by Frank Zafiro
BLOOD ON BLOOD
BLOOD ON BLOOD
Frank Zafiro
Jim J. Wilsky
Blood on Blood by Frank Zafiro and Jim J. Wilsky
Published by Snubnose Press at Amazon
The copyright belongs to the authors unless otherwise noted. 2012. All rights reserved.
Amazon Edition
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locations is entirely coincidental.
First Amazon Original Edition, 2012
Cover Design: Eric Beetner
Amazon Edition, License Notes
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Dedication
Jim: For my patient wife Jane, who allows me to chase this treasured dream.
Frank: For my brothers and sisters, all.
It’s silly to go on pretending that under the skin we are all brothers. The truth is more likely that under the skin we are all cannibals, assassins, traitors, liars, hypocrites, poltroons.
- Henry Miller, author
(1891-1980)
ONE
Gar
The last light bled out of the sky like a violent smear onto the distant skyscrapers. At least, that was what Gar Sawyer thought he was seeing when he looked through the tiny rectangular strip of a window in the prison hospital. He stared at the red wisps and shook his head.
“Ain’t that some shit,” he muttered.
He hated that view, almost as much as he’d hated having no view at all in his old cell. He hated the people out there in the world who could stop whatever they were doing and stare up at the sky and see the complete expanse of the sunset. He hated that it was beautiful. He hated that he knew it was beautiful, and that his life was such that he now had enough time to think and reflect and realize there was some beauty in the world. And then he hated that beauty.
“Fuck the world,” he started to whisper, but a dull slice of pain cut him off mid-way through the first word. He grimaced slightly. The medication dispenser hung from the rail next to his left hand. He almost reached for it. He knew he could turn that dull pain into nothing more than a twinge.
But that would be giving in. And he’d be goddamned if he was going to do that.
Light footsteps approached in the hospital bay. The privacy curtain rippled and Dr. Bradford stepped through. Gar tore his eyes from the hateful red stain in the sky to look at him. Dr. Bradford’s rumpled white medical coat and tousled hair always looked to Gar like the doc had just rolled out of bed. Hell, maybe he did. He only knew of three different doctors in the hospital ward at this prison. That probably meant twelve hour shifts if anyone was going to get any time off. So the doc probably grabbed some shuteye on shift from time to time.
“How’s the pain?” Bradford asked without preamble. He lifted Gar’s chart from the foot of the bed and examined it.
“It’s there,” Gar said. “The fuck you care?”
A hint of a smile crept onto Bradford’s lips. “I don’t, really. Just looking for the symptom as a clue to your medical condition.”
If that was true, Gar liked Bradford for his honesty. If it wasn’t, he liked the doc for his balls.
“My medical condition is that I’m fucked,” Gar said. “I’m dying.”
Bradford marked something on the chart. “We’re all dying,” he said, without looking up.
“Yeah, but the thing is,” Gar told him, “I’m on the express train. Wherever we go when we die, I’ll be unpacked and already have banged three waitresses before you even get off the platform.”
“Good,” Bradford said. He replaced the chart and crossed to the IV hanger. “Then you’ll be able to tell me where’s a good place to eat.”
Gar laughed in spite of himself. It came out as a short, rattling bark. “Fucking doc. You shoulda been a comedian. Put Bob Newhart out of work with that wit.”
Bradford broke into a small grin. He examined the IV hanging next to Gar’s bed. Then he glanced at his watch. Finally, he looked at Gar himself. “You’re way behind on your pain medication,” he said. His voice was matter of fact, without a hint of reproach.
“I’m saving it to auction off when I get back home,” Gar said. “The boys on Tier Two will trade smokes by the box load for this magic shit.”
Bradford’s smile remained, but some of the humor faded from his eyes. “Is there a reason why you’re scaling back?”
“Seeing as how you don’t give a fuck if I’m in pain or not, what does it matter how much of this I use?”
Bradford didn’t take the bait. “If there’s less pain, I’d like to know. If it’s something else…”
“There’s plenty of fucking pain, doc. But I’ve dealt with that weak ass shit my whole life, so I don’t need any pussy medication to help me through it.” Which wasn’t true. He did need it, but goddamned if he only needed it some. For the most part, he could take the pain.
Bradford waited patiently, saying nothing.
Gar stared at him. He hated to admit it, but the old doc was actually halfway all right, for a civilian. Straight-laced as hell, sure. He found that out right after he was transferred into the bay when he’d probed for the possibility of Bradford doing a little smuggling for him. Everyone trusts doctors. He doubted that the hacks even searched them coming and going.
But Bradford had merely given him that little curious smile and told him that he was a doctor, not Han Solo, whatever the fuck that meant. Except it did mean something. It meant that no, he wouldn’t be doing any of that kind of work for Gar. It also meant that he wouldn’t be reporting him to the prison cops for asking.
Since then, they’d been pretty honest with each other. Bradford didn’t bullshit him about his condition and Gar didn’t pretend not to be pissed about it.
