Page 27 of Demise

“Do you hear me?”

“I hear you just fine,” I say lowly.

He nods and leaves me standing there with a busted door, a dead clock, and words I can’t take back.

Chapter Twenty

Bones

Sleet twists and swirls in the gray tinted sky. I walk into city hall in an all black Gucci suit, shaking my coat. I needed to look my finest when visiting the pigs of Postings. No worse thing than another man assuming you’re weak.

I recall a time my brother Paul punched me square in the jaw when we were just boys. I’d told him to shut up. He’d shutmeup. I’d cried and Pops bent a knee and looked me in my eyes.“That hurt boy?” he’d asked me.

I’d nodded with tears in my eyes and snot mingled blood running down my nose.

“Of course, it did. But there isn’t any reason to let that person know it hurt. If you gotta cry, do it behind closed doors, never in front of your enemy. No worse thing than another man assuming you’re weak.”

Sure, I’m battered, but clothes hide more than just skin. They hide wounds, and not just the ones on the surface. A good suit tells the other man you’re in charge, on top, and strong as ever—no matter how fucked you are underneath.

I’m confident, ready to take on whatever these motherfuckers are gonna put down. I have no fucking idea what I’m walking into, though.

My shoes echo as I make my way toward Paul’s office. I nod at a few passersby.

“Denise,” I greet Paul’s sectary.

“Mr. O’Brien. Good to see you’re well. Mr. O’Brien is expecting you.”

I nod and walk toward the double wooden doors. The scent of a fine cigar drifts throughout the room, brandy is being poured, and I hear my brother before anyone else. He was shooting the shit, as one would call it.

In Postings, we grew up with the boys who are now pigs, and they grew up with us boys who are now… well, I’m not going to sugarcoat it, criminals. We all knew one another.

My eyes go to the leather couch on the right first.

Henry Indelicato.

Fat mustache, crooked teeth, and a scar on the left side of his head from when his dad knocked him with a picture frame. Slit him wide open. We thought the stitches were sick as kids.

He lived two houses down from Ma. Pops was on the force. Mom was part of the PTA at school.

Henry?

Henry was scared. We all stole beer from the local convenient store. We didn’t get caught.

That’s the number one rule, right? If you’re going to do something wrong, don’t get caught. It’s not the wrongdoing that matters. It’s the getting caught. We knew that.

Henry?

He got caught. Scared of his dad, he snitched on all of us. He was beat for doing it and for telling.

And then I beat the shit out of him. We’ve been on good terms ever since. Henry learned there are rules on the streets. You don’t snitch on your friends. But now he’s the FBI. We’ve always kept in touch, because we still live in the neighborhood.

I zoom in on the left side of Henry.

Tony Fontanez.

Dark curly hair, acne scars on his face, and a beer belly sitting above his belt. He caught Mrs. Dunray’s cat on fire, but because his dad was the chief of police, he got a slap on the wrist. He grew worse as he got older. He’s the type to do a drug bust and keep half the dope. It’s bums like him who get looked up to around this town.

And they say we’re the bad guys. At least we don’t hide who we are, and we don’t set fucking cats on fire. Maybe people, but never cats.

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