But even as I say the words, something inside me shrivels. I just told my daughter lie three.
Everything is not okay.
3
I roll up to the property and park my bike out front. There is a paved parking lot, but it’s in atrocious condition. The pockmarks in the concrete are so deep it looks like a hoard of wild boars wearing steel spikes on their feet stampeded through, not once but twice. The fractures in the walkways are large enough to trip a person and cause some serious injuries.
This place is a total piece of shit, but it’s ours.
There are at least four separate storefronts that I can count, but every one of them is completely boarded up. There’s minimal graffiti on the plywood, which is good.
Means I won’t have to fight local shitheads to keep them off the property. But securing the place while we rebuild is going to be an issue.
As I walk up to one of the shops and peer in the windows, I guess that anything of value has long been looted. Probably by the former owner, but still.
From what I can see through the small gaps between the plywood planks, the interiors have been stripped bare. The roof looks as if a family of raccoons has built a compound up there. What grounds there are haven’t been mowed or weeded in… Shit. The nearly two acres as far as the eye can see is basically feral.
“Fuuuuuck.”
I should have driven my truck here today. I don’t have tools with me, and without breaking down some of what’s boarded up, I’m going to have to bust a window or door to access the building.
The bank agent handed me a single key at closing. A single key. Even figuring out which door that key opens—because there’s no way that one key unlocks all these shops—is going to take some time.
I peer in the windows and try every door handle with the key, but they are all a no-go. Since it looks like I’m not getting in clean, I may as well go dirty.
I scan the ground for a brick, a rock, or any concrete debris I can use to bust my way into a window or pry off a bit of plywood, when I hear the sound of an engine turning over or trying to.
The noise is coming from behind the building. I haven’t even gone back there yet, but there are no neighbors or other businesses, so whoever is back there…is probably fucking stealing.
“Goddamn it,” I mutter.
I head around the side of the building and keep my steps quiet. My fists have gotten me into and out of trouble more times than I can count, but if whoever is on the other side of this building is packing, it sure as fuck won’t be a fair fight.
Once I’m on the side of the building, I can see a huge extended cab black pickup with a small flatbed trailer hitched on the back. There is an antique, beat-to-shit yellow Ford Bronco half-cab parked near the flatbed.
I’m assuming the piece-of-shit truck doesn’t run because there is somebody behind the wheel of the classic truck who looks focused on trying to get the engine to turn over.
I come up quietly around the Bronco from behind. The windows on the half-cab are either broken or rolled down, but I have a clear reach in if I’m quick.
I scan the pickup, the trailer, and the entire scene. There’s only this one guy as far as I can tell, but I’m not taking any chances. I see my shot and rush the truck.
“Hey, asshole!” I pound on the driver’s side door once with my fist, then reach through the open window and grab the shirt of the guy inside.
“What the fuck!” The kid puts his hands up like he’s surrounded by the cops, which is actually what I want. No gun or other weapon that I can see, so for the moment, I’ve got the upper hand.
I yank open the driver’s side door, tighten my fist around the guy’s work shirt, and physically drag his ass out of the truck. Not willing to take any chances, I release the guy only long enough to make a fist and aim for his gut. I land a single punch that knocks him to the ground, where he rolls around, gripping his stomach and sputtering a cough.
“Fuck!” he groans, settling over on his side and panting.
“You packin’?” I demand, standing over him, my steel-toe boot lined up to his balls. I like a fair fight, but I’m not above kicking a man when he’s down if it means not getting my face blown off. “You got a weapon? Anybody else here?”
The kid tries to stand, but he gives up and rolls over onto his back, covering his face with his hands. “Jesus, fuck,” he sputters. He coughs weakly, but I know he’s gonna be fine in a couple seconds.
“Unless you want this—” I nudge the tip of my boot into the broken asphalt. “I’d start talking if I were you.”
The kid holds his hands up and looks me in the eye. He can’t be more than twenty-five, if that. He’s wearing a work shirt and jeans. “I’m alone,” he assures me. “I don’t even own a gun. I got nothing. Jesus!”
I watch him closely as, one hand still up, his eyes never leaving mine, he struggles to stand. He holds his gut and bends slightly, huffing a breath, but before I know what’s coming, he tackles me to the ground and starts pummeling the shit out of my face.
“You punk-ass motherfucker!”
Goddamn this kid.
We tussle on the ground, but it’s not long before I’ve got my full weight on him.
“Who are you?” I ask calmly, giving us both a chance to catch our breath. Getting into a fight in the midmorning sun is the last thing I wanted to do this morning. “Why the fuck are you here?”
“Leo,” he grunts. “Leo Hawk.”
“And why the fuck are you stealing, Leo?”
“Come on, man,” he says. “Let me up. I can explain.”
“I can hear you just fine,” I say. “Go ’head. Why are you trying to steal my shit?”
Leo jerks his body, trying to free himself. But that ain’t happening. I’m 265 pounds of solid muscle, and despite the more than twenty years I probably have on this kid in age, I’m on top of this situation…literally.
I use my left hand to grab the back of his collar and give him another shake, making sure the asphalt pebbles on the ground give his face a couple of contact kisses.
“Fuck!” he yells.
“Don’t be a pussy,” I scold. “I’ve had hickeys that left deeper marks than that. Now, why don’t you stop crying and start talking? I might just let you leave my property with most of your face intact.”
“Okay, okay.”
I feel his body relax a little.
It’s resignation. Maybe defeat.
“Hawk Enterprises,” he explains. “That was my brother.”
“Why do I know that name?”
“He owned this whole strip. And then fucking lost it. He’s an addict. He shot all the profits into his arm or spent it on strippers. Jesus, I don’t know.”
The kid sounds miserable, broken enough that I want to believe him. Liars don’t usually sound so shredded.
“You’re the one who looted the property?”
“I wouldn’t say looted, man,” Leo says. “This building was all we had. Our parents are dead. It’s just me and Tim. He’s older. Always been handy. We both are. There’s nothing mechanical we can’t fix. I’ve worked with him here in the restoration bays doing auto repair since I was eighteen. Last seven years of my life. I didn’t know my brother wasn’t paying the mortgage. I found out the bank put the place up for sale when I came to work one day and the sheriff had pasted a notice on the door. Everything we’ve worked for, everything we know. Fuckin’ gone.”