by Adam Pepper
He spits out a ring of breaded squid and shouts, “This shit is horrible.”
Gucci Mike sits across the table and runs through his sports book, seeing who’s late with this week’s payments. He drops the book and hops to his feet. Gucci Mike grabs the plate and says, “I’ll run upstairs and get you a fresh plate.”
“Tell them to hurry it up.”
“Okay, boss. I’m right on it.”
“That fuckin’ chef makes the worst calamari in the Bronx. Tell him he’s fuckin’ fired if he can’t get me tender calamari.”
“Okay. I’ll tell him.”
Mario sticks his fork angrily into a plate of pasta with red sauce. Red sauce is the only thing that asshole can make half decent. Red sauce and clams casino. That’s fuckin’ it. That’s why he’s losing tons of business to Costa’s. He needs to hire the chef away from Costa’s and fire this asshole.
With his back to the room, Mario hears Gucci Mike walk in. “It’s about fuckin’ time,” Mario says; then he hears the clanks of a plate hitting the floor. Mario turns and sees Gucci Mike lying face down, and the plate of calamari busted in pieces.
A man is coming at him. He’s moving awkwardly, almost pogo-sticking on one leg, yet he’s advancing quickly. The room is dimly lit, but Mario can make out a bloody knife in one hand and a pistol in the other. Before Mario can get his fat ass off the bench, the gun is inches from his eyeballs.
“Close your eyes,” the man orders.
Mario complies, but then quickly opens them again.
“Don’t look at me,” the man shouts as he moves the gun closer.
The gun is so close, it makes Mario cross-eyed. He stares at the tip of the pistol. He can smell gun powder. The gun has been fired. Recently.
“Okay. Okay.” Mario closes his eyes and puts his hands high in the air. “Sean, is that you?”
“Don’t call me that. Don’t you ever fucking call me that.”
“Okay. Whatever you say, Shamrock.”
“Your whole crew is dead. Tommy Guns. Scrubby, Vinny, Gucci Mike. They’re all done. And you are next.”
“Easy now, Shamrock. I understand you’re pissed. You have a right to be. What’s done is done. But I’m the boss. No one kills the boss and lives. You know that.”
“You think I care? You should know damn well by now that I am willing to die.”
“Okay. Okay. You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“Fuck you. You’re not sorry.”
“Look, what is it that you want?”
“I want you to give me one good reason why I shouldn’t blow your fucking brains all over the linguini?”
“Come on, Sean. Easy now.”
Mario feels the butt of the pistol smack his skull.
“I told you not to call me that.”
“Sorry. I’m sorry.” Mario rubs his head.
“Up. Keep your hands up.”
Mario puts his hands back up. “Look, kid. If you wanted me dead, I’d be dead already. Just tell me what it is you want.”
“I told you, I want one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you.”
“We both know the reason. Because you’re a man of your word. You gave Nicole your word that you wouldn’t hurt me. Right? That’s it, isn’t it, kid?”
“Why should that matter now?”
“Oh, but it does. It does. It’s admirable, Shamrock. It really is. I know you’re pretty pissed at me, but I can still admire you. Even after you killed my whole crew. I’m kind of in awe of you.”
“Don’t fuckin’ flatter me.”
“I’m not. I’m serious. Listen, you aren’t the only man who keeps his word. My word is my bond, too. I know you think I’m a shit, and I understand. But I’m a man of my word, too. Let’s work this out. Tell me what you want.”
“There’s a Greek restaurant. Scrubby and Vinny burned it down.”
“Yeah, yeah. I know the place.”
“Maria is going to rebuild it.”
“Okay.”
“And you are going to leave her and her son alone.”
“Okay. Okay. Sure.”
“She’s going to run a legit joint, and you won’t interfere. Understand?”
“Okay. You got it.” Mario slowly opens his eyes to see the gun being pulled away from his face. He’s wearing a hood and a scarf. Mario can’t really see what he looks like underneath. “Listen, Shamrock. The rest of our deal still holds then. You are out of Nicole’s life. I’ll provide for her and the kid. I’ll make sure they have what they need. You can’t help them. I can.”
He starts slowly hobbling backwards. Then he says, “I expect you to keep your end of the deal, Mario.”
Mario responds, “I will. Don’t ever show your face again in my neighborhood.”
Chapter Twenty One
* * *
Skin wakes up and rolls over on the mattress that lies on the concrete floor. He sits up and then struggles to his feet. Skin dresses in the dark.
He always dresses in the dark.
He doesn’t want to see what he knows is there. He doesn’t want to see the giant shamrock tattoo that covers his back. Skin knows that now it looks more like a wilted lilac bush than a clover. He doesn’t want to see the purple skin that covers his ribcage, the bruising that never healed and now has become a permanent tattoo of its own. He doesn’t want to see the divots in his flesh, a milky way of countless specks on his body from random splatters of acid. They run from head to toe, these awful divots, a constant reminder of that bathtub.
