“Yes, I always knew that, sir. It was a...rough night all around, sir.”
Rough night? Talk about a fucking euphemism. Bitch actually cocked her fucking gat aimed at my head. And I almost snapped pops’s jaw.
By now my leg’s tapping so hard I think I might crack the floor. Cutting into this dreamily pleasant Hallmark moment, I throw my blood-covered axe: “OK, you guys had your say. Now it’s my fucking turn.”
-3-
“Raymond”—I can’t call him pops, just doesn’t taste right—“I was actually gonna come in here and crack your fucking head open. But, again, Trevor here saved your ass—”
“Haven’t we had enough of that—”
I stick a trembling finger up. “I wasn’t finished.”
He sits back and bites his tongue. I can sense his rage as much as mine. Belly aside, Pops really is a large man, and when we went at it last time, he got in some good punches.
“So, I was actually gonna come here and rip your head off. Maybe commit Manslaughter One, who knows. Then Trev convinced me not to.” He gives Trev a tight nod. “So, on the drive here, and a few times around the block, I had to go over it, you know. In my head: What the fuck am I gonna say to him?”
“I know, son.”
“And, it was all whirlin around pops. Flying at me in all sorts o’ directions. Because, you know me, I talk with my fists”—my chin starts trembling, my fists clench—“and...and... You know what I fuckin’ wanna know? WHY!? WHY!? How could you fuck her? Knowing Ma was in the hospital, sucking in her last breaths! How?”
Trev lets me shout it out.
Tears sting my eyes, and I fucking hate that shit, because I’m trying to be tough here. I’m trying to tell this mother—this mother—this... “Just...WHY!?”
Pops shifts, sips some beer. He sits forward.
“Why, pops? Why? I mean, she was your damned wife! My mother—”
“I know, son. I know.” His beer trembles. He puts it to his lips, decides against it. Puts it on the table.
He starts rocking back and forth. I’m also rocking.
He tries to explain. “I—I—I just... I can’t—”
And then a tear breaks through to his cheeks.
But that just ain’t enough to make me forgive him.
Not nearly enough.
-4-
He doesn’t talk. Only fights off the sobs. And I receive some consolation that at least he feels bad. It’s nowhere near enough to absolve him. But, at least he’s human. A despicable, sad human.
But...human.
And that makes me feel a little better.
He wipes his face with his hand. His chin’s shivering so much that he can’t speak. “I—I...” Then he breaks down, hands to his face. He breaks down into loud gasps of manly tears.
There’s something very pitiful—but also humbling—about watching a grown man collapse into tears because of his regrets.
Heavy, heavy regrets. The kind you can never pull away from.
I get up, go to the window. Run a hand through my hair.
Give him time.
On my part, one tear breaks loose. I’m thinking of mom. I think he and I are crying for the same thing in a way. We’re just crying because, damnit, it needs to be cried about. Because there ain’t nothing you can do about that shit!
She suffered. And she died. And it’s final. And it sucks.
What was then left of his and my relationship shattered to pieces.
And it’s sad.
So we cry, ’cause there just ain’t nothing either of us can do about it.
I get my tears under control a lot faster than he does. Less regrets, I figure.
I turn from the window. Look at him. He’s relatively under control now. Relatively. “If I could take it back, I would. There ain’t nothin I can do about it son. I betrayed my wife, in the most despicable way. Living with it all these years has been my punishment. I know I ain’t taught you shit. Hell, it was Trevor’s uncle who taught you how to play football. I think the only thing I ever passed down to you was my stubbornness, and my proclivity for booze. And weed.” He looks up at me. “Don’t think I never knew about you smokin it up.” He points at Trevor. “You too, son. I hope you not into that shit no more.”
“No, sir.”
