Red Triangle - a GTA Fanfic

[slimeball supreme]

Those Unwinding Paths

 

Latrell out on the street, alone, saw two cars sitting outside the tattoo parlor. One - this awful aqua Fathom coupe with blacked out windows and these modded rims that’d look fit for one of those ass kinda racing movies. Guys in tuner cars with sunglasses and Japanese streets. That kinda ride. The other was a Coquette, a mid-2000’s Coquette with shot suspension and this cheap peeling yellow paint, the type of Coquette you buy to say you have a Coquette.

 

The wops had given their address here. It was called Anarkiss Ink Tattoo, right up on Sound Span Boulevard with brickwork on wood panel, gold cowboy font on the windows and lip clip-art Latrell was half sure he’d seen somewhere else.

 

Anarkiss Ink Tattoo.

 

A fresh start.

 

There was laughter and some kind of conversing on the way inside when the glass door chimed. Not from the reception dude, had a mohawk and flesh tunnel earrings and tattoos from the chin down the wrist paired with nerd-rim glasses and a white book with a thin cover and Doug Hatchet’s face looming large by a Fruit logo. He looked up, kind of raised a brow, but went back down to the book.

 

That was to his left.

 

To his right were two guys, beefy buff guys twice as young and twice as thin as the Italian dudes in Broker. Still unmistakably Italian: the drawl, the quick spat ‘ay!’s and ‘oh!’s like out a movie.

 

Latrell recognized both of their faces. Just wasn’t sure where.

 

One of them was sitting in the tattoo-chair but wasn’t getting tattooed. Muscular in this barrel chested, natural kind of way. A built, handsome motherf*cker with stubble and a Bull Emic knit cap and a tight guido shirt proudly showing the Didier Sachs logo.

 

The other stood strong with arm waves and booming voice. Wife-beater. Army-print camo pants and black cop boots. Neck length hair and a goatee and full-sleeve tattoos; saints and nuns clasping crucifixes with angelic faces. Thinner on the natural but a wider face to the other guy’s handsome; big cheekbones and a Roman nose. Caesar fringe like he was cut out of marble.

 

“And who the f*ck is this?”

 

“Madon’, you come down here from Willis?”

 

“You got good taste.”

 

Latrell wasn’t sure who said what. “Broker.”

 

“Ah. We get a lotta’ guys from Willis, Wampum, you know,” that was wifebeater. You got an appointment--”

 

“Actually,” Latrell kinda spat out, “I’m here for uh… does Frankie work here?”

 

“Oh, you here for Frankie?” handsome laughed.

 

Wifebeater laughed too, “‘Sgood, ‘sgood, nah. He don’t work here but he’s here.

 

“You here for that?”

 

“Yeah,” Latrell said. “I’m here for that.”

 

Wifebeater chuckled, extended a hand. “I’m Rodney.”

 

Latrell shook. “Rod.”

 

Rod went on, “Lug ova’ thea’s Titus. You had somethin’?”

 

“Nah,” Titus said. “Was hopin’ I’d--”

 

Latrell felt brusque saying it but he blurted out strong, “I swear to god,” he said. “I seen one a you on TV or somethin’.”

 

Titus laughed, “Probably me.”

 

“Nah, both a you two. Swear to god.”

 

Rodney smirked, “He don’t charge for autographs but I do. Titus Lupisella.”

 

Damn.

 

“Rod was on TV a couple a’ times on f*ckin’...” paused. “Wise Bitches?”

 

“Nah.”

 

“One a’ them f*ckin’ shows. You coast, my friend.”

 

“I coast?”

 

“You coast on names.”

 

“And you don’t.”

 

“I’m here in spite a’ that.” Titus pointed. “He’s Gravelli.”

 

Double damn. Latrell felt more in awe with the mob kid than the boxer. And Titus was a boxer - a good one or not up for dispute. And a boxer, as he’d said, in spite of his surname. A connection he’d tried to shun a long time ago but stopped shunning when it got inconvenient. When the performance enhancer suspensions and drug possession charges started piling up.