Although it’s a warm day outside, Skin reaches into the chest of drawers for a turtleneck shirt. He leans against the chest as he pulls the shirt over his shoulders. Skin finds a wide-brimmed hat. It’s a bit out of style, but it’s large and covers up a lot without being horribly out of fashion. You could say the same thing about the wide lenses of the aviator sunglasses he puts on.
Finally, Skin turns on the lamp. Skin pulls on his thin, black leather gloves. He looks in the mirror. He’s mostly covered. With the neck of the shirt pulled up and the brim of the hat pulled down, the only feature really noticeable is his nose. The plastic surgeons did a fine job on the nose. It’s thinner and far pointier than his original nose, but it’s a human nose none-the-less.
Skin grabs his wood cane and walks out of the room. The cane, a sturdy piece of hickory wood, is shellacked. The physical therapist tells him if he sticks with his therapy, he won’t need it forever. But for now, his fully rebuilt knee just isn’t strong enough to support all of his weight without a struggle, so Skin and that sturdy piece of hickory wood are never far apart.
He limps out from behind Smiley’s Bar and walks up Tremont Avenue. Skin looks straight ahead, hoping no one is staring at him, but knowing they are. They must be.
No one says anything. No one talks to him. No one confronts him.
Do they recognize him? In this small neighborhood where his story has surely taken on legendary status, do they know who he is? It really doesn’t matter much.
The stone masonry and silver siding of The Fountainhead Diner come into view, and Skin walks up the small staircase and into the restaurant. The hostess smiles upon seeing him.
“Your usual table, sir?” she asks.
“Yes, please.”
She walks to the corner by the window and gestures to the small booth. “Here you are.”
“Thank you.” Skin sits.
The waitress knows to bring him coffee; he doesn’t even have to ask, which is nice. It’s easiest to talk as little as possible. Always polite, but minimal interaction. She smiles as she places the coffee down in front of him. Skin nods a thank you, and she knows to leave.
Half a cup remains as the BMW pulls up across the street. It’s not the sporty fire-engine red one that she used to drive. It’s a gray station wagon. The BMW parks in front of Costa’s, and she gets out. She walks to the back and opens the hatchback. She pulls out a stroller and unfolds it on the edge of the curb just behind the parked BMW.
She wa
lks to the back of the four-door vehicle. She opens the door and leans in. When she steps back, the little boy is in her arms. He has his mother’s round face and pug nose, but his complexion is all Irish: light skin with freckles. Skin has never seen them up close, but he’s near positive the boy has sky-blue eyes.
Skin wants the boy to know his father loves him. That his father isn’t a good-for-nothing bum who runs out on his family. Skin wants the boy to know many things, yet Skin knows he’ll never be able to teach the boy any of them. Skin gave his word.
She puts the boy in the stroller, fastens the belt, then walks towards the restaurant. She stops to put change in the parking meter, and Gino runs out to hold the door open for her. She pushes the stroller forward while smiling to thank him, then disappears inside.
The sign reads, Costa’s Pizzeria. Underneath it says, The Freshest Brick Oven Pizza in the Neighborhood. Skin reads that sign each and every day.
He hears the noise of a child’s feet stomping against the floor. Skin turns, and a boy of about eight or nine is standing in front of him. Maria is chasing after him.
“Hi,” she says with a smile. “This is my son, Leonidas.”
“Lou,” the boy says. “Call me Lou.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Lou. Have a seat.”
Lou jumps up into the seat, and Maria slides in next to him on the padded bench.
“My mother says you know how to get to Six Flags. Is that true?”
Skin smiles and nods. “Sure. Sure I know how to get to Six Flags.”
“I’ve never been to Six Flags. Will you take me?”
Skin pauses to look across the street at the BMW and the Costa’s sign. “You bet, Lou. I’d love to take you to Six Flags.”
“Mommy, what’s his name?”
Maria starts to open her mouth, but then stops.
“Sean.” He offers a gloved hand for the boy to shake. “You can call me Sean.”
“It’s really nice to meet you, Sean. I can’t wait to go to Six Flags.”
Author's Note
* * *
Writers survive and thrive from word of mouth and the recommendations of loyal readers like you. If you enjoyed my book, I hope you’ll consider reviewing it on Amazon, BN.com, The iTunes Bookstore, Smashwords, Library Thing, GoodReads, Shelfari and on your own blog or website (if you have one). Tell your friends on Facebook and your followers on Twitter. Ads don’t sell books, enthusiastic readers do. Of course, none of this is required, but any and all of it is appreciated.
If you’d like to learn more about me and keep up to date on my writing projects, check out my website www.AdamPepper.com and sign up for my e-newsletter. Follow me on Twitter @AdamRPepper and friend me on Facebook. If you have any questions about me or my work or any feedback on the book, I’d love to hear from you. Please email me at [email protected].
It truly is a joy to share my work, and I’m thrilled and honored that you’ve invested your time in my book. Thank you so much for your support.
AP/Dec. 2011
