Streets of Tek
Jaki was on his way to The Joint. An old pub, forgotten by its owners and left to rot, until Jaki bought it from the government's hands after his first real score. He had always dreamed of rebuilding it. When a fight with his then-roommate broke out, he ended up crashing there for one night. He wasn't looking for company, just quiet. Headspace. When he cracked the door open, a calico cat flinched and fell straight into the bucket Jaki had left out to catch rainwater from the leaking roof. He dried her off and named her Sponge. After that, neither of them ever left. The place stopped being a pub and started becoming a home, without changing a thing.
The rectangular table in the center, seven chairs around it, always ready for company. The little corner where Lu danced when Scott found the right tune on the jukebox. The L-shaped booth where CC and Mallory took turns lying in each other's laps. The bar, where Nova mixed drinks with Conner and Milo sat on the other side. Eli always hunched over his laptop, hacking god-knows-what, while Rhett squinted at the screen like it might eventually explain itself. That was home.
Home was a strange concept for Jaki in his early life, though. He'd grown up under an overpass, inside a stolen doghouse from some financier's backyard. When he outgrew it, he upgraded to two blankets stitched into a sleeping bag. The homeless drug dealers were his family, sharing whatever they had with each other. The real gangsters who came to supply them brought food, clothes, sometimes shoes that almost fit. There were no rules, strongest one took the best "donations", leaving the rest with whatever's left. Jaki was the youngest, the only child, in fact, and they never touched his stuff. He never knew his parents, never knew where the name Varela came from. Thought he was nobody. Maybe he was. But Jaki got lucky. Met the right people at the right time. And crawled out of that shithole.
In The Joint, a bed in the janitor's closet and a panini press served as his entire kitchen. Didn't matter. If he got hungry, he'd hit Rhett's place two blocks west and eat whatever Mama Callahan put on the stove.
Jaki lit a cigarette as he cruised down Marrow Avenue, a long, straight stretch where the streetlights burned warmer, yellower than the rest of Prime. It made the ride two minutes longer, but he liked it that way. Gave him something to look at. Gave him something to think about.
He didn't like smoking. It was just something to fill the quiet for him. Something to keep his left hand busy. He liked controlling the steering wheel and shifting with his right hand when he wasn't speeding. It was a fun little habit he acquired when he first started driving, following the rules were too boring.
The chase was still playing in his head. That guy, Ryan. A decent driver. Maybe better. But that didn't matter. What mattered was that he was something. He'd gotten under Jaki's skin, and stayed there.
Jaki flicked the cigarette out the window and hit call. "Scotty Boy."
Scott was the leader of Hotheads, another gang working for Don Julio, keeping order and being his eyes and ears in Rory. He had been Jaki's close friend since childhood. Back then, Scott was smallest and the chubbiest kid in the group. Now he was taller and skinnier than all of them. They'd met when Jaki climbed the back windows of The Riera Mansion's third floor, to find Mallory.
The Riera Estate stood on the other side of the overpass Jaki lived at. He had seen Julio Riera drive around in his 1951 Mercury Eight coupe a few times. One day, thinking he could've scored something, he scouted the place. Upon seeing Mallory on the window, he didn't even think before jumping the fence and climbing to the third floor. There she was, sitting with her best friend CC and CC's step brother, Scott. Nobody said anything. Then Jaki left the way he came. Next time he climbed there and found the trio staring at him, he just sat with them and became a part of their lives. When Julio finally found out about the situation, he just laughed and fired everyone in charge of security.
Scott and Jaki had gotten close over their passion for cars and need for cash. At least that was Jaki thought back then, turned out Scott was in it just for the thrills. They shoplifted at local markets, never finding anything flashy, just what they needed. Scott was good at blending in, Jaki was good at vanishing. Needs got bigger over time, jobs did too. By the time they were teenagers, it wasn't petty anymore. Warehouses, garages, anything they could strip for parts and sell.
Jaki only had the chance to reminisce that much, as the line only rang one time and Scott picked up.
"You have reached the voicemail of Scott Whitaker. Leave a message after the beep."
"…"
"…"
"Scott, I-"
"BEEP!"
