A thin tendril of smoke rises from the smothered cigar in the ashtray, intertwining with crystals hanging from a chandelier above the table. The posh mahogany-colored leather lining of the booth in the back corner of the restaurant crinkles and squeaks slightly under my scales as I take a seat. The face of Charles Rossi is illuminated on the other side of the booth, both by the small lamp in the center of the round table and by the match he strikes to light up a new stogie.
Though it’s called Santiago’s Bar, the cozy establishment is also a full-featured Italian restaurant with some pretty damn good cuisine on the menu. It brings in decent business, with some evenings seeing plenty of patrons who are ignorant to this place being a frequent haunt for members of the criminal enterprise. Tonight, Charles, Marty and the few restaurant staff who are on the payroll just as much as I am are the only souls present. Well, and me, of course.
Marty does not join me at the executive booth, choosing instead to sit at the bar about three empty tables’ lengths away. Close enough that he can overhear our conversation if he feels inclined to listen in, but given how he reacted in the car and the lack of words exchanged between us since I dumped my used piece in the bay, I don’t think he’ll be sticking his long neck out for me tonight. Not that I need him to, I’ve got this under control.
Charles takes a long drag of his fresh cigar as he sizes me up, keeping his steeled gaze locked firmly on my face, scanning me for several moments before any words are passed between us. His bright purple eyes are his most chromatic element, seeming to clash violently with his gray scales and triplicate horns. His diamond irises flare ever so slightly as he begins piecing the situation together. He is no idiot. The fact that Eggsy didn’t enter the bar with us is more than enough for him to realize that shit went wrong.
Beyond the almost imperceptible tell of his eyes, he doesn’t react, wearing a cool, almost contemplative expression as he asks the question that almost doesn’t need asking. “Where’s Egbert?”
I fold my hands in front of me, putting as much of a matter-of-fact tone onto my words as I can. “We ran into some complications. Eggsy had to be retired.”
One of Charles’s eyelids twitches. “What do you mean, ‘retired’?”
“He, uh… he tried to steal Herdster money. All the money we collected today. We chased him down and… well, somethin’ happened to him.” From the corner of my vision, I notice Marty’s tail snap back and forth angrily; though his eyes are elsewhere, he’s acutely aware of our conversation.
The triceratops before me exhales a plume of smoke with his sigh before leaning forward. “This isn’t the time for cute turns of phrase, Pierce. What did you do with Egbert?”
“... I shot him.”
A sickening silence hangs between us, causing me to fidget unconsciously. Sure, I wasn’t anticipating Charles being thrilled by my decision to take matters into my own hands, but did he not hear me when I said Eggsy tried to rob us? I decide to fill the stale air by continuing. “... We found the empty briefcase. He must have stashed-”
“You shot Egbert.” His icy tone cuts me short.
“... Yes. He stole-”
“Without my authorization.”
I can’t help but click my tongue against the roof of my mouth. “Charles, what difference does it make? He didn’t give us back the money so I shot him. So what? He was just a fucking worthless, two-faced, lying prick of a skinnie.”
I know I’m beginning to outwardly show my irritation, but Charles remains as statuesque as he always does, cold and calculating to a fault. However, his words drip with callous authority. “The difference that it makes, Pierce, is that you acted without my permission. You knew that protocol was for you to come to me first before something like that was done, but you did it anyway.”
I let out a sigh. “Yeah, I might have jumped the gun on the red tape a little, but he was gonna get done in anyway-”
“That wasn’t your call to make.” Charles’s frigid words seem to echo the same as Marty’s from the car ride. “You know for a fact that you should have brought him back here, alive, so that we could deal with him professionally. But instead you, what, gunned him down in the street?”
“It was an alleyway, actually.” His eyes flare at me. I should probably tread a little more carefully with my words.
“And how many people saw you and Marty? Two dinosaurs fleeing a bullet-riddled corpse in an alleyway in broad daylight?”
I shake my head. “Nobody.”
He leans back in disbelief. “Nobody. You sure of that?”
“We were gone before people could even poke their head around the corner of the alley. Marty can back me up on that.” I jab a thumb in my partner’s direction, but he doesn’t turn to face us. Instead, I only see his tail flick angrily again.
“And what about the money? You got that back, at least?”
“... No. He didn’t have it on him, and we had to run before I could find it.”
Charles slowly brings a hand to his head, rubbing his temple with two fingers. He closes his eyes for a moment and exhales before looking back at me again. “... Do you realize what a fucking mess you’ve made?” I blink in surprise, not recalling the last time I’ve heard my boss curse. “You killed one of our employees in broad daylight. One of our few human employees. The cops are going to be able to ID him, you realize that? Tie him back to the Herdsters? With how many noses we already have sniffing around here, what the fuck do you think that’s gonna do?”
I raise my hands defensively. “I dumped the piece in the bay. They’ve got nothing to tie it to us-”
He cuts me off again. “If he was gonna be done in, there were cleaner ways to do it.” His words give me pause for a moment, but before I can consider them further he presses on. “You lost the money, and you killed the one person who might have been able to get it back to us without having to scrounge several city blocks for every nook and cranny he coulda stuffed it into.” His eyes flare in my direction. “You were completely out of line today. You already know that you walk on thin ice around here, and taking matters of this gravity into your own hands is wholly unprofessional and unacceptable.” I try to open my mouth to reply, but he speaks with finality before I can utter a single word:
“Consider this strike two.”
