“You still should have told me,” Marshal insisted.
Luca shrugged. “I’m sorry, buddy. I can’t say it enough times. But in my defense, it’s what both our dads wanted. You were happy thinking that your dad was just a construction guy, and you got to go off and become an engineer. Who was I to fuck with that? And what would your life have been like if I had? Fuck, even then, I wanted to tell you, Marshal, but it just never seemed like the right time.”
“The right time,” Marshal repeated with a hint of derision.
“Yeah, I know it sounds lame,” Luca said. “But that’s how it fucking was, all right? See, it was partly my job to make sure nobody ever tried to link you to Winter. There were a lot of people – including the Russians – too scared to go after him directly, but who’d be happy to take out their feelings on his family. Think telling you the truth would have helped me with that? And then I was supposed to keep an eye on you and keep you out of trouble, in case somebody pissed you off enough to set you off down the path of your old man. Instead, it was you looking out for me half the time, keeping me out of trouble, covering for me, and generally saving me from myself.”
There was an awkward moment, and Luca looked away.
“I swear to fucking God, Marshal,” Luca said, “I… I don’t know where I’d be today if I hadn’t had you there, keepin’ me grounded. Probably in jail… or dead. I wanted to tell you about your dad so many times, but… a part of me was afraid that if I did, you’d become more like me. And buddy, I needed you to stay just the way you were. And now? The whole world needs it too.”
Marshal scowled. “What the hell are you talking about?”
For a second, Luca seemed to swell up with anger.
“I’m talking about you,” he shouted, “talkin’ about slaughtering these assholes like you was orderin’ a pizza, only two weeks after pissin’ and moanin’ about havin’ to shoot Duster and Ted! I’m talkin’ about you, showin’ up here and admitting that it took Eric and Krissy to stop you from chargin’ off like a fuckin’ nutcase to murder the guys who took Angie! And yeah! Funny as it was, I’m talking about you, shootin’ the glass out of Brad’s hand, just to prove a fuckin’ point! Remember how I told you that the guys I used to hang out with would have cheered? Just fucking stop and think about that for a second. That ain’t who you are, Marshal, and it sure as fuck ain’t who your father wanted you to be!”
“Maybe not,” Marshal said, staring at the floor with a bleak gaze. “And maybe I don’t want to be that guy either. But regardless of what my dad or me may have wanted, maybe it’s who I need to be. If I’m the dictator-”
“Oh, spare me the fuckin’ martyr act!” Luca said, swooping in so that he could bellow into Marshal’s face from inches away. “You’re a fuckin’ ‘dictator about as much as my hairy ass is King of Siam! What you are - and what this community needs you to be - is a fucking leader! The fucking recipe calls for one part fear, sure. But it’s also one part problem-solver, one part diplomat, one part punching bag, one part slave, one part priest, and… and, like, a dozen other things that I can’t even think about. But you do. You think about that shit all the time now, and you got others to believe in it, Marshal. They believe in you.”
He held up a finger under Marshal’s nose.
“And let me tell you something else, Scarface. This ain’t the mob. If it was, we’d all be fucked! The mob survived because there was a huge ‘non-mob’ world for us to live in. It gave us an ‘us-versus-them’ mentality. Without the ‘them’ part of the equation, all our structure turns to shit. Sooner or later, Eric or Krissy or maybe even Elizabeth would put a bullet in the back of your head, ‘because that’s what they need to do, for the good of the community’. Then later, it’ll be their turn.”
Marshal looked at him coldly. “And you, Luca?”
“Oh no!” Luca said, sneering back at him. “You got my loyalty, asshole. I’ll follow you right into hell, which is where we’ll be if you don’t find your goddamn center of gravity. You’re my brother, the last little piece of my family, and also the one guy I could count on in the whole fucking world. But that’s where it’ll end for me, going down with your ship, just like it did for your mother.”
“My… my mother?”
“Yeah. She supported your dad, enabled him. When Jekyll was moping over Hyde’s spilled milk, your mom was always there to help pick him back up again. Your mom was loyal to the very fucking end, and look what it got her: Her and her sister dead, her son an orphan, to be raised by criminals, because she was there when her husband died in a hit.”