"-wanted to ask about a car. Black '90 RX-7 FC3S. Crappy turbo setup, mismatched pipes, even shittier tune. Driver said his name's Ryan. I don't have a last name, sorry. He looked plain as fuck. Fresh haircut. Tan skin, Rory tan, you know? Anyway, you know anything about the car? Or some racer named Mexican Ryan?"
A pause. Then static, as Scott must've gone through a small tunnel.
"We got a few FCs, but none black. I'd remember a car like that. No new guy's come through without checking in. You sure he's from Rory?"
"He said so."
Scott laughed. "Then you've met a liar, Jaki Boy." Scott said. Calling each other "Boy" was clearly an inside joke that aged like milk.
Jaki smirked. "That's what I figured. Just thought I'd check the official channels."
"Thanks chief." Scott teased him. "Talking about official channels, ask Eli, maybe he can find something."
"Yeah I was thinking about that."
Neither of them said goodbye. They both knew the drill.
The Joint
The Joint sat quiet and crooked between a shut-down pawn shop and a noodle place that had sold the same three flavors for a decade. Its wooden sign, painted red over white, reading "Le Mans", probably the only sign in tek that wasn't neon or LED, creaked above the rusted doorframe. He pulled into the alley behind it, parked in his usual spot between a stack of salvaged bumpers and a single street lamp whose bulb had died sometime seven summers ago. He unlocked the back entrance with a nudge of his shoulder, the door sticking like it always did when the weather got humid. Inside, the air smelled like varnish and old cat litter.
"Hey, princess," Jaki said softly.
The shadows changed shapes and places. Then a soft meow.
Sponge trotted up from under the bar, shaking out her wet paw like she hated stepping on the squeaking floor. She looked annoyed and angry.
Jaki crouched and scratched behind her ear. "You didn't wait up for me. I thought we were a team."
She headbutted his wrist, like an apology.
He picked her up, walked past the empty booths. Everything looked exactly as they should.
He set Sponge on the seventh chair, the one furthest away from the rectangular table in the center, the one full of claw marks. She jumped on the table, because Jaki was still standing up and she wanted to be in the reach of him, then flopped onto her side like she owned the whole place. Which, in a way, she did.
Jaki tossed his keys on the table and pulled out his phone.
"Little Crane"
He dialed the number. Two rings. A yawn. "You better be bleeding."
"Hey Eli, need eyes on a car. Black '90 RX-7 FC3S, seen in Tek, North 24th around 8 pm. Can you work your magic?"
Eli yawned again. "Sure. I'll let you know where it's parked."
Eli was ready to hang up. Jaki wasn't.
"Oh, also, can you trace it back to… the oldest you can."
"You got a plate?"
"Weak turbo, messy tune, the driver is Mexican descendent."
Eli groaned. "That's not a plate."
"No plate. Just… car." Said Jaki. Both of them was just as confused.
"That's worse than useless," Eli mumbled. "What do you want me to do? Scan every amateur with a rotary engine?"
"Yes?" Jaki said. The question mark was audible.
Eli sighed loudly, like he wanted it to shut Jaki's mouth. "You're serious."
"He's not from here. And he's not from anywhere I've seen. That bugs me."
Another sigh. "Alright, I'll look into it, but you owe me. I have to go old school, so give me some time."
Jaki opened the mini fridge behind the bar, grabbed a bottle of beer someone left from the last board game night, and twisted the cap off with his sleeve. "Like, a week?"
"A day. But Jaki, be careful. Don't be too nosy when it's not necessary."
"Said the man who has all of Prime's financial transactions at his fingertips. Anyway, thanks man, you're the best. Say hi to your sister."
"Will do, say hi to Sponge."
Click.
Jaki leaned back against the bar. Sponge purred in the booth seat across from him.The night in Tek was just getting started. Which meant the day was too. But in The Joint, time didn't tick. It sat still. Always has been.
Just Jaki. And the moment.
He swirled the bottle. Took a sip. Bitter. Flat. Cold.
Some things never changed.
But others?
Others came crashing in the shape of strangers behind the wheels of black RX-7s.
And you either chased them, or let them go.
Tonight, Jaki chased.
Tomorrow? Maybe he'd regret it.
But for now, he just listened to Sponge snore.