The plates on my back go completely rigid. My mouth hangs open, attempting to allow my windpipe and vocal cords the proper egress to protest, but nothing escapes. For several seconds, I don’t even breathe as the weight of the situation begins crushing down on me. My heartbeat quickens and my pupils dilate. I suddenly find myself acutely aware of my surroundings, prepared to defend myself against attack from any angle. In an instant I’m on my feet next to the booth, still staring at Charles but locked in a defensive stance, my tail instinctually soaring back and forth behind me.
However, no attack comes. In stark contrast to my fight or flight response, Charles merely takes another puff of his cigar, staring at me with contempt as he exhales slowly. His lips curl as he speaks again. “Take tomorrow off. There’ll be too much heat here anyways. I’ll talk to some guys and get this mess sorted out.”
He doesn’t break eye contact with me, merely rolling the cigar around in his lips as he waits for my adrenaline to drop and my composure to return to me. It eventually does; as my instincts no longer scream at me to defend myself against a lurking predator, my tail slows and my limbs loosen. Taking in a shaky breath, all I can manage is a nod before I turn toward the exit.
Marty doesn’t say anything to me, merely rising from his barstool and moving in the direction of Charles as I pass him on my way to the door. For a moment, I wish he would have at least given me a sympathetic look, but I don’t even get that. He’s still pissed at me, and based on the cold shoulder I guess he agrees with the judgment I received. I watch Marty sit across from Charles, sending a sharp look over his shoulder before turning to our boss to discuss who knows what.
A second strike.
I shudder as I push open the door leading to the evening air, and not due to coolness; the heat’s barely letting up at all as the sun descends beyond the skyscrapers to the west. No, the chill I feel is entirely psychological. Unlike a batter swinging for the fences and coming up short a second time, this is a threat of an entirely different league.
This is my life. I get a third strike… and I’m out. Literally.
I shake my head, trying desperately to clear it of the swirling thoughts. Panic, rage, confusion, remorse… I just can’t fathom what the fuck got me into this position. Sure, I mighta overstepped my bounds a little, but seriously? A second strike over a skinnie prick who stole our money? What the fuck woulda been done differently if I brought him in alive? Charles doesn’t get his hands dirty often, but I wouldn’t have been surprised if he gored Eggsy on the spot for that kind of stunt.
The walk to my car is a miserable one. As much as it hurts knowing that I managed to get myself in deep shit tonight, the haunting recollection of my “first strike” grows in the recesses of my mind. I do everything in my power to push the memories down, but they keep clawing their way back up again, invasive and consuming. The same hatred that compelled me to do what I did back then starts causing my blood to boil all over again.
No. I have to get a grip. If I let my temper get the best of me now, it really will be the end of the road. I stop in the middle of the sidewalk, paying no heed to the passersby that have to adjust their course to avoid bumping into me. Closing my eyes, I take several slow, deep breaths, concentrating on the air passing through my nostrils before exiting past my snout. My balled fists gradually uncurl themselves long enough to fish the car keys out of my pocket. Sliding behind the driver’s seat, I ignite the engine and make my way home.
I manage to suppress the encroaching dark thoughts, instead replacing them with an attempt to reason through the present situation. It’s… a bad spot. But not necessarily the end. After all, they didn’t drag me out back of Santiago’s right then and there, which they very well could have if I was being offered an early retirement. Charles ain’t happy with me, of course, and neither is Marty… but I’m not beat yet. Maybe I can still do some damage repair here.
I shake my head. Nothing for it right now. Like Charles said, there’ll be too much heat in that area to go fishing around for the money right now. But first chance I get… I gotta do what I can to make things right.
As I pull my Cadillac into the driveway in front of my home, I take a deep, steadying breath. It was a bad day, but there’s no use worrying the missus about it right now. I’ll be strong for the family, like a man oughta be. Even with my little personal pep talk, the walk from my car up to the front door is an abnormally long one. I take one more draw of fresh air before putting on my best after-work smile and opening the door.
“A little later than I expected, Pierce!” My wife’s voice calls from the kitchen. The smell of roasting vegetables wafts in my direction as Bianca strides toward me, wiping her hands with a towel before offering her usual hug and kiss on the cheek. Before I can even say one word, her smile falls away. “... What’s the matter?”
Damn. Either this woman’s a bloodhound, or I did a shit job of concealing my emotions. I try to give an innocent smile. “It’s nothing. How was your day, honey?”
Her suspended eyebrow doesn’t relent. She scans me up and down, possibly looking for a physical clue as to my soured emotional state. I’ve got no blood on my clothes or bruises on my face, so she eventually lets out a small sigh, issuing a command instead of an answer to my question. “Dinner’s just about ready. Call the kids into the dining room, please.”
I try to assuage her concerns with another smile. “No problem, Bianca.” Following one final sideways look, my beautiful but frustratingly astute wife strides back to the kitchen. I sigh, wishing that I had spent more time at the poker tables working on my bluffing face. Guess I’m just a lousy liar. Not the worst trait, but it makes for awkward situations like the one I’m sure I’ll face later.
