The Cinema House was part of the new restoration project. Already underway, the top two floors had been converted into studio apartments. Niko had been lucky enough to get into a loft on the third floor. The place was hella cool, and he liked the look of the old theater. At least the owners were willing to turn it back into the style of its glory days. The Professor loved telling stories about his dad and the nights when the theater had been packed and the club full of gangsters. Niko could listen over and over to the story about when Capone landed a bullet in one of the basement walls and The Professor’s grandpa tossed the thug out on his ass.
He rounded the corner of a crumbling building and watched two guys dressed in black hoodies cross the street. As they passed, one made a point to bump into Niko’s shoulder. Three years of sobriety may have brought him some clarity, but hell-no did it shrink his balls.
“Douchebag.” Niko turned. “You got a problem? I’m sure we can work it out, say, down that alley?” There was no hiding a shakedown when the target was the king of walk-by theft. Fuck, he’d been doing the shit since he was twelve.
The man, obviously taller than Niko, snarled and started to walk back. “What did you say, asshole?”
Niko dropped the bag from his shoulder and slid his right hand into the front pocket of his jeans. “I know what you were trying to do, dumbass. Been there a thousand times and you’re not slick enough. Do you seriously think I’d walk around here with a wallet on me?” Niko slid his fingers through the brass knuckles hidden in his pocket.
“All fucking right. So, you caught me. Now, how about you give me that bag, smartass.”
Niko saw the end of a blade slide out of the guy’s pocket. “Not a cop in sight, fucker,” Niko stated without hesitation. “You’re not getting the bag.”
When the tall thug lunged at Niko, he ducked to the right and popped his hand out of his pocket, making a hard impact to the partner wielding the knife. The cocky talker was on his own as the thin blond fell, thudding his skull on the sidewalk. Niko kicked the knife against the building.
“Gonna talk now?” Niko taunted. When the thug reached out to make contact with Niko’s face, instincts sped through his veins. Duck. Bob. Impact to the rib cage. “You jacked with the wrong fucker, dude.”
The guy fell beside his friend, coughing and trying to breathe.
Niko shoved the brass knuckles back into his pocket. He hunched down, bending his knees to look the man in the face. “You see, my name is Niko Melikov.” He snapped a quick slap across the man’s cheek. “Maybe you’ve heard of me. Maybe not, but I assure you that name won’t be forgotten now. Show your face around here again and you won’t be able to walk next time. Been off probation for two years. It’s free game now, guys.”
Niko left the assholes rolling on the sidewalk, holding their torsos. He slid the bag back on his shoulder and strolled the two blocks to his place. He looked up at the intricate details above the set of doors.
The ancient elevator freaked him out. The one time he’d used it, the metal door got stuck, and it took every muscle in his arms to move it. Thugs trying to knife him didn’t raise his blood pressure, but being trapped again made his pulse explode.
Turning down the hallway behind the restrooms, he took the metal steps two at a time until he hit the second floor projection room. He’d spent too many nights unable to sleep, unable to forget the sound of the shot, the smell of burnt metal. The room hadn’t been touched yet. Several dusty projectors stood like rusted statues, waiting for their moment to crank up and be important again.
A single gold-and-silver lamp sat on an olive-green metal table against the open wall where the magic flew onto the white screen. For thirty dollars at a thrift store, he’d gotten the lamp and a chair.
The musty scent of times gone by inspired his art. Hell, how many times had he sprayed walls just like these, making something amazing from something...nothing.
Niko moved on until he reached the third floor. His door was on the right. The one on the left rarely opened. He’d met the guy once as they’d unlocked their doors in what could’ve been an awkward silence if they’d stalled too long. He turned the key. The echo of the heavy metal door sliding rang out in the landing.
Casper, a white pit bull pup—well, white except for the jet-black fur covering his left ear—came barreling toward Niko with fat paws pounding the hardwood floor. “Hey, big guy, miss me?” Niko knelt down, letting the dog lap at his cheek. Before walking into the spacious room, he slid the door closed and clicked the lock into place.