Steve smiled. He knew it would be a sad day if the program were cancelled. New York Journal was a local broadcast that attempted to copy the format of the national tabloid shows, but at a fraction of the budget. It was Aunt Pat’s favorite show because it focused on New York celebrities and events. George had barely been able to tolerate it; now that his wife was gone, he rarely missed an airing.
Steve sat at the table and embellished the happenings of his day for the enjoyment of his uncle, but cut short their afternoon visit. Not because of the computer game waiting upstairs, but due to the strain in the old man’s voice. He guessed his uncle’s appearance to look ten to fifteen years older than the man’s chronological age, no doubt the effects of a lifetime of chain-smoking. Pleased with the workout he’d completed, Steve lunged up the stairs to his room, only to find that his legs did not intend to lunge anywhere. The sodas flew and his chin plowed into the carpeted stairs. His legs, although fine for a slow stride around the house, were useless for any real exertion.
He picked himself and the sodas up and made it to his room at a slower pace. Examining the soda cans for damage, he decided next trip to the store would call for a restocking of the refrigerator with diet pop.
Maybe half diet and half regular, he thought. Bryan, too polite to complain, would have a tough time downing the sugar free variety. He’d probably nurse one can the entire night.
Steve entered his room and saw that Bryan had the installs going on both machines. In addition, his friend had dug out all six pistols and had them neatly arranged across the bed.
“The installs are taking forever. What was that thud?” Bryan asked.
“Nothing,” Steve replied, “but I think I'll need some help off the toilet this evening.”
Bryan wrinkled his face. “That’s disgusting.”
Steve laughed. “Wait a minute before opening the soda.” He turned his attention to the firearms and studied the antique revolvers from his late father’s collection, a modern semi-auto pistol made his heart jump. “Come to papa,” he said, taking a cautious hold of the handle and withdrawing it from a leather holster. He liked the heaviness of the weapon and he turned it admiring the tooled metal and black finish. Colt was stamped on one side of the slide and .45 Caliber on the other. Computer combat games had taught him about modern weapons and every game gave the Government Model 1911 high ballistic and accuracy scores. Steve returned the pistol to its holster.
“Didn't you know that was in there?” Bryan asked.
“No, I opened the crate and poked around a little bit, but I’ve been avoiding going through it.” Steve scratched his chin. “I’m afraid of finding a picture of another family, one that my father may actually have kept in touch with.”
“Ouch, that would smart,” Bryan said. He reached out and gave his friend’s shoulder a double Pat. “I don’t know if it’s good or bad, but there are no pictures in the crate. The Colt was wrapped up in that long canvas coat.” Bryan pointed to a brown trench coat lying over the top of the weathered crate. “The gun’s not loaded, I've checked all the revolvers too and separated the loose bullets by caliber.”
“Look at this.” Bryan unsheathed the sword. The sound of the steel leaving its scabbard impressed both boys. “Some of these guns could be collectables and this sword, it’s stamped 1864.” He held it out to Steve.
“Do you still have your penis?” Steve asked, taking the sword.
“About that.” Bryan pointed to the ceiling.
Steve looked up at the seven-inch gash and smiled. A ringing doorbell interrupted the teen’s attempt to come up with something clever to say. Without hesitation, he handed the sword back to Bryan and darted out of the bedroom. Trotting down the stairs seemed easy enough, but he knew not to attempt any leaps on the way up. If the person at the door was who he expected, a faux pas like falling all over the staircase could cause a lifetime’s worth of nightmares.
Steve jerked the door open almost hitting his foot. A beautiful girl stood on the doorstep. Nora wasn’t in the tights of his earlier imaginings, but sported baggy jeans and a sweatshirt that hid her exceptional figure from the world of man.
“Hi, Steve,” she said with a mother-of-pearl smile. Her gaze never left Steve's face as she stepped in past the youth, pausing to wipe her soles on the door rug, out of polite habit not because the bottom of her shoes needed cleaning.
