by Paul Heatley
“Shit …”
“Yeah, shit, exactly. Keep your head down, man. Be careful.”
“Yeah, yeah, you too.”
“I’m sorry about your brother, Steve.”
Steve doesn’t respond.
“He was one of the best.”
“I need to … I’m gonna have to go, Ronnie.” Steve puts some more cracks in his voice. “I just need to, I mean, I can’t …”
“I understand, man. I’ll be in touch. I’m sorry, Steve. Call me if you need anything.”
Steve hangs up. He puts the phone back down. Looks back up at Tom. His face is impassive. “Are you going to kill me?” he says.
He sounds calm. He’s resigned to this.
Tom puts the knife away. “Do you want out of this life? For good?”
“I never wanted any part of it to begin with.”
“Tomorrow morning, you’re going to find a burner phone at your front door. It’ll have one number on it. That number will put you in touch with me. You keep me updated on anything the Right Arm are doing, anything they have planned, and I will get you out of here.”
“You trust me?”
“I don’t trust many people, and I haven’t known you anywhere near long enough for you to make the list. But you saved my brother, and you tried to save Alejandra, whether you knew it or not, and that counts for something.”
“I’ll try my best,” Steve says. “But like I already told you, they don’t exactly keep me up to date. I’m not their first port of call when they have news to share.”
“Your brother’s just died. There’s an opening on the council. Show some initiative, some will. It might impress them.”
Steve nods, understanding.
“I’ll be in touch,” Tom says; then he leaves.
33
Ben keeps an eye on the news out of Harrow. He’s set up alerts on his personal laptop. It’s a new laptop. Recently purchased. He hasn’t used the other one since it was hacked. He’s put it to the back of his closet, handles it like a poisonous snake.
He gets a notification about the fire at the bar and the eight men killed inside. Names haven’t been released, but Ben can guess at least one of them. He knows which bar it was without even checking. He’s the one who told Tom about it.
Shortly after he reads about this incident, he receives a call from Tom. “I assume the fire is your handiwork?” he says.
“You’re asking something you already know the answer to,” Tom says. “And one you’re complicit in.”
“I’m aware.”
“Then don’t waste my time with stupid questions. I haven’t been able to get any information yet. Nothing about the mole, nothing about the attack.”
“Then why are you calling?”
“Because I have a man on the inside now.”
Ben is surprised to hear this. “Really? Who?”
“Steve Reid.”
“Peter’s brother?”
“Yes. They weren’t close.”
“You trust him?”
“He saved my brother. I trust him as much as I need to. And if I can’t, I’ll kill him. He’s not a great threat.”
“You asked him about the mole, the attack?”
“Yes. He didn’t know anything, but I’ve pressed him to dig deeper. He was surprised to hear about the attack. Said he couldn’t imagine the Right Arm plotting something like it.”
“Yeah, well, all the evidence we’ve got suggests otherwise. Anything else?”
“No.”
“Keep me updated.”
Tom hangs up. Ben looks at the phone in his hand. He puts it away, thinks to himself how Anthony must be the more talkative of the two. He at least got a goodbye out of him at the end of their conversations.
34
Michael can feel himself reeling from the death of Peter, and looking at Harry and Ronald, he knows they feel it too. The news was unexpected. It shakes them to their core.
More than that, they lost four other members of the Arm and three men they considered friends and allies. Three men they knew they could call upon if they needed them. Close friends of Peter, and so by proxy, friends of theirs.
“The cops are keeping it quiet,” Harry says, “’cause they don’t wanna tip off the killer, but those burned bodies were already dead. Bullet holes and knife wounds.” He shakes his head. “Someone took them out, then burned down the bar.”
“They think the killer was trying to cover up what he did?” Michael says. They’re sitting in his basement, around their table. Michael is trying to avoid looking at the empty seat where Peter should be. They all are.
“Could be,” Harry says. “They didn’t find any discharged casings from the bullets, so they must’ve been picked up before the fire was started. At the same time, maybe whoever it was just wanted to burn the bar down, too.”
“Sending a message,” Ronald says.
“What do you mean by that?” Michael says.
“Killing off eight of our men and friends,” Ronald says, “killing Peter, that don’t sound like retaliation to y’all? We just gonna rule out that maybe this don’t have something to do with Anthony Rollins?”
Michael and Harry exchange glances. The thought had crossed Michael’s mind, and he’s pretty sure it will have crossed Harry’s, too.
“It can’t be Anthony directly,” Michael says. “There’s no way he’s healed yet. He’s still laid up somewhere. He’s not going anywhere for a while yet, and he’s sure as hell not coming back here. He ain’t the one who did this.”
“But he could still be responsible for it,” Ronald says.
“It would be fitting for an undercover pussy to send someone else to fight his battle for him,” Harry says.
Michael nods. “True.”
“Only question, really,” Harry says, “is how many of them are there? How many has he sent? This is the work of a team. In one fell swoop, we’ve lost a lot of men – a lot of our heaviest hitters – they didn’t go down without a fight.”
