by Anne Hansen
I try to get myself revved up to finish this last run and be done. But I guess I know, deep down, that this won’t end here, that I’ve never really had a chance. That this is my shitty future.
I’ve already lost Keira, and now there’s no point attempting to pull myself up again. For what?
Sure, my dad and Dom will be free to do what they need without Gio’s shadow over their business, but if I have no reason to keep myself on the straight and narrow, I know exactly what I’ll do. I’ll fall back on what I know. I’ll take the easy way out. I’ll work for Gio until I’m not useful to him anymore or until I slip up one time too many and land my ass in serious trouble.
Without Keira, there’s nothing good left in me.
I’m not proud of that. I wish I had it within myself to be good enough, to be man enough to fight the dark, but I’m not. She was my strength, my inspiration. Now that she’s gone, every hope I had for my future is shredded.
This job needs a certain finesse, a certain amount of planning. Like Gio pointed out, I’m too dumb to do this right on my own. This would be the perfect time to enlist my brother for help. But, fuck it.
Fuck everything.
If this is my life, my future, I might as well face it now. I rev the engine and pull out, making my first potential mistake. I don’t take a shadow car, since this is my neck of the woods anyway. It’ll be more suspicious if people see me cruising in a car that’s not mine. I know where to park, what streets to cut across, whose yard I can jump through.
The boost will be straightforward and simple. If I get caught, it’s all on my shoulders. This is my choice, my destiny, and I have to stand up and accept it. I screw my eyes shut for a second and grip the wheel tight.
“Help me, please,” I pray, though I’ve never been very religious. “Help me do this, help me free my brother and father from this. After this one run, I’ll never ask for help again.”
I realize this is my Hail Mary, and I hope to hell I don’t screw it up.
***
I guess all my life I feel like I’ve been living a little farther over the devil’s line than the angels.’ And I keep waiting, day after day, for the bad I’ve done to come back and haunt me, trip me up and make me suffer.
So imagine my shock when it isn’t the bad that comes back to bite me, but one of the little shreds of good that lifts me up when I don’t have any farther to fall.
As far as I’m concerned, I haven’t sown nearly enough good to be reaping any of it, but I guess that’s not up to me to decide.
The boost started like so many others. But this guy, he wasn’t some richie who never expected anyone to steal his precious property. This guy was born and raised in Eastside, where people take what they can when they can, and he didn’t make any naive mistakes with his property.
The car was in a garage, locked. Just getting to the garage door required moving some heavy metal garbage cans. I had to use every ounce of my strength so I didn’t drag them and wake the neighborhood. When I managed to pick the lock, I had this feeling like I was being watched, like someone was right on top of me. In this neighborhood there are tons of people whose main thrill in life is looking through the slats in their venetian blinds at all hours of the day and night to see who’s doing what and spreading the word far and wide.
This is why a boost on home turf is so damn stupid. When you grow up having everything to lose, you know how to protect the little you manage to scrape together.
I’ve sat in cars I knew damn well were birthday gifts, bonus check splurges, first cars, dream cars, retirement cars, and I’ve stolen them without more than a pinprick of guilt. But this is different.
I open the door carefully, walk into the garage and waste a few precious seconds just looking.
No. Just admiring.
A 1969 Pontiac GTO, mint condition, perfect in every way.
It’s not the most expensive car I’ve ever jacked. Not the rarest. Not the fastest or the newest. Not the oldest, not the riskiest. But I feel a connection to this vehicle like I’ve never felt to any car before.
I shouldn’t touch anything with my bare hands. Just in case I have to cut and run, it’s never a good idea to leave fingerprints at the scene. But the cherry red paint is so bright, it feels like it glows, and I can’t stop myself from running my fingers over the glassy finish. I look inside at the buttery leather, custom chocolate brown. I feel like I know this car.
Like it’s linked to some moment in my life I can’t put my finger on.
