by Greg Enslen
Gary stepped back and saw a small white envelope that had fallen down beside the seat. It had to be Mike’s—Gary didn’t recognize it. He picked it up and felt it—there was something inside.
On the outside of the envelope was Gary’s name.
That was strange.
Why would Mike have an envelope with Gary’s name on it? Why wouldn’t Mike have given it to him, and where did Mike get it?
The beam of the lighthouse brushed over him, picking out his name again, and he recognized his stepmother’s backhanded scrawl.
A breeze picked up, bringing the salty scent of the ocean in off the water, bending one corner of the envelope back in his hand.
He turned the envelope over and pulled up the glued-down flap, reaching inside.
It was a photograph of a group of people, young kids in high school.
Gary recognized himself in the middle, and he was smiling with that mouthful of crooked teeth he had always wanted to get fixed.
The Gary in the photo was wearing a pointed hat, one of those plastic ones they make you wear on your birthday when you go out to eat at a restaurant.
There was a girl sitting on his lap that he didn’t recognize, but she had one arm around him, smiling and leaning over to give him a kiss while still managing to look at the camera. There were three other people in the picture, arrayed around a table at a restaurant.
There was a large cake in the middle of the table.
The sharp cone of light from the lighthouse swung around again and lit up the picture clearly for the first time, and he saw the writing on the cake.
It said, “Happy 17th Birthday, Chris.”
The pain came without warning, stabbing him in the head like a hot icicle through his temple. He put a hand to one eye and gripped the picture, squinting at it. Obviously, it was a birthday celebration for him, but he couldn’t remember it. Gary’s hand suddenly began shaking as the intense migraine squeezed his head, pounding, pulsating. He put his hands to his temples, feeling like he was holding his brains in. Gary stumbled against the side of his car, sliding down to the ground and passing out.
The picture fluttered and dropped to the parking lot along with the envelope. The light breeze scooted the picture along the dark pavement, blowing it toward the tall cliffs and the sea below.
------
A bright light washed over him.
For a long moment after Gary sat up, he had absolutely no idea where he was.
It came back in a flash of recognition as the lighthouse beam passed over him again, and for a moment he caught the strong scent of cigarette smoke. He pinched the bridge of his nose hard between his thumb and forefinger, squeezing right between his eyes, and the pain in his head seemed to back off a fraction.
Gary had been looking at a picture of a scene he could not remember and the pain had come suddenly. He guessed he’d passed out, something that had never happened to him.
Gary turned and looked around for the picture, but didn’t see it. The moon had gone under a cloud, and it was dark except for the regular spinning of the beam of light.
He stood up slowly, holding onto the car for support, and then began walking around, looking. It wasn’t windy, but he had no idea how long he had been out—the picture could have gone out to sea, or blown along the coast all the way down to the old abandoned Marineland Park, for all he knew.
Gary angled toward the wooden fencing that kept people from falling the hundred or so feet into the jagged rocks and roaring surf of the water below. There were rocks and small brush along the base of the fencing, and he spotted the photograph near the edge, one corner of it stuck under a rock.
He picked it up, dusting it off without looking at it, and headed back to his car, the passenger door still standing open.
Waiting for the next pass of the light, he looked more closely at the picture and picked out the name again.
No, he was not mistaken—it said “Chris,” not “Gary.”
Another wave of pain crushed his skull, but he resisted it, staring at the picture. The cake was obviously for him—the others in the picture, other faces he did not recognize, were all looking at him and smiling.
The girl on his lap was getting ready to kiss him. She had one arm draped around him in a familiar way.
The cake was right in front of him.
Had it been some kind of joke? Had someone been playing a prank on him, calling him the wrong name? The version of him in the picture looked about seventeen years old—surely he should be able to remember this occasion.
As far back as Sacramento, he had had trouble remembering people and events from back in St. Louis. He’d chalked it up to his mind preferring not to remember all those horrible times, like the trial, or watching his mother take her last breath.
But this picture didn’t look that bad—he was smiling and happy. He looked happier in the picture than he could ever remember.
The cigarette lighter in his car popped out, but he didn’t hear it—he was looking at the girl.
She was perfect. She looked like the kind of woman he would describe if someone were to ask him about his ideal companion. She had long, curly brown hair that seemed to shine with subtle red highlights—it looked like it was moving, even in the picture. She had big beautiful eyes and a tomboyish figure. The way she was draped over him, one arm casually around his neck, looked like she belonged there on his lap. They looked like they made a good couple....
Pain, like a wave, crashed over him. He stumbled and leaned against his car for support, for strength, as if he could somehow borrow some of the car’s solidity.
He felt like he was losing his mind.
Gary forced himself to look at the picture again. The smile on her face, her lips pursed as she prepared to kiss him, told Gary that she was happy to be sitting there on his lap.
Who was she?
This was frustrating—he squeezed the bridge of his nose again, trying to relax and think clearly. His head throbbed from the pain. A cigarette sounded good right now, and a couple shots of tequila sounded even better. Or maybe just some wine, or a simple bottle of American beer.
