FIGHT

by Brent Coffey

  “I can now. The surgery’s almost complete. It’s just a matter of putting in some sutures and stapling him shut.”

  “I need a nurse to put this guy to sleep with some potent stuff. I can’t keep a gun on him forever, and I need to do other things.”

  None of the nurses volunteered for Gabe’s assignment. They kept busy, pretending to be so concerned with Bruce that they hadn’t heard Gabe’s request.

  “Rick, get an IV and administer propofol,” Sandefur finally ordered.

  Rick, a new hire, stared at Sandefur, afraid, not wanting to move towards Gabe and the goon.

  “Do it, Rick! We don’t have time for chicken shit, and if that guy gets lose he might kill us all!”

  Her raised voice jarred Rick from his inactivity, and he rushed for an IV and a bag of liquid sleep.

  Don’s goon kept his hands obediently steady, as Rick carefully inserted the needle to start the IV. The goon knew better than to fight the nurse while Gabe was covering him. Gabe was glad to see that the drug being used was propofol. Every mobster knew about propofol. Besides being a common sedative, it was also the drug used in lethal injections.

  “Get on your knees,” Gabe commanded.

  The goon complied.

  “Oh God!” Rick exclaimed, turning away from them both and puking.

  Gabe increased the IV’s injectable flow rate from 1% to 100%, putting out a whopping 100 ml of the stuff at a lethal pace.

  Don’s guy didn’t bother protesting. He preferred the drug to the bullet. Propofol had always been the mob’s preferred way of being executed by the state. It wasn’t as harsh as electrocution. The guy knew his was time was up, and he was glad to be going out in the most soothing way possible, death by sedative. Gabe was glad the guy was dying without a fight. He didn’t want to shoot the guy, because the blast would attract the wrong kind of attention.

  “Close your eyes, and don’t move,” Gabe commanded.

  Moments later, Gabe checked his pulse. The Filippo force was minus one goon.

  “How long before Hudson wakes up?” Gabe asked.

  “It’ll be at least a couple of hours. This was a serious operation, and he must rest,” Sandefur responded.

  Gabe pocketed his gun in his blue smocks and pulled up a chair to wait. Normally, a recovering patient was wheeled in his bed to the recovery unit, but Sandefur decided to keep Bruce here, in case other Filippo strongmen were making their rounds.

  “I need you to bring me a couple of tanks of gas, a backpack, and a lighter,” Gabe said.

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  The woman arrived by taxi, the same way she’d come 27 years ago. Older, heavier, and worn down by years of grief, she made her way through St. Knox’s entrance. The front of the hospital was exactly as she remembered it, when she’d delivered her son. She walked up to the information desk and gave her name to the receptionist working the counter. Soon, a nurse came out and walked her to the GI unit.

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  Hours later, after much needed rest, Bruce came to. At first, he struggled to have coherent thoughts and shake off the deep sleep that his meds had knocked him in. Eventually, he remembered who he was, why he was here, and his life came back into focus. He saw a surgeon dressed in blue sitting in front of him, with a backpack at his feet. The surgeon spoke in a concerned voice:

  “How’s it going?”

  “I’m fine, I think,” Bruce said groggily.

  Bruce slowly shifted in his bed, too sore to do much more than look around. Sitting up was out of the question.

  “Here,” the man in blue offered, seeing Bruce struggle to rise. He pressed a button on the hospital bed and elevated Bruce.

  “How’s that?”

  “Better,” Bruce responded. “I take it everything’s alright with me?”

  “Everything’s fine. Your colon’s out, and your colitis is gone. Martha and August will be happy with your progress.”

  Bruce smiled at the welcomed news. But as further sobriety settled in, he startled:

  “How did you know about my family?”

  Gabe pulled down his surgeon’s mask. Bruce met his gaze, sighed, and let out a disappointed whistle:

  “So, this is it, huh? My end of the line?”

  “If I wanted to kill you, I’d have killed you in surgery.”

  Bruce couldn’t think of a comeback. Gabe pulled his gun out and unloaded it, showing Bruce he meant no harm.

  “Is that better?” Gabe asked.

  Bruce asked the million dollar question:

  “What’s this between you and August? The kid likes you. He told me so. And he says you’re not as bad as I think. He says you owned up to a bunch of stuff and apologized.”

  “He’s right. I did.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s the end of my line, and this is how I wanna go out.”

  “What’s happening to you? Is it the Filippos?”

  “I’m going to take out Don Filippo,” Gabe paused, “… to keep August safe.”

  “What does that mean? Why is he in trouble with the Filippos?”

  “They likely saw him with me, and they might’ve mistaken him for my son, and that makes him their enemy. I’ve got to get Don before he gets August.”

  “I still don’t get it. Why bother with August at all? Is this some sort of twisted way of getting even with me for prosecuting you?”

  “It started out that way. I had a guy do some snooping around on you, when I was being held in county. I was trying to plan something that would scare the shit out of you, something that would force you into a back room kind of deal, off the record. But then I heard you were trying to adopt this kid… and I heard about his parents… I couldn’t, I just couldn’t do it anymore.”

