I’m asking that genuinely.
I’m trying to not screw this all up.
“Your technique is a bit... unusual.”
“What’s so unusual about it?”
I’m shoving it in and pulling it back out, winding round and round and round as I go, forcing the hole closed. Makes sense, right?
“You’re using kind of like a double overcasting basting stitch instead of a blind stitch... or maybe a ladder stitch would’ve been better.”
“What are you going on about?” I ask, brow furrowing. “Stitches are stitches, are they not?”
“Well... sure, I guess.”
“You guess.”
“It’s just that certain stitches work better in different circumstances—like, for instance...”
He rambles, babbling on and on and on about stitches and fabrics and techniques, while I just keep shoving the needle through the bear, back and forth, until the hole is no more. Poof. I cut the thread and knot it the best I can, looking up at Seven when I’m done.
Not even kidding. He’s still talking.
“How the hell do you know all that?” I ask, cutting him off. “Get your rocks off in home ec? Spend your free time whittling out coats for the homeless?”
He laughs. “The wife is a seamstress.”
“No shit? Didn’t think she had a job anymore since you got set loose and started making money again.”
“She still does a bit of work here and there,” he says. “Mends costumes for a couple shows when they need it. She enjoys it, and well, not gonna turn down extra money, you know?”
“Yeah,” I mumble, examining my sewing job before moving on to the next hole, making Seven rethread the needle for me.
Extra money is a bullshit concept, when it comes down to it. For most people, the more they make, the more they spend. Bigger houses, fancier cars, more recognizable brand names. It isn’t like they get to a point where they think, ‘yep, I’ve got enough now, I’ll pass on the rest.’ Which means there’s no such thing as extra. Money is money. It’s a necessary evil.
“Speaking of money,” I say, sewing up another hole. “I met with Jameson and a few of his guys over in Midtown yesterday.”
“Why didn’t you call me? I could’ve driven you.”
“Wasn’t necessary,” I say. “I just had Jameson swing through and pick me up. Got the guns from storage unloaded. Banked about a hundred thousand. His guy wants more, though, so I’m going to have another shipment put together in the next few days and have it brought up.”
Seven lets out a low whistle. “More? That’s a lot of guns for one man. What’s he doing, starting a war?”
“Probably,” I say. “Not my problem, though. What they do with it all is their business.”
“And the rest of the stuff?”
“It’ll all be out to market in the next few days,” I say. “Three can handle it, like usual.”
Look, while I’m sewing this hole closed, let me give you a rundown about how all of this works:
I help acquire shit. Illegal shit, mostly, some of it that way because of where it comes from. You see, a long time ago, when I was still swimming around in Charlie Gambini’s nutsack, the government said ‘fuck Cuba’ and banned everything to do with the place. No imports. No exports. Couldn’t even step foot on the island without going through a bunch of bullshit. And people, you know, when the government tells them they can’t have something, it just makes them want it even more.
Hence, the blackmarket boomed.
After my stepfather wreaked his havoc and took over the groves, he decided to capitalize on that demand. The convenience of having property in Florida meant they could slip shit in and out from Cuba under everyone’s noses. After he died and I took it all back, I kept the market running. Most of the product still stays down south, and some guys run it all as they keep up with the groves, but special orders are brought to me up here.
You want it, I can probably get it.
Whether or not I will depends on how much you’re willing to pay and if I like you that day.
So in summary, we bribe a bunch of motherfuckers to look the other way as we funnel the good shit in from Cuba. I deal with our connections and handle the money. Three distributes the inventory, while Seven makes sure I keep my head on straight through it all. Eye on the prize. The rest of the guys, well, they mostly do the brunt work, and it pays pretty damn good, so they don’t complain.
You bored now? Yeah?
Can’t say I blame you.
That part of it bores the shit out of me, too. I wouldn’t bother doing it, except I rely on that money to keep the groves running, since there isn’t much money to be made in oranges. I’d break that reality down for you, but it might put you to sleep.
All caught up now? Good.
Back to sewing.
“Anyway, so I asked around about the Russian, figuring one of them would have an in with the guy since most are undercover with that crowd.” Oh yeah, did I mention most of the select group that buys my illegal shit up here works in law enforcement? I have Seven to thank for those connections. “They say they can’t get near him. They’ve tried. He keeps it all close to the chest, but somebody has to have an in with him since he’s always a step ahead. So I’m figuring, you know, I’ve got Jameson in my pocket because he works organized crime, but they aren’t building a case, the locals are, which tells me whoever’s supposed to be investigating the Russians has gotta be bending over for the guy.”
“Makes sense,” Seven says. “Most likely a detective in the area.”
“Ding, ding, ding, we’ve got a winner.” I finish sewing up that hole, assessing the bear’s leg, the bottom part of it pretty fucked, a chunk burned away. “How am I supposed to fix that?”
“Cover it up,” Seven suggests.
“What, sew a sock onto it or something?”
“No, make a patch,” he says, “like when you get a hole in your pants.”
I glance down at my jeans, covered with holes.
They were made that way. No patches.
“Sometimes you seem a lot older than me, Seven.”
He laughs. “You’re just young at heart.”
“Is that your way of saying I’m immature?”
“I’m just saying you don’t seem to be in any hurry to grow up,” he says. “Which there’s nothing wrong with. But me? I’ve settled into my life. You’re still finding yours.”
“Well, I appreciate the validation, but that’s not helping get this goddamn bear fixed.”
“Why are you fixing it?”
Man... that’s a good question. The only answer I’ve got is, “Who knows?”
He laughs. Again. “Look, find some fabric, cut it to fit the space, finish the raw edges and sew it on.”
I toss the bear down on the table beside the sewing kit when he says that. It sounds like a lot of work with a high probability of something going wrong. Can’t do much about the rest of the bear, either. Can’t replace its ear. Can’t put it in the washer without it falling apart. And certainly can’t give it back its missing eye, considering I’ve only got one myself.
It’s just fucked.
“She had a file on me, you know. Scarlet.”
Seven’s eyes widen.
“She swiped it from a detective’s office. Gabriel Jones. You know him?”
Seven makes a face. “Unfortunately.”
“Any chance he could be our Senator Palpatine?”
“Who?”
Sighing, I stand up, taking off my glasses and setting them on the table. “I’m only giving you a pass on that because of the prequels, but if you tell me you’ve never seen Empire Strikes Back, I’m shooting you in the face.”
“Seen it a few times.”
“Good, now come on,” I say, pulling my keys from my pocket and tossing them to Seven. “We’re gonna have us a little rendezvous with our little Sith detective this morning.”
“I’m not sure this is a good idea, boss.”
Those are the first words out of Seven’s mouth when we step foot into the precinct down near Coney Island. I sort of expected it, though, being who he is. He’s more uncomfortable here than at a strip club, and that’s saying something, since the man has an aversion to any naked woman that isn’t his wife. Allergic to unfamiliar pussy.