The Handover

February 14th dawned gray and bitter. The roads were plowed, leaving walls of dirty slush on either side of the highway.

They didn't talk. The intimacy of the motel room hung between them like a ghost. Remy stared out the window, watching the miles count down to Detroit. Silas drove with a white-knuckled grip on the wheel.

They hit the city limits at 10:00 PM.

King’s club, *The Velvet Room*, was in a warehouse district that gentrification had missed. The bass thumped through the brick walls.

Silas pulled into the alley around back.

"This is it," Silas said.

Remy nodded. He looked terrified. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper.

"Here," Remy said.

"What is this?"

"My sister’s number in Ohio," Remy said. "If... if I don't come out. Can you tell her I’m sorry I couldn't send the birthday money?"

Silas took the paper. It felt heavy.

"Let’s go," Silas said.

He marched Remy into the back entrance. The bouncer, a mountain of meat named Tiny, patted them down and led them to the office.

King sat behind a mahogany desk that looked out of place in the grimy room. He was a small man in an expensive suit, smelling of cologne that cost more than Silas’s car.

"Mr. Vane," King smiled, showing capped teeth. "Right on time. Happy Valentine's Day."

"Where’s my money?" Silas asked.

"Where’s my collateral?"

Silas pushed Remy forward. King stood up and walked around the desk. He grabbed Remy’s chin, turning his face left and right.

"Skinny," King tutted. "But pretty. He’ll work off the debt eventually."

Remy flinched but didn't speak. He looked at Silas. One last time.

"Happy Valentine's Day, Silas," Remy whispered. "Thanks for the burger."

King tossed a thick envelope onto the desk.

Silas grabbed it. He didn't count it. He just wanted to leave.

He turned and walked out. The heavy steel door slammed shut behind him, cutting off the sight of Remy standing alone in the center of the room.

Silas walked to his car. The cold air hit his face.

He opened the envelope. Five thousand dollars. Crisp, new bills.

It was rent. It was heat. It was food.

It was blood money.

Silas looked at the crumpled paper with the sister’s number. He looked at the cash. He thought about the cat. He thought about the burger. He thought about Remy’s hand on his cheek.

"Dammit," Silas roared. He slammed his fist against the roof of the car, denting the metal.