I do as Bianca asked, announcing dinnertime up the stairs and, hopefully, toward at least one of the kids. Unsurprisingly, Angela rounds the corner from the living room with the echoing sounds of some sort of Western playing on the television following closely behind her. I’m not keen on hearing more gunshots tonight, so I ask her to turn the TV off before joining us at the dinner table. She obeys, and with traces of Russell exiting his bedroom, I traverse the short distance from the entryway to the dining room.
Photographs line the walls of the short hallway, captured snapshots of happiness nestled safely behind glass and frame. Everything from family vacations to simple trips to the park, immortalized in suspended motion, smiles that will never falter or fade in that perfect instant. I linger for a moment, taking in the two dozen or so various scenes. Most feature our children at different ages and different levels of interest in the glinting lens pointed in their direction. To me, it’s those pictures where they weren’t even aware of the camera that make for the most heartwarming memories.
The delicious smell of delectable fruits and roasted vegetables snaps me out of my nostalgic trance, beckoning me to my open seat at the head of the freshly set table. Bianca brings forth the final dish to complete the dinner spread, a slightly steaming casserole of broccoli, carrots and cauliflower. I fight off the desire to jam the serving spoon straight into the tray, instead extending my hands to the son and daughter seated on my left and right. They take my hand in theirs, and as Bianca finds her seat and completes the circle, we bow our heads and say grace.
Conversation is pleasant, but stale. I don’t mention my day, instead opting to listen to Russell regale us with the adventure he went on with his friends, a bike ride across the neighborhood culminating in a frenzied chase for frogs near the storm drains. Though I see Bianca’s eyebrows raise disapprovingly, she doesn’t scold our son; we both know he’s smart enough to be safe, even when playing around spots like that. Angela’s day requires much less verbosity as she proffers the usual less-than-five word answers to any inquiries about her time with her mother. I do hope that she’ll come out of her shell and be a little less shy and withdrawn once she grows up.
Occasionally, Bianca steals glances at me. They strike me as less romantic and more inquisitive, as though she’s waiting for me to offer up some explanation as to my mood upon returning home. When I don’t give one, her expression subtly shifts to worry. The kids don’t notice it, haven’t had a reason to yet, but I’ve known her long enough to tell when her gears are turning. I tap my fingers on the table’s surface, considering my next move carefully.
I was told I can’t come in tomorrow. And I sure as hell don’t want to sit around the house moping about the sorry state of my professional life. My mind wanders once more to the smiling moments adorning the walls and shelves of our home. After a moment, as the children reach the last few forkfuls of their meals, I clear my throat.
“... What do you kids say to a trip to the beach tomorrow?”
They both freeze in place, a piece of broccoli suspended in air on its journey toward Russell’s mouth. Their wide eyes give way to wider smiles, and their stunned silence is replaced with enthusiastic cheering.
Despite her normally sleepy demeanor, Angela is the first to get a cohesive word out. “The beach! Wow! Can we get ice cream while we’re there?!”
I nod with a smile. “Don’t see why not.”
Russell pipes up next. “Do you think I can invite Sebastian, too?”
“Sure, give him a phone call once we’re done with dinner.”
The two of them bounce excitedly on their seats as they shovel the remainder of their food away. They clearly agree with my sudden suggestion, but Bianca raises an eyebrow at me from across the table. She does not protest, having no reason to deflate the children by rebuffing my offer. Hell, she might even take a dip in the cool ocean water herself with how hot it’s been the past several days. Still… this particular diversion tactic obviously won’t work to quell her concern about me.
With dinner concluded and the table cleared, the excitement moves into the living room. The chatter and anticipation of Russell and Angela finally give way to enthralled silence as another cool-handed lawman dispenses his own brand of justice on the outlaws and desperados of the wild west. While the make-believe gunfire emanating from the television’s speakers rattled my nerves earlier, I find myself strangely calmed by the wooden acting and over-the-top stunt work on the boob tube this evening.
After a few hours of vegging out, the wife declares it bedtime for the household, earning protestation from the children. “Just one more episode,” they whimper, but both know full well that bargaining of this nature will never work with their mother. She turns off the television to the sound of their groans and shoos them both upstairs. I give her a smile before following the kids to the second floor; with all the excitement of today, I’m ready to get some shut-eye myself.
I take a seat on the edge of our bed and peel the socks from my feet, flexing my tendons and wiggling my toes in response to the cool air that now has free access to those lowest digits. Before I can disrobe further, the bedroom door slowly closes behind Bianca. She stands wordless and monolithic, awaiting the explanation she is owed. I don’t meet her eyes, opting to let out a muted sigh as I gather my thoughts. I knew I wouldn’t be able to end the night without spilling the beans, but somehow I didn’t prepare for the moment of truth.
For only a second, the idea of trying to downplay the situation crosses my mind. I had already fibbed by telling Bianca nothing was wrong when I got home, and she didn’t believe me then. Her posture and patience tell me that she won’t believe it now, either. I only see one way to proceed.
“... I shot a guy today. A… coworker, I suppose. He worked for the Herdsters and he was assigned to help Marty and I with our pick-ups. He tried to steal the money we collected. We chased him down in an alley and I shot him.”
Bianca doesn’t react. She already knows the nature of my work and understands that sometimes a man has to do what he has to in order to provide for his family. She loves me and the kids too much to raise a fuss over me exercising the more harsh brand of justice that my organization has to enforce from time to time.
