The Land of Opportunity

The engine gave a death rattle, it shuddered through his bones like a train. There was silence between them as they sat in the dark, listening, waiting. Troy held his breath. In his ears, the pounding of blood beat out every second as it crawled by. It was a full minute before Dom breathed an oath into the shadows. Troy sighed.

"Nice drivin'."

"Man, that was too close!" Dom was using his wife voice, "Too damn close. I mean, if we hadn't jumped those lights..."

Whatever conclusion he'd arrived at had left him speechless, instead, he gave a huff of laughter that didn't sound at all amused. It fell to Troy to spoon-feed him some reassurance, "But we did. No-one saw us. No-one knows."

He climbed out of the van, even the softest thud from the door made him wince. Though the shadows were thick, his eyes had adjusted, and through the gloom he made out a trash can and a shelf full of paint pots. There were tools pegged to the wall and a lawnmower lying in a pool of grease. It was a typical garage, and typically small, too - Dom had trouble circling the van to meet him. There was a jingle of keys and the door to the house swung open without a sound. Inside, the silence became oppressive, and Dom's voice cut through it like a knife.

"You got three days, Troy. Three days. When Bonnie gets back, this shit better be gone, or it's my ass! And you best believe I'll be taking you down with me!"

"Where'd she go again?" Troy stopped to inspect a knife block. It looked expensive.

"She's staying with Tanya's family in Cleaveland."

"Tanya... is she the hot one?"

"Troy, it's time to start taking this seriously. Call Macy, and tell her-"

"Hey, I'll call Macy in my own fuckin' time," Troy snapped, his words edged like Bonnie's designer kitchenware, "I don't need you to tell me when I should call fuckin' Macy."

Domino said nothing at first. He stood framed in the window as if he were carved from ice, an ebon tower of a man awash in moonlight blue. Troy didn't need to be reminded of just how intimidating he could be, but he knew that, in the end, Dom would back down. He knew it like he knew the darkest corners of his mind. Dom was his man through-and-through - he wasn't bought or borrowed or strong-armed to his side - it was pure loyalty. If Troy trusted him enough to drive him unscathed through oncoming traffic then he could trust him enough to help him through this mess.

"Look," Dom began, the first familiar note of the backpedal, "I trust you, and you know I got your back, but this is red hot. And now that Tyler's caught the scent he won't let up. The sooner this is off our hands, the better I'll sleep at night."

Inwardly, Troy was glad to know it wasn't just him who'd been shaken up by the ordeal. The screech of tires had pierced him like ice shards. By the time he'd arrived at the window, there were six men crossing the basketball court at speed. If it hadn't been for Shifty and Dutch, who'd been shooting hoops at the time and, by some miracle, had had the presence of mind to retreat in the direction of the wrong apartment block, then... There was no point in dwelling on it. While Tyler's thugs were raiding the wrong apartments, Troy and Dom both made for the basement, and brought the van to Dom's cousin's place. One of the cars tried to follow them but, unlike Dom, the driver wasn't blessed with flawless prediction and was left behind at the first set of lights. Dom was right, though, it had been too close.

Outwardly, Troy shrugged, "Man, I got it. I'm going to call Macy tomorrow, arrange a drop-off, and it's going to be smooth as silk. Alright? I'll even send Bonnie a fuckin' fruit basket."

Dom's teeth flashed like a scimitar - it was an anxious smile, but it was a start. They agreed to spend the night in Bonnie's place, with Dom in the spare room and Troy on the couch. It was safer to lie low until morning. Before turning in, Dom gave Dutch a call: he and shifty were unharmed and there was no damage done to their home. Apparently, Tyler's men took off the moment they were told about the van, and they were pissed. Everything worked out, thought Troy, although he didn't dare say it aloud.

Dom went to bed looking haggard. For a while, Troy listened to him pacing the floor above; there was mumbling too, and he knew that it was to Floss he was grovelling. He didn't envy Dom: Floss had quite a bark for such a small pup, and some bite to back it up, too. However, when own his phone started to buzz on the coffee table, his first thoughts were of a certain blonde bombshell from New Jersey. But it was not Chantelle. He stared at the screen for a moment, while the phone chattered in his grasp. He took a breath.

