“And after that month?”
“I'm sure you'll be in the money-making mood by then.”
As Roy climbed into his truck, he glanced once more at Owen. “I expect the right answer in a month.”
Owen only looked at him, having no desire to answer verbally. Roy nodded once more before backing out and driving away in his large truck. Realizing that the confrontation was over, Owen rubbed his eyes firmly. Taking a moment to swallow his saliva, it finally registered within his mind that he and his family were still alive. In that moment, it was all too much for him. His knees grew wobbly and gave out. His knees and palms each felt the poking pain of the sharp gravel that littered his driveway. Even as a man at 23, he felt extremely terrified.
As he attempted to compose himself in his almost prostrate position, Owen noticed a small ant dragging away the large carcass of a grasshopper. He was somewhat surprised, as his brain told him that the majority of ants tend to create a working line for stronger productivity. But here was an ant, all by its lonesome, carrying a grand meal for the rest of its mound. What could this ant be thinking, if it actually was? It was enough to get Owen's mind in motion. If this ant could save his colony by himself, he could save his family. They could leave town, leaving only the names engraved in headstones at the local cemetery as the only Tomkins left in Adrienne. He could also use the month to find someone to take their place. They had made a few connections during their trade, and there were likely many dealers who would be happy to take their position.
A month was more than enough time for them to think of something. An air of optimism swept over him. For once, Owen truly believed things were going to be alright. All he needed to do now was convince Patricia. She had to have calmed down by now, or so she hoped. The girl could hold onto grudges for a lengthy amount of time. If she were to see reason, then maybe they can see their way out of this as a couple. They started down this road with the goal to make more money as a family. But this road had twists and turns, and had corrupted and twisted their minds and bodies. That would happen no longer. The turning point was now and he planned to be the catalyst to direct his family into a new and better direction.
After getting up and dusting off his knees and taking a deep, but shaky breath, Owen slowly walked to the front door of his home. He was still nervous about speaking with Patricia, especially after the argument they just had. He half expected shoes or vases to be thrown at him as soon as he entered and her tongue to be sharp with vile insults. But that would be something he would just have to take in stride if he wanted to lift her from her addictions. Their livelihood depended on it. If he had to endure some of her incessant bitching and whining, so be it.
Focusing his mind for what may come, he grabbed the brass doorknob and turning it, though he could feel his hand shake as he did so. Welcoming him inside his home was a faint darkness, though open blinds in the living room gave him some visibility. The first thing he saw was Ali standing with her back against the wall. Her eyes were visible and shining, illuminated from the open blinds that allowed beaming rectangular shapes to be shone on her, the carpet and the wall.
Owen tentatively walked to his daughter. “Ali, what's wr-”
His eyes locked on to what she was seeing. A few feet away from his daughter's figuratively petrified body was Patricia splayed out on her back on the carpeted floor. On the coffee table above her lower body was a line of a white powder. By it was a straw, cut in half by a pair of scissors that also rested on the table. The zip lock bag that contained the powder sat plopped on the floor by her right hip.
Owen opened his mouth to speak, but he realized it was no use as he walked closer to the table. Patricia was bleeding from the nose, her blonde hair was tangled, her eyes were glazed over and her mouth was slightly agape. There was something else glistening in her eyes. He was scared to get closer, but the way they reflected the sunlight, he deduced that they must be tears. She had been crying.
Ali suddenly fainted to the floor, falling to her right side. His own knees followed suit, crumbling to the floor out of both weakness and worry for his daughter. Quickly, he scattered to his daughter, placing two of his fingers on his daughter's neck and nearing his ear close to her mouth and nose. Much to his relief, she was still breathing and her blood still pumped through her veins, but she was unconscious. Such a sight would do that to a little girl. His own breathing became difficult and contrived when he gazed at his Patricia. Many urges to race to her and shake her awake careened through his mind. Yet, he was sadly realistic. He was looking at a corpse.