“Knowing Peter,” Ronald says, “he got his pound of flesh. You can guarantee that. Whoever it was got lucky and took him out, but they know they were in a fight. He’d have hurt them.”
“True, true,” Michael says. “You spoke to Steve?”
“Yeah,” Ronald says.
“How was he?”
“He sounded pretty cut up. He was in tears.”
“Spoke to him since?”
“No.”
“Anyone seen him? Heard anything from him since?”
Neither responds.
“So nothing?”
“I’ll go check in on him,” Harry says. “See how things are going.”
“I wanna know how he is,” Michael says. “How he’s acting. How he’s handling this.”
“You’re still suspicious.”
“Of course I am.”
“I’m not saying you shouldn’t be.”
“Yeah. Watch him closely.”
Ronald looks like he has his doubts about this. “His brother just died,” he says.
“All the more reason to see how he’s handling it,” Michael says. “We already had our suspicions about him. This could confirm it.”
Ronald still looks doubtful, but he doesn’t protest.
“When you gonna give him a visit?” Michael says to Harry.
“Soon as we finish up here.”
“All right. Put out the word; tell everyone to be extra vigilant. We may have some more trouble coming our way here. Tell ’em to be careful and to bring us anything they think we oughtta be worried about.”
Harry and Ronald say they will; then they take their leave. Michael remains in the basement, at the table. He wants to be alone for a while. Alone to mourn. He feels a chasm opening within himself, widening. It is his grief. He turns, finally, to the chair where Peter would sit. He sees him there. Flashbacks. Sitting listening. Nodding along. Laughing. Looking worked up when something has pissed him off, when he’s desperate to crack some
skulls.
Remembers the last time he saw him. How he looked thoughtful and concerned. How Michael knew he’d been thinking about his brother.
Then he’s gone. The chair is empty again. It will always be empty, in Michael’s eyes. Going forward, no matter who gets to take the seat, they will never take Peter’s place. They will never fill the spot he has left behind.
35
Tom’s bloodied clothes are soaking in the bathtub. He’s rinsed them through already. The water instantly darkened with the blood. Now the water is a light pink.
Tom lies on the bed. In his hand is the Santa Muerte pendant. He has pulled it from his pocket. He holds it tight while he stares up at the ceiling.
It was a gift from Alejandra. She gave it to him the night before he was due to ship out on his third tour. The end of the time he’d come back only to find she was with Anthony, that they’d met and fallen in love in his absence.
She caught him alone out on the porch, gave it to him there. “I wanted to give you this,” she said. She held it out. A small pendant with some black string looped through to make it a necklace. She waited until Tom held his hand out; she placed it into it. Tom studied it. He recognized the figure. He’d seen her before. He’d seen her in Mexico, and he’d seen her in other places, on murals and tattoos.
“Santa Muerte,” Alejandra said. “Saint Death. She will keep you safe while you are away.”
Tom knew why she was giving him this. The night before, as the time crept up for him to be going off to war again, she’d asked him about death, if he was scared. “A bit, yeah,” Tom said. “Of course. I just try not to think about it.”
“If you died over there, what would happen to your body?”
“So long as they could find it, they’d bring it home.”
“And then? Where would it be buried?”
“It’d go to my dad.” Tom shrugged. “It’d be up to him, then. I wouldn’t care much either way, not by then.”
“But America is your home, so they’d bring you back here.”
Tom nodded.
Alejandra looked thoughtful at this. “No matter how long I am in America, Mexico will always have my heart. When I die, that’s where I will be buried. In Guaymas.”
“Have you told Anthony?”
“I’ve told him. I’ve tried to, anyway. I don’t think he likes to think about such things. He’s always quick to change the subject.”
Tom thought it probably went back to their mother. It had taken Anthony a long time to get over it, and he’d acted out for a long while after, too. It was debatable whether or not he truly ever had reconciled himself with her death.
“Do you believe in God, Tom?” Alejandra said suddenly.
“Never really given it much thought before. I’m not so sure I do.”
“Who do you believe keeps you safe when you are over there, fighting?”
“Me. And the men I fight beside.”
Alejandra looked troubled by this. “You don’t believe in something greater than yourself, watching over you, keeping you safe?”
“I guess not.”
The next night, she gave him the pendant. Tom remembers her words. She will keep you safe. He remembers those words every time he touches it.
Alejandra should have had it. Alejandra was the one who needed to be kept safe.
Tom slips it back into his pocket. He checks the time, then leaves the room. He goes to the motel’s reception. Beth is there. She’s alone behind the counter. There’s no one else in the lobby. She leans back in her chair, is playing on her phone. Tom steps in. He clears his throat to get her attention, smiles when she looks up. “Hi,” he says.
She smiles back. “Hello there.” She sits forward, puts her phone down. “You need help with anything?”
“I could do.” Tom strolls to the front of the desk. He makes a show of reading her name tag. “Beth. That’s real pretty. You mind if I call you Beth?”
“That’s fine. It’s my name. I don’t know what else I’d expect you to call me.”