"Tyler."

There was silence, and then a breath that rattled through smiling teeth, "Troy, my man... 'Sup."

"Heard your boys paid me a visit. Sorry I wasn't home."

"That's okay. That's okay," Tyler drew out the last syllables of his words, like a child trying them out for the first time, "Maybe I'll call again sometime. Give us a chance to catch up."

"Oh, you don't gotta do that."

"Nonsense," he rasped, Troy heard the suck and crackle of a cigarette, "What kinda responsible businessman would I be if I didn't check up on my investments from time to time?"

"Are you sayin' you don't trust me?"

"Now, Troy, I trust you implicitly. I know you know the rules, and I know you know not go about any business under my roof without my knowledge. Isn't that so?"

"Just as you say it." Troy slipped off the sofa, and made his way to the window. Outside, the street was a suburban haven of unnatural stillness, with clean streets and perfect lawns.

"And as one of my most trusted friends, I have a job for you," Troy waited for it, his muscles set like concrete, "There's a certain Manny Morales who has found himself in arrears with his loan repayments. I want you to slap him with a late fee."

"I ain't one of your muscles, Tyler."

"Excuse me, Mr. Dempsey, but you are what I say you are. You are my eyes to see and my lips to speak; you are my hand that feeds and my dick that fucks. Go fuck Manny Morales and we'll see about rescheduling my next unscheduled visit."

There was a click and Tyler was gone. For a moment, Troy stood staring, the phone droned its lonely drone in his hand, his face a pale spectre in the dark. When he looked up, he saw Dom in the doorway, watching him. His voice rumbled with uncertainty, "What is it? Troy, who was that?"

"That was Tyler. We're through the looking glass now, Dom. I'm calling Macy."

"Good thing I don't have a lot of stuff," Aimee joked, her backpack securely on her lap for the subway ride. Jim jittered beside her, his relentless energy confined to his fingers drumming and one knee bouncing up and down. "Travel light, that's what I always say."

He looked at her, and she shrugged, smiling. She could tell Jim wasn't exactly happy that she was moving in with her foster brother Troy, but he was putting a good face on it. As for her, she was feeling anxious but optimistic, and the fact she wouldn't have to put up with Mrs. Lewinski's pointed stares and passive aggressive digs was definitely a selling point.

"C'mon, Lewinski, it isn't like we aren't going to see each other again." Aimee grabbed a pole and pulled herself to her feet as the train rumbled to their stop.

"Oh, sure. I know how this goes. We promise to call and we make plans and sometimes we even go through with them. You know about the law of diminishin' returns, right? We were doomed from the moment we said that nothin' was going to change."

Jim was half-joking. He didn't want them to part ways on a sour note, nor could he hide his feelings, so he settled for a compromise with some melodramatic teasing. She knew he was exaggerating and he knew he wasn't. Deep down, it felt like the end of something; it was a death and he was in mourning. Aimee, on the other hand, had a bounce in her step as she departed the train and mingled with the bustling crowd.

In a glance, Jim counted three hugs, two kisses, and one handshake; there were four German backpackers, three bronze businessmen, two laughing nuns, one rubbish pickpocket and a white-haired busker with a good voice and a cardboard ukelele. There was a slap and the rubbish pickpocket stumbled into the Germans. His victim-cum-attacker, a steel-jawed woman with a crown of black curls, soldiered on, ferrying a trio of costumed kids onto the escalator with not a single cape snagged. Jim loved big cities, there was so much colour and variety, and so many people; his concerns forgotten, he stepped onto the platform with a smile, and swam amongst the electric currents.

"So who are these scoundrels I'm about to meet? Do I need a street name?" His teasing took on a ponderous tone, "Y'know, I was thinkin' that Jackhammer Jim has a nice ring to it. I know, I know: it's a bit porny, but at the same time dangerous!"

Aimee laughed, shaking her head. "No street names needed. But if you were going to choose one, we tend toward one word names. There's Domino, Floss, Tinker, and of course Troy. Troy is his real name, though."