Owen didn't want to, but he had to accept what he was seeing. While he desperately wanted to erase this memory from his mind, he needed to take in this sight. This was the end result of their foolishness and idiocy. This death would be burned into his mind, like a branding iron into cowhide. Bending his head down to look at his sleeping daughter, Owen took a breath as a salty tear touched his lips. It was arduous to look at her horrid body. But he understood that the image of Patricia could become him if he relapsed from all the effort he made of getting clean.
Slowly, his teary eyes rose to view her body. But he just couldn’t bear it, quickly closing them and trying to assure himself that this was all a dream. When he opened them again, this all would have never taken place. Opening his eyes as slowly as he could, a sudden chill ran up his spine, like ice picks stabbing him straight in the back.
Patricia was standing up. His body endured an abrupt paralysis. Owen couldn't move a muscle in it if he tried. Her eyes were viciously locked on to his own. Within them, he could see both fury and sadness. It was as if years and years of pain and agony could be seen in the windows of her soul. His breathing was stifled. Tears dripped off of his cheeks and onto the carpet below. He watched as her right arm extended outward and her index finger pointed at him.
Her mouth sounded out the words, “It's your fault!”
Owen suddenly found himself gasping for air in the darkness. It was difficult, but he finally managed to maintain his breathing. His entire body was covered in sweat, as the humid summer air of night had taken residence in his home. Realizing he was in his own bed, he was relieved, though he found such a feeling trivial.
Minus Patricia standing up and pointing at him, he dreamt the exact replay of that fateful day. This was the first time that the event was played in his sleep in such detail. From the fictional story he told Roy to the brutal overdose of Patricia, everything was accurate and faultless. It was too real for him to handle. Patricia had snorted heroin that was received from the drug dealer a couple of weeks back, cut with large amounts of fentanyl. According to the autopsy, her breathing had stopped quickly after taking the drug.
Wanting to forget about this and go back to sleep, he placed his open palms on his eyes and rubbed away the accumulation of tears. He observed that his face was covered in salty sweat as well, so he took an unused pillow and pressed his face into it. An abrupt thirst came to his dry throat. Trying to grab a glass of water from his nightstand, the dryness in his throat was immediately replaced by a welling feeling. It made him pause, as this was too recognizable. He stared into the pitch blackness of his room, until his cheeks inflated without warning. Sealing his mouth shut with both his lips and an open palm, he rushed to the bathroom.
His knees landed on the linoleum floor fiercely, creating a dulling pain. But that aching agony took a back seat to the acidic bile that tortured his throat. Expelling his innards into the open toilet, he found himself sobbing with each burst. He was sick of living like this, but what could he do? He made this bed for himself and now he would have to pay the price. But the weeping wasn't just caused by the burning bile in his throat and the jolt of pain in his knees. The real reason was because Patricia was still on his mind. 15 years had passed, and he still wasn't over her.
But he knew deep down that any day, he may be joining her. That thought unequivocally frightened him.
Chapter 5
Inhaling his cigarette thoroughl
y on the warm and muggy night, Nicky examined the burning ash as it contrasted with the void of darkness in front of him. As most evenings drew to a close, he would retire to his recently built front porch, where he would sit on a metal folding chair, usually with an ice chest full of beer to his left, and a pack of cigarettes resting on the closed lid. His manufactured home wasn't aesthetically pleasing, but along with the new porch and the small flower garden bordering the home, he did his best to make it look fantastic. He was currently saving up for a proper house to live and raise his family, but he imagined it would take another year or two at his current earning rate before he could buy what he wanted.
Nicky shared the home with his wife of four years and three children. There was a 12 year old boy from a previous girlfriend, a 10 year old girl that was his wife's child, and a boy of five years that was their offspring. He loved his wife, Rachel, though their marriage was almost ruined when he drunkenly cheated on her with an older woman a couple years back. Luckily, she forgave him, and he had remained faithful ever since. Rachel was comely, but without makeup, her blemishes and wrinkles were quite noticeable. She could also strike a nerve in him with her constant nagging about their current living arrangements. Whenever he was annoyed by her or the children, he would come outside and sit on the porch. Here was where he could find peace and reflect on the day.