She also knows there’s more to the story than what I’m letting on. Something as simple as what I’ve said so far wouldn’t have me rattled like I am. She waits patiently for me to continue.
I take a deep breath before doing so. “Charles wasn’t happy about it. Said I was out of line taking matters into my own hands, said I shoulda brought the skinnie weasel to him.” I run a trembling hand through my hair. “... I got a second strike.”
Only now does my wife make a noise, emitting a small gasp as a hand comes to her mouth. She understands as well as I do what this means. I finally find the strength to bring my eyes up to meet hers, doing everything in my power to keep my voice from quivering as I speak. “A second fucking strike, over a goddamn skinnie. And I wouldn’t have even gotten the first one if Francisco… if he… god…”
In two strides Bianca is across the room, wrapping her arms around my head and pulling me toward her bosom. I’m powerless to do anything but bite my lip as the memories surge over me, calling forth the same pain, fury and hopelessness I felt all those months ago. I sharply inhale, bringing in as much oxygen as I can past the fabric of Bianca’s shirt. She responds by stroking the back of my head and shushing me, keeping me nestled between her breasts.
I hate showing weakness like this. But if it has to be done in front of anyone, the woman who pledged herself to me in marriage and brought our children into the world is an acceptable option.
Though it feels longer, it only takes me about half a minute to calm down and recompose myself. Bianca leans back to meet my eyes before speaking. “I’m sorry this happened to you, Pierce. You didn’t deserve that first strike, and you sure as hell don’t deserve this second one. The only thing you can do now is be as careful as you possibly can. Don’t make waves. Don’t do anything else that’ll even make Charles look at you funny. Keep your head down and this’ll blow over.” She averts her gaze. “I… I don’t want anything to happen to you. Me… the kids… we need you, Pierce.”
Now it’s her turn to fight back her emotions, but I don’t waste a moment in coming to her aid. I’m on my feet in a flash, wrapping my arms around her and bringing her as close to me as I can as she shudders. “I’m not going anywhere, Bianca. I’d fight off a hundred men to be with you.” She grips the front of my shirt, squeezing herself into me to absorb my words and warmth. “I love you, Bee.”
She meets my eyes again, blinking away the budding droplets. The nickname came about early in our courtship, originally being met with protestation. She was, after all, a proud woman with a respectable name, and the louse that had taken her on a couple dates hadn’t earned the right to bestow a contemptible single-syllabic pet name to her. It took several more months and a drop to one knee with a diamond in hand for her to finally warm up to the idea of it.
“I love you, too, Pierce.” Her cheeks redden ever so slightly, betraying her next move as she brings her lips to my own. She’s the woman who accepted an awkward teenager who got rejected in the draft for the second world war, watching as his older brother traveled over the ocean in a C-47 to never return home. She’s the woman who accepted my hand in marriage, beauty beyond my comprehension enveloped in a radiant white dress. She’s the woman who didn’t bat an eye the first time I came home after killing a man, knowing that the world is full of bad people and believing that I’m one of the good ones worth loving.
The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
I’ll prove her right. I’ll survive… for her… for the kids… for a world that deserves good people like us.
I’ll survive.
—
“- so there he is, right, this big fucker of a baryonyx, staring down his fuckin’ runway of a snout at me. Again he says, in his stupid Southie accent: ‘fork over yer lunch money or yer dead!’ O’course, I could barely hear the guy with how bad he rung my bell. There were about three of him spinnin’ around one anotha when I tried to look up at his ugly mug.” He shot his eyes in my direction before jabbing a thumb at me, his signature grin plastered on his face. “Then this beefy fucker’s silhouette shows up behind the baryonyx prick. Casts a shadow over him like a fuckin’ mountain range at sunset. The asshole bully barely has time to react before Pierce wraps his fuckin’ hands around the guy’s mouth and starts swinging him around like a baseball bat! And that’s when I learned my big brother is Babe-fuckin’-Tooth!”
Franky’s wild pantomiming of a batter swinging for the fences elicited another round of laughter from the enraptured crowd of coworkers and bar employees he had drawn. He was always a lot more talented than I was when it came to making folks laugh and feel comfortable. I still felt the need to critique his storytelling: “That baryonyx wasn’t that big. Hence me being able to toss him around like a rag doll.”
My baby brother shot me another toothy grin. “Hey, I’m the one telling the story here, Pierce! Besides, you should be flattered that I didn’t include the part where his two goon buddies blackened your eye!”
“And I’m pretty sure I sent one of them to the hospital.” More laughter ushered in more clinking glassware and more downed liquor. It was another enjoyable night after a successful day at the office, and I watched with pride as Franky began spinning another yarn to entertain everyone around us. He was doing good work, not that I was worried that he’d be a good worker. He was a brilliant fella, and charismatic as all get-out. I knew he’d fit right in with the Herdster team.
My smile faltered slightly as I glanced over at Charles in his usual corner booth, chomping on the familiar cigar he always had between his lips after the work day was done. He was a professional man, and professional men save their vices for when they’re off the clock. He didn’t smile back at me, instead merely taking in the sight of our post-work carousing with the authority of a boss who only mingles with the peons from time to time. Again, he was a professional man.