She threaded her left arm through her backpack so it was securely held by both straps, and headed up the stairs toward the street. "Come on, it's just a few blocks from here." The ridiculousness of what she'd just said nearly made her groan. Jim could have been there and back a hundred times before she could run the distance, and walking at her pace probably felt excruciating to him.

They left behind the cold gloom of the subway to find themselves embraced by a bright, and uncharacteristically hot, September afternoon. In his hoodie and jeans, Jim was dressed for Fall - he was always dressed for Fall. If there was one thing about fashion he was certain of, it was that summer apparel paid him no compliment. On his best days, Jim looked like a scarecrow that had lost its stuffing, so he knew better than to wear tight vests and skimpy shorts and unleash his matchstick limbs upon the general public. In California, he stood out, in all of his thick baggy layers. In New York, there wasn't normally a problem with his appearance. So he cursed the mocking sun as it glared high and white like the grin of some cruel giant. His gaze lowered back down to earth and for the first time he took in his surroundings.

"Wow. It's like Los Santos, but taller."

Buildings rose up on either side of them in long rows, their bricks so crumbled and brown they could've been made from compost, and, on every last one, rickety steel stairs zigzagged down the sides like poorly-stitched wounds. There were trash cans beset on all sides by mounds of swollen garbage bags and more wood in the windows than glass. A bus hissed across the street and Jim saw a couple of tiny pensioners jostling feebly with each other to be the first to board it. They passed a school, and beyond the chain-link fence, a fight broke out between a couple of girls. There was an excited buzz as spectators started to swarm around them.

Up ahead, a squat and curious building jutted out from the wall of brownish misery: it was a small and unassuming supermarket, where a thick congregation of shoppers had gathered around the crates of fresh produce that spilled out onto the sidewalk. People were in high spirits, holding loud and bright conversations over mountains of cabbages and potatoes. There was a smell of earthy vegetables as they walked by, and cigarette smoke. Jim listened to the chatter: it seemed no-one was a stranger amongst the locals. That wasn't like Los Santos at all.

"It's not Soviet Russia bleak," he conceded, "But it's no mutant mansion with it's own boathouse and ten acres of unbroken greenery."

Aimee snorted, poking at a display of apples as they walked by. She smiled at the people shopping, but the pressure of not responding to the stares made her breathe a sigh of relief as they moved on. Still, a few months ago she would have avoided such a place entirely, or kept her eyes fixed in the ground. She shook out her glossy black hair, and pointed up ahead.

"There's the building." It didn't stand out from the other apartment buildings, but she felt a flutter of excitement in her chest as they got nearer. Home.

"It's better than a warehouse, that's for sure."

The best Jim had to offer was a thin-lipped smile. He wasn't going to lie and make believe that Aimee was checking into Disneyland. She knew what she'd signed up for, Jim thought, so obviously there was something about the dreary high-rise before them that appealed to her. Although he was having difficulty seeing it, as he soldiered on across the street, beyond another chain-link fence that led onto - surprise surprise - a basketball court. By a miracle, there was nary a boombox in sight.

Once inside, he was immediately on his guard. Having never been able to stomach the Los Santos grit, with its gangbangers in their lowriders, Jim could quite imagine where he stood on the New York food chain: easy pickings. There was nothing immediately threatening, he noted, but he half-expected an atmosphere of menace to start congealing around him with every new floor - like in Silent Hill. Instead, they found a short Mexican guarding the top floor. He sprang up from his seat and filled the width of the corridor with ease. His arms folded while he inspected the new arrivals, and from their vantage point, they could see right up his nostrils.

"What the hell is this, Connors? Visiting hours? Tell your little chihuahua to run home."

Aimee hesitated as he blocked the way, and then stuck her hand on her hip. "You better move your ass, Shifty. Jim's helping me...carry my stuff." She pushed her backpack into Jim's arms and raised an eyebrow at their roadblock.

"Nngh!" Jim dipped with the sudden unexpected weight in his hand. He promptly righted himself and tossed the backpack over his shoulder with as little fuss as possible. Eyes locked onto a crack on the wall, he missed the expression of resentment that slowly morphed into Shifty's rubbery features as he realised his authority was being challenged. During the unfolding stare-out, he dared a glance at each of the combatants, and found that, where Aimee was a picture of cool defiance, Shifty looked ready to pop. And pop he did.