The past four days, however, were extremely turbulent on his brain. There was much to think about, so much so that it was almost tearing him apart. Last Thursday, he was summoned to Shreveport to meet with one of the main bosses of the Roaring 20's. Normally, Scar is the one who reported to them, but this time, it was he who was summoned with a phone call, with explicit commands not to tell Scar. However, when he arrived at the meeting place, a public beach on Cross Lake across the border into Louisiana, he sensed something was a bit off. Awaiting him there were two men, both of whom he recognized. Wilson Paxton was of good height and build. His gray hair was thinning to the point where you could see his shiny scalp. Next to him was Anthony Passerini, a man who had the appearance and mannerisms of a stereotypical Italian gangster. His hair was jet black and slicked back, and he was of average height and build.
Paxton was one of the three top members of the Roaring 20's. While most in the FBI and ATF assumed there was only one authoritative voice in the criminal organization, it was actually governed by committee to ensure that no one man holds all the reins. This has kept the Roaring 20's profitable, adaptable and manageable for many years. Passerini was on par with Scar when it came to authority, as controlling the trafficking in New Orleans was his domain. He was well-liked and a company man among his peers, but was also known as extremely ruthless and unforgiving. With him and Scar being so similar in demeanor, it was evident that they didn’t get along. Passerini wanted to be on top just as badly as Scar and in the past, they had gotten into a few squabbles that never amounted to anything, except laying the ground work to their animosity.
Passerini had the pedigree for a crime boss. He came from a line of Mafioso, but decided to differentiate from his family, moving south to New Orleans from New Jersey on his 18th birthday. It didn't take him long to find a home within the Roaring 20's, making a name for himself quickly. While the Big Easy had always been a strong haven for drugs, Passerini maintained order and set boundaries, taking turf from other gangs when necessary while setting a precedence for other gang members to aspire to. When he did take territory from his foes, it was done in a merciless, but clean and quick fashion. He had a bit of a lead on Scar when it came to favoritism since New Orleans had more for him to contend with. Another thing that made him rich and popular was that he ran legitimate businesses, notably a real estate firm and an advertising corporation, for which he was able to launder small increments of money.
Remembering the toasty Thursday afternoon vividly, the soles of Nicky’s shoes made imprints into the soft beach sand. Paxton looked like he just got off the golf course, wearing khaki slacks and an orange polo with pencil thin white horizontal pinstripes. Passerini had on a white dress shirt with a red tie. His shirt sleeves were rolled up almost to the elbow. Black slacks completed the attire. Both men sized Nicky up as he approached them.
“Mr. Suarez,” said Paxton, removing a pair of sunglasses from his head. “How are you doing?”
“Pretty good. Yourself?”
Paxton nodded his head. “Good. So, I'm going to get straight to business, because it is too fucking hot to stand out here all day.”
“I agree.”
Passerini cleared his throat. “Nicky. I'm sure you want to be making a lot more money than you do now, right?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“You willing to get your hands dirty for it?” continued Passerini.
“Ain't been an issue before.”
Passerini nodded, while Paxton rubbed a particle of dirt off of his sunglasses.
Wanting to halt an approaching awkward silence, Nicky spoke. “So...you going to tell me what this job is?”
Paxton gave an annoyed glare that quickly vanished into one of indifference. “I am retiring soon.”
Nicky smiled, but wasn't sure if he was supposed to. “Congratulations?”
“Thanks. I damn well earned it. However, I want to retire knowing that the Roaring 20's that I helped expand and maintain stays intact. Most people probably wouldn’t give a damn. But I like my legacies to continue on for decades. This is why we invited you out here, Mr. Suarez.”