Her proximity caught him by surprise. “Uh,” and a smile was all he could get out before the door closed and the pair headed up stairs. This happened often, but Nora’s pleasant demeanor always allowed him to make a fast recovery. The weekly visits to his house over their senior year were always short, but pleasant. They would chat for a few minutes and then she would change clothes in his bathroom. She went in wearing clothes her mother approved of and came out wearing something he was sure her parents didn't know she owned—usually tight, always revealing. Nora would then leave for the mall to meet her girlfriends. Steve didn't care if she was using his place for a changing room. Having her around was an exhilarating experience. Not only that, but because she was the smartest and most popular girl in school, it had to help raise his and Bryan's stature.
Bryan's jaw fell to his chest when Nora walked in the room. “Hi Nora, I didn't know you were coming over.”
“Hi Bryan.” Her chipper tone turned cautious. “Oh, you have the guns out. They kind of make me nervous.”
“We were just putting them away.” Steve motioned for Bryan to help.
Bryan enfolded each pistol in its own protective cloth and placed them into the crate.
“I have something for you Steve.” Nora slipped a florescent-green tote bag off her shoulder onto the corner of the bed. She reached in and pulled out a large antique bottle containing a yellow powder. The long glass neck had a thin leather patch tied over the opening. “And here's the note that was in the bottle.” She held out both items. The brittle paper, covered in faded Chinese characters, crackled during the exchange.
He looked at the bottle curiously. Two days ago when Nora had left with the bottle, it contained a yellowish mass as hard as stone and the leather patch was a new addition. “What'd your grandfather do to this stuff?”
“He chipped it out and ground it up,” she replied. “It's rhinoceros horn. I have to change, I'll be right out.” She gave them a smile, grabbed her tote, and entered the bathroom closing the door behind her.
“So buddy,” Bryan said, “is there something you want to tell me?”
“I wish there was something to tell,” Steve said. “She came over the other day to get our English assignment, right after I had opened the crate. The bottle was wrapped in a towel sitting on top. When she recognized Chinese writing on the paper in side, she grabbed the bottle, grabbed the assignment, and was out the door.”
Bryan laughed, “You're still not having any luck getting her to stay and talk for more than a few minutes.”
“No,” Steve said softly. “She is in and out of here so fast. I think maybe it's because of all the smoke in the house. She’s very health conscious you know”
“That could be it.” Bryan slipped into the persona of their favorite African American standup comic. “Of course it could be because, you are so… butt ugly.”
Both boys laughed.
“You guys sound like you're having fun,” Nora said, pushing the bathroom door open with her foot. She shuffled her way to the dresser in the corner of the room, carrying three small water-filled cups and placed them on the dresser top. The sake cups were the size of shot glasses, opaque white with black Chinese characters, not that the two boys were in any condition to dwell on such detail. Nora had slipped into a black half-shirt and low-cut jeans.
Nora gestured to Steve, “Bring the rhinoceros powder over here. I want to make a toast in honor of our friendship.”
Bryan made a swift grab at the bottle and met her at the dresser.
Untying the string from around the neck of the bottle, she laid the leather cap out flat. She
poured a small amount of the yellowed powder onto the leather, set the bottle down, and with a flat stick scooped up a portion of powder. She tapped the substance into one of the cups, and then repeated this procedure with the other two cups. With the stick, she stirred one then the next and then the last.
Steve reluctantly took his eyes off Nora and glanced at the mixtures, “I hope we’re not supposed to drink that stuff.”
Nora handed Bryan a cup. “Of course we’re supposed to drink it. It's only Rhinoceros horn. It's good for your well being.” She gave Steve a cup and took the last one for herself.
“I don't know,” Bryan added, his enthusiasm waning, “are you sure this stuff is edible?”
“Guys, my ninety year old Grandfather drank some.” She held her cup up. “Here’s to our friendship.” She quaffed her drink like a cowboy in from the range. “And besides, it's an aphrodisiac.”