Bradford was still looking at him, so Gar finally spoke. He lowered his voice slightly, hoping that the mope in the next bed was asleep. “To make the pain stop, I gotta take too much, doc. And I’m tired of having my head all fucked around, you know? I’d rather hurt.”
Bradford nodded slowly. “All right.”
Gar’s eyes narrowed. “What’s going on?”
Bradford paused. It was brief, just a half second, but in that time, Gar knew.
“I’m getting close,” he said before Bradford could answer.
Bradford nodded. “I think so, yeah.”
“How close?”
“How close do you feel?”
“You’re the fucking doctor,” Gar said. “You fucking tell me.”
Bradford shook his head. “I’m a doctor, not Edgar Cayce.”
“Edgar the fuck who?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Bradford said. “I’m just trying to point out that at this stage of the game, a fortune teller is likely to be just as accurate as a doctor.”
Gar tried to cock an eyebrow at Bradford, but he was suddenly tired and it seemed like too much effort. Instead, he said, “You’ve got a great bedside manner, doc. Real touchy-feely.”
“I leave the softer side of things to the priest,” Bradford said.
“For all the good that’ll do me.”
Bradford shrugged. “That’s something where you’re on your own. Medically, I can tell you tha
t you probably don’t have long. Days. Maybe hours. But at this point, you’re the one who will have the best idea. As the pain dulls, as you get tired, maybe even peaceful, you’re getting closer.” He shrugged again. “At least that’s what most patients report.”
“Two outta three ain’t bad,” Gar said. “I ain’t ever going to see peaceful.”
Bradford said nothing.
Gar glanced back to the thin strip of window. In the time he’d spent talking to Bradford, the red streaks in the sky had faded to dark purple, almost black. He looked at the shadowy clouds for a moment longer, then turned back to Bradford.
“I need someone to make a couple of phone calls for me,” he said.
Bradford nodded. “I’ll send an orderly.”
“No,” Gar said. He started to tell Bradford that he wanted the doctor to make the calls for him, but another wave of pain struck him in the midsection. An involuntary grunt escaped him before he had the chance to set himself against the pain.
Bradford continued looking at him, unfazed.
Seen it all, haven’t you, doc?
“I need you,” Gar said, pointing a skeletal finger at Bradford, “to call my sons.”
Bradford nodded slowly. “All right.”
Gar swallowed. “I want to say goodbye,” he whispered.
Goodbye, he thought, before adding and go fuck yourselves.
TWO
Mick
I woke up to the tinny buzz from an alarm clock that was already old at the turn of the century. It took every ounce of self-control not to smash the piece of junk, which didn’t leave much discipline left over when it came to not hitting the snooze button. Thankfully, that function was one of the things, along with the radio, that didn’t work.
I pushed the off button, slid the covers back and sat on the edge of the bed. Cool air wafted across my bare feet and I shivered. This was the only way I knew I’d get up and not go back to sleep. Sheer unpleasantness, first thing in the morning.
I cast a quick look over my shoulder, wondering if I’d see her huddled form on the other side of the small bed, even though the truth was I could already sense that she was gone. Sure enough, not even an impression on the pillow where her head had rested, however briefly.
Figures.
After a minute or so, I stumbled the rest of the way out of bed and across the hall to the bathroom. The harsh light forced me to squint while I used the toilet, then splashed a little cold water on my face. In the mirror, my hair was tweaked by sleep. Two or three days growth of thick beard made my face look dirty, which was fine. I’d felt dirty for a long time now. Might as well look the part.
“Enough with the self-pity,” I told my reflection. “It’s a sin.”
Then I had to chuckle, just a little bit. You grow up Irish Catholic, pretty much everything is a sin, so that’s a pretty easy cushion to fall back on.
I cleared my sinuses, spit in the sink and rinsed it down.
Just go run, I told myself. You’ll feel better.
I returned to the small bedroom and flipped on the light. It only took another minute or two for me to slip on some sweats, a pair of battered running shoes and a Blackhawks watch cap.
Locking the apartment door behind me, I took the three flights down with my knees high, warming the muscles. At the bottom of the stairs, I stretched for a few minutes in the tiny foyer next to the mailboxes. Sometimes it smelled like vomit or piss, but this morning I got lucky. The super had mopped it out and the harsh smell of lemon and pine filled my lungs.
Warmed up, I slipped out the door into the cold darkness, and I ran.
THREE
Jerzy
The parking garage is full, but I park in a nice big handicapped spot. In the glove compartment is my old wheelchair card and I string it on the rearview mirror. Stole it years ago out of some old hag’s Caddy and it still comes in handy.
Tonight, as with most nights, the Ambrozy Club on the corner of Division and Milwaukee is hopping. I can hear the out-of-date music, or maybe it’s that stupid techno Euro-trash, thumping from here. An old style Chicago lounge to its very roots and the patronage is as Polish as Krakow.
Crossing the street, I pat my leather coat in a couple of spots just to make sure I got everything. Fishing out a cigarette, I light up and start walking down to the far corner of the block. Against the wind.