“Good. Good. ’Cause you got a future. Anyway, Deck”—he looks at me now—“so do you, son. And if there’s one thing I hope you can take away, it’s not to be such a fucking unbelievable scumbag like your old man”—he sobs, several times—“like your old man is. Because livin’ with that shit is impossible. I can’t tell you...” He considers his next statement. “...Son, I can’t tell you how many times I wanted to end it, you know what I mean here? After she died, after you left... Just...end it.” He pauses, and I know what he’s talking about. Loud and clear, homes. “And when you and I had that brawl...I was so ashamed of myself. Trevor, you shouldn’t have pulled him off me. Deck, I deserved it. Every punch.” He laughs a little. “I was actually a little...proud”—he clears his throat—“of you. You pack quite a punch, son.
“And Catalina... She just gets crazy sometimes, you know. She woulda never fired on you. That’s just her way of acting tough. She had a tough upbringing.”
He sees I’m not even half-interested about his attempted mitigation of Catalina’s insanity, so he moves on.
“But, I gotta live with that shit. And that ain’t no livin’. Because I loved—” He bites his fist, rocks back and forth like he’s about to puke. “I loved Priscilla, Deck. Your mother. And I know my actions don’t justify it, and that there’s no forgiveness for what I did, but...it is what it is. I never knew...that night. I never knew it would be the night, son. And I know you was there, by her side, to the last breath. And...thank you, for doing that. At least she didn’t have to go alone. So I have to live with it. Not you. You hear what I’m saying?”
Clearly.
“How long...were you with her, pops? With...the Mexican or Cuban or whatever she is. Before...you know. How long?”
“Do you really have to know?”
“I do.”
He sighs. “Probably a year or so before...it happened.”
“A year before mom died?”
He nods.
“You mean, when we discovered there was nothing more we could do for her.” I want to be more blunt: In other words, to you, mom was already dead a year before. After we knew there was no more hope.
But I’m in a more amenable frame of mind here. And even though I can’t say I forgive him, I’m less angry at him. I can’t even say I understand him. Because I don’t. And I won’t pretend to understand what could drive a man to leave the woman he loves when she needs him most.
Less angry. That covers it.
He bows his head. “I’ve cried myself empty over it, son. Like I said, it’s one helluva lesson to pass on, but, please, don’t never do what I done, kid. Because even though you might be walkin the same earth as everybody else, you ain’t livin in it—after you do something like that. It’s worse than death. It’s the living dead, son. It’s...unbearable.”
“Is she still using?” He knows who I’m talking about.
He shrugs, defeated. “Sometimes. It ain’t nuthin serious. Besides, you ain’t one to talk on that, are ya?”
“I never used coke. But, I guess not. I just... I just don’t get it pops. I just...”
“Because I’m stubborn, just like you are. You’re one tough bastid to get off a course of action once you set your mind to it, Declan. And so am I. It’s the flaw you inherited from me. Or, maybe it’s a gift. How’s business?”
“Going well.”
“See? Your stubborn ass made it happen, no matter the risks or the barriers. Look, son, I hear you. But Catalina keeps me in line, you know. Regardless of how we met, we’re together now. And your moms is gone. There ain’t nuthin I can do to bring her back. Why take that out on Catalina? It’s not her fault.”
I’m a little incredulous at his
words. Not her fault? I run a hand through my hair. “You gonna marry her?”
He shakes his head.
“So why you still with her, pops?”
He grabs his beer again, sits back. “Everythin kinda lost meaning when you left, Deck. Actually, it was more how you left. I think that’s when it came crashing down on me. That’s when I realized what it was that I’d really done. How deep it went. Before that, I had it all explained, justified. But when you found out, and when you came at me... Well...
“Then, when you left... I had nuthin left to live for. Do I love Catalina? Maybe. Would I do to her what I did to your mother? No. I won’t. Because I learned my lesson. And I might have done a terrible thing, but I ain’t no animal. If she wants to leave me, OK. If she doesn’t, well, I’ll take all the companionship I can get. It’s Karma, son. That’s prob’ly the only thing I believe in now. ’Cause it makes sense. I know I done suffered my fair share of it since”—he gasps, sniffs—“since your moms left us.”
