CHAPTER 17: GROUND RULES

  CYPRUS ALLEY—NOVEMBER 18th, 1992 | EVENING

  ?

  By the day’s end, he’d been sworn in as an underarbiter and given a permit.

  Minister Rostavich even shook Cameron’s hand, and the ceremony made him increasingly uncomfortable. His name was entered into the what Minister Rostavich simply called the Ledger, and Captain Holmes was called back to city hall to undo the Dyrchus metal cuffs around his wrists, return his clothes, and surprisingly, the Reign 18 he’d stolen from the crate that had started this whole thing.

  Leroy had argued to Minister Rostavich that Cameron having access to a weapon was vital if he was to be an underarbiter, and much to Captain Holmes’ chagrin, the contraband was returned to him. The minister had only one condition: no access to bullets unless Cameron was working a job with Leroy. At the very least, he was back in his black hoodie, denim vest, utility pants, and boots. Someone at Sterling Yard had the decency to put his belongings through the wash, too.

  He sat in the front seat of Leroy’s black Cadillac SUV, and as much as he preferred the back seat, Leroy had insisted—mentioned in passing that as much as he was more or less Cameron’s keeper, he wasn’t about to be his chauffeur. Even tried to argue that there was more dignity in sitting in the passenger seat, like it made any difference.

  “The gun thing. It's a dumb rule,” Cameron said.

  “Sure. Can see what you mean.”

  Cameron squinted in Leroy’s direction, as if offended that the arbiter was actually in agreement with him.

  “You’re a hexling. That’s a bigger threat than any bullets you'd have chambered in the gun. That’s what you’re getting at, yeah?”

  “Yeah. And what’s to stop me from, I don’t know, making a run for it?”

  “That’d be me, but you already know that.”

  Salt in the wound. He needed to stop giving Leroy reasons to bring up how he could—and would—kill him if he needed to. He reached for the radio, and Leroy, with a quickened hand, slapped Cameron’s fingers away from the knobs.

  “The hell is your problem?”

  “My car. My rules. The only decent stations in this city are 99.3, the Rat, and 107.1, the Smitten Mistress. The only music that will ever play in this car, Kessler, is rock-and-roll,” Leroy declared. Pearl Jam’s Jeremy played through the car’s stereo system. Cameron couldn't stand it.

  “You’ve got shit taste. Put on some Nirvana, or Soundgarden.”

  “Nope. Won’t be doing that,” Leroy said.

  Cameron squinted and reached again, and like clockwork, Leroy smacked his hand away.

  He’d be stuck with Leroy for however long it would take for him to become an arbiter, and while his anger persisted, always, as if it were pooling in the wellspring of his being, he’d seen how far his anger had taken him against Leroy—which was to say not very far at all.

  Cameron glanced down at the silvery ring on his pinkie, clunky and marked in an excessive amount of Esme’s etchings. With this damn thing, a ring-of-whatever, he wouldn’t be making any shots at Leroy. Not anytime soon. The plan, then, was a simple one: don’t die. Live long enough to become an arbiter, and hold Leroy to his end of the deal they’d made. And as much as he hated to even as much as think it; a man like Leroy Waters might be able to teach him something.

  They drove further and further to the west side of Garland Heights, past the looming Godfrey Tower and its surrounding skyscrapers, and into cramped streets that wore the prestige of the central borough with hints of the South End plastered all over it. Everything was functional, but cramped, steeped in fog, and plastered in the fluorescent signage of pleasure houses, dive bars, and twenty-four-hour laundromats.

  It was his first time there, but he knew where he was the further they drove down the cramped streets. Cyprus Alley: where the familiar scent of debauchery lingered in the air and the promise of a fistfight was all but promised if you wandered where you shouldn’t have. It was the first time he felt somewhat at ease since he’d been ripped out of the South End.

  Leroy swiveled into a parking space in the front of a cluster of mismatched buildings, and he just barely managed to not hit the other cars.

  He exited the driver’s side and circled around, where Cameron had already exited, and looked to the facade of a coffee shop. Closed. Overhead the lights were on, and an older woman sat on a stool, knitting from the front-facing fire escape. A small rat-dog-thing waited by her feet. She waved to Leroy as he made for an access door, and Leroy tipped his flat cap to the woman.

  Cameron followed after him, and watched as Leroy, with his key-fob still in hand, shifted through it until he found a heftier key marked in sigilmasonry. He pushed it into place, and ferried Cameron along through a cramped entrance corridor with mailboxes and a few maintenance closets. Before long they arrived at the front door of Leroy’s apartment, which stood out like a sore thumb compared to the other units on the floor.