Motherfuck, it’s cold tonight.
This is a place where I used to do some business from time to time and I have an unpaid bill to collect from someone here. I just got released from Joliet a month ago and now it’s time to make the rounds. Finish up some old deals and start some new ones. I gotta make some appearances. Outta sight, outta mind, right? I always want to be on people’s minds. For almost everybody, I want to be their worst nightmare.
So watch the fuck out world, ‘cause Jerzy is back in town.
Finally, I reach the alcove and walk through the front door into a dark foyer. Place hasn’t changed a bit. There’s the old fashioned coat rack on my left. Same low ceiling and long narrow bar.
There isn’t an open seat in the place and hardly anywhere to even wedge in at the bar. Its standing room only, baby, and I can feel the electricity. Hell, I can smell it. Music, smoke, women and booze await me. Speakin’ of women, after business gets done, that wouldn’t be all bad tonight, either.
One problem, though, and now it’s standing right in front of me. When I came in, a big bastard who had been perched on a stool over to the far right stood up like he’d been shot out of a damn cannon. Big tanks that lumber you can handle, but the ones that move like a big cat are usually trouble.
I look him up and down.
“Who the fuck are you s’posed to be? You gonna check my I.D. for being underage or sumthin?” I asked him, and I bowed up a little and shifted over to my left. Just a little bit. If I’m in too tight I can’t throw that first shot very well.
“You a member?” he asked. “Can’t come in here anymore if you’re not. Private club.”
“No shit?” I ask him, all wide eyed.
“No shit.”
“Ambrozy still own this place?”
The guy just stares at me, chewing on that.
So, here we are then. I stare at him some more. Music pumps around us and the multicolored, revolving lights play around the room and across us. A girl screams over in the far corner, says something in Polish and then laughs hysterically.
The big guy smiles at me now, showing a gap where an incisor should be. Nice little scar running from his chin to almost his ear too. So somebody has snuck one or two in. It ain’t impossible, anyway.
That makes me grin.
“Yeah,” he says, “the old man still owns it and he pays me good to keep smartasses like you the fuck out.”
“If Ambrozy stills owns this place,” I smile again and give him a wink, “and you, then I’m a member you goofy bastard. Now step the fuck aside.”
He shook his head. “Last time, puke. Leave, or I’ll put you on the floor.”
I think on that for a quick second and get ready to hit him square in the throat. He is wide open to that. It can bring you down quick. Seen a guy killed that way one time. This fucker has a neck like a goddamn giraffe or something. Sure doesn’t fit the rest of his gorilla-ass body. Never seen anything like it.
“Now!” the big man says and begins to move forward.
Behind him, I hear a voice yelling my name.
“Jerz! Hey Jerzy! What the hell? How you doin’, man?” It’s Patrik Dudek peeking around the shoulder of the big bouncer and waving me in. “Come on and let me buy me you a drink, ya prick. On the house.”
I spread my arms and look at him. “Patty, look at you with the white shirt and tie. Whatta you doin’, man? You the manager of this dump or somethin’?”
Patrik comes around the big guy and gives him the look. “Kos, is there some kinda problem here? Whatta you trying to do here?”
The big guy‘s smile is gone now and so is his post
ure. The air has gone out of him. In fact it’s rushed out of him.
“Kos, you got no sense. You got no history here, either. This is Jerzy. Jerzy Sawyer.” He gets into the big guy’s face even more. “Do you have any fucking idea who he is?”
The bouncer’s eyes get a little big with my name. “He didn’t tell me his name, boss.”
“D’ja ask him?”
“Sorry, boss.”
“This guy’s done some very good things for my family down through the years. He’s helped us. I grew up with him. My dad’d do anything for Jerzy.”
Everybody is staring at each other.
Finally, I say, “So look Patrik, c’mon, please don’t embarrass me or this guy.” I look at the big ape. “Kos? It’s Kos, right?”
“Yeah. And, well, I’m sorry, Mr. Sawyer.” I could tell he was only saying that for the benefit of Patrik but it helped put him in place a little more.
“Jesus, Kos, don’t call me mister. I ain’t that fuckin’ old.” I laugh and shake the guys paw. I’m giving him the best grip I got and clamp it on him. The guy looks down at my hand and his expression changes. He tries to tighten up on the shake but it’s too late. I smile some more at him.
“Hey Patrik, he’s just tryin’ to do what you pay him to do right? So, whaddya do? Bust his balls.”
I’m laughing it up now.
Patrik claps me on the shoulder. “All right, good. We’re all straight here. Jerzy, you’re damn right I’m the manager now. So let’s go. There’s a bottle of Belvedere in my office calling us.”
Patrik leads the way to the back. As we walk by Kos, I grab the big guy around the neck and fake a punch to his ribs. Playful like, all shits and grins. He grins back at me and then I tighten the grip around his neck and lean in. The music is really loud again now. I swear it’s the fuckin’ Bee Gees from Saturday Night Fever. The colored disco lights wash over us again.