 

“You knew Jon? He your dad?”

 

“Nah,” Rod said. “My great-uncle, but you know. I knew him. Good guy.” Still kinda cool.

 

“I’m gonna take off,” Titus said.

 

“You sure?”

 

“I already talked to Frankie about...” looked at Latrell a sec, “you know what. So you know. What.”

 

“Ah, then c’mon, getcha sh*t, c’mon,” Titus had no sh*t to get but got going anyway, nodded at Latrell and paid his way. Got into the Coquette curbside and let it rumble a moment before splitting off and squealing out with a puff of black smoke. 

 

Eyes on Latrell. “So.”

 

“So.”

 

They shot a nod to receptionist fella and headed back, this awkward looking door half orange and half brown with this stuffy little thick-glass window. Door squeaked, opened into a way too large office with tons of sketches on the walls, intricate designs and dragons and Chinese lettering. Water cooler and these so-so felt chairs, Cavendish computer with an eyeball sticker for some reason.

 

And three guys.

 

By the water cooler was gravel face, Phil Donovan. On the periphery of a conversation he wasn't taking part in, sipping water out a paper cup. Wordlessly looked over and gave a friendly nod before dipping attention back into the disposable. Green plaid shirt under fleece jacket.

 

“Mr. f*ckin’ bumper cars, huh?”

 

That was Frankie. Frank sitting on the desk in a full grey sweatsuit rolled up at the sleeves to show off a platinum Gaulle watch. Reuben with black pants and a piggy pink t-shirt - creative pick.

 

Latrell sighed. “Look--”

 

“Hey!” Frankie'd gotten up and did a little waddle with arms outstretched, went in for a bro-hug and patted on the back. Got off Latrell, brushed his jacket clean, “I don't need to look, right? Look. We got things cleared out or up or whateva’ with your guy.”

 

“My guy?”

 

“The guy with the, uh… you know. The chair.”

 

“Slip.”

 

“Sure. That's his name, yeah.” Hand on Latrell’s shoulder, “Don't sweat it.”

 

“I want to--”

 

“I got this, uh, this entrepreneurial spirit. Right? And when youse is in the entrepreneurial business you gotta understand that, like, you gotta spend some cash to make some cash. And we’re in the ground floor here. You're in the ground floor.”

 

Latrell nodded. Didn't know what else to do.

 

“Think a’ the other day as… kinda’ like an, euh, an untraditional kinda’ meetin’ or whatever. Elevator pitch and all a’ that sh*t. Now we’re in the boardroom,” signaled out, “and we’re finally holdin’ our first investment meetin’. We’re finally crossin’ the f*cking waters and liquifyin’ some f*ckin’ business.”

 

“Of course.”

 

“Of course! Of course.” Did this grin. “So, Latrell, you seein’ the f*ckin’ Swingers game?”

 

Beat.

 

“I just wanna say sorry.”

 

“Hey, come on.”

 

“You people is champs. If someone done did that sh*t to me, yo, I'd f*ckin’ kill ‘em.”

 

Got Reuben’s attention from checking fingernails. He nodded. “Yea’.”

 

“Yeah yeah. You know. So before, like, we get down to no brass tacks or nothin’... I hope we cool. ‘Cause I got told I be down here I got my ears perkin’, motherf*cker I was hype.”

 

Frank nodded through creased face, “Yeah.”

 

“Yo, I love you guys to death. I want you to feel me like I feel you guys, man.”

 

“Well, that’s a f*ckin’ business for you.”

 

“Sure, sure.”

 

Reuben, “Sure!”

 

“And, hey, you know - the respect sh*t is f*ckin’ mutual. Me and Reuben, we always say, you know--”

 

Reuben, “Respect.”

 

“--you gotta f*ckin’ respect forward to respect backward, you get me? And we respect youse like a motherf*cker, I swear. You people, you know… we love rap. Right, Reu?”

 

“Sure,” Reuben went.