Marshal just stared at him.
“That’s right,” Luca said, more quiet now. “It wasn’t no normal car accident that took your dad out. Pop said that, at first, he thought it was the Russians, that they must have put two and two together and figured out that Lars Einarsson was the true identity of Winter. Turned out it was some fucking Columbian outfit. Back when they were at the peak of their power, Pop had negotiated some work for Winter on behalf of one of the cartels – lots of money, lots of targets – and your dad went down there like it was a vacation. He was responsible for killing, like, thirty of their top people, crippling them in the area before he finally came home. Pop said it earned our organization something like forty million dollars in revenue, boosting us to one of the top families on the eastern seaboard, which pretty much meant the whole fucking hemisphere. Your dad let Pop keep most of it too. He didn’t care about the money. He did it out of friendship.”
“Dad was assassinated?” Marshal asked, reeling.
“Yeah. Keep up, Sherlock. The cartel your dad almost single-handedly took down spent all its remaining resources to discover the identity of Winter. It took three years before they worked out that he came from Toronto, but after that, the guesswork got easier. Law enforcement, the Russians and other gangs, they all had their suspicions without any real proof, but that was enough for the cartel. They orchestrated the car crash, hitting it from two sides with trucks, doused the car in gasoline and burned everybody inside alive. Your dad didn’t even have his gun with him at the time.”
Tears welled up in Marshal’s eyes, and he turned away.
“If you remember,” Luca said, “Pop had you, me, Vince, and a whole mess of relatives spend the summer up at the Wasaga Beach property. It was Frank’s first time ever as a family soldier. While you and I were swimming in Georgian Bay and hanging out at the Main End, Pop was systematically exterminating every last cartel man in the city, and not just the cartel that had the beef with your dad… all of them. When he was done, there wasn’t a single Columbian cartel connection from Ottawa to Niagara Falls. They sent more, of course, but Frank told me we’d ID them at the airport and take them out before they even got a chance to settle in. Never hit the papers either. Most of them were illegal, so when they disappeared, it was as if nobody even knew they were there. The war went on for the whole summer before the New York families stepped in to broker a peace. But even afterwards, all Columbian product that got sold in Toronto came in through an intermediary, like the bikers, the Mexicans, or any of the other gangs. That was the peace they agreed on.”
“He did that for my dad?”
“Pop loved your dad,” Luca said, “and that was despite the fact that your dad was one of the few people in the world who was actually scarier than he was. He always felt responsible for what happened to him, and what happened to you. You were always going to be taken care of, Marshal. As long as the Sabbatini family drew breath, and even if you weren’t my best friend since we were kids, you were going to be all right. There was a trust fund left by Antonio in your name that included not just the apartment, but most of the surrounding block as well. Prime real estate, prime location, the lease payments all paid directly to you, with a steady diet of money - if you wanted - from Frank whenever he wanted to borrow the place. Not that it matters any more, of course. I’m pointing it out in retrospect, since the whole fuckin’ city belongs to us now.”
“So. The Sabbatini’s didn’t have my parents killed,” Marshal murmured, his mind a wash of emotions and epiphanies.
Luca jerked backwards in surprise. “What the fuck? Where in the hell did you come up with that idea? Why would you even think that?”
“Just… I don’t know,” Marshal said, pinching his forehead and rubbing his eyes. “Some things Torstein said got me thinking. His dad used to work as a foreman at Sabbatini-Einarsson construction back in the day. He saw some things and apparently, when my dad died, the rumor was that they’d had a falling out.”
“Antonio and Lars?” Luca snorted. “Never. Those two were kindred spirits, right from the beginning when they met in immigration. Both of them poor, both on the run from shit going down in Europe, they went out for a beer together and never looked back. You couldn’t have separated those two with FBI-trained chainsaws. It was kind of a gift, in their line of work. Having somebody you can trust, no matter what, is worth more than all the influence in the world.”
His eyes lit up, and he snapped his fingers.