Of course, things with Franky hadn’t gone perfectly. There were a few shifts where he had to punch out early on account of being too hung over to operate properly. We managed to hand-wave it as a stomach bug or a nasty migraine, but I warned him with increasing severity that a new guy only gets so many sick days before the boss starts looking real close as to the reason for said sick days. And Charles wasn’t the kind of guy who would miss the signs of a young man with an alcohol problem for very long.
At least it had been a few weeks without incident. Franky was going on six months with the team, and was being assigned more responsibility every week. I just needed to keep being the big brother I needed to be to ensure he didn’t fuck up this opportunity I helped him get.
“Pierce!” His voice brought me back to the moment and I turned his way in acknowledgement. “What was the name of that dish ma always used to make? You know the one, with the flatbread and caramelized onions?”
“Flammekueche, or tarte flambée. It was one of her best dishes.”
One of the fellas behind the bar who normally works the kitchen piped up. “Ay, don’t dat usually got bacon on it?”
Franky rolled his eyes at the tyrannosaurus. “Not everythin’ has to have meat on it, ya fuckin’ carnivore. Try eatin’ a salad once in a while!” More laughter, including from the t-rex that was just chided by the young blowhard in control of the conversation. I had to hand it to him, those same words out of a less charming guy would have earned a punch in the snout, but somehow he managed to pull off these social interactions with aplomb.
He shot back the last swig of bourbon in his glass before tapping the rim and nodding at the bartender. However, I took a step forward and put my hand on his shoulder. “We should probably get rolling, buddy. Still gotta work tomorrow.”
Now it was my turn to catch an eye-roll. “Whaddya mean, Pierce? The night’s still young!”
The slight slur in his words told me I needed to remain resolute in my stance. “Let’s call it a night. We gotta make up some time on our routes, so we’ll have to be fresh come morning.”
With an exaggerated sigh and a mighty slump of his shoulders, Franky relented. “Aaaalright. Well, fellas, my grouch-ass of a brother says the fun’s done, so I guess I’ll see you chuckefucks tomorrow!” A round of goodbyes saw him out of his seat and venturing into the cool night air with me. He nudged me with an elbow as he lit up a fresh cigarette tucked between his lips, knowing I wouldn’t allow him to have one in my car. “I think they’re finally starting to warm up to me a bit!”
I smirked. “Making friends wasn’t ever gonna be a problem for you, Franky. Though, I did notice Charles lookin’ our way with a bit of disapproval.”
“Pfft. That old sobersides probably has a fourth horn growing right between his buttcheeks.” His turn of phrase made me snort out a laugh that I quickly stifled as I shot a glance over my shoulder toward the door. Thankfully, Charles hadn’t sprung into existence there.
“Are you fuckin’ crazy? If there’s anyone you don’t joke about, it’s Charles. He once-”
“Yeah, yeah. Broke a bottle over some schmuck who called him Charlie. I heard the story, and I ain’t afraid of that gray trike.”
“If you were smart, you would be. At least enough to know you don’t fuck with him like that.”
He surrendered the point as he drew down the last of his cigarette before stamping it out on the pavement outside my car’s passenger door. With a roar of the engine, we began the short trek back to his home.
Silence was rare between us, mostly due to Franky’s efforts. He was a regular chatterbox, not just with guys pourin’ him drinks but with me and our other siblings, too. He was the only one who could get ma to smile at Gabriel’s funeral. O’course, nobody was in a smiling mood after the crate and folded flag showed up, but Franky’s just the kind of guy to offer his wit and charm as his form of comfort and love. That was a lot of years ago, though, and these days…
“Franky… you been by to see ma recently?” My words filled the void between us, earning a slow turn of my kid brother’s head. He stared at me as though he didn’t believe what came out of my mouth for a moment before turning back toward the window. I cleared my throat before continuing. “You brought up her flammekueche back at the bar, so I thought she mighta been on your mind.” More quiet. “... I thought it might be good for your wife to meet her before-”
“No.”
I blinked in surprise at the curtness of his response. “No?”
“No. I ain’t been by to see her.”
“... Why not? You know she’s sick. She probably doesn’t have much-”
“I said no. I don’t want to see her.”
I sighed. “Francisco, you-”
“What the fuck is your problem, Pierce?! I said no, why don’t you fuckin’ drop it?!” His eyes were ablaze, wordlessly threatening me if I dare continue pushing the subject.
I pushed the subject. “What the fuck is your problem, huh? Just because she’s sick, you don’t wanna see her? What kind of son are you?”
He began shouting. “I don’t wanna SEE her because she don’t even fuckin’ KNOW who I AM! She lays there like a fuckin’ vegetable, and when she DOES have her eyes open, she don’t even RECOGNIZE ME! What fuckin’ good is it gonna do for me to visit her, huh?! Wastin’ my fuckin’ time!”
“Raptor Christ, Franky. You’re acting like she’s already dead. I’m not telling you to visit dad’s gravestone, I’m telling you that you need-”
“Pull over the car.”
I paused in disbelief. “... What?”
“Pull over the car, now.”
I slowed the car before bringing it to the side of the road. The moment the concrete below us wasn’t soaring by at a high speed, Franky tossed open the door and stomped out of the vehicle. I threw the parking brake before climbing out of the car myself to call after him over its roof. However, I stopped myself short as I stared in disbelief at his destination.
He was heading straight toward a liquor store.
I groan. “Are you fucking serious, Franky?”