  If the access door to the apartment building was protected by a single sigil, then the door that led to Leroy Water’s apartment was covered in dozens upon dozens of them. Maybe even more than that. His apartment was a verifiable fortress hiding in plain sight. Next to his doorknob was a local business watermark that Cameron vaguely recognized, only because Leroy’s SUV had it on the driver’s side of his door: MULDER & SON. Probably spent a fortune on this level of protection, but it made sense. Leroy had a growing list of enemies.

  ?

  It was about what Cameron expected.

  Decently sized, with exposed brick walls, exterior piping that ran across the walls and ceilings, with bookcases and shelving where they could fit. A couch sat in the living room in front of a big box TV, with a rug and a coffee table and some potted plants well in need of watering.

  Something brushed up against Cameron’s leg as soon as he entered. Instinct kicked in, and Cameron twitched, ready to throw a fist.

  “Relax. That’s Foot,” Leroy said, making his way towards the kitchen to brew a new set of coffee.

  “Foot?”

  “Yeah. Foot.”

  Cameron crouched down and tried to pet it, only for the cat to scurry off.

  Leroy glanced over his shoulder. “Need to put your hand out first, but you gotta’ do it just right. Too quick and he’ll nip your finger off.”

  Cameron paced forward. There was only a single hallway, which had two doors. One, he presumed, to Leroy’s room, and another. His. Another stipulation that damned Minister Rostavich added, in addition to their rings, was that Cameron remain under the constant monitor of Leroy. Which meant he had to live with him. In essence, he was under house arrest, and could only leave under the supervision of his arbiter. Life behind bars in Blackpool was starting to seem preferable.

  Cameron set his jaw.

  There was a cruelness that came with being forced to live with your friend’s murderer; but maybe that was the point. Maybe that was the punishment. And if Cameron couldn’t hurt Leroy, he could sure as hell make his life difficult—but that would only get him so far. Better to play it cool for as long as humanly possible. He’d need to remind himself of the deal he’d made with Leroy, burn it into the inside of his eyelids. Replay the words in his head, over and over and over again.

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  Leroy brushed past him, bumping into his shoulder on his way down the hall. He stood in front of one door, and took a long, obnoxious sip from his coffee. “Ground rules. One. You don’t go in this room behind me. Not now, not ever. Two. You clean up after yourself. No dirty dishes, no dirty clothes. There’s a laundry room downstairs where we entered, a vending machine with detergent.”

  “What’re you, my fucking—”

  Leroy cut him off. “My apartment, my rules.”

  “Fine. That all?”

  “One more,” Leroy said, taking another sip. “If you do anything to that cat—”

  “Christ! I’m not a monster, alright? I’m not going to do anything to the cat.”

  Leroy crossed over to the other door in the corridor. On opening it, Cameron peered inside and saw a dusty office space. Unused, it seemed. A desk not unlike that of Minister Rostavich’s, official-looking and old, sat in the far corner beneath a window covered in drapes. Cardboard boxes sat on top of it, all sealed with duct tape. A large bookshelf took up an entire wall. It wasn’t quite a hoarder’s nest, but it was clear that everything in that room had been sitting there for years. Cameron’s brows tensed, and he tried earnestly to hide his interest, unsure if Leroy had picked up on his curiosity.

  “That door on the right connects to a bathroom, and over there, in the closet,” Leroy continued, pointing with his coffee cup. “You’ll find an air mattress and some sheets. Grab the pillows off the couch for now if you need them.”

  “Right.”

  “Spaghetti and Hamburger Helper for dinner in fifteen. Eat, or don’t.”

  The Civic and Occult Authority had fed him well enough during his time in Sterling Yard. Strange that they could do that, but only let him shower a few times. Most if it had been slop too, and not at all appetizing. Since everything had happened, he hadn’t recalled the last time he’d sat down to eat something passable. Pride be damned, he was hungry.

  Cameron sauntered into the living room not long after blowing up the air mattress, enamored by the smell of the marinara sauce and the pre-packaged beef. He’d taken off his denim vest and his boots and opted to arrive in his black hoodie. Leroy had changed completely: sauce-stained wife beater, pajama pants. And he still wore that damn hat. He had some sort of necklace on with a ring attached to it. Cameron couldn’t tell if it looked cheap or expensive, but knew that it had to be important.

  Cameron noticed a tattoo on his inner forearm. An anchor. The ink was worn.

  “Didn’t think you were the type,” Cameron said. There wasn’t a proper table, just a kitchen bar. Cameron took a seat in front of one of the bowls and began forking food into his mouth, slurping incredulously.

  Leroy preferred to stand and eat, twirling the spaghetti around his fork and eating at a deliberate pace. “I’m not.”

  “What is it? The tattoo.”

  “You want parmesan?” Leroy asked.

  “What?”

  “Parmesan cheese. Got some in the fridge. Don’t think it’s expired.”

