Pieces

[Jay Carpenter]

The door to the old school's equally old boiler room was  swung open, rusting hinges letting out a brief screech of protest. it opened smoothly; it was used regularly, it just hadn't seen a drop of oil in too long not to complain. The door briefly revealed an open room beyond, evenly spaced concrete pillars holding up the weight of the old building. Scattered furniture; old plastic lawn chairs, old student seats and desks, set up with some semblance of intent. A spot for the enforcers and goons that regularly used the place, whether guarding goods or people.

In through the door came three men. None were particularly tall, none looked particularly important. Common thugs, with the sort of dress their sort wore on the streets to mark their allegiance, their outlooks. Two were carrying old TV trays, on which sat an old, stained and hole-filled tool bag and a dirty plastic milk crate holding jugs of fluids and bundles of crudely rolled wire and cordage.

The third's hands were empty, the muscle meant to ensure their newest guest wasn't ready to start any trouble. None missed that he had managed to move himself a few feet, and as two sought to set their mismatching TV trays down near the center of the room, the third unceremoniously grabbed the chair back and dragged it over to the spot they had apparently chosen.

Moments later, as the chair was still scraping across the floor, a fourth man entered. Button-down blue dress shirt, salt-stains in the armpits from sweat, wrinkled and poorly tucked into his slacks. He was in the process of unbuttoning the sleeves, rolling them up above his elbows to reveal toned, lean arms with myriad unthemed tattoos. They ran a wide gambit of styles and meanings; anchors and names and gang or cartel markings, even American, Mexican, Colombian military or police insignias. Some were ruined by scars, likely from past knife fights; a man that wasn't afraid to shield with his arm when the need arose. And skilled enough to have still come out alive and intact.

A five-o'clock shadow of black stubble, a deep tan that made his almost too-blue eyes pop against otherwise dark features. Close kept hair; not a proper buzz cut, but not far off. He met Jay's eyes as he strolled in, flashing a smile that might have been charming if he wasn't missing two teeth on the left side of his upper row, or if his too-blue eyes weren't also too cold.

A towel was pulled off his shoulder when he was done with his sleeves, and he walked up to stare down at Jay from a few feet off; far enough to avoid the brunt of any spit attempts or similar futile attacks.

Tables set, two of the men walked out of the room to return moments later with 45lbs plates, their centers crudely chisseled a bit wider. They were set on the floor in a square pattern, then they hoisted up Jay and his seat and set the chair legs down into the plates, jostling him about and scraping the plates on the floor for a moment to get the chair legs to line up and slide into the holes. They weren't fastened into place; the chair could still be tipped if one had the leverage to do so, but it would prevent Jay from any easy movement when not under supervision.

None of the four men spoke. The blue-eyed man because he had no interest to. The three enforcers because they seemed uneasy around blue-eyes. And once they had him settled into the weights, had checked his bindings again, the three enforcers walked out, closing the door behind them. And blue-eyes still just stood there, staring at Jay without speaking.