[center][quote="Haruki Murakami, Norwegian Wood"]“If you only read the books that everyone else is reading, you can only think what everyone else is thinking.” [/quote][/center] [h3]Make the Bed[/h3][indent]Marsh waves Billy forward. Meghan glares back the guards. She asks, “Will he make it?” 

Billy frowns. She gestures at the fighter left to the medical team by the side of the ring closest to their party. His neck has been stabilized. They work to transport him to a gurney. It would have been one thing if he died instantly from a hit or out on the street, but Boss can’t have fighters dying while people stood aside and didn’t try to intervene. Once the medical team clears the Spit, he won’t worry about the losers fate. Deon jaunts away to his flesh prize. He’s just as concerned. 

“Maybe, if the ambulance takes him to a half decent hospital, but they’ll probably go to the crappy one a block closer. From the hits Deon gave him, he’s probably bleeding in the head. Swelling to worry about before any of his other injuries.” Billy angles his body to get a better look at Spike as he’s wheeled out. 

“Can our people handle that?” Marsh twists her hair over one shoulder. The Spit radiates and she needs cool air on her neck. She doesn’t trust the people here to get a drink.  Wilson could pay off a bartender or server. 

“Yes, Tyro,” Maybell answers. 

Wilson throws his drink, glass and all, her. “Who the fuck do you think you are? Dinya hear me? That whore is no Tyro. Din give me no fucking pups, the bitch.” 

The glass breaks at Marsh’s feet. She feels the sticky vodka on her exposed toes. She’ll never wear these shoes again. He sneers and drags a finger along a powder residue n the table. He rubs the substance in and around his mouth, sighing. It would take longer than that for the drug to actually take affect, but he’s so lost in his addiction that his anticipation at the high already has him there. 

“Billy, have it arranged that the fighter’s taken to the D12.” Marsh gives him a kiss on the cheek. “Boss won’t mind will he?” 

“They gunna need someone to go with them, M.K.,” Meghan says. 

“I know. Casey will accompany them. Send one of the Pages to escort them, too.” 

“He’s gunna be pissed.” 

Billy gives his men warning to keep anyone from nosing into Marsh’s business and jogs his way to where the medical team’s made it to the back door. She can’t see them after that. She has to remember to treat Billy. He didn’t even go to clear the change with Boss. 

“Good.” She turns back to her husband. He’s reclined back into the booth. His slacks hang by his hip bones and his shirt bags around him. His skin wrinkles with no fat or muscle to hold in anymore. “So you’re not going to do anything about it, then?” she raises her voice.

He grunts. 

“Meghan, make the call would you? There’s to be a Hearing in Flannery’s at closing. I’ll make a general announcement at Tuesday’s town hall.” She shifts. Her feet stick to the leather of her pumps. 

“Whadaya up to?” Wilson slurs. 

“Oh, also, please let Doc know I’m sending someone over for him to take care. I’ll be around later to check in. Please, let him know I’d like to see a patient in a room rather than a corpse in the morgue.” 

Meghan nods and turns to make the necessary calls. 

“Hey, I’m talkin’ ‘ere, cunt.” 

“Maybell, do you think you’ll be able to drop by later for the Hearing?” M.K. asks. 

The woman glances up. Her head’s bowed and shoulders slumped. The cudgel members of the Library receive at initiation hangs in its belt loop. How many times has Maybell used that weapon against fellow Bookies in the name of protecting her Librarian? “I’ll do my best,” she says.

“What. No. Hell no.” Wilson rises like cold syrup, loose and slow. He pauses at the point where his body needs to exert energy to sit up—and he crumples forward, arms shaking as he knuckles the table to stand. “Whasyourname. No Hearing. Stop.”

Meghan doesn’t flinch from his call. He pushes his way passed the two guards and creates a gap. Billy’s men don’t fill the space again. 

“Hey. I said nuthing. About. A.” Marsh closes her eyes and turns her face away. Wilson’s mouth is empty of teeth, full of blistering gums, and reeks. “Hearing,” he finishes. He tries to step away from the booth, but stumbles back. Maybell doesn’t reach out towards him. 

“But I did.” 

Clarity rockets through him. He focuses on M.K’s face. “That’s the Librarian’s right.” 

“So it is.” She folds her hands in front of her and leans back on her heels. She practiced for this for months. Rehearsed the nonchalance. The smooth concern for her people. She knew this was coming, sometime, and she was never one to waste an opportunity to emasculate this wife-beating son of a bitch and undermine the tendrils of power he thinks he still has.

“You usurping [i]Bint[/i].” Wilson’s punch catches Maybell in the corner of her eye. It’s weak and sloppy, thumb tucked into his fist, but it’ll still leave a black eye. Wilson spits on her face. “Whadda trying to do? Prove you’re self now, Chav? You got none honor and nothing for sex appeal.” 

She repeats the vows, “I swear to ensure the future of the Library,  protect the interests of her community, and prevent the desecration of her people.” 

Marsh would consider trying to save this Bookies life if she looked Wilson in the eye when she said that. Maybell didn’t. Her eyes focus on a flickering neon sign over the booth. It’s for a beer. 

“If you’re looking for Darth, he’s over there,” one of the guards behind her says. She glances back. Marsh forces a cough to keep her grin at bay. People from across the districts gather at the Spit. It’s a perfect stage to put on a performance of any kind. 

Wilson’s brilliant, spluttering and weak knees and loud. 

Billy touches her back. “You done here now?”  He wasn’t clued into the her purposes for coming to the Spit, but he’s been a lover long enough to know that if the Tyro of the Library wanted to hold a Hearing, she wouldn’t ask permission. She’d do it. 

She hums, surveying the area. Meghan comes back into the circle and slaps Maybell on the shoulder. Casey should have taken the punch, not her. Marsh doesn’t know if she’ll live to see the end of the night. 

“Thanks, Billy. I am.” She turns her back to her husband. Meghan follows behind as Billy and his men spear through the crowd, across the floor, and towards the exit. She shakes her hair back, uncomfortable with sweat. If her skinny jeans slip anymore, she’ll need to shimmy them back over her love handles. She rather just take them off. 

Boss leans against the railing, looking down from the VIP section. He catches her eyes. His lover laughes next to him. He raises his drink. Glimmering whiskey with a single ice cube. He’s more of the soda water type of guy. She’s more of a Scotch neat kind of girl. Truly, he drinks for her tonight and she’s not the only one with other plans. He’s made himself clear at this point.[/indent]

[center][img]http://i1078.photobucket.com/albums/w496/williamfaulkner1930/8694254c-8cbd-4778-bfc9-90f79d98927e_zpsswgkbzqw.jpg[/img][/center]