Bryan held his drink up. “Here’s to Viagra for saving the rhinos.” His portion slid down faster than a beautiful woman could say the word aphrodisiac three times fast.
Steve brought the glass to his lips, hesitated, and then gulped the mixture. The gritty substance scratched its way down and he truly hoped that it wasn’t an aphrodisiac. The last thing he needed was to be hornier than he already was.
BETTER TO DIE A HERO
CHAPTER 4
New York Journal:
“Hello, I’m Michelle O’Donnell and welcome to this edition of New York Journal. The top story in New York tonight concerns John Savini an alleged Mafia boss. A grand jury will convene next Monday to investigate racketeering allegations made against Savini by the New York District Attorney and sources from within the FBI have told us at The Journal that John Savini is considered the “boss of bosses” of the Italian Mafia. This alone makes him a person of great interest, but it gets better. Savini has no criminal record and Mafia experts tell us there is no history of him working his way up the ranks of any known crime family. This leads us to the question, if he is the new Don, how did he get there? If all this isn’t enough, what New Yorkers will find most intriguing about this alleged crime boss is that he is inflicted with albinism. For more on the story let’s go to correspondent Jeff Talbot on location in New York's Little Italy.”
“Thank you Michelle, I'm standing here on Mulberry Street in front of the Cafe' Simcelli, a known hangout of John Savini and his entourage. People have been seeing him eat at this diner for the past year. It is hard not to notice the big man. He stands well over six-feet and is quite large, or one might use the term obese. Of course the real reason people notice him is because of his medical condition. Now, I interviewed several people on the street today and no one I've talked to believes this man has any ties to the Mafia. Most everyone thinks he is either a successful businessman or a rich heir. They also agree that he seems to be a man in charge. That is, he behaves like he has the authority in the group and the other men seem to take direction from him. Back to you Michelle.”
“Thank you Jeff. Well the question is, is this man the boss of bosses? To help us answer this question, we have with us in the studio Robert Smith, a professor of Sociology at Michigan State University and renowned organized crime expert. So, Robert what do you make of this?”
“Well, Michelle, I think I can say quite confidently that this man is not a top boss or even a mid-level boss in the New York based Mafia. I say that for several reasons. First, I can tell you he's never appeared on any FBI organized crime chart I've ever seen and as you mentioned he has absolutely no police record. No one rises through the ranks of organized crime without leaving a trail of suspicion that gets, at least somewhat, documented by the FBI, and that is just plain fact. And secondly, I doubt that figures in organized crime would follow a person with such an obvious genetic defect as albinism. It would be seen as a sign of weakness and inferiority.”
“I see, is this man a complete outsider, Robert?”
“No, John's father was Anthony Savini, a mid-level boss working directly under Paul Castellano of the Gambino crime family. Savini was indicted along with over a hundred other men, on the evidence of the now famous Castellano tapes. However, Anthony Savini died of colon cancer before he made it to trial. So there is a possibility that he is connected and he has been seen with some of the members of the Gambino clan this past year, however I can guarantee you that he doesn’t have anywhere near the power the FBI is leading us to believe.”
“Robert, it is a known fact that the Gambino crime family and the other four Italian clans are becoming increasingly tattered and disorganized. Could there be a connection between this and the appearance of John Savini?”
“Well, Michelle, if it were the case that the Mafia is willing to give a great deal of power to someone with no experience and a genetic disorder, then the organization may be quite desperate.”
* * *
Steve spun away from the computer screen and glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand. Without missing a beat, he registered the illuminant 3:01 a.m., and then, at a speed foreign to himself, centered back on the colorful action being played out on the nineteen-inch monitor. Several times in the past nine hours, the voice in his head counseled don’t panic at what he thought he must be experiencing—an amphetamine induced high.
“One on the left, two below,” Bryan said, while uncharacteristically manhandling the expensive joystick.
