Sweet Little Lies

The streets were dark and wet, normal for this time of year in the city of Kingstown. In fact, it rained most days of the year here. The people were used to it, heavy coats and umbrellas a staple in every resident's closet. Some in the city thought it was God punishing those who lived in sin, for the sin that was committed in Kingstown was no ordinary immorality. It wasn't just the normal casinos taking money from people who couldn't help but gamble their life's fortune away. Or the strip clubs that offered special perks in the back rooms for those willing to pay.

Or even the men who prowled the parks late at night.

No, Kingstown had a history. One that not many liked to speak about. It was practically forbidden in the circles of worship, believers terrified that if they even spoke one word, God would punish them. With what? Who knows? Maybe it would be a car running a stoplight as they crossed the street or running into one of those so-called sins in person, or maybe God would throw down a classic lightning bolt and fry their insides where they stood.

Those who did speak about the sordid past of this town did so in whispers, not necessarily thinking God would do them wrong but that speaking it into existence might bring them right to the front door of those responsible for said sins. The younger they were, the less seriously they took it. College-aged kids who either grew up with the ghost stories or the ones who moved there for Kingstown University found the history of the city amusing, exciting, and intriguing.

That was until they experienced part of that darkness for themselves.

And they always did. No one was safe. Everyone was fair game, and the monsters who ran the city - everywhere from the pubs on the Southside to the mayor's residence - were sure to catch you.

†††

"Sick of this goddamn rain." Cameron Mendez muttered to himself as he made the turn onto the street where his pub stood.

It had been an abnormally long rainfall this time. Two straight months of it. While it rained a lot in Kingstown, there were usually at least small breaks in between storms. Little pockets of relief. Sometimes the sun would even grace the city with its presence.

Mendez wasn't normally bothered by the weather too much, but he was already in a pissy mood. One of his bars – not a big one or even a profitable one – had been robbed. They didn't steal cash or liquor. Instead, they focused on the cache of guns that was in the basement. A hidden basement. One that only a handful of people knew about. The entrance was a loose floorboard that blended in so well that even if you knew it was there, it took a second look to find it.

That meant only one thing.

They had a rat.

People parted in the street to let him through, the hat and pin on his jet-black overcoat signaling to everyone just what and who he was. It had been a long time since that affected him. Mendez used to relish it, staring down those who took too long to move or gazed too long at the gold pin on his breast pocket. Then the paranoia set in after a few years of his ascension, eyeing every single warm body that passed him in the streets, hating how recognizable he had become.

Now, it was as normal as the rain that fell on his shoulders.

He had reached a point in his life where he was finally comfortable. He was at the top of the food chain in Kingstown, his reputation allowing for a certain level of protection. There were those who tried, of course, but there was nothing more that Mendez valued than his trusted inner circle.

That trust was now frayed, Mendez unable to figure out who it was who had given up valuable information. Not one of his people had ever given him a hint that they would turn on him. And that was a problem. This information had cost him thousands upon thousands of dollars. Since learning of the heist, that paranoia that had almost cost him everything back in his early days had started to edge its way back into the folds of his mind. Every waking thought was dedicated to finding this turncoat.

And he would.

The bells at the door jingled as Mendez entered his pub. A mixture of cedar and whisky filled his senses, the familiarity calming the unease sifting through his stomach. He knew the man sitting in the corner seat at the bar, what section of the newspaper he was reading, and how many drinks he had had by the slump in his shoulders. The screens were all set to sports, most playing baseball as it was heading into the World Series. The bartenders shaking drinks and pouring beer were making jokes with the others at the bartop.

Home. That's what this felt like. Safe. Something his family rarely felt.

But that was where this story started, right? With the mistake of getting too comfortable, too trusting, too safe. With age and success, Mendez had failed at the most important rule of this job.

Never trust a warm body.

Warm bodies could think and scheme and lie. No matter how good you were, there were always those who were learning from your lapses in judgement. Every successful empire to ever exist had fallen to the next. The goal was to last as long as possible without getting complacent.

It looked like he had broken that cardinal rule.

Bypassing the crowd, Mendez stalked to the back, knocking on a door in the far side corner by the kitchen. A large, hulking man opened it. The guard looked at him for mere seconds before stepping aside.

That back room was smoky, with card tables spread about. A ring of men nodded their heads at Mendez as he passed, not a single one daring to actually speak to him. These were men with power, and still they shrank in the midst of Mendez. A spark of sick delight filled him. At least he knew his reputation was intact and that no one had let it slip that he had been compromised.

Cigars were being presented at the next table by a young woman, potbellied men fingering them in their wooden cases lined with 24-karat gold. An argument broke out at the table in the corner but was stopped immediately by security. It didn't matter that these were some of the most powerful men in the city. They were bound by the same rules as everyone else at Mendez's.

Mendez swept past all of them, not looking a single one in the eye. His destination was beyond this room. Through a hallway, past restrooms, a private room lay hidden behind a locked door. When he entered, a large man stiffened, eyes trained on Mendez. Behind him was a bank vault door with one of those wheel handles – not very inconspicuous, but his father had been one for theatrics.

"Key, boss?" His deep voice rumbled.

His large hands reached into his overcoat, finding the ring of keys easily. The guard took his own key out, and they slid them both into the locks simultaneously. With a resounding click, the handle shuddered before it was turned by strong hands.

It opened to a winding staircase, Mendez knowing just a simple wooden door was waiting for him at the top. By now, the men inside that door had guns trained at the entrance, no doubt the flashing red light indicating that the vault door had been opened. The climb was four stories tall, Edison bulbs lighting his way. There were no more doors, no windows, only bricks, cracked steps and waning lights.

He let himself catch his breath once he reached the top, gathering himself for what was most likely the most important meeting he'd had in years. Mendez fixed his watch, making sure the face was perfectly placed in the middle of his wrist.

Knuckles rapped against the old wood in a very particular rhythm. Seconds later it opened, letting him in. There were only five other people in the room. Mendez's two guards, his right hand, brother Tully, and another man who stood in the corner behind the figure that Mendez had invited.

"Cameron." The man spoke first, shadows dancing across his face.

Walking up to the small table and taking the seat across from him, he replied, "Cedric. Thank you for coming."

"Not really a choice when a Mendez requests a meeting."

He was right, of course.

"I think you are well aware of the new threat that has plagued Kingstown recently." Waving his hand, Mendez called for a drink wordlessly.

"Ah," Cedric nodded, "Yes, I heard of your recent troubles."

"But it's not just me, is it?"

Sharp eyes flew to his. Cedric Glover was known to be cold. They all were, really. But especially him. He ran the business sector uptown, his tech company one of the biggest in the world. Mendez might be rich and successful, but Glover was rich and successful. He came from old money, his family owning property all over the world. There were even rumours that they were related to kings and queens and that one of their properties was an old castle hidden in the marshlands.