Chapter 3: Deadman Quinn’s Rules

3

I asked Old Hank if there was any chance of getting a wallet back if it was stolen on the bus line from the station.

We were leaning against the loading dock, late afternoon sun bouncing off the cracked asphalt. Hank squinted at me like I’d lost my mind.

“Your wallet got stolen?”

He looked genuinely concerned, eyebrows up.

“Not mine, a friend’s.” I made up an excuse. “You know the area—any ideas?”

I tried to sound casual, but the lie hung in the air between us.

Old Hank thought for a bit. “I can ask around, but let me say this up front: it’s risky.”

He stubbed out his cigarette on the concrete, voice low. "Cleveland’s got its share of guys you don’t want to mess with."

Two days later, Hank told me he’d found out the station bus line was run by a local guy nicknamed ‘Deadman Quinn.’ Any pickpocketing on the station or buses had to be handed over to him first, and then he’d take a cut.

Hank described him with a shudder, saying, “Guy’s got a rep for being colder than Lake Erie in January.”

I asked if Hank could take me to see Deadman Quinn. It felt reckless, but I couldn’t shake the thought of the lost pendant, the way 25’s voice had softened talking about her mom.

Old Hank said, “Are you trying to get yourself killed? These guys are ruthless—they’ll do anything.”

He looked at me like I was an idiot, but there was something protective in his tone.

I said, “We’re not looking for trouble, just asking. If it works, great. If not, forget it. The money in the wallet is his, I just want the pendant.”

I tried to sound braver than I felt.

Old Hank was troubled. “Man, I’ve never dealt with these people—I have no idea.”

He paced back and forth, chewing his lip.

I pleaded, “Hank, you know people here. If you don’t help, who will? Let me owe you one.”

I put my hand on his shoulder, hoping I sounded convincing and not just desperate.

Old Hank finished a whole cigarette before saying, “Alright, I’ll ask around and take you to see him. But one thing—when we’re there, you listen to me and talk less. If it works, great. If not, we leave immediately, got it?”

He pointed a finger at me, voice sharp. I nodded, grateful but terrified.

“Okay, I’ll listen to you.” I nodded, trying to look braver than I felt, but my hands were already sweating.

In a shabby, remote apartment complex, Old Hank took me to see Deadman Quinn. He was sitting on a busted-up couch, a cigarette in his mouth, playing cards with four people, with a few others watching TV. As soon as I entered, I saw Deadman Quinn slap the person next to him. “Damn. Idiot, can’t you see who’s the boss after so many rounds?”

The place stank of old pizza and stale smoke, blinds drawn tight even in the afternoon. The TV blared a rerun of some cop show. Quinn didn’t even look up at first, too busy shuffling his deck.

Old Hank quickly offered a cigarette and called out, “Mr. Quinn.”

He did it with the kind of respect that told you exactly who was in charge here.

Deadman Quinn took the cigarette and tucked it behind his ear. He looked up, his slanted, cold eyes scanning us like knives.

He sized us up, slow and mean, the kind of look that makes you want to shrink into the carpet.

I finally understood why he was called Deadman Quinn. He had a gaunt, corpse-like face with a yellowish tinge, looking almost lifeless. But his left arm had a tattoo of a fierce archangel, wielding a steel club, vivid and lifelike.

The tattoo glistened, the lines jagged, running over skin stretched tight like old leather. He looked like he’d been carved out of the city itself—tough, unforgiving.

“You’re the one Dashun mentioned… Hank?” Deadman Quinn asked, baring his teeth.

His voice was rough, but the words were slow and deliberate.

“No, no, just call me Old Hank.” Old Hank smiled, trying to sound casual but not quite pulling it off.

“Heh, Old Hank.” Deadman Quinn sneered. “So, what do you want?”

There was no warmth in his words, only challenge.

Old Hank briefly explained, then tentatively said, “Mr. Quinn, about that wallet…”

He trailed off, like he was afraid to even finish the sentence.

Deadman Quinn flicked his cigarette ash and sneered again. “Old Hank, you don’t understand the rules here, so I won’t blame you. But let me tell you, returning stolen goods is taboo for us. You can’t spit out what you’ve already swallowed.”

He tapped his finger against the card table, voice cold as ice.

Old Hank quickly said, “Mr. Quinn, that’s not what I meant, we’re just asking. If it works, great. If not, we’ll forget it…”

Hank’s voice was shaky, and I could see sweat beading on his forehead.

“Forget it, my ass. Didn’t you understand what I just said?” Deadman Quinn glared, his eyes fierce and violent.

The room went silent except for the TV and the creak of a floorboard behind me.

“It’s okay, Mr. Quinn, we’re leaving now, leaving now.” Old Hank signaled me, trying to pull me away. I didn’t move, instead looking straight at Deadman Quinn. “Mr. Quinn, you can keep the wallet, I just want the pendant inside. It’s worthless to you.”

I heard my own voice, thin and shaking, but I pressed on anyway.

“Oh?” Deadman Quinn tilted his head, squinting at me.

He seemed genuinely curious, maybe even a little amused by my stupidity.

“Forget it, let’s go.” Old Hank tugged at my sleeve, but I shook him off and looked at Deadman Quinn. “Mr. Quinn, can I have that pendant?”

I tried to sound brave, but my knees felt like they might buckle at any second.

Everyone in the room looked at me, and the atmosphere suddenly turned tense. Deadman Quinn laughed, “You’ve got guts. I’ll give you a chance. Bobby, get him some scissors.”

He flashed a wicked grin. A skinny guy by the computer stood up and handed me a heavy pair of scissors.

Deadman Quinn grinned, holding the scissors out. “Pick a finger, college boy. Any one. Or I’ll pick for you.”

The scissors felt cold and heavy in my palm. My heart hammered, sweat prickling at the back of my neck. I looked at Old Hank, who mouthed, "Don’t."

I glanced at Old Hank, whose face had gone pale. I thought for a moment and said, “Forget it, I don’t want it.”

It was all I could do to keep my voice steady. My hands trembled as I set the scissors down.

“Don’t want it? You think you can just say you don’t want it?” Deadman Quinn suddenly kicked over the card table, stood up, and pointed at me, shouting, “Cut off his finger for me!”

His voice echoed off the cracked walls, the threat so real I could taste metal in my mouth.