While I’m standing there, dumbstruck and losing precious time, I hear a scratch and whine. A dog door flies open and something small and furious rushes out, barking like crazy. It clamps onto my boot and doesn’t let go, and I realize I only have a few seconds to deal with this before I’m caught redhanded and completely screwed.
I could kick hard, but that would kill the dog. Even though I realize the little shit would happily murder me if it weighed more than a few ounces, I feel this strange surge of respect for the balls on this little guy. So I stand like an idiot, watching it gnaw a hole in my boot until I hear the creak of hinges.
I watch the interior door open like I’m in a dream, and it gets even weirder when I see David Lombardi in a maroon bathrobe, hair pushed back with a black headband, some kind of blue gunk on his face.
It hits me why I feel like I know this car; it’s the one that roared up the night of winter formal, the one Keira got into when she drove away from me for good. David was the one driving.
“Capote, I swear to Jesus, I’m taking you to the pound tomorrow if this about that slutty poodle next door agai—Vin Moretti!” He rips the headband out and smooths his hair down just as a huge guy in a cutoff shirt with tattoos all over his arms lumbers up behind him.
“What the hell is that dog barking about, David?” the man asks sleepily, rubbing a hand over his face.
“It’s Vin Moretti, Dad,” David says, still staring at me like he can’t really believe I’m standing in front of him.
I hold my breath, waiting for him to tell his dad to call the cops.
“Buddy from school?” his dad asks, still kind of loopy since he probably just jumped out of his bed and came running. I notice then he’s holding a baseball bat in one hand.
A metal baseball bat.
“No,” David says, and I get ready to get the shit pummeled out of me. “Dad, remember that night? In the park?”
His father wakes up now, his dark eyes sharp and focused. He hefts the bat in his hand. “I’ll never forget that night.”
“Vin is the one who saved my life that night,” David says matter-of-factly, never taking his eyes off me.
A few seconds tick by, and the only sound, finally, is the clatter of the bat on the floor. Mr. Lombardi moves past David and comes into the garage where I stand with a crowbar tucked into my pants like the common criminal I am, their dog still snarling and ripping its way through my boot.
“You were there that night? When they…when those animals attacked my son?” he asks, his voice cracking.
This huge guy—who could flatten me like a pancake with one fist—is crying, out in the open, tears running down his rough cheeks.
“Yeah,” I say, and I’m kind of shocked my voice still works. It sounds rusty as hell, but it works. “I was there.”
“You beat them off? You dropped David at the hospital?” he asks, staring at me with an intensity that’s terrifying. And I’m not not an easily spooked guy.
I nod and he draws one arm back. I stand tall and throw my chin out, ready to take the punch like a man.
But Mr. Lombardi doesn’t throw a punch.
Like a steel boa constrictor, he wraps his arms around me and squeezes so hard, I’m getting nervous he might crack a rib. He holds me and cries on my shoulder, his sobs loud and completely unashamed.
“Thank you. God bless you. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.”
David comes down the narrow walkway, slides past us, lifts the snapping d
og off my shoe, and taps his dad on the shoulder. “Dad? Dad? Mom left the rest of the fried chicken in the fridge. C’mon. I think we all need a midnight snack.”
His father lets me go, but, like he’s not sure I won’t jump up and run away, he claps his hands on either side of my neck and looks me right in the eye. “In this house, in this family, you’re like my own blood son. You understand?”
I nod, imagining this is what people feel like when they get baptized by zealots.
As they walk to the door, I take a few steps back, already trying to figure out what I can do to erase the remainder of my family’s debt without collecting this car.
There’s no way in Heaven or Hell I’d stoop to stealing from this family, no matter how much Gio bullies me.
“Vin?” David asks when I’m almost at the outer door. “Where the hell are you going? Don’t you like fried chicken?” He stares at me, and I realize he’s actually expecting an answer.
“Yeah,” I finally stutter. “I love fried chicken.”
He waves me in. “Well, c’mon. My mom is from Mississippi. No one makes fried chicken like she does.”