He didn’t care anymore—distraction was what he needed, not a thousand questions ricocheting around inside his mind.
The girl looked like she knew how to relax and have fun. She looked like she would be as comfortable at a formal dinner in a little black cocktail dress as she would be lounging on the couch in her sweats, watching a ballgame.
Why didn’t he remember her? He could remember every woman he had ever known, could remember the names and faces of every woman he had ever dated. He should be able to remember this one.
The pain grew, a wave moving over him, threatening to wash him away.
He forced himself to look into the girl’s eyes.
Her eyes.
There was something strange there, something that reminded him of....
The moon wasn’t giving off enough light. He angled the picture up, and when the cone of illumination from the lighthouse spun around again, he stared at the picture.
Her eyes were the same.
Somewhere along the line, he’d dreamed different bits and pieces of the whole “drama” of the dream, experiencing different portions of it at different times. Sometimes he just dreamt of the horror and the pain. Other times he would dream of just being there in the bed, and knowing what was coming in the dream had made the waiting even more dreadful.
At one point he had started the dream even earlier in the narrative. The woman was sitting in bed, brushing her short-cropped hair. Gary could feel the hairbrush against his scalp, but as always, he was a passive observer, unable to warn the woman about the man about to come through the door, the man with that horrible smile and sharp knife. The woman continued brushing her hair, and then stopped, setting the brush down on a bedside table and picking up a small mirror.
Gary had gotten a glimpse of her face, just a quick one, as the mirror showed a reflection of her eyes. The woman gi
ngerly touched her black-and-blue left eye—the bruise looked several days old—before turning the mirror up to look at her oddly cut, close-cropped hair.
But the eyes were the same as the girl in the birthday picture.
The same eyes.
What the hell did that mean? He was dreaming about this woman, a girl he’d supposedly met but couldn’t remember.
Gary slowly put the picture back into the envelope and walked around the car, the ocean and his cigarette forgotten. He climbed in, wondering what, if anything, to do next.
He headed north, toward Redondo and the city. In the other direction was the rest of the loop around the Peninsula—the road ran past the abandoned Marineland Amusement Park, whose empty pools were so popular with skateboarders, finally leading to San Pedro and Long Beach.
But Gary wasn’t in the mood for a long, leisurely drive anymore. He wanted to get home as soon as possible and look at the picture.
His car disappeared around the cliff side, his mind awash with questions and suppositions.
Behind him, the lighthouse continued to throw its cone of light out across the dark water, a beacon warning away approaching ships from the submerged rocks lurking just below the surface. Night after night, it protected those who wandered the dark sea.
Chapter 21
“What else did he say?”
The young black man in front of him was fidgeting again, something Shotgun hated. The boy showed no respect for his elders—if he did, the boy would just get to the point. Of course, the kid was a little nervous, and Shotgun could hardly blame him.
The room was full of angry men sitting in chairs around the table or standing with their arms crossed behind them, leaning on the walls. Alfonse “Shotgun” Pope was sitting at the head of the table, a location he had earned, and the kid was on the other end, looking scared out of his mind.
“Well, he said that they were moving into the area. If I went to work for him, there would be something in it for me. He said things were going to get nasty. If I picked the right side now, things would be better for me.”
Mumbling erupted from almost everyone in the room, punctuated with a few low curses. The men didn’t seem surprised by what the kid was saying.
Shotgun wasn’t surprised, not at all. He’d felt this was coming for a long time—it was a wonder it had taken so long. Thankfully, his intuition had been right—he’d spent the past year and a half consolidating his position, and now it would pay off.
The mumbling continued for a few minutes longer, or, more accurately, Shotgun allowed the mumbling to continue for a few minutes before he slowly raised one hand from the table, silencing the room. Some of the younger kids continued talking. They were elbowed into silence by the people near them.
Respect was all they had anymore. If Shotgun had learned anything from his many dealings with the Italians, it was that an organization based on respect for its elders was the most successful.
Pope’s “set,” or gang, was the most successful around, but it sounded like that was about to change.
“How did you leave it with him, Tim?” Shotgun asked the scared kid.
The young man looked up at the leader of his set, forming the words in his mind.
“I said I would think about it. They took what stuff I had, though, and gave me a good clock on the head before taking off, so I don’t think they believed me.”
Shotgun nodded, waving the kid away. Timmy hopped up out of his chair and dashed out of the meeting room, and his chair was quickly taken by one of the older men who had been standing.
The room grew quiet. Shotgun knew what he needed so say, but he let the room stay silent for a long moment before suddenly standing and starting his usual pace around the room. He only talked well when he paced. Of course, no one took his chair at the head of the table.
“This is bad. There is nowhere for this to go except for war, if things go as the Italians plan.”
