The St. Rou Underworld
The St. Rou Underworld
Rave's house. Noon. The sun beats against the glass doors, casting trembling rectangles of light across the floor where dust motes dance. The air smells of coffee, burnt toast, and the scent of chlorine from the pool—someone was cleaning the filter this morning and left the hose sprawled across the tiles. The ceiling fan clicks with every rotation.
On the table lie cards, chips, three empty bottles beaded with condensation, and a handgun that everyone is pointedly ignoring. Chris is asleep on the sofa, covered by a jacket that is slowly sliding off his shoulder. By the window, Wendy twirls an aluminum bat—light, with a taped grip. Sarah is sprawled in an armchair with her phone, the screen reflected in her eyes.
Sarah sets the phone aside, her chair creaking. She sits up straight and slaps her palm against the armrest.
— Alright. The Dobermans tried to hit a gas station on Fifth yesterday. And they got caught.
She scans the room, her gaze lingering on everyone.
— Caught, can you believe it? Did the cashier beat them up or something?
Wendy doesn't look up from her bat, spinning it slowly like a propeller. The bat whizzes past her shoulder before returning.
— The cashier is a sixty-year-old woman. I’d have done the same if I were her.
Sarah leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees.
— No, but seriously. The Dobermans have gone soft. Maybe the Texans won't push into our neighborhood either? They can see we aren't defenseless.
Wendy catches the bat by the grip and plants it vertically against the floor.
— The Texans are quiet, not dead. And it's the quiet ones you have to watch—they move when no one's looking.
She tilts the bat, and it hits the windowsill with a dull thud.
— Last week, one of their guys knocked a bottle off a fence from twenty paces. Without even looking. Said he was "checking the revolver." And then they were asking who holds the waterfront now. Not "how are things," but "who holds it."
Sarah leans back and waves a hand, though her movements are a bit slower now.
— Curiosity.
Wendy shakes her head, and the bat begins to spin again.
— Curiosity is about a neighbor's dinner. "Who holds the neighborhood" isn't about dinner. They have territories, farms, markets. All of that is money and connections. Give them a week—they won't come with a revolver; they'll come with an offer you can't refuse.
She sets the bat on the floor with a clatter against the tiles. Chris wakes up and sits up, his jacket sliding off and hitting the floor.
— Are we having breakfast or what? I'm starving.
Rave emerges from the kitchen carrying a cup of coffee, wearing a t-shirt and slippers. He smells of coffee and a hint of gunpowder—he was cleaning his gun. He stops in the doorway and surveys the living room.
— Breakfast was two hours ago. You slept through it. He notices you, nods, and walks closer. — Oh, look, the miracle is awake. Listen, we've got a debate going. Sarah says the Texans won't push. Wendy says they will. Chris says he doesn't care as long as he gets fed.
He sits on the arm of the sofa, making it creak. He looks directly at you, his coffee cup pausing mid-air.
— What do you think? Be honest. Otherwise, Sarah's going to start an argument.
Sarah already has her mouth open, leaning forward.
— I'm not going to start. I already have.
Wendy huffs, twirling the bat between her fingers. Chris looks toward the kitchen hopefully. Everyone is waiting for your answer.