He spun around, backpedaling as he spoke with an unfitting smile on his lips. “I ran outta some stuff at home! Gotta make a quick pit stop.”
I was exasperated. “We have to work tomorrow.”
A disingenuous chuckle. “Ahhh, it ain’t for tonight. ‘Sides, the missus wouldn’t let me drink this late!” He winked before spinning on his heel again and strolling through the door as though he hadn’t a care in the world.
I could only stare at the closing portal behind him, a slurry of frustration and disappointment swirling in my stomach. I tried to tell him in the past that his drinking is bordering on a problem, maybe even turning into one given his sick days and frequent hangovers. But I was only ever met with hand-waves and disregarding remarks. Franky knew what was best for Franky, of course. Why the fuck would his older brother or any of his other brothers and sisters know better than him, after all? Not like he was the youngest of seven, with his five living siblings all constantly worrying about his stupidity and recklessness with alcohol. Hell, he had his license revoked for driving under the influence, and ended up in the hospital on two separate occasions because of this bullshit. But no. A “pit stop” to the liquor store, past midnight, on a work night. That’s the ticket, Franky.
I climbed into the car, closing the door behind myself dejectedly. Part of the reason I even got him this job was because I thought it might help clean him up. If nothing else, I’d have my eyes on him and could be an example for how to be a professional and not depend on bourbon and gin for emotional support. Hell, he had a kid on the way. Alcohol wasn’t the answer to his problems. It wasn’t the answer to the stress of life, nor to the pain of losing dad last year and with ma probably following him home soon.
Franky needs help. My baby brother needs help, and he needs it soon. Or else…
Or else…
…
A gentle hand pulls me from my slumber, and an angelic voice ushers my consciousness back to the realm of the living.
“Pierce, honey. Wake up. You promised the kids you’d take them to the beach, remember?”
I pull myself up on my elbows, giving Bianca the best attention I can in my groggy, half-asleep state. “Morning, Bee. I’ll be out of bed in-” A yawn interrupts me. “... in a second.”
She strokes my shoulder and plants a kiss on my cheek before stepping away. She’s already out of bed and dressed, probably has breakfast cooking as we speak. As she takes a seat at her bureau to apply a bit more makeup, she steals a glance in my direction. Another smile betrays her feelings.
As a couple that have been married for thirteen years, opportunities to express our love to one another physically become much less commonplace. It’s difficult to schedule intimacy when you’ve got two kids to worry about, and age brings with it a bit more exhaustion and lowered libido from one or both members of the relationship.
But last night…
I can’t help but return Bianca’s smile as I recall the way she passionately kissed me, the way she finished peeling my work clothes away, the way she offered her love and her comfort and her body to me. We kept things quiet; you have to when you’ve got two kids in the house only a door away, but our passion for one another blazed as fiercely as it did when we were first married. She sighed and gasped as I made love to her, and she whispered her love to me as we fell asleep in one another’s arms.
Some of the fellas at the office complain about their wives not putting out anymore. I can’t relate.
I slide myself out from under the sheets, feeling a few joints pop and muscles wrench as I do. As glad as I am that Bianca and I can still express our love to one another physically… it does take a bit of a physical toll on my thirty-four-year-old bones. With a stretch and a bend, I’m on my feet and on my way toward the master bathroom for my morning rituals.
The house is alight with joy and excitement; both Russell and Angela can barely contain their delighted laughter as they scramble about collecting their snorkels and beach balls. Even Bianca gets swept up in the mood, humming a tune to herself as she packs our picnic lunch. Before long, we gather everything we need for an enjoyable day at the beach, swimsuits included, and pile into my Cadillac.
The arid skies greet us once more as we collect our provisions from the parked car and travel to the beachfront. This particular location was about an hour drive, far enough from the city proper to not risk swimming into sewage or stepping on broken glass or spent pieces. Though, it appears we weren’t the only family to have an idea like this today. Despite being a Tuesday, finding a blank patch of sand for us to set our beach towels and parasol proves difficult. Dozens of other families jockey for position, but before long we find an adequate spot for ourselves.
Glancing momentarily to Bianca and I for permission, our nod of approval sends both Russell and Angela soaring toward the water, with my eldest blowing air into a multicolored inflatable ball as he runs. His friend Sebastian wasn’t available today, but he rapidly kicks up conversation with some other nearby boys around his age, utilizing the beach ball as an icebreaker. Angela squeals in delight as her feet make contact with the lapping waves of the ocean; she skitters to a halt before taking a deep breath and plunging herself into the water. Only her tail is visible as she scours the shallows for trinkets.
I wear a contented smile as I lean back in my folding chair, keeping a calm but vigilant eye on the kids. My attention is captured momentarily as Bianca hands me a cold can of soda. I graciously accept before pushing the claw of my thumb through its top. She plops down next to me atop a blanket with a beverage of her own, relaxing under the shade of our beach umbrella. After a moment, she speaks up.
“Will you be going back in to work tomorrow?”
I don’t look her way, opting to keep watching the children play. “Yeah, I think so.”
“... What do you plan to do?”
My smile falters slightly. “Well, you suggested last night that I keep my head down. That’s probably a safe bet.”
A small puff of air from her nostrils bids me to turn her direction. A notable frown rests on her lips. “I mean, what do you plan to do after that? How are you gonna proceed?”