For a split second I’m not sure what I should do, if this might be a trap. But I realize no one can fake the kind of emotion David’s father just let pour out. If that guy wanted to hurt me, he could have done it with one hand tied behind his back.
Also, who doesn’t love fried chicken?
When I walk in, David’s groggy mother is taking plates out of the fridge. “It didn’t rise enough yet, Andrew.” She yawns as she waves at me. She’s very beautiful, more like a movie star than a mom, and her voice has a slow, sweet drawl. “Is this a friend of yours, David?”
His father gets up and talks low and urgent against her ear. Her eyes go wide and she shoves the plate on the counter. If David wasn’t standing right there to catch, it would have smashed to the floor.
She holds her arms out to me. She’s got to be no more than five foot three and ninety pounds, but her hug is equally as fierce as her husband’s.
“Why didn’t you come forward? We offered a reward,” she scolds.
The funny thing is, for once, the truth is kind of the best thing.
And the truth is, I didn’t come forward because I was disgusted with what those guys did to David, not proud of myself. As far as I could see it, anyone who wasn’t willing to help somehow would have been less than human.
But, even if my morals had let me accept that reward, something way more practical would have prevented me from picking it up: it would have been through the police station, and I don’t like being on their radar, good or bad.
“I don’t watch the news,” I say simply.
“If you could use it, we’d be so happy to—”
I hold my hand up. “Out of the question. I don’t need money.”
Another lie, but this one I’m proud of.
She laughs, and even that sounds warm and Southern. “Well, if you won’t take our reward money you’ll at least have to have some of my fried chicken. And biscuits. We’re rushing the dough, but I’ll make it work.”
I sit at their kitchen table. David comes back from the kitchen sink, where he scrubbed most of the face gunk off, and hands me a bottle of root beer.
“So, what were you doing in my father’s garage, Vin?” David asks coolly.
If I ever intimidated him or flustered him in school, that’s all gone right now. He’s staring at me like he just threw down the gauntlet and is daring me to pick it up.
“David,” his father warns, but I shake my head.
“You’ve all been nice to me. Too nice. The truth is, I was here to steal your car, Mr. Lombardi.”
I’ve never confessed what I do so bluntly, and it feels…good.
Weird. Weird as hell. But so damn good.
Mrs. Lombardi stops humming and almost drops her biscuit plate, Mr. Lombardi’s jaw drops, and David shakes his head sadly, like he knew that was what I was going to say.
“You were going to steal my car?” Mr. Lombardi repeats what I said carefully, like if he says the words slower than I did, they’ll make more sense.
“I was sent to steal your car. Then I actually saw it sitting in your garage, and I decided I couldn’t,” I confess.
They all stare. Finally Mrs. Lombardi sets the biscuits, piping hot and fluffy on the center of the table. “Well, you didn’t steal it after all, did you? That’s a good thing, I think. We should celebrate.”
She holds up her bottle of root beer and we all clink the necks of our own bottles and start to eat in this kind of silence that’s awkward and comfortable at the same time.
It might be the best meal I’ve ever eaten, though just thinking that makes me nervous my mom might find out and beat me with her wooden gravy spoon.
“You said before you didn’t need the money we offered for the reward,” Mr. Lombardi says as he picks up his sixth biscuit. “But you were going to steal my car. If you don’t need money, do you need a vehicle?”
“No.” I shake my head when Mrs. Lombardi silently offers me more. She ignores me and fills my plate again anyway. I have a feeling she and my mother would get along really well. “I needed to steal your car to settle a debt.”
David gives me a long look. “For your uncle?”
I feel a panic grip low. I’ve already fucked things up by not completing the boost, so it’s not like I have something to gain by keeping any other secrets. But there’s been an unspoken rule since I was old enough to understand I was part of a family; and that rule is, no matter how badly they treat you, no matter how they abuse you, you never turn your back on family.
“David,” Mrs. Lombardi murmurs, looking at me with a worried frown.
“No, it’s fine,” I say, even though I can feel the sweat breaking out on my forehead. “Yeah. I’m doing it for my uncle.”
