Blood on Blood

by Frank Zafiro

  I glanced over at the entrance to the room. An impossibly young priest with bushy brown hair but a red goatee stood near the door.

  “Nothing, Father,” I said. “Sorry to disturb you.”

  The priest smiled. “This is a house of God, my son. You’re not disturbing me at all.” His accent was prevalent, but lacked the thick brogue of the old priest who’d overseen my mother’s funeral all those years ago.

  “You’re new,” I said.

  He looked confused. “No, lad. I’ve been at this church for over six years. Do you not live in this neighborhood?”

  I shook my head. “Not anymore.”

  He nodded and walked toward me. When he reached my side, he read the nameplate. I realized I was still touching it and dropped my hand, strangely ashamed.

  “Margaret Sawyer was your mother, then?”

  I nodded.

  “You know she is with her Savior now, don’t you?”

  I smiled slightly and shook my head. “I know she was counting on that, Father.”

  “And she can,” he said, his tone conversational. “We all can.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Well, thanks, Father.”

  The priest said nothing, but he held my gaze. Just as I was about to look away, he asked, “Why did you come here today, my son? What’s troubling you?”

  I almost laughed. All that Irish Catholic guilt that pounds me every day and yet when I am face to face with it, it seems like a bad joke. What can this guy offer me? If he’s older than me, then it’s just barely. I bet he grew up in some Massachusetts suburb before he went off to seminary, too.

  But he kept staring at me, so I finally said, “It’s complicated.”

  “Most things are,” he answered.

  I stood silently. I didn’t want to answer him. I wanted to leave. But you don’t just walk away from a priest like that. Not when he’s just doing his job. That was part of some code, too.

  “I just wanted to sort through some things,” I told him. “See what my mother might want me to do.”

  “Worrying about doing your duty, are you?”

  I smiled humorlessly. “You could say that.”

  He nodded slowly. “Duty is important. As long as it doesn’t overshadow God’s will.”

  I rolled that through my mind a couple of times. While I was doing that, he reached out and squeezed my shoulder, then turned and strode away. He was out the large doors of the columbarium before I came to the conclusion that he was completely full of shit.

  Duty is important?

  Yeah, right. Because everyone else is so fucking loyal, I should be, too?

  God’s will?

  Jesus, father, I don’t even know if there is a God these days. If I hadn’t been forced to do the kneel, sit, stand, kneel, pray routine for so many years, I wouldn’t be so guilt-conditioned. That guilt runs through my veins with generations of genetic code pushing behind it. But that doesn’t mean there’s a God. Or that he has any particular will. Or that I should give a shit if he does.

  I glanced back up at my mother’s blue and white patterned urn. I reached out and touched the marble.

  “I’ll go,” I whispered.

  For her, I’d go.

  “I’ll give him back his one day,” I said. “But that’s it.”

  SEVEN

  Jerzy

  I wake up like I’ve been shot in the ass, eyes wide open and sweating like a whore in church. Speaking of which, she’s laying right beside me, snoring softly.

  Her back is to me and I prop myself up on an elbow to look around the bedroom. Where in the fuck am I? I see clothes laying all over hell. The sheets and covers are twirled and twisted.

  Her apartment, yeah. Annie or Angie maybe. Yeah, I remember now. A little, anyway.

  I look at the drapes of two small bay windows on the far wall and there is a little hazy light coming in but it’s still early. Don’t hear much traffic.

  I swear I can’t sleep for more than a long nap anymore. Doesn’t matter what shape I’m in either, I wake up like some kind of psycho or something. Breathing heavy and all jazzed up. I think I dream too much. Can’t ever really remember them but it seems like I’m always running, about to get capped or caught and then bang, I wake the fuck up.

  Like right now, I’m still drunk, too drunk to even have a hangover yet. I should be out cold, snoozin’ away for another two, three hours.

  There’s something I’m forgetting here.

  I swing my legs over the edge and stand up too quick, taking three steps sideways. I do the wide stance, hands on the hips routine to get my bearings.