“Wait a minute. That time in Crapmobile, when you started sounding all goofy about our being brothers and shit… That happened right after your run-in with Torstein. Is that what that was all about? Have you been thinking that Pop had your dad whacked all this time?”
“Well… yeah,” Marshal said, feeling a bit guilty. “But whatever I believed, the bottom line was that-”
“You don’t gotta explain,” Luca said, shaking his head. “You don’t gotta explain nothing, brother. ‘Cause that’s what you are, Marshal. My brother, no matter what, for now and forever, got it?”
“Yeah,” Marshal said, nodding. “I got it.”
“Then listen up. ‘Cause otherwise, this whole conversation and everything in it happened for nothing. Marshal, you gotta pull yourself together. It’s obvious now that, whatever fucked-up, head disease your father had, you got it too. When I said you’re becoming more and more like him, that’s what I was talking about. You got the same mood swings from normal to psycho when you’re mad, the same cold, perfect focus when the shit hits the fan, not to mention your natural gift with the gun. It’s obvious that it wouldn’t take much for you to slide into that mold and become the Son of Winter. So I want to give you some advice.”
He clapped a thick, heavy hand on Marshal’s shoulder.
“Don’t. Keep a lid on it. Like I said before, we need a leader, not a strongman. Marshal-Jeckyl inspires everyone around him to care about something bigger than they are. Marshal-Jeckyl values human life above all other commodities, finds purpose for people who are ready to give up, and worries over right and wrong. Marshal-Jeckyl believes in a bright future for a people who are too fucked up to believe in anything, and yet somehow, are willing to believe in him. Marshal-Jeckyl gives a shit, and most importantly, Marshal-Jeckyl is my friend, and I’m fucked if I don’t need him more than ever. Do you know why?”
He held up two, big, hairy hands, like he was ready to strangle someone, and his face seemed to darken.
“I need him,” he growled dangerously, “because Marshal-Hyde is also my friend. I need Marshal-Jeckyl because, with Angie in danger, all bets are off, and I will tear those bastards limb-from-limb. I will murder my way through them like a fucking rabid dog through a field of fat chickens, and I won’t stop until there ain’t nobody else left to kill. I don’t have brakes for that sort of thing, and Marshal-Jeckyl is one of the few people who’s ever been an anchor for me. You’re the boss! But if you go in with murder on your mind, Marshal, then murder is what you’ll get. Me and the rest of these people who believe in you will follow down rivers of blood, and we’ll even get angry if you try to stop us.”
He lowered his hands.
“There ain’t no coming back from that, buddy. And all those times your father considered his sins, all his regret that caused him to move heaven and earth to make a better path for his son… that’s gonna be the end for the Son of Winter. When that happens, we’re done.
“I once said that Marshal-Jeckyl was naïve, and that humans were, deep down where it counts, nothing better than fuckin’ animals. The truth is, I was talking about myself. But if I’m wrong, if there is going to be any hope for us, or for me, it’s gonna be because Marshal-Jeckyl is in charge.”
Marshal sagged, gazing at the floor.
“I… Jesus, Luca. You got me wondering if I’m schizophrenic now. I feel like you just blew my head off and replaced it with hot-air balloon. I… still miss both my parents. Now I wonder if I ever really knew them at all.”
Luca shrugged. “They were pretty straightforward people, so I don’t think you need to worry about that. Pop said that Lars was the best, most honorable man he ever knew, but… yeah okay, that was Pop talking. He took honor seriously, but it’s still a little like getting a character reference from Hannibal Lector. Good judge of character, but questionable motive.”
“Thanks, Luca,” Marshal said. “Not just for telling me all of this but… well, just thanks. You’re a good friend, and I’ll try to follow your advice.”
“Good.”
“One thing though,” Marshal said, frowning. “You said my mom supported my dad because she loved him.”
“Yeah?’
“Then you said you’d do the same for me. Is that because you-?”
“Fuck off.”
“I mean, love is a funny thing-”
“I said, fuck off!”
“Don’t be like that. It took courage to express your feelings like this. Maybe we should cry together.”
“Do I gotta knock your head off?”