“Gio Moretti.” Mr. Lombardi says my uncle’s name like it leaves a bad taste in his mouth. “He’s been a bully since we were teenagers, and he didn’t like it when I wouldn’t do some work for him without permits last year. I always thought he might have held a grudge over that.” He glances up at me and adds, “No offense intended, but I’ve known your family since I was young, and I noticed some things. I watched the way he picked on your father for years. Your dad always seemed to be in his shadow. A shame. Your father was always amazing with cars and a good, honest guy.”
Mr. Lombardi says every single thing I’ve always thought about my uncle. Doesn’t stop me from feeling like a traitor when I agree.
I debate telling him everything, letting him know just how bad it is in my uncle’s garage, but some kind of crazy loyalty chokes me before I get any of it out.
Like he can tell, he pushes his plate aside and leans toward me. “Look, I may have just spoken out of line, Vin. I understand that blood is thicker than water. My own brothers are part of a gang in Sicily. They live a good life, like kings over there, you know. I’m not going to say it hasn’t been tempting, to think about having a little piece of that. But they traded something in their souls to have that kind of success. I guess I’m just the kind of guy who’d rather put a good day’s work in than take from everyone else and sit on top of all that wealth.”
“So you decided not to join with them?” I ask.
“Nope. I started my own construction business here. We’re doing really well, actually worked with your father on the expansion for his shop. Your old man’s very by-the-book. I appreciate that. My work, it’s not fancy, but it’s work you can be proud of at the end of the day. And, if David ever wants to, he can take over the business one day. If not, that’s alright. Don’t look so impressed,” he chuckles, crossing his huge arms over his chest. “I was tempted when my brothers offered. Man, I was so damn tempted.”
“What stopped you?” I know the answer before he can reply just by the way he looks at his wife.
“This one isn’t a fan of all that nonsense.” He pulls his wife over and she sits hard on his lap, laug
hing and batting at him. “She said she never wanted to live like some princess in a tower like my brothers’ wives do. So, I lucked out.”
“It might help just a tiny bit that there’s an ocean between us and them,” David remarks dryly.
Mr. Lombardi ruffles his hair. “True. It’s a hell of a lot easier to be the poor relation a few thousand miles away.” He shrugs. “But don’t think I wouldn’t do anything for them. I love them, they’re my blood. I just chose a different path.”
“Any regrets?” I ask, but it’s another question I don’t have to wait to hear the answer to.
The way he looks at Mrs. Lombardi and David, I realize this guy is the king of his castle, no matter how humble it might be.
And he does have one of the sweetest rides I’ve ever had the honor of attempting to boost sitting in his garage. Not a bad deal, all in all.
For the first time in my memory, I’m looking at an average guy, like me, living in my neighborhood, who can hold his head up. He has a great family, he busts his ass at work he’s good at and proud of, and he turned his back on temptation when it was staring him right in the face.
It makes me feel…strong. Bold. Like there have been possibilities I’ve been blind to staring at me all along. Like I don’t need to overhaul every aspect of my life to make things good.
But I do need to jump this one last hurdle.
“My uncle isn’t just a bully. He’s a tyrant.” I look around and the three of them sit, totally quiet, waiting for me to go on. “I have a list. Of cars. I steal them, my uncle erases some of the debt my dad owes him against the place they have together. But, lately, he’s been skimming more and more off my boosts. My father needs me to help him get out of the hole he’s in. So that’s why I steal, and I’m afraid I’m gonna get caught before I finish.”
“So you want to finish?” Mrs. Lombardi asks, shifting her eyes to her husband. “You’d like to be done with all this?”
It’s been churning in my brain for weeks, bothering at the back of my mind, and now I know the truth.
“Yes. I do. More than anything, actually. My dad and my brother offered to take me on, show me the ropes at the shop. I’d rather do that.” I feel my heart pound hard in my chest. “I want out,” I say, and it’s like telling everyone in the room your wish after you blow your birthday candles out as a kid.