  There is something I need to check here and I look around the room trying to figure out just what the hell that might be.

  Annie, or whatever the hell her name is, sighs and rolls over. Her blonde hair is hanging across her face but she’s showing everything else. Damn nice, and if I could just remember one single thing about last night it’d probably be even better.

  My eyes stop on the leather jacket hanging off the edge of her dresser. I blink my eyes slowly like an idiot and it finally comes to me. That’s what is so damn important. I walk over to the dresser, real slow like, buck naked and doing the weave a little.

  I pick up my jacket and knock over a bottle of hair spray or some shit. It rolls into a jewelry tree stand and almost knocks it over. I’m a fuckin’ mess.

  Staggering away two steps, I’m holding the jacket out in front of me, looking like a punch drunk boxer.

  I go back to the bed and spread it out. Reaching for an inside pocket I find it right away. The two stacks of money that Patrik had given me last night. All nice and neat, still banded. Fuck yeah, good deal. I turn to gather up my clothes but I remember something else.

  I pat down the jacket, check all the pockets, turn it inside out and back again. Nothing. What the shit? Please tell me I didn’t lose that, spend it all or get it lifted.

  “Dzien dobry,” she says from the bed. One hand has swept away her hair and she’s even hotter than I thought she was. “Moj wielbiciel.”

  “I’ll be your lover even more if you tell me where you put the rest of my money.”

  She shakes her head no and cocks her head a little to the side.

  “My money…my pieniadze?”

  She stretches, gives me the sleepy smile and then reaches over to me slowly.

  I lean over to meet her but grab her by the throat and push her down into the pillow. I’ve been picked and tossed before but not this time.

  She’s looking up at me all confused and innocent, with her eyebrows raised. I ease up on the pressure just enough to let her breathe then lower myself down on top of her. Kissing her roughly, I put the pressure back on again.

  “Pieniadze?” I whisper it to her but it’s a threat as much as anything. I’m thinking she don’t look drunk at all. I’ve been had here. She either got it last night or someone ducked in here and grabbed it.

  A big tear forms in her left eye and cascades down her cheek. She waves a hand slowly at me and I let off the grip a little.

  “Money?” She chokes out. “Zadne pieniadze.”

  “Well, then who the hell does have it?”

  She just keeps giving me that sad, confused look.

  “I’m going to really start hurting you now.”

  “Please now, back to bed. Everything okay.”

  I put the choke on her again but my phone starts chirping. Trouble is I can’t see it. I let up on her but get right in her face.

  “You stay right there and I do mean right the fuck there, you understand? Don’t you move.”

  I start tossing clothes and finally find it in my pants pocket on the fourth ring.

  I don’t recognize the number.

  “Yeah?”

  “Hello, yes, is this uh, Jerzy Sawyer?”

  The guy said Jerzy like he was trying to speak for the first time. Or he’s just a faggot, plain and simple.

  “Yeah.”

  “All right then, good morning, Mr.
Sawyer. This is Doctor Bradford. I’m the head physician at Columbia Correctional Facility here in Portage, Wisconsin.”

  “Well, that’s great, doctor. I’m the new mayor here in Chicago, Illinois. According to my phone it’s six fucking thirty in the morning. So, you have about ten seconds more until I go away.”

  “You’re a hard man to get a hold of. I have called relatives and — “

  “Five seconds.”

  What the hell was this shit?

  “Very well then, as you probably already know, your father, Mr. Garnett Sawyer, is incarcerated here at Columbia.”

  “Probably, I do know that, yes. Is there any other newsflash you might have for me here, doctor? If so, spit it the fuck out.”

  “Your father is not a well man. In fact, he’s very sick. I’m sorry to inform you that it is terminal and has been for some time now. He made a request that I call you so that you can come to say goodbye.”

  I wasn’t all that surprised but it still hurt. It got my attention. Fuck me.

