Page 3 of Doozer

“What about Gia?” I asked.

“Lie to Gia? Only a million and a half times. But that’s usually because I was avoiding an ass beating for using her make up or borrowing her clothes without asking,” she said.

“Yeah, I guess you and I never really had that problem. Did we?”

“Jack and Coke,” the bartender said, sliding my drink across the bar.

“Merry Christmas,” I said, placing a twenty into his tip jar.

“Business must be good,” Carmen said.

“We currently have a two-and-a-half year waiting list,” I replied.

“You’re kidding? That’s fantastic. Congratulations,” she said, giving me another hug.

“The custom bike business is a lot more work than I thought it would be, but I love it.”

“I’m proud of you, baby brother.”

“Thanks, sis.”

“Now, let’s get you to the table before Pop sends out a search party to find us.”

I grabbed my drink and reluctantly followed my sister to our table.

I’m the youngest of the three siblings. My sister Gia is six years older than me and Carmen is four years older. Growing up I got along with both of my sisters, but Carmen and I have always been the closest. My sisters would have almost daily epic, knockdown, drag out fights about anything and everything and I would play peacemaker between them. Gia, being the oldest, would usually end up getting her way, which would often leave Carm and I paired up together by default. But no matter what, I always had her back and she always had mine.

To my mother and my sisters, I was definitely “the baby” of the family. My father, on the other hand, had labeled me the “black sheep” by my early teens. Unlike my sisters, I’d never done well in school and had a hard time with anyone in authority telling me what to do. I was fifteen when I first started getting tattoos and riding motorcycles. By seventeen, I’d been kicked out of school, and then out of my home. The night my father put me out on the street, he called me a degenerate, a thug, and a loser. He called my tattoos the “marks of the devil” and told me I would never amount to anything more than a jailhouse snitch. I’d only spoken with him a half-dozen times in the years since and never about anything important. It had been almost a year since our last conversation, which ended poorly, to say the least.

My stomach tightened as soon as I spotted the table. My father was standing at the far end of the table, away from the rest of the family. In front of him was a line of well-wishers and glad-handers which snaked all the way back to the dance floor. Pop had been practicing law in Portland for forty years and within that time had made many powerful friends and allies. He’d also made his share of enemies. Certainly, this line of glad-handers was made up of both.

“So, what do I do, consigliere? Wait in line for the Don with the others?” I asked Carmen in a mock mobster voice.

“Shut up and sit down, Fredo,” she replied.

“Fredo? No, no, no. You’ve got it all wrong. Michael was the youngest of the Corleone family children,” I corrected her. “I’m Michael.”

“Whatever you say. Now go find a seat and practice saying the hail Mary while I gas up the dinghy.”

“Damn. You’re cold,” I replied. “I guess you’ll make a great lawyer after all.”

Growing up, my sisters and I were obsessed with gangster movies and Godfather II was at the top of the heap. We could hold entire conversations between ourselves using only movie quotes. Much like the Corleone Family both of my siblings followed in my father’s footsteps, earning law degrees from Stanford, and were now working for him at the firm. This of course was the path he’d carved out for me as well, but I’d rather saw my left arm off with a sharpened library card than practice law with my father. Unlike Michael Corleone I didn’t join the army to escape my father’s plans for me. Instead, I pledged my allegiance to the Burning Saints Motorcycle Club. Making my bones as an enforcer on the streets of Portland.

“Marco,” my mother exclaimed, rising to her feet as Carmen and I approached the table.

I made my way to her and greeted my mother with a hug and a kiss. Mama was a wonderful woman, who’d devoted her entire life to the church and her family.

“You’re late,” she said.

“I’m sure he cares,” I said sarcastically, motioning to my father who had yet to acknowledge my presence. His attention never once wavering from the impeccably dressed couple standing in front of him. They looked to be around his age and reminded me of Mr. and Mrs. Howell, the old rich couple from Gilligan’s Island.

“Icare,” my mother said, reaching up to pinch my cheek.

“Sorry, Mama,” I said. “How are you?”

“Your father is driving me crazy. He wants to buy an RV and drive across the country. Can you believe that?”

“An RV? As in recreational vehicle?” I asked, stunned.

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