Less angry. Much less angry. I heave in a deep breath, look up at my man Trev. He nods, as if reading my mind. “Pops, I can’t forgive you for what you done to Ma. But”—another tear cracks in my eye—“I can...respect you...for what you learned from it. And for your attitude about it. I don’t think I’m gonna come by any more often. I’m sorry, it’s her or me. She’ll always be the woman you were with the night Ma.. Well, we been over that.
“I don’t think we’re gonna have one o’ those throwing-the-ball-in-the-park kinda relationships. But, I’m gonna take your calls. At least that. I promise you that.”
Pops sucks it up. Stands. Sticks out a hand to me. I stand and shake it. It’s all he can do to stop crying. Eventually he does crack again, huge sobs of male tears. I hold him, slap his back. “I love you, son. I’m...so sorry. I’m so damn sorry!”
I’m sucking it up myself. Damn bastard’s gonna have me forgive him if he keeps on like this. “It’s OK, pops. I hear you. It’s all good. We can move on.”
I don’t forgive you, yet, but we can move on now. We can try to move on. I promise you that...
He’s got a deathgrip on me. But it’s all good. It’s all good, ’cause he’s my pops. Not a throwing-the-ball kinda relationship. No. But it is what it is.
My pops.
And I’m OK with that.
I slap his back a few times. He slaps mine. He won’t let me go.
I hear steps out in the hallway. Then a sound like stomp stomp stomp.
And a memory: Gulp gulp gulp.
Slap slap slap.
Great, Catalina’s back. Only she would stomp in a hissy fit like that.
Then, muffled, but getting closer: “JOO FUCKIN— I GONNA— HOW DARE YOU—“
And that’s when the door slams open.
Catalina stands there like something out of a wild western flick. Black Beretta Nano sitting snuggly in her hands. Relaxed and poised. As if she’s fired a hundred thousand rounds with it in her life.
And it’s aimed at us.
Fury and rage burn in her eyes. “JOO FUCKIN MOTHERFUCKER, I GONNA KILL YOU YOU FUCKIN—”
She doesn’t kill me.
Although she tries to.
But she does kill someone else.
FOURTEEN
A WHOLE NEW CHEMICAL
-1-
Blaze Ryleigh
By the time they get him off me, I think Xavier’s hit me already.
The tiny iota of time which passed is an eternal stillness in my head: My knees hitting the ground after being yanked off the Swallow Café’s bench. The scuff on the toe of his brown Giorgio Brutini Oxfords. A crumb underneath that. The instant reaction of my elbow to above my head. And his insane scream in my ear: “Joo fuckin puta!”
All followed by a clash and crash and tumble of shoes and pants and denims over my head (one stray foot actually kicked me in the top lip) while men in the café flew toward him to get him off of me.
And then the sounds of Xavier fighting off the four men now on top of him, despite his smallness.
I turn my head and see them in a corner. Four above him, trying to hold him down. Xavier is a caged animal, a tangled mass of unreasoned fury, fueled by the cocaine pumping through his heart. Even now, after a century of time has elapsed in my mind, I’m still struggling to piece together what’s happened. In reality, only a few seconds have passed.
But a few seconds is enough.
Enough for me to realize that this motherfucker just tried to lay a drug infested hand on his dead sister’s best friend, the very girl he fucked and declared his love for once!
Me.
And that pisses me off.
That pisses me off big time.
A whole new chemical rolls in and through my veins. Pumped out by my adrenals. My heart thumps in my ears. My fists tighten. My arms steel up.
I stand.
I look at Xavier, arms flailing and kicking. Never giving up.
“Leave him!” I scream. The bearded and dreadlocked dudes on him don’t let go. “LEAVE HIM!”
They stop moving. The blond one looks back at me. Then at his black-haired friend.
I grab a mug from the table. “Leave. Him.”
They do, finally. Slowly. Confused. Xavier has a little blood dripping from his lip. Not much. Barely a scrape.
He spits out. “Joo fuckin assholes! I know who you are! I gonna kill—”
“Xavier!”