  “He wants to see you as soon as possible. There really isn’t too much time. As a rule, we normally have very strict visiting hours but I have made arrangements for you and your family.”

  “My family?”

  “I’ve already spoken with your brother and mother. We’ll get you in to see him as soon as you can make it here.”

  Shit. This is going to be a jumble fuck if there ever was one. Shit. I realize I have been pacing around the room and not staggering anymore. This call has sobered my drunk ass right up.

  “Yeah, yeah, I understand. Sure, I’ll be there soon.”

  “Once again, Mr. Sawyer, there is not much time. In terms of soon, what were you thinking?”

  “Look, Dr. Bradford from bum-fuck Wisconsin, I said exactly what I was thinking. Soon. That’s what I’m thinking. Soon, got it?”

  “Very well. Do you know of this facility? Where we are located?”

  “Yeah, I know the place. And how’s this, a day maybe. At the most, two days. I’ll be there.”

  I snap my phone shut and stare down at the floor.

  Motherfucker, I can’t believe this but then again I can. I mean the old man had lived crazy and rough his entire life, so it wasn’t like this couldn’t have been about ten other things…and ten years earlier. Man, this is gonna blow, big time. I mean Mick, what the shit was that dumbass up to these days? I stopped having a brother a long, long fuckin’ time ago. My mom, what have I got to say to her? What have I got say to any of ‘em, including the old man?

  He’s my old man, though, and I guess that he did his best when we were younger. Despite what my righteous ass brother might think, life is nothin’ but a crapshoot anyway. You play what you get dealt. No guarantees in this game and every father can’t be Time Magazine’s fuckin’ Man of the Year.

  I’m staring at the phone but out of the corner of my eye I see it. Over on the floor, in the corner. Next to the wastebasket. Laying there right out in front of God and everybody was the third bundle of money. Probably dropped out of my jacket last night while we were doing the dance.

  I look around at her and she was sitting up now with the sheets pulled up around her. She’s just watching me, calm as shit.

  “Jestem zalujacym dzieckiem,” I say.. I point at myself, then the money on the floor. I slump my shoulders and then give her my best puppy dog look. “I’m just an ass and I didn’t mean to hurt you. This is a onetime only though, ‘cause I’m never wrong and never sorry. ”

  She smiles sweetly and holds out her arms to me. “So you gotta go, huh? That didn’t sound too good on the phone. I hope it’s nothing too serious.”

  She brushes her hair out of her face and the sheet drops. For a very long second I’m thinking, hey, I got a little more time. Forget the fact that I was trying to choke her to death a minute ago. I can still see the red marks on her neck and I guess I feel a little bad about that. Instead, I try to focus on the different voice I just heard come out of her.

  “Whoa, now. What happened to my little Polish immigrant bartender?”

  “Oh, I’m all Polack,” she says, “but I’m a Chicago girl all the way, born and bred. I’m a Cubs fan, hate the Sox, love the Bears and know a few of the Blackhawks players.” She winks at me and gives me that sweet smile.

  “So, wait here now. What was with the accent and the eastern European mail order bride thing?” I can’t help but smile back at her.

  “I go to night school at DePaul and I really needed this job I got a month ago at Ambrozy’s.” She still has the accent but it’s very slight, just slinky enough. “My parents basically disowned me a few years ago, so I’ve kinda been on my own.”

  “I still don’t get the need for all the broken English, innocence and not understanding anything.”

  “If I’ve learned one thing quickly with the crowd at Ambrozy’s, and Patrik in particular, it pays to be cautious. You just never know. Sometimes,” she puts the innocent confused look back on her face, “is better to not speak English very well and to, uh, how you say? Be clueless? Eh? Stay out of your business, whatever it is you do. You could have been a very bad man.”

  “I am, Annie. I’m a very bad man.”

  “But you wouldn’t kill me, Jerzy. I believe you’re smarter than that.”

  “I like the way you think.”

  “I like the way you look.” She laughs and nods at me with a raised eyebrow. “And it’s Ania.”