"It's on your head!" he deemed, with all of the authority of a firebrand priest, "Just so you know. When the boss gets home, it's on your head. And especially your head, chihuahua."

He stepped aside, and eyed Aimee with big brotherly disapproval, and a sad shake of the head. When Jim tried to slip by, he brandished a rolled up copy of the National Enquirer with menace, patting it hungrily into the palm of an open hand. His eyes narrowed. Jim glanced down to avoid his gaze, and there, on Shifty's feet, he saw the most beautiful pair of Kayanos he'd ever seen. Light from the window struck the rubber in such a way that it looked like silver lightning. Whatever feelings of doubt or mortal peril he had at that moment evaporated - it was a moment to be cherished and shared, that would cross boundaries, and unite enemies - when men put aside their differences and come together in common appreciation of exquisite footwear. Jim looked up, beaming sunrises at Shifty, and said, "Hey man, sweet shoes!"

"Keep walkin', asshat."

Aimee tugged on Jim's arm, rolling her eyes expressively. "Don't pay any attention to him, he's suffering from Little Man syndrome." She looked back at Shifty and held her finger and thumb about three inches apart, her face exaggeratedly sad until he started swearing at her.

"Come on, end of the hall," she said briskly, and the two beat a hasty, but organized, retreat. Aimee used her new key to unlock Troy's apartment, and they slipped inside, closing and locking the door behind them. She laughed, leaning against the door, and then twisted around to look out the peep hole. Shifty was still at his post, but he was glaring daggers in their direction.

"Aimee, for the record, I don't think it bodes well for my lifespan if you keep insulting guys that so very obviously want to hurt me."

Pressed hard against the door, Jim couldn't quite translate the rantings coming from down the corridor, but he could certainly divine the colour of them. Aimee was still cackling away at the fruits of her labour as he stepped into the apartment proper. He gave a low whistle. The room he found himself in was a remarkable departure from the tower block's general slum aesthetic. It was clean and modern and spacious and bright. Nothing looked like it had been used before, lending the place a strange showroom vibe.

"Now I know what it feels like to step into an Ikea catalogue. Is this place yours?" No sooner had the question flown from his lips than he spotted a framed picture on a poorly-populated book shelf. In the picture there was a young man, very serious-looking, in a baseball cap and baggy everything, posing with a bubbly blonde who was practically hanging off him. That answered his question then. He gestured to the picture. "Who's the wannabe gangster and his token bimbo?"

"It is now," she said, tossing her backpack onto the couch. "And that's Troy, my brother from another mother. The chick is... Chantelle? I think? I haven't met her yet."

Aimee followed the backpack onto the couch, and made herself comfortable for a moment before hopping up. "Wanna see my room?"

"Huh. So that's Troy."

Jim stepped away from the bookshelf, and the picture of Troy, whose eyes appeared to follow him: "The fuck you looking at?" they said. Upon reflection, Jim decided he ought not to have been surprised, really. It was with a degree of disquiet he wondered if the real Troy would be as equally predictable, and intimidating. He shuffled close to Aimee, determined to keep the immaculate surfaces unblemished, and followed her towards what he assumed was the entrance to her new room.

"If this guy really is your brother-from-another-mother, d'ya think he'll be cool with me chillin' out in his home... in your bedroom?" He gestured to the front door, "I mean, it's not like I got a warm reception just now. I've never associated with... gangs before. Not countin' the Three Elevens, o' course, which was not so much associatin' as it was runnin' for my life."

Aimee smiled crookedly as she pushed open the door to her new room. "This isn't a gang, dork. We're just a bunch of kids who needed each other to survive. You learn who you can trust real quick on the streets, and we sort of just stuck together." She grimaced, looking down at her hands. "Not literally."

She sat on the twin bed and surveyed the room. It was sparsely furnished - white IKEA bed frame, desk, and dresser - and the bedding was a black and white paisley print. "Troy knows you're coming over, you don't have to worry about him."