He glanced around and saw that he had everyone’s attention. “The Lucianos are getting back into the crime business, so the rumors we have heard are true. They’re moving into narcotics, and it sounds like Vincent Luciano is at the head of this. The fastest and most lucrative way to do that would be to muscle us off the nose trade once and for all.” It was a vulgar way of labeling the enormous cocaine market in East St. Louis and the big city beyond, but Shotgun knew to use the latest terms—it reminded his underlings that he was still connected to the street in the most intimate ways.
“And if things go as they plan, they will slowly push us out and take over. I assume that they have already managed to locate a source, more than likely one of ours, and they may be negotiating with our other suppliers to cut us completely out of the market. If they can afford to outspend us, it could be dangerous.”
There were nods and agreement all around the room—everyone respected Shotgun’s leadership, especially when it came to the logistics of running an operation this big. Everyone was aware that he had the most experience of any of them in the dealing and supply side of coke—it was how he had cemented his position at the head of the organization.
He continued walking around the room, thinking about the next steps. He could initiate a gang war, something all of the men in this room probably would endorse, but that would most likely end up as a waste of valuable resources and contacts.
There had to be another way of getting the Luckies’ attention. Shotgun and the East Dogs were the most powerful Blood organization between New York and Chicago. Pope needed to make the Luckies see the reality of the situation.
They could share territories, or divide up the city if they were forced to, but that kind of thing usually only occurred after a summit of some sort—and this time, the Luckies hadn’t even contacted him to let him know they were getting back into the business.
The Italians usually shied away from coke—Pope had done his homework and knew that dealing had almost destroyed the New York Mob back in the mid-eighties. But maybe they were ready to get back in. And start making money off his people.
“Okay. It’s time to get ready. If they want a war and come looking, we must be ready. Make sure that we are fully prepared, and if there are things we need, get them. Everyone report back your group’s status to your captains, and all captains report to Willie B. Reach out to everyone, even the soldiers and associates—we need ears to the ground. Anybody need anything special, tell your captains and they’ll talk to Willie.”
He stopped for a moment, silencing the low murmuring that had started up when he’d mentioned getting ready for war.
“But if it comes to war, we will have already lost. All the Italians have to do is cap about five or six guys in this room, or arrange for them to be capped by our own people, and this organization will topple—they’ll walk right in and take over.”
The room grew quiet. Every eye was on him.
Pope nodded. “So I want all the newest boys checked and double-checked, anybody new since...anybody in the past six months. Surely they’ve been planning this for at least that long. But most importantly, we need options.
“Talk to your people on the streets in O’Fallon and Granite City and Belleville,” Pope continued. “Find out what you can about any changes in their organization. I know that old Mike Beneldo and a couple of his guys would never approve of moving into nose candy—they spent too many years making all of the Luckies’ business legit. They’re probably taking a dirt nap, but if not, we need to talk to them. We need information. Find out where they’re getting their stuff and who they’ve got pushing it. Anybody pushing in this area, we should already know. And if there are any other options, we need to know about them, and soon. This is going to be fast and ugly. Thank you.”
This was their cue. The entire group of captains shuffled out of the doors, keeping their conversations low and among themselves. Shotgun headed back over to his chair, where Willie B. and Rugio were still sitting. Willie B. was what the Italians would have considered to be Shotgun’s unde
rboss, the man who would take over if anything happened to him. Also following the Italian model, Shotgun had appointed Rugio as his consigliere, or counselor. Between the three of them, things had run smoothly in the almost two years since Old Tuan had taken a bullet in his back from an undercover cop.
Rugio spoke first. “Good speech. I think these are just the first moves, and we’ve got lots of time before we have to worry.”
Shotgun nodded. “Yeah, but we have to start getting ready. And if the Luckies want a war, we can use it as an opportunity to grab up some of their business, especially down on the dock.”
He was referring to the virtual lock that the Italian family had on the loading and unloading of shipments onto the East St. Louis docks, tucked beneath the Martin Luther King and Eads Bridges. The Italians had never been willing to even discuss sharing the profits from these operations, although by rights of territory, the East Dogs deserved something. If a war came, those operations would be up for grabs. It might even be worth a trade for some of the East Dogs’ nose business in the eastern area of the gang’s influence.
“Yeah, but war is a bad thing—I know from Compton that there is no way to win,” Willie B. said, shaking his head. He was from the big time. He had come into town a few years back to visit family and ended up staying, working up from pushing to running his own crew to working directly under Shotgun, in line for the top job. “You kill each other and grab up some territory, but the cops come down like a wet towel and put everything on hold for months, even years. If we go to war, there would be no way for us to win and win quietly and not have the cops in here every day, driving around in their cars. We pay them now, but they’ll need a lot more to look the other way if there are white guys getting offed in Belleville or getting dumped in Lake Carlyle, especially if they track any of it back to us. Lot of difference, two black gangs fighting for space and a black gang fighting some Italians. Could get ugly, and fast.”
Shotgun nodded—this man knew what he was talking about. He’d helped them completely reorganize the transport side of their operation, saving them money and headaches by arranging for their own trucks coming up from Florida. It had been a ballsy move at the time, but cutting out that middleman and getting their own truckers had been smart and had saved a load of money.