  “Ania.” I start throwing my clothes on. “I like that name.”

  “So did my parents, I guess.” She watches me getting dressed. “So okay, we’ve established that you are definitely a dangerous man. Then again, I’ve always liked dangerous.”

  “Thanks. I think.”

  “You really have to go now, don’t you? Everything okay?”

  “Yeah, gotta run. Everything is never okay, Ania. Just some things are. This thing with us was definitely okay.”

  I find my shoulder holster and gun under the bed and loop it on. She’s watching close, taking it all in.

  “So, what are you doing in college?”

  “Studying psychology, I like that, too. I’m going to be a shrink someday.”

  “Holy shit, and you say I’m dangerous. You could be doing a fuckin’ study on me right now.” I throw on my jacket and put the money in my inside pockets. I’m ready to hit it. I’ll have to stop by the dump I’ve been calling home since getting out of Joliet. Get cleaned up a little and pack a few clothes.

  I head back over to the bed, lean over and give her a kiss. No time for long goodbyes here, not that there would have been one, anyway. I turn to go, but stop.

  “You okay, Ania?”

  What the hell am I saying? Like I give a shit.

  “Sure, Jerzy.”

  “Yeah, well, I didn’t mean anything earlier. I just thought you shook me down. I hope you don’t bruise real easy.”

  “No worries. I’m a big girl.”

  “Sure, sure. What are ya, all of twenty one, twenty two or some crazy ass age like that?”

  “Close.”

  “You work a lot of hours at Ambrozy?”

  “As many as I can get.”

  “Is bartending all he’s got you doing?”

  She just shrugged. “I wear a few different hats.”

  “Be careful with that. Patrik paying you good?”

  “He pays me more in a week than my father ever made for a month of laying brick all over this town. The apartment is rented pretty cheap to me and a few Ambrozy employees live here, too. Patrik owns this building now.”

  “Yeah? Well, okay. You take care of yourself and maybe I’ll drop in again for a drink soon.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  I pat my pockets for the car keys and find them.

  “So, there’s just one more thing. You know where I parked last night? Drawing a little blank there.”

  “Right out front. I drove, parked it real careful.”

  I’m taking the steps two at a t
ime down from the third floor and thinking about everything I got going on. I can’t forget to call Patrik by noon today, either. I’m going all the way in on that thing he had for me. I got some good money here now but there’s a helluva lot more waiting to be had.

  Like old Gar always said, ride those hot streaks all the way to the end. Ride the piss out of them until you know things have gone cold. Don’t jump off that fuckin’ train too soon.

  That gets to me start thinking about him and I push it all down just like I’ve always done. He was, and still is, a rat bastard. Hey, so am I. But he’s my rat bastard. He’s still my old man and fuck anyone that ain’t on board with that.

  I come out the front door of the apartments and bang, there is my car, only a few spaces down.

  I like this Ania.

  EIGHT

  Mick

  I’ve never been to prison.

  Jail, sure. In the year and a half I spent on the job, I booked my share of suspects. And I saw the inside of a jail cell for a few weeks on that shit Harris and the Sarge pulled. But prison is a different matter. Or so I hear.

  They checked me through with all the efficiency you might expect. Slow and steady. Lots of waiting. And repeating myself. And showing identification. And being searched.

  All the while, the guards kept a professional detachment, coupled with a hint of arrogance. There was a time when this would have pissed me off, maybe even pushed me over the edge, but today I didn’t even say a word. All I could remember was wearing the badge myself and talking about how these guys were just wannabe cops who couldn’t make the varsity team.

  So maybe I deserved it, yeah?

  That’s what I thought for a little while. But after over an hour, I started feeling a little bit like I imagined the cons must feel every day. Something along the lines of “You know what? Fuck these guys.”

  So when some guy named Hebert with a thick French Canadian accent asked me for the fifth time who I was there to see, I’d had enough.

  “Gar fucking Sawyer,” I snapped and pointed at the paperwork in front of him. “Or can’t you read English?”