I slide the tip of my claw around the rim of my soda can, eliciting a faint, tinny scraping noise as I think. I had given it some thought myself, but haven’t been forced to articulate it until now. When my words come, they are clumsy. “I… can’t get a third strike. We both know that. But I… well, I can’t just quit. I’m in too deep with the organization. Seen too much. I’ll either retire an old man who’s done everything he needed to for the Herdsters until my knees knock together and I can’t chew my food… or I’ll retire in a bodybag.”
My choice of words was poor, causing Bianca to gasp before scowling at me. “You ain’t retiring in no bodybag, Pierce! I won’t accept it.”
I shrug. “Well, that leaves the former. I have to do my job, and I have to do it right. I can’t… slip up. Not again.” An involuntary sigh escapes my lips.
“Pierce, what happened wasn’t your fault. With your brother… with Francisco… that wasn’t your fault. And what you did was completely justified. Charles was-” My eyes snap toward Bianca at the mention of his name. She hesitates for a moment before lifting her head defiantly. “... Charles should have known that you would do what you did. There was no other way around it. And for him to punish you for it…” A click of her tongue concludes her sentiment.
I remain silent for a moment, only turning to bring my watchful gaze upon the kids once more. Russell is surrounded by a trio of other dinosaur boys, waist deep in waves as they bounce the air-filled multichromatic sphere between themselves, punctuating each lunge and dive with laughter. Even Angela, shy and reserved, beams a smile at another young girl to whom she shows off her small handful of seashells.
Bianca rests a hand on my shoulder before continuing. “You’ve put in a lot of years with the Herdsters and you’ve been doing good work. Charles obviously doesn’t see that.” She gingerly squeezes her fingers, causing me to turn in her direction again. She meets my eyes with a level of sternness not typical for her. “... You could do Charles’s job better than he could.”
I scoff. “Heh. Yeah. Way things are goin’ for me, I doubt that promotion is coming any sooner than the next extinction event.”
She doesn’t reply, instead only holding her gaze. My brow involuntarily furrows, but before my mouth can open to question her, Angela comes trotting in our direction, holding forth her chitinous bounty. Bianca turns to our daughter with a beaming smile, showering the little girl in praise. I join in on the adulation when she displays her treasures to me.
The rest of the day goes by quickly, with Bianca and I joining the kids in the water, enjoying its cool temperature amidst the sweltering sunbeams. Our lunch is refreshing and delicious, and, as Angela requested, we make a stop at the nearby ice cream stand for an afternoon treat. Around four o’clock, my announcement of the conclusion of today’s festivities is met with protestation from both children. Their grumbling quickly turns to quiet breathing as they both sleep peacefully in the backseat of the car the entire way home.
The topic of Charles doesn’t come up again for the rest of the day. At least… not out loud.
—
Marty waits for me in his usual spot, standing near the entrance to the parking garage. His neck cranes around to allow his eyes to meet mine as I pass through the metal door and into the building proper. Though he offers me a smile, it feels less genuine than normal.
“Morning, Pierce.” We begin our short walk toward Charles’s office.
“Heya Marty. How, uh… how’d things go yesterday?”
He shrugs. “Boring day. They had me hang around here in the office in case they needed me for anything. They didn’t. Kicked the hell out of the paper’s crossword puzzle, though.”
I try to smile, but still feel a pit in my gut. All there is to do is try to clear the air. “... Look, Marty. I’m sorry I caused problems. Especially for you. You didn’t deserve trouble, not for my mistake.”
He stops and turns to face me. At first, his raised eyebrow communicates apprehension toward my words. However, after analyzing me for a moment, he averts his gaze and sighs. “I told you it wasn’t the right move, Pierce.”
“I know. I shoulda listened to you, and I’m sorry.”
His eyes flick in my direction again. A small smile tugs at his lips. “... I mean, I got in a lot less trouble than you did. But… thanks, Pierce.” He taps my shoulder with his knuckles in a show of good faith. “Just… be careful, buddy. From now on. You really gotta tow the line.”
I nod.
His smile widens into the one I’ve known for the past few years, genuine and warm. “Believe it or not, I like workin’ with ya. And I care about ya. Despite the humongous pain in the ass you are sometimes.”
I can’t help but chuckle. “Alright, you goose-necked bastard. Let’s go. Gettin’ all mushy on me and then insulting me like this.”
He delivers a few more playful jabs at my ego that I take in stride as we make our way to our destination. Pushing open the door to Charles’s chambers, we both quiet down as we step through the entryway and find our seats across from him. Our boss doesn’t keep a standard office, instead preferring to utilize one of the sublevel conference rooms as a semi-permanent headquarters. A coworker once snickered to a few others in the office that Charles did this to sit behind a great big “desk”, as a sort of intimidation tactic.
That coworker didn’t work for us much longer.
The gray triceratops glances up from his paperwork to acknowledge the two of us as we take our seats across from him, separated by a massive expanse of oak. He sets his pen down and folds his hands on the table before speaking. “Good morning Martin. Pierce. You’ll be handling the south side today, businesses around Pelagic Park. Start with a ten block radius, if you can get more done, wonderful.”
He offers his typical smile and nods toward the door before returning to his pen. Marty shoots a sideways glance at me, silently acknowledging the curtness of our boss. With a nearly imperceptible shrug, he gingerly claps his hands to his knees and rises from his seat.
