Chapter Text
They were ransacking the house. If you can even call it that. It was a small hole in the wall behind the dry cleaner’s they owned. Two rooms and a bathroom and sad excuse for a kitchen, with something that resembles a living room. The tall man in the corner fixing the buttons on his cuffs hadn’t spoken out against what his boys were doing and so they haven’t stopped. Whenever Wilber tried to stop them, even approach them, they violently threw him to the ground. The tall man had bumped his wrist as he came in the house. It was either that the door was too small, or the man was too big, most likely a bit of both. When he bumped his wrist, the button on his cuffs came off and the man was frustratedly trying to get it back onto the cuff, paying everyone in the room little to no attention. Wilber, the drunken trash that he is, knew how expensive the man’s suit was and nearly felt for him. Nearly.
He had seen that man before somewhere, but he couldn’t place him. He’s sure he’s seen him before because a man of that height and width is not easy to forget. He finally got the button to work, having fiddled with it for the past 15 minutes. “Ah, there’s that. Well, Mr. Crait, how are you this afternoon?” His voice was deep and wasn’t at all loud, and yet it still rung in the apartment. Wilber was so focused on the man that he hadn’t noticed that when the man had spoken, the men stopped their ransacking and almost stood at attention.
When Wilber swallowed but didn’t answer, the man said, “Do you know who I am, Mr. Crait?”
“I, uh, I can’t place you.”
“My name is Damien Cull.”
Wilber’s eyes widened and Damien’s lip twitched. “There we go..” Wilber froze in his place. Damien Cull was the man he’d borrowed a lot of money from. A lot of money. He had borrowed the money to pay his father’s hospital bills, which was useless because he died two months later. That was when Wilber started to drink heavily, lost his job and his wife, took over his parents’ laundromat, and raised, ignored, his two boys. But that was years ago. And he had paid some of the money off. But the laundromat was dying of neglect and lack of customers that his payments had stopped, what little he payed. Usually they sent a lackey to collect either the money or something instead, but the big fish was here and that scared him.
“I have been very patient with you, Mr. Crait. You never paid much in the first place and I let that slide. But when I found out your payments had stopped, I had to come see the evidence that tolerance fails with the likes of you.”
“Please, Mr. Cull, sir. I, we, don’t have any money.”
“Oh I know that, Mr. Crait. Why would you stop paying if you had the money? But you see, while I understand that part, I still have to get my money back. There still needs to be payment, I’m afraid. What I want to know is.” He paused, as he folded his sleeves, “why borrow from someone like me, if you know, deep inside, you can’t pay it back? Because you know what happens when you don’t pay it back.”
“Please…” He knew. Of course he knew. He needed to be made an example of. For the borrowing punters of the future. He took a step back, knowing that he only had a couple more before his back hit the wall in his matchbox of a living room and he would have nowhere else to go.
An unexpected sound interrupted the man’s advance. At the door was Wilber’s elder son, Daan. Everyone in the room froze. The men’s fidgeting stopped, Wilber’s backtracking as well. But most importantly, Damien’s advance also stopped. There was no movement in the room for a few moments. And then Wilber looked at his son’s face.
Daan was a good kid. It was two weeks until his 18th birthday and he was already more of a man than Wilber could ever be. He took care of his younger brother and ran the Laundromat when he could, as no one did. He was not tall, but any means, but his lean body, which bordered on thin, made him seem talled than the 5 feet 7 inches he was. His long blond hair was in a topknot, and his loose shirt was sweaty, which told them that he had been running.
“Dad?” His voice was not deep, but its huskiness gave a away a quiet disappointment that gave it extra gravitas. “What’s going on?” His eyes then went to the upturned living room. “What the hell, Dad? What is this? Ricky sent me a text to come quick.”
He looked at the large man staring at him. “Who are these people?” Then realization dawned on his face. “Damn it, Dad. What did you do now? I gave you the money. What did you do with it?” When his father didn’t answer, he looked around the room and found the betting slips. “You went to the dog track again.” He put his thumb and forefinger on the bridge of his nose and squeezed. “Of course you did.”
Wilber said, in a small voice, “It was a sure thing.”
“You say that every time, dad.” Daan shook his head. Wilber, to take the focus off himself, introduced his son. “Mr. Cull, this is my son, Daan.”
“Nice to meet you, Daan.” The tall man held out his hand, and Daan stared at it hesitantly before taking the hand gently but firmly and shaking it. The man’s grip was strong… and wasn’t letting go. Still staring at Daan, he spoke to the boy’s father, “Pretty lad. I have a way you can make your debt disappear. Maybe even get more money too.” Wilber’s eyes widened as Damien finally looked at him, hand still tightly grasping Daan’s.
“Give me your boy.”