“Well, I am down to do whatever you need me to. I'll make sure we stay strong. Just tell me what to do.”
Paxton slowly nodded. “I need you to kill Scar Grayson.”
His surprised reaction was delayed. It was the most shocking requests he could have been given. The top men in the Roaring 20's literally asked him to kill Scar, a man he grew up with, a man that he considered a true brother. Not only that, Scar was a well-respected man within the organization. Such a request befuddled him.
“I know this is one fucking hell of a job, Suarez. But I'm asking you because I know you can get it done,” droned Paxton.
“Man, I...fuck, man. I can't do that! This man is my brother.”
Passerini crossed his arms slowly. “Let me put it this way, Nick. Scar will eventually be taken out. If you don't do it, someone else will. After it is done, someone will be taking his place. It won’t be you.”
“What the fuck? Why would it not be me? I know the area, I know our guys, they know me. It’d be stupid as hell for it not to be me.”
“That's how it is,” Paxton explained. “Interstate 20 and those cities on that stretch of road are prime ground for making money. You boys in the woods that manufacture all that meth make us a lot of money. We need someone we can trust in that position to make sure the transportation in between Dallas and Shreveport stays hiccup free. We need a man we can trust to make sure you keep that meth keeps getting cooked and sold. You saying no here, well...it makes it a little tough for us to give you such a lucrative position if we can't trust you.”
“You can trust me, Mr. Paxton. But you are asking me to kill my best friend. You gotta understand.”
“We know how difficult it is for you. But it's gotta be done. You'll get a stipend when the deed is done, and you will take over Scar's position as the overseer in the area, so you will make whatever he makes, plus bonuses when they are deserved.”
Nicky placed his hands on the back of his head and interlocked his fingers. Pacing back and forth on the sand, no clear thoughts manifested in his mind. How could he honestly make the conscious decision to kill his best friend? If he were to do it, how would he perform the task? He halted his thinking before he dived too deep into that dark abyss. This was not how he expected this day to go.
Turning to face the lake, Nicky sighed. “Do I get some time to make this decision?”
“No,” declared Passerini. “Your decision will be made here.”
“Seriously? The fuck? You drop this shit on me and can't give me time to thi
nk on this? Fuck you.”
Passerini bowed up. “Fuck you! You can die with him if you want!”
“Bring it, you Italian bitch!”
“Both of you shut the fuck up!” Paxton barked.
The two men grimaced in anger, but they eventually settled down.
Paxton exhaled a frustrated sigh before continuing. “As we've told you, we get that this is a big request.”
“Can you at least give me an explanation why you want to do this? Don't he make you shit tons of money?”
“He does. He's done great things for us. I'm not denying that.”
“Then why? Come on, Mr. Paxton. You at least owe me an-”
“I don't owe you shit, boy.”
Nicky bit his lip to not retort with anything insulting. He had a quick mouth, but Paxton was not the person to talk back to.
Paxton kept his eyes on Nicky for what seemed like hours. Just enduring his vindictive stare was enough to make Nicky feel uneasy. Yet, his icy cold stare morphed into something of relative warmth, compared to the absolute hatred that formerly pulsed from his eyes.
“You want me to explain?” stated Paxton. He picked at something in his teeth crudely. “It's simpler than you think.”
“I'm listening, boss.”
“Okay...you probably know Scar just as well as I do. I’d bet you know him better than anyone. So, you know the kind of man he is, right?”
“The kind of man he is? He gets shit done. If there's more to it, you're gonna have to be a bit more specific.”
“Do you know how much money he makes? Honest question.”
Nicky scratched his head. “Um...we’ve never really talked numbers.”
Passerini butted in, almost eager to answer for his boss. “I can tell you. He makes more in a year than you probably will in your life. Answer me this. Weekly, what are you bringing in?”
The blunt question made Nicky ponder his exact earnings. “Uh, shit. I made a little under a thousand last week, and that was a pretty down week.”
Comin' Home to You Page 11