I linger for a moment, staring at Charles. He said nothing about yesterday, whether they had to do any work to clean up the “mess” that I made. He barely even acknowledged my existence, instead plastering on a sickening facade of apathy and ignorance. He acts… normal. As though he didn’t effectively threaten my life just two nights prior.
My eye twitches and my lip curls, but I quickly stifle the emotions, choosing instead to join Marty in egress. Somewhere in the back of my mind, the phantom of Bianca’s voice finds purchase:
“You could do Charles’s job better than he could.”
The day drags on at a sickening pace. We encounter no difficulties; the owners of the stores we visit are cordial and accommodating, producing their owed dues without hassle. Marty makes pleasant chatter in the car, and I respond as best as I’m able, but my mind continues to wander.
Why aren’t I in a higher ranking position yet? If I was managing other Herdsters instead of doing this grunt footwork, I never would have had to do Eggsy in. Sure, I had originally thought he was being trained up to replace me, but even if that was the case he proved himself to be untrustworthy. What’s to say someone else can’t replace me? Someone that’s actually as dependable as I am?
I deserve to be further along, further up the ladder. I’ve broken my back for the Herdsters, and what do I have to show for it? Two strikes. The threat that one more mistake will be the end of me. And that doesn’t even have to be a legitimate fuck-up on my part, just something Charles decides is a big enough issue to send me to pasture. Am I gonna spend the rest of my days running errands for an ungrateful boss who holds my fate on a fragile string?
The wheels turn, but at a slow and calculating pace. Before anything else happens, I need to make up for the disaster that was two days ago. I need to prove not to Charles but to the Herdsters as a whole that I can be trusted to handle something as simple as collecting dues from the neighborhood.
Marty and I pull up outside of Santiago’s Bar around five forty-five. He begins climbing out of the car, but pauses when I don’t turn off the engine. “You coming in, Pierce?”
I shake my head. “Not tonight, Marty. You go ahead and run the money in for Charles and give him our report. I need to take care of something.”
Marty raises an eyebrow at me. “... Anything you need help with?”
“No, I got it. You have a good night, I’ll see you again tomorrow.”
He nods before gripping the stuffed envelopes from within the dash and exiting the car. I watch him enter Santiago’s; not that I don’t trust him, rather I keep an eye on him to ensure an errant junkie doesn’t leap out of an alley and try to stick him up. After he safely passes through the front door, I throw on my signal before performing a U-turn.
Several minutes later, I find myself in front of the same alleyway that caused me so much trouble. The remnants of police tape lazily flutter in the near undetectable breeze, one which offers no comfort against the stagnant summer heat. I briefly glance around, seeing signs of neither cop nor pedestrian. The scene where a man was shot dead, so quickly abandoned, a victim to the apathy of a city too gargantuan to worry about its citizens or their fates for more than twenty-four hours.
I don’t need to crouch to get past the tape; it’s already split and mostly absent, so nothing prevents me from entering the alley. A blemished patch of discoloration in roughly the outline of a seated man is traced into the brick exterior of one of the walls. The same weathering runs down the pavement a short distance before abruptly ending. Looks like the city’s cleanup crew went over it quickly with a power washer, but anything more than a passing glance betrays the grisly aftermath still visible here.
My eyes begin scanning the piles of garbage. They appear largely undisturbed, though a few were likely picked through by the police for potential evidence. Neither Marty nor I left anything behind; one of the perks of using a revolver is not having to dig around for bullet casings, unless I get into a situation where I have to fire more than six shots. And in a situation like that, I doubt I’m too concerned about retrieving bullet casings.
My lip curls as I realize what I’m going to have to do. Eggsy hid the money, and he hid it somewhere very close to here. It could be in these piles of garbage next to him, or it could be stuffed into a sewer grate or drainage pipe. No matter how you slice it, I’m gonna have to get my hands dirty to find this-
Footsteps. My plates stand on end as the echoes of footfalls approach from around the alley’s bend, coming from the opposite direction of me. I move as silently as I can to press my back against the wall, concealing myself from their peripheral vision long enough for me to figure out who the fuck this is. If it’s some passerby taking a shortcut, I can just pretend I’m fishing for a pack of cigarettes I don’t have on me. If it’s a cop… I might have to deck ‘em in the face and hope I jostle his noggin well enough that he don’t remember me when he comes to. Either way… I didn’t want company.
The footsteps grow louder. I do my best to look relaxed, but coil my muscles in case I need to lunge. After several agonizing seconds, the trespasser comes into view. A flat cap rests upon the head of a human, slightly messy tufts of short brown hair poking from under its rim. His clothes are well worn but plain; blue collar rather than white, I don’t figure this guy as a lost banker. He intently stares into the corner of the alley, toward an alcove packed full with trash, before seeming to remember that another entrance connects to this place. He peers over his shoulder and nearly flies out of his shoes when his eyes come to rest on me.
His… blue eyes. Eyes… that I’ve seen before. Only two days before, in fact.
The skinnie from Sal’s Butcher and Grocery. The one that Sal Fontana himself entrusted with delivering me the envelope with Sal’s dues.
A single stride is all it takes to close the distance between us. He stares up at me, wide-eyed and mouth agape, much like he did when I first “met” him. My words rumble past my snarling teeth.
“What the fuck are you doing here, skinnie?”