>Chapter 1 >Chapter 2a >Chapter 2b >Chapter 3a >Chapter 3b
Milwaukee had always given Manuel a bad vibe. It was a city built on the back of a family rivalry, and in many ways, it still held the old tension in the air. Manuel felt it brush over him as he passed the Milwaukee Zoo on the I-94. He suspected that tension was related to its status as one of the most racially segregated cities in the country. He’d spent years navigating the thick dividing lines in the city’s underworld before he finally decided to kill most of the major names and replace them with some of his men from the coast. It was part of his restructuring initiative and had helped to pull back a bit of the damage caused by a century of redlining.
The sun was low in the sky as he drove his bike down South 35th Street. A motel sat exactly between the predominately-white West Milwaukee and the majority Hispanic Burnham Park neighborhood. On either side of the divide were working-class neighborhoods, lowering his chances of prematurely running into anyone he knew. He had a plan, but his back was killing him after the long ride across the width of two states, so he swallowed his instinct for urgency and decided to take a day to rest.
A sign along the road caught his eye. Three Bridges Park. He found himself reminiscing on the conversations with local politicians and community leaders as they began work on the park a decade before. Back then, the land was mostly filled and abandoned rail yards. Manuel and his people had buried nearly a hundred bodies in that dirt, and thanks to his donations and negotiations, their bones were now sitting beneath manicured lawns and scenic overlooks. The name had come about after hours of heated debate over whether there was some way to further honor the city’s founding fathers, despite them each having their own park already. Manuel had joined the meeting through a conference call and ended the discussion in minutes. Fuck the founding fathers, I need the park started. With that, Three Bridges Park was born.
Walking the wide path through the park entrance, Manuel looked around for a bench where he could enjoy the colors of the sunset in the shallows of the Menomonee River. Two children on bicycles sped past his left side, laughing as the rear bike chased the leader.
“Watch out for people walking!” A woman’s voice shouted from behind him.
“I’m sorry about that. My kids can get wrapped up in themselves sometimes.”
“That's the benefit of being a kid. No worries at all.” Manuel replied with a smile.
“So true. Don’t you just wish we could go back to being so carefree?” She said, overtaking him as she quickened her pace after her kids.
Manuel thought that she was completely wrong. Most people would throw away the opportunity, too caught in the habit of being troubled.
He took a smaller path that weaved its way through some small hills towards the water. Near the river, he saw a small brown bench sitting close to a shanty made from thick blue plastic tarp and shopping carts. So much for the idea of the park revitalizing the area and removing the homeless that gathered in the old rail yard.
The smell of meth being smoked hit him before he eyed the first discarded glass pipe on the floor. He glanced back at the receding sight of the kids on their bikes. He felt the annoyance bubble up in his stomach again, and walked close enough to see two figures behind the tarp. The age of the man was impossible to tell. Meth could make a twenty-year-old look fifty, and this guy certainly could have passed for 50. The pipe was in the hands of a girl who couldn’t have been older than 16. The meth hadn't ravaged her face yet, so he guessed she was still new to her addiction. Her companion grinned at Manuel and groped her chest.
“Yeah, I see you looking. 50 bucks and I’ll let you fuck her, buddy.” He said as if he was talking about an inanimate object. Manuel’s annoyance upgraded into anger.
“C’mon, Maurice. What are you talking—” She started, with a voice straining to hold in a lungful of the poisoned air.
“Shut up, bitch. I didn’t see you pay for what you’re smoking.”
Manuel reached into his pocket and pulled out a hundred-dollar bill. He held it out to the girl and she stood quickly to grab it from his hands. Her movements had turned into the spastic, jerky motions characteristic of methamphetamines.
“Do yourself a favor. Don’t come back to this park or this idiot again.” He said and the hard edge in his voice sent her scrambling towards the gate he’d just entered through.
“What the fuck is your problem?” The man stood, but his voice was distant in Manuel's head. A deep sense of dread came over him. He wasn’t sure how only five years had passed since his iron fist kept behavior like this to the shadows. Addicts in this very city wouldn’t dare be caught getting high in the middle of a park during the day. It wasn’t the police they worried about, it was any number of local gang members who would act as moral enforcement for Mutt’s image of the world. He sold the drugs under the strict law that they be used in homes or hotel rooms. This was chaos.
While Manuel was lost in his thoughts, the man was emboldened to move closer by Manuel’s sudden staring into space. He soon realized this was a mistake. When he was close enough, Manuel’s hand shot up to the man’s throat as a leg swept out his from beneath. Growing up, Manuel was surprised to find out just how easy it was to kill a man. It was a miracle that anyone was alive at all, considering how perilously humanity stood on the edge of death. A choke like this was an example of how even moderate determination overcame the guard of life. Manuel leaned his weight onto his hand and bore down with his palm. He felt the man’s larynx split and fold inward. He pressed once more, focusing his palm on the rings of the trachea. Manuel’s weight muffled the strained sounds of the man dying on his windpipe. It was a sound that Manuel had heard hundreds of times in his life, and yet having not heard it for so long caused a slight twist in his stomach. He sighed heavily, feeling the pain surge in his back anew. He didn’t want to be the one to restore balance, he just happened to be the only one who seemed able to.
When he was sure the man was dead, Manuel glanced around. He could hear the children laughing in the distance, but couldn’t see anyone within sight of the shanty. Manuel dragged the body down to the water’s edge. He pushed it out a couple of feet into the thick mud and went back up to get the shopping cart heavy with the assorted belongings that had once made up the total of the man’s life. It was poetic, then, that it would now become his tomb. The water around the blue tarp gleamed orange and created a scene that Manuel thought would probably be a beautiful photograph that could be hung in some gallery somewhere. In any case, it satisfied the reason why he’d come to the park at all and he turned to walk back up the embankment. The body would eventually be discovered after the fish and crabs had their chance to feast. Forensic evidence would subsequently lead to Mutt’s name and picture appearing on a computer screen in the police department, and just as quickly that name and picture would be taken down. No one wanted to shake the hornet’s nest any more than it had already been.