“All right, all right,” Marshal said. “Let’s just hug and-”
Marshal narrowly ducked a welding mask thrown at his head.
“If you’re fucking done,” Luca growled, picking up a big wrench, “then we can get back to work. We got the whole night ahead of us. Otherwise, prepare to spend the rest of your life without any teeth.”
Marshal nodded, still smiling, and the work night began.
Chapter Twenty: Day 34: War
Angie sprinkled water over Jackie’s battered face. Then, with hands as gentle as she could manage, she began wiping away the sticky, caked-on and drying blood with a damp cloth torn from her shirt.
Jackie didn’t stir. She was hanging by the wrists, which held her bound to a wooden beam inside a pen containing eight chickens and a rooster. Dressed only in her bra and underwear, Jackie’s face was a purple mass of swollen bruises and shattered bone. Her defense of Albert, shocking two of the attackers with her taser, had infuriated their assailants and provoked a horrible retaliation. They’d beaten her into unconsciousness and dragged her to this pen. Then later, with her arms restrained at the wrists, one of the men she’d electrocuted, a muscular man with short, black hair, thick lips and cruel eyes named Danny, had entered the pen. Shirtless, dressed only in blue jeans and thick, heavy boots, he’d taken out his anger, punching Jackie over and over again in the face and torso, while Angie, tied to the fence on the opposite side of the pen so tight that her hands turned blue, shrieked at him to stop. He ignored her, and to her horror, had begun to remove his belt and pants when the enormous, sweating fat man who patrolled the aisles, called him away.
“You don’t got time for that, Danny,” the man-mountain rumbled. “Stan’s called for a meeting. Everybody’s gotta go, ‘cept me and the niggers.”
“Yeah, yeah, okay,” Danny muttered, refastening his belt as he glared at the unresponsive figure of Jackie, hanging limp from her restrained wrists. “All right, bitch. You just hang out for a while. I’ll be back in a couple of hours. We’ll talk more then.”
He tossed a glance over at Angie, who shrank down in response. His gaze traveled over her for a second. Then, he turned, opened the gate, and left.
That had been last night, but to Angie’s relief, the man hadn’t returned, and in the interim, she’d managed to wriggle free of her bonds. It had not been easy and had taken several hours, requ
iring all of her fear-driven energy and blood as lubricant to slip free. Fortunately, the terrible woman who’d put a knife to Angie’s eye had seriously underestimated the thinness of her hands and wrists.
She might have tried to escape then, but she was unwilling to leave Jackie alone in this place. Instead, praying that the older woman was still alive, she had crept across the floor of the pen. Using water from a nearby trough, Angie began her tender attempts to clean Jackie’s more terrible wounds.
After a few minutes, Jackie stirred and tried opening her eyes. Only one responded, and then, only the barest slit. The pain brought her to tears, and she seemed barely lucid. Her cuts flared up in pain as the salty drops forced their way through damaged tear ducts. Nevertheless, after a few seconds, the wetness of Angie’s cloth loosened the skin. Her better eye opened a bit wider, and saw Angie looking up at her anxiously.
A sudden wave of panic hit Jackie then, as she remembered where she was, and she struggled to stand upright. Muscles failed her, and cracked ribs exploded in pain. A long, wailing sigh of agony escaped her broken lips, and she sagged heavily down on her wrists.
“Shh,” Angie whispered to her. “We have to be very quiet. The big, fat, stupid one is still walking around down here. Hold still, and I’ll untie you.”
Jackie whimpered again, but with a vague thrust of will, she swallowed her pain and quieted herself.
It took Angie several minutes to untie the complicated knots, a task that was made more difficult by the tension of Jackie’s weight pulling downward on them. With quiet cajoling, she managed to get the stricken woman to lean against the fence long enough to allow Angie’s tiny fingers to first loosen, then finally unravel the rope restraints.
Jackie’s body crashed to the chicken coop floor, where she lay in agony as the restored circulation burned through her arms like lava. She groaned with the pain, writhing lethargically amidst the filth and chicken excrement. Angie took the moment to soak her rag in the water trough again.
From Oblivion's Ashes Page 40