  “Couldn’t do what anymore?”

  “Couldn’t go on pretending like this was the life I’d always wanted.”

  Gabe filled Bruce in on his personal history. He also told him about killing Victor and Unique. Bruce was speechless for a long time. He couldn’t doubt Gabe’s story. Gabe hadn’t killed August when presented with the opportunity. And he hadn’t killed him when given the chance. After a lengthy silence, Bruce asked:

  “But what if I had won the case? What if you’d been locked up? What would’ve been your response?”

  “I would’ve gone to jail,” Gabe shrugged. “After I heard about August, I was done with the Adelaides, and I wanted out. In this business, there’s only two ways of getting out, a prison sentence or death. I no longer cared about how I retired.”

  Bruce absorbed the candor of his response and believed, for the first time, that there wasn’t bad blood between them. But, Bruce was still curious:

  “Why are you here now? Why didn’t you just leave after you paid for my surgery?”

  Gabe told him about the Filippos’ plot to kill him. He pointed to the dead body across the room, lying in cold stiffness. Bruce’s tunnel vision on Gabe had prevented him from seeing the dead guy sooner. Bruce was astonished to learn that a man he’d prosecuted had saved his life.

  “So what happens now?” Bruce wondered.

  “Move August to another home, and be discreet about it. The Filippos are dangerous, and, if they’re coming after you, he’s in danger. Even if I’m able to kill Don, Don’s oldest son might still pursue you, and that keeps August at risk if he’s in your home.”

  “That’s not happening. You can’t expect us to give August to another home. I’ve been through so much. Martha and I have been through an emotional hell over that kid. Wanting to adopt him, being disqualified as unfit parents, worried sick about him when he was with you, and now that my health is better, the best it’s been in years, you want us to pass on adopting? You can’t be serious. It’ll break Martha’s heart.”

  “It’ll break her heart even more if something happens to him, because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. You’re the D.A. in a city that doesn’t h
ave room for the mob and a D.A. Think about it. Think about the kid’s good.”

  Gabe deeply regretted this. His plan from the very beginning had been to see August placed with the Hudsons. He’d wrongly thought the Filippos would consider the D.A. and his family off limits. Now he knew otherwise.

  Bruce stared at the dead Filippo goon on the floor. The man had been sent to kill him, and there might be more men on the same mission. He sighed heavily. Gabe was right. Adopting August was out of the question. It put August at unnecessary risk.

  “You went through all this trouble to improve my health, and no good came of it for the little guy,” Bruce said with an ironic laugh.

  “I wouldn’t say that. The kid was living in a shitty home that didn’t take care of him. Since he’s been with me and you, he’s been with people who wanted him around.”

  Gabe shot a knowing look at the backpack on the floor next to him. Rising, he said:

  “Do me a favor. Tell August I said ‘hey.’”

  “You can tell him yourself. Turn around.”

  Gabe turned and saw Martha and August holding hands behind him, with August carrying Zoggy in his other hand. Martha knew Bruce hadn’t wanted her to visit him, out of concern for her safety. But she couldn’t help it. She had to know, to see that he was alright, and she was banking on Staties to keep her and August safe. She saw the man collapsed on the floor, and she was visibly disturbed. Gabe took a spare sheet from the foot of Bruce’s bed and covered the body. Martha and August recognized Gabe without his surgical mask.

  “It’s okay,” Bruce assured them. “I’m fine, and there’s no need to be alarmed at Mr. Adelaide’s presence. He actually saved my life,” he added, pointing to the dead man.

  This news stunned Martha, but it didn’t surprise August.

  Gabe squatted down, getting eyelevel with August:

  “I know you don’t understand this, but you saved my life. Thanks, buddy. Can I have a high five?”

  August shortchanged him a high five and threw his arms around Gabe’s neck instead, pressing Zoggy against the back of Gabe’s head. Gabe fought back tears, as he hugged the kid. Prying August off him, who didn’t want to let go, Gabe stood up and reached for the backpack. Covering his face with the surgical mask and putting on his shades, he said:

  “See ya, my friend,” and ruffled August’s hair.

  Outside Bruce’s room, Gabe unzipped the pack. He attached a regulator to an oxygen tank inside the backpack and mounted another one on a tank of nitrous oxide, the time tested anesthetic known as laughing gas. Spinning a tank wrench, he turned both tanks on full blast, quickly zipping the pack closed and trapping the gases. He was no longer afraid of Don hurting August: Don would soon expire. But he didn’t know what Don’s replacement would do, and he needed to disentangle August from the Adelaides forever… to communicate that the Adelaides were truly finished and that there’d never be another heir… and there was only one way of putting the nail in the Adelaide coffin.

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  Don saw his goon approaching, wearing the backpack, the blue surgeon’s uniform, and dark shades… just like the guy had said on the phone. Don smiled, thinking the surgeon’s uniform was a hell of a disguise. He was eager for a firsthand account of the D.A.’s demise. He wanted details. He hoped for something juicy, something graphic, like Sandefur taking a scalpel in a trembling hand and punching holes in Bruce’s vitals like they were pin cushions. His approaching goon nodded his head with an air of confidence, indicating that everything was cool. His goon opened the last of the Roll’s passenger doors and sat directly beside Don, removing the backpack from his shoulders and placing it his lap.