The toughest sentries littered the final level of Intergalactic Defenders. The giant brain creature, Null, greatly weakened by the aerial attacks of Steve and Bryan's characters, quivered like gray jelly. Steve attacked the sentries keeping them occupied, while Bryan set his plasma rifle to full power and blasted away at the space alien, depleting his last energy cartridge. Null's transparent brain membrane erupted and billions of neurons spilled into the control chamber. The sound of disintegration and explosions erupted from the speakers and the animated chamber began to crumble.
This is the end, Steve thought. Their characters hovered deep in the heart of an alien death ship set to self-destruct in a matter of minutes. No gamer in the world could backtrack through the maze of corridors that had led them to this chamber and exit the ship to safety, not the first night of game play.
“Follow me,” Bryan ordered.
The “Page Down” key displayed a fast panoramic view and Steve spotted the back end of Bryan’s character flying toward one of the exits. He executed a 180-degree turn and followed his friend's lead; out the chamber door, the two jetpack-clad characters flew. Through a network of complex corridors, up repair conduits and down elevator shafts the two of them guided their heroes at top speeds.
“I can't believe this. I think we’re going to make it.” Steve jostled his low-end joystick to the left and to the right.
The two would-be Buck Rogers blew a cargo hatch, the only barrier between them and success. Their forward momentum, aided by the escaping atmosphere, ejected them far into space and away from the doomed death ship. The heroes' own starship drifted close. They entered and instinctively hit “control S” bringing online the protective force field. The joysticks and keyboards stopped responding to their commands; the game switched to automatic. The 3-D graphics on both monitors now displayed identical viewpoints, the view screen from the bridge of the small ship. For nearly a minute, the death ship rocked as fiery discharges erupted from its enormous hull, top of the line sound effects skipped from one speaker to the next, and then the ship exploded sending debris in all directions. The image on the computer screen bounced to emulate fragments deflecting off the shielded spacecraft. Game over flashed repeatedly across the screen. Ignoring his usually disciplined computer habits, Steve reached out and turned his computer off, bypassing a graceful shut down.
Bryan said, “They add the fire and sounds for dramatic effect, but in space there’s no atmosphere to carry sound waves.”
Hands over face, peering through fingers, Steve turned to his friend. “Are you kidding me? I think we did some kind of speed tonight and yo
u’re critiquing the game.”
“What are you talking about? We're just good at what we do.” Bryan placed the joystick on the desk, leaned back in his chair, and interlocked his fingers behind his head.
“Please, don't tell me you didn't feel that. I mean, I really felt enhanced.”
“Don't get all melodramatic.” Bryan spun out of his chair. “I mean, we're almost out of high school and we've drank how many times?” Bryan didn’t wait for an answer. “Twice. Sometimes I think that is so pathetic.” He placed his face a few inches in front of the dresser mirror, pulled his bottom eyelid down, and examined his pupil. “It was an accident, so don't feel too guilty. If that stuff is speed at least now I know why people do it.”
“You're right about that,” Steve said, “I've never been so alert in my life. My hand to eye coordination was phenomenal and so was yours.”
Bryan replied in gaming lingo, “Thank you most lawful knight.”
“You know,” Steve said, even as a contradictory yawn forced its way out, “from what I've heard about these types of drugs, we're never going to get to sleep tonight. I should flush that shit down the toilet.” He yawned a second time.
“I don’t think so.” Bryan inched toward the bottle.
Steve lunged over the bed and grabbed his friend’s arm before Bryan moved the bottle a foot.
Their competitions had always been of the intellectual nature, this one was physical. Bryan strained his biceps in an effort to pull the bottle toward his chest. Steve pushed downward attempting to force the bottle back to the dresser. The two labored, motionless for several minutes.
Bryan’s words hissed from clenched teeth. “You think you're tough, look at this.” He raised and lowered his eyebrows in an alternating fashion, creating a smooth wave that rolled across his forehead.
“Not good enough.”
“Then try the... evil bunny.” Bryan drew his brow to a scowl, a cascade of skin folds building on one another disappeared into his dark hairline. His front teeth thrust forward and the boy’s nose went slightly pug.
Better to Die a Hero Page 3