I hear various calls to nine-one-one from behind me.
He grins when he sees me holding the mug. “Whatchoo gonna do baby, commit Murder One with a fuckin coffee mug?” He laughs, proudly, smugly.
Haughtily.
I say: “Damn fucking straight I am.”
-2-
The great thing about Coke, is it makes you feel invincible. So invincible, that you think you can dodge a screaming bullet aimed for your head.
Or a mug.
It crashes against his right temple and shatters. A beautiful cut rips open on his temple and sweet blood trickles down his face like juicy molasses, onto his pink Pierre Cardin shirt.
He hits the floor with a thud.
As I look down at him, I think of stabbing him with the shard of the handle still firmly clasped in my hand.
And soon the four guys who were holding him back, are now holding me back.
Seeing him lying there, blood crowning his brow, I think of his sister. My best friend.
The light in both our lives.
All said, he disappoints me. That’s all. I don’t hate him. I don’t feel anything for him. He is who he is. And the drugs make him someone else.
The men let me go.
I turn.
I hear some gurgles from him, a chair falling as he tries to get himself up. I don’t care. I don’t care!
I leave. I chuck the mug handle on the street.
I’m walking away from him, from the gig. From all of it.
I’m pretty sure I won’t be gigging at Sacrament next weekend.
I wouldn’t want to either. Because I’m done selling my soul.
I’d rather be broke than a sellout.
Outside, in the bright light, I feel different than how I did just before seeing Xavier today. I feel free. I think of my music. I think of the beats in my head.
Most of all, I think of Deck. Of us sharing a glass of wine up in my soon-to-be ex-loft. Of us sharing a kiss.
Of sharing more than that.
I’m ready for it. With him.
It brings a warm smile to my face, thinking about it.
And I don’t care about anything else. Because he makes me happy. And that’s all that matters.
Set to a backdrop of approaching NYPD sirens, I head on over to my apartment.
And I call him.
FIFTEEN
WE DO. WE REALLY DO.
-1-
Declan Cox
Pops turns, puts his hands up. “Catalina, what da fuck you doin?”
“Shut up, Raymond. Get da fuck out da wa
y!”
“Cat, chill—”
“Joo fuckin chill! Dis punk! He almost kill you tree years ago, and you let him come in here? And he have no respect for me either!”
“Cat—”
She shakes the gun, just to remind us she’s wielding it. “Shut up! Raymond, get da fuck out da way! I gonna kill him. I gonna kill—”
“Cat—”
“SHUUUUUT UP!!”
Silence. A car revs outside. I start moving out from behind my pops. He pushes me back behind him.
“Let him come out! Let the little puto come out. I shoulda killed you tree years ago you mudderfucker! She was dead already! He needed companionship! What kind of child strikes his own father!?”
I try calm her down. “Catalina—”
“JOO SHUDDUP!” The word is stretched: SHUDUUUUUUUUUUUUP!
Then an idea strikes her—it’s evident. There’s a perceptible glow on her face. She looks at Trev. Smiles.
Suddenly, she flicks the gun over in his direction, on my left.
She grins. Cocks her head a little to the right. Her muscles seem to ease off. “Oh, da fuckin poetry, esseh.”
She eases her left hand up and over the slide of the gun. Racks it back with a ratcheting click. Cocked and ready. And starts squeezing down on the trigger...
-2-
“Cat. What da fuck you doin’, baby?”
She’s grinning widely now.
“Da little punk need to be taught a lesson, Raymond. But if he dead. He dead. Nada. No suffering. Nuttin. He hurt you, honey. So I gonna blow his friend’s head off here. Teach dis little punk a lesson about suffering. Because you suffered Raymond. You suffered, honey! Because of this puto! He need to suffer as well!”
“Cat, he didn’t hurt me nuttin, sweetie. C’mon. Don’t do this! What da fuck has gotten into you!?”
Know Me (Truthful Lies Trilogy - Book One) Page 22
