “and I’m doing a fucking line. Screw beer—this shit calls for something better.”
Gunter slaps him around the back of the head. “Like fuck you’re doing that shit.”
“What?” he cries out. “So you can do it whenever you fucking want, but I can’t?”
“Fucking right,” Gunter growls, getting in Tommy’s face. “It’s my job to look after you, little brother, and that means no drugs.”
“Uh, guys?” I indicate they should look out Tommy’s window.
Both heads swing around to take a look at what I’m currently evaluating. Our jaded friend stands on his front porch, a shotgun pointed at the car.
“Fuck,” Gunter hisses. “I’ll try and reason with him. Stay here.”
“Sure,” Tommy answers, eyes wide.
The air in the car is heavy as Gunter lifts the handle, edging the door open and rising out of the seat to face this guy. Tommy and I wait on tenterhooks, neither of us blinking while Gunter makes his way around the car and up the path towards the man, wrapping the chain around his hand as he goes.
“He’s never been trouble before,” Tommy whispers. “Most of the people we’ve seen tonight are never any trouble. Things are changing.”
Gunter reaches the guy and they start to talk. Hands fly, heads bob, and the two of them enter into a rollercoaster of an exchange. Quiet and passive, and then loud and confrontational. Up and down, over and over. All the while I’m slipping my door open, standing to give myself a clear path should I need to get involved.
The scene deteriorates in a matter of seconds. One minute I’m cursing at the door as it squeaks after an accidental nudge of my hip, the next, Gunter’s facing us, running towards the car. Tommy’s frozen in the front seat, the gun useless in his hand. The shotgun goes off, a resonating boom echoing around the cul-de-sac as Gunter slides across the hood. Pellets pepper the bodywork of the car, one hot stray connecting with my collarbone. Gritting my teeth and ignoring the sting best I can, I hurl the knife in the back seat, reach through Tommy’s open window to snatch the Glock from him, and slam my hands down on the roof of the car to line up the dealer as he advances down the path. I fire at his body, and the bullet connects with his shoulder, but like some fucking Terminator spin-off, the asshole keeps coming. Gunter dives in the open driver’s door, cranking the car over while he reaches for the door handle to pull it shut. I slide in before I get left where I stand and wrench my door closed, sliding across the back seat to wind the window down on the far side.