  “No,” Cameron lied. “The tattoo. I know it's not decorative, but I haven’t seen one like it. So it’s not South End. Can’t be.”

  “Dockside,” Leroy clarified. Foot leaped up onto the counter, and Leroy picked up the black cat with a single hand, letting him rest on his shoulders before turning to the fridge to retrieve the aforementioned cheese.

  Cameron stopped chewing.

  He was glad Leroy turned—if only so that the arbiter didn’t get to see the surprise on his face. Dockside. Home to warehouses, wharfs, and piers and a borough’s worth of shipping crates. Not much in the way of people, and the center of Brinehaven’s import and export industry, which, for as long as Cameron could remember, was run solely by Booker Import and Export. More importantly, home to the Syndicate. Gang of all gangs, bigger and badder and uglier than anything South End could hope to produce. The Syndicate spanned an entire borough and half of Garland Heights, and Leroy Waters had a tattoo that tied him to them.

  Leroy turned around and sprinkled some cheese onto what remained of his food, offering a small cluster of it to Foot. “It was a long time ago. I was younger then. Stupid, like you. And I've always hated tattoos."

  Cameron placed his fork down, face drawn into something between awe and surprise. “You.. you got out.”

  “That I did.”

  “How?” Cameron asked, but sounded more like a demand.

  “You’re what, curious now?” Leroy scoffed.

  “Nobody gets out of the Syndicate. At least, that’s what I’ve heard,” Cameron said.

  “What you’ve heard is wrong.”

  Cameron squinted. “You’re a rat, then. Went informant. Sold someone out.”

  “Nope,” Leroy answered curtly.

  “Then how?"

  “Maybe one day I’ll tell you. But it’s getting late, and I’ve got a consultation scheduled for tomorrow morning. You’re coming with. I’m heading in. When you’re done with your plate, wash it, put it on the drying rack,” said Leroy, making his way towards the kitchen sink.

  Foot had grown tired of all the movement and jumped onto the floor, meowing at Leroy while he went about cleaning his bowl, and the single pot and pan he’d used to make their dinner.

  Cameron stared at the back of his head like it would force an answer out of him. Syndicate enforcer, or whatever he was for them, turned arbiter. There was no way. Even a South Ender like him knew there was not even a sliver of a possibility that the Syndicate let people go like that. Indignation coursed through Cameron’s veins and forced his knuckles closed.

  Captain Holmes’ lecture came back to haunt him, and the realization hit him like a freight train: him and Leroy were two sides of the same coin. He wanted to yell at the top of his lungs, and thought to grab the bowl in front of him and throw it against the wall—just to give the anger somewhere to go other than in.

  Leroy finished washing his portion of the dishes and whistled. Foot followed after him as they proceeded through the living room and into the hallway, where Leroy stopped briefly, leaning on the wall with a forearm. “One last thing. That door, I’m sure you saw, it has sigils out the wazoo. Two-way lock, among other things. The only way you leave is with the keys in my room, which you aren’t allowed in. And if you’re thinking about the windows, don’t. Mulder & Son covered this whole apartment in the premium package.”

  Cameron didn’t even look at him. He stood up and made for the kitchen sink and began to clean out his bowl.

  “We leave at 8:00 AM tomorrow,” Leroy said, making his way towards his room.

  Cameron heard the door open and close shut.

  He made his way towards the office, removed his hoodie, his undershirt, and his pants. There was no overhead light in the room, but the lamplight he’d left on prior to dinner casted a dim yellow glow over the desk and his air mattress. The day had been long. Dog-tired felt like an understatement. Sleep would hit him soon, and it would hit like a hammer, and not even skin as hard as his could stop it. Every part of him wanted to remain awake, to stay vigilant while in the belly of the beast known as Leroy Waters.

  Cameron’s eyes grew heavier by the second. He collapsed onto the air mattress, and couldn’t even find the energy to turn off the lamplight. A stray piece of paper—multiple papers, rather—jutted out of the single cardboard box in the room that wasn’t sealed with duct tape. Some sort of rough draft. It read:

  ON APPLIED WITCHCRAFT: USES OF PREDICTIVE DIVINATION IN COMBATIVES

  Cameron’s vision faded in and out, and the last thing he saw was a name attached to the title of the paper: Professor Melinda Rostavich.

  Volume I: Hard Knocks!

  If it's no trouble, I'd wholeheartedly appreciate a rating/review to get a sense of what you all think so far--but I can understand it still might be fairly early into the story to do so. Either way, thank you everyone! We're getting close to 100 followers, and wow, what a privilege it has been to share my words on this platform and have you guys reading it. I'm excited to keep going, and eager to share more of BRINEHAVEN with you.

  LEROY WATERS

  CAMERON KESSLER

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