  “So what the fuck happened? And how many goddamn Staties were in there?” Don asked.

  Still wearing his mask and shades, Gabe pulled a lighter out his pocket, flicked a flame, opened a zipper, and held the lighter inside the backpack… with both tanks inside spewing wide open.

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  Bruce, Martha, and August heard the explosion.

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  From the GI wing, Dr. Sandefur and Debby Fallon heard the explosion.

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  The two-door Chevy Cavalier pulled to a stop, after a slow climb up the graveyard’s elevated path. It parked, with its left side mostly on the grass, allowing oncoming cars enough room to pass on the cemetery’s one lane road. August George Middleton and his new foster mom, Debby Fallon, got out and walked towards the tombstone… a small, unassuming headstone square at its base and curved on top… one paid for by a donation from the Hudsons. Debby had wanted to see Gabe for many years, especially after seeing him in the news. But she feared the mob would hurt him if she made contact. That had always been their leverage. Now, squeezing August’s hand, she stood quietly, reading the tombstone. Gabriel Aaron Fallon. September 12th 1980-June 15th 2007. Son.

  They quietly took in the calm scenery of Gabe’s spot among the orderly rows of graves, and both grasped for words, until she said:

  “He never had a chance in this world.”

  August knew she wasn’t talking to him. Still, she needed to know:

  “It doesn’t matter that he never had a chance. It only matters that he fought back.”

  They decorated his final resting place. In the center of Gabe’s grave was a wreath of purple and white roses, surrounded by smaller arrangements of flowers on each side. In the middle of the grave’s flowers sat Zoggy.

  The End

  Author’s Postscript :

  I hope you enjoyed FIGHT as much as I did. This is my first novel, and writing it was truly a labor of love. I’ll consider this novel a success if my readers remember my characters’ struggles and bravery.

  A quick word on facts is in order. First, most Mafia Families don’t require a son for survival. These days, most Godfathers freely select their successors, and Victor’s need for Gabriel only exists in the world between my ears. But given many mobsters’ emphasis on Family, the stretch isn’t wholly implausible. Second, Watertown is one of the safest towns in Massachusetts, and I deliberately chose it for the Filippos’ base of operations because no informed person would ever believe that prostitutes and murderers dominate its streets. Its reputation remains unblemished by my imagination. Third, while Boston proper certainly has the crime problems you’d expect, its violent crime rate has diminished greatly in recent years, and the connections I made between the mob and Boston’s police, doctors, and judicial system are fictional. As large cities go, it’s relatively safe, and its spirit is indomitable. That spirit was recently displayed by the heroic victims of the Boston Marathon bombings and their fight to return to normalcy.

  Fourth, here’s a fact, and a truly tragic one at that. This novel was partly inspired by the sad, short life of Peter “Baby P” Connelly, a boy who was repeatedly neglected by England’s child care authorities during horrific bouts of abuse. You can learn more about him and needed reforms in Britain’s foster care system from the UK’s major dailies.

  Speaking of facts, while writing I referenced many online sources about adoption law and the Baby Scoop Era. I won’t bore you with a list of sources, but, if you’re curious, a quick search online will likely uncover most of the sources that I used.

  A note on terminology is also needed. Throughout this novel, I use “whore” to refer to women who work as prostitutes, but, in real life, many women are sexually trafficked involuntarily, and I would never want to add insult to injury by calling them names. I use “whore” strictly as a label for those characters in my novel that voluntarily assumed their work, and, as the author, let me assure you that all of my whores volunteered.

  Finally, no novel would be complete without due credit. In no particular order, here are some of the many people that have helped me in important ways. Thanks to the Berea College Philosophy Department, especially ethi
cist Dr. Robert W. Hoag, for improving my writing skills. Thanks to my many supportive friends, Micah, Cody F, Cody A, Blayne (always!), Nathan, Billy, Miranda, Brandon, Victoria, Tiffany, Max, Doly, Jacob, Bressler, and many others for their constant companionship. Thanks to Dr. David Johnston, Dr. Kathleen Martin, Dr. Sandra J. Beck, Dr. Clare Fraser, Dr. Andrew Pearson, Dr. John D. Conklin, Dr. Irina Gagua, and the staff at both St. Joseph East and the University of Kentucky health care systems for more than I can say. Thanks to Lucas, and Scott, and David for Keithshire. Thanks to Dr. Tyler Sergent both for believing in this project and for encouraging me to write. Thanks to Dr. Joe Bagnoli for the chance. Eternal thanks to J. both for the fudge and for driving to the ends of the world for everyone, every time.

  And thanks to Kay for reading this novel many times to edit it. (I couldn’t ask for a smarter editor, and I’m lucky to have worked with you.)

  Thanks for reading. I hope I have the opportunity to tell you future stories.

  Brent Coffey, Summer 2013, Significant Revisions: Winter 2013