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1
Cassio
Just down the street, they said.
Wouldn’t be a drive, they said.
And yet, here I am, seated in the very center of Boston’s finest Southeast Expressway. Dead stop in front of me, dead stop behind me. I can see the exit I need to hop off of not even five hundred feet in front of me, but there’s no tearing through all these cars trying to get there.
Sonofabitch.
It won’t even be a bad thing if this is regular business, but repos always have to get done quickly. The moment a buyer who doesn’t pay thinks they’re going to get a visit, they bail—odds ten to one that they know something is up, so they run, which only means even more work. This particular guy, Hammond Dailey, has done nothing but run us around, claim he’ll pay, then miss another month down the road… so the moment he defaulted this month, right after the mail arrived today, I left.
Groaning and gritting my teeth, I stare over the mountains of cars in front of me, nudging forward about once a minute.
“Should have sent someone else to do this shit.” I curse under my breath, looking for just a moment as the surge moves again, only a moment or two more and I’d be flying down the road and into this poor guy’s driveway.
Not like I want to tow his car, but such is life in the big city. Can’t fret over every egg.
My foot hovers the gas pedal once again, looking for the quickest out I can take as the cars surge once more, giving me more than enough room to peel through the breakdown lane and onto the exit ramp. I push forward and turn the wheel, flying down the exit ramp and meeting with this side of the city. Cramped houses. Chipped paint. Broken furniture. Trash.
Not the side I’d prefer to be on for something like this, but whatever.
I check the address one more time as I park only a street away, getting out of my car and walking to the location in question. Someone else will be back later to pick up the car if this little 2021 red Fiat is on the property or in the garage. Not a soul on the street as I walk, likely nobody wanting to get caught in the middle of something in broad daylight.
No matter. Here for business, not for problems.
I turn the corner only to be met by a small house tucked away in what seems to be quite the patch of greenery, slightly overtaken by vines and overgrowth of the urbanized plants. That very same Fiat is in the driveway, the one that I leased out to this bastard not even a whole four months ago. I feel the frustration build up for just a moment, deciding to take a deep breath before I approach, no matter what has to happen next.
“Here for business, not for problems,” I repeat to myself, approaching the front door. I know what I’m here to collect, letting the bastard get his credit extended was only a part of the deal for him to hand over the prize I wanted. I slam the side of my fist on the door, once, twice, three times. I wait a few moments, already hearing something scuffle from the inside, likely scrambling to either hide from the windows or get a ‘valid’ excuse for whatever bullshit happened to his last payment.
“Open up. I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you who’s at the door.”
No response.
Bang, bang, bang.Almost feels like his door is hollow.
“We got two ways to play this. Either you open up and we talk it out or I’m taking what you got. No frills, no bullshit. Best get your ass out here.”
The door opens a crack, a small slit of an eye peering out at me. Apparently, whoever it is isn’t pleased to see me as I see their pupils dial in just a bit. Hell, I would too if I had a suited, two hundred and fifty pound, muscle-covered mob boss at their front door.
“W-what do you want?” he stutters. It’s the same man-in-rags who came in through the dealership not too long ago.
“You know what I want,” I reply, pointing at the small bit of him that I could see. “Either pay up or I’m collecting. Make your choice.”
“Hey.” He smiles, only a small bit of his mouth visible as he stands up from the apparent crouch he’s in. “Read my lips. Fuck. You.”
I don’t even give him a chance to react before my foot collides with the door, knocking the ragged wood right off the rusted hinges, taking Hammond with it as he completely loses his balance and gets knocked to the floor, sitting flatly underneath the rotted wood.
The ramshackle house is filthy. Cobwebs on the ceiling, smudges on the broken windows. And what the fuck is that smell? I school my features to mask my disgust.
Even so, when I raise my eyes, part of me is caught off guard because I didn’t expect his daughter to be so… perfect. She looks way better than how I remember.
She’s a smaller girl, likely standing just about a foot or so beneath me, blonde hair down to her shoulders in small waves. Brown eyes and a small, shapely nose, her body shape modest for her proportions. The situation is strange, feeling such a strong vitriol for the dickhead that, as expected, failed his first payment, only to see his daughter in the back, carrying a very confusing expression, almost as if she’s stunned to see me but not from the shock of me kicking in their front door. She can’t possibly be older than twenty. Her tattered dress that dangles down around her knees was once beautiful, but having been worn so many times makes it look like a slightly better version of a dishrag.
“Shit!” he yells, shoving the door to the side and throwing his hands up. “I give up, alright! Shit, you’re actually gonna fuckin’ kill me over a goddamn car? What kind of fuckin’ business are you running, dude?”
“The one where you pay backyour“fuckin’” loans.” I shake my head, giving his use of vulgarity air quotations. “I have a business to run, and all of your bullshit is not helping that business make anything for me. I gave you a car, the least you could do is follow up. You didn’t. I’m taking your shit back.”