“You hear about that fire, Beth? At that bar?”
She raises her eyebrows. “Oh yeah, I heard about it,” she says. “Think it’s all anyone’s talking about at the minute.”
“Anyone know what caused it?”
She shrugs. “I heard it could’ve been from a gas pipe, but no one’s sure.”
The gas pipe is an excessive theory. Had it been a gas explosion, there’d have been a fireball, nothing left of the building. All he’d done was spread the more flammable bottles of alcohol upon the counter, the tables, the floor, then set them on fire. “Sure sounds like an awful accident. Was anyone inside?”
“Oh yeah, people were killed. One of them was a buddy of my, uh, of a friend of mine.”
He notices she doesn’t use the word ‘boyfriend’. She comes close, but she doesn’t say it. “That’s terrible,” Tom says. “I sure hope your friend is coping all right.”
“He’ll get over it the same way he always does,” she says, rolling her eyes. “He’ll probably hit something.”
“I’m not sure if I should laugh at that or be concerned.”
She waves her hands. “It’s fine, it’s fine. It’s just a joke.”
He isn’t so sure. “Anyway, say, I was wondering, is there anywhere good to eat in this town?”
“You’ve been here long enough. You haven’t found anywhere yourself yet?” She’s grinning.
Tom laughs. He’s being charming; they’re both being flirtatious. He scuffs his boots on the floor. “I’ve found some places, but nowhere I’d really consider good.”
“I can give you some names,” Beth says. “There’s a diner I usually go to.”
“That sounds promising. But I guess what I’m really trying to say is, I’m wondering if maybe I could get some company when I go out to eat. I’ve been flying solo the last few nights. I was thinking it would be good to have some company.”
“You asking if I’d like to join you?” She smiles coquettishly.
“Y’know, if you want to.”
“Sure,” she says. “I get off in an hour. How about then? Can you hold out that long?”
“For the company of a pretty lady? Of course. I could hold out longer if I had to.”
“An hour will be just fine. Meet me back here?”
Tom starts backing out of the lobby, raises his watch high so she sees him check the time. “I’ll see you then,” he says, winking. Then he leaves, turns his back; his smile is gone. He returns to his room.
36
Harry goes to Steve’s house. Ostensibly, this checkup is to see how he’s doing after his brother’s death, but really he, Michael, and Ronald know that he is going to gauge how he is acting, how he’s taking it.
They didn’t trust Steve before this happened. How he behaves today dictates how much they can trust him going forward.
Harry doesn’t think it’ll be much of an improvement.
“Took the wrong fuckin’ brother,” he mumbles to himself as he gets out of the car. He goes up the walkway to the front door, knocks, rings the doorbell.
It takes Steve a while to answer. The door opens just a crack, the chain still on. The inside of the house is in darkness, but this isn’t exactly anything new. Harry can’t make Steve out, though. His features are hidden by the shadows.
“Oh, Harry, hi,” Steve says, his voice sounding muffled. “Just give me a second.” The door closes again. There’s another moment before he hears the chain slide off the lock. The door opens fully. “You wanna come on in?”
Harry does so. They go through into the front room. Steve collapses into a chair. There’s a lamp on in the corner, the only light. It offers Harry his first good look at Steve. He looks like he’s been crying, but Harry can’t be so sure. His eyes, and the skin around them, are red. Harry knows this effect could easily have been created by his rubbing at them.
Steve sniffs. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m just checking
in, Steve,” Harry says. “See how you’re holding up.”
“That’s real thoughtful of you,” Steve says. His voice is low, hard to hear. He sniffs again, clears his throat. If the crying was faked, he’s committing to it with these sounds.
“When’s the funeral?” Harry knows from conversation with Peter that their father is dead, and their mother left when they were both young. Left Peter to raise his younger brother, who now has to organize his burial.
“I don’t know,” Steve says. “Not until they release the body. I can’t do anything until then, and I don’t know when that’s going to be. I’m thinking I’ll just get him cremated. It’s cheaper, and from what I hear, he’s already halfway there.”
“Who’d you hear that from?”
“The cops.”
“They been by to see you?”
Steve nods.
“They didn’t see anything they shouldn’t have?”
“No, of course not. Why do you think the place looks so tidy? This ain’t how I usually live.”
Harry watches Steve while he talks. Judges his tone, his mannerisms, his reactions. “They say anything to you about how he died?”
“No, they didn’t,” Steve says. “Just that he died in a fire. But Ronald already told me the truth.”
“And what d’you think of that?”
Steve stares at the ground. “What am I supposed to think? Someone killed my brother, then tried to burn the place down to hide the fact they did it.”
Steve answers well, he acts well, but there remains something off about him. Something Harry can’t put his finger on. Perhaps it’s his own doubt, clouding what he sees, swaying his perceptions. “Whoever they are, they could be coming for the rest of us next,” Harry says. “We think it has somethin’ to do with Anthony Rollins. Some friends of his.”
“Could be,” Steve says, looking up.