 

“Biggie. Clip, OG Loc, Eminem. All great. You still don’t like that West Coast sh*t?”

 

Latrell, “Huh?”

 

“‘Cause, like, Tupac ‘n sh*t. You know. Comin’ outta Hepburn! You know, heh.” Pause. “That’s Nas.”

 

“Yeah,” Latrell said. “I know.”

 

“So if you on board, you know. We’re on board. With your peoples.”

 

Pause. Arms swinging. Just kinda empty with Rod standing in the back by the door making faces to Frankie Latrell couldn’t see. Latrell opted to break, “I’m on board--”

 

“So how’s this whole thing work?”

 

Ah.

 

Frankie leant back on the desk with arms wide, got Reuben to move over a little, “Slip gave us a lowdown. We want a lower low down, you get me.”

 

“Kiddy sh*t, really. You seen Badfellas.”

 

“No sh*t.”

 

“Well, you know. We got folks inside. Hey - my b Teflon, he can hook you up. We get homies through visitors, we got some badge jakes got they own people, we move it in by the head or by package sh*t.”

 

Reuben, “Packages?”

 

“When I was - sh*t,” thought a moment, “I used to be the gig guy at the houses, right? That’s rookie sh*t. We get a pallet of soda cans. Right?”

 

Frankie, “Gotcha’.”

 

“Folks stockin’ vending machines or commissary or whatever. So we cut the plastic, knives n’ sh*t, you know. I hollowed out the bottom of the soda can, I take one soda out the case, because the case is wrapped in plastic, right... I stick sh*t in there. I stick it back in the case, the case looks like it's never been touched. Easy.”

 

“So what you got in there?”

 

“Phones. Phones usually.”

 

“That’s what we want.”

 

“Sure. Phones, knives or razors - razors are usually one homie comin’ inside.”

 

Reuben, “We read all about you folks and f*ckin’ razors, huh?” Scattered laughter from desk dagos.

 

“What?” Latrell asked.

 

“Don’t matter, don’t matter… this is Astors Island, right?”

 

“That’s where we send it, sure.”

 

“You can get it in Metropolitan Centers? Big boy prison. Guantanamo on the Humboldt. You know.”

 

Latrell paused. “Probably. I’ll talk to Teflon ‘bout it, but I think so.”

 

“Hey, Slip said you knew this sh*t. Knew all the plans and all that kinda’ sh*t.”

 

Shrugged, “Ain’t that uh… organized or nothin’,” L said. “This ain’t no factory. We get young’uns in that sh*t and workin’. We got some small timers inside that spread it around. We’d have to… you got names? Anyone you wanna send this sh*t to?”

 

Reuben half spat, “Dennis.”

 

“Not f*ckin’ Denny.” That was Rod’s first sentence for a while, got eyes on him a moment before darting back to Frankie.

 

“Not Denny,” Frank said.

 

Latrell, “Who’s Denny?”

 

“Denny f*ckin’ Denny Denny. Whateva’. Ain’t him is what I’m saying. We got superiors ‘n sh*t, you know.”

 

“You ain’t bosses?”

 

Frank sighed - “No.”

 

Reuben. “Not yet.”

 

Got a laugh from Philly but Frankie went on, “This is… look. We didn’t tell Slip. But this is, uh… down low. You feel me?”

 

Trell squinted, “Why?”

 

“We just need some trials goin’ before we get the big guys on board. Build up a repertoire or whatever, you know how it is. We get some reliable f*ckin’ income streams, a big take, you know… then we can say we did a team up. For now, though, on the low.”

 

“On the low,” Reuben said.

 

“On the low,” went Frank.

 

On the low.

 

“We got more business ideas ‘n sh*t too, you know,” Reuben continued. “We’re f*ckin’ enterprising.”

 

“Call it expansion.”

 

“Get some f*ckin’ cash, take some takes, you know. We’re about risk ventures or what’s-the-word, take on any old.”

 

“Want to pitch something - go. Shoot. You got coke you want inside, we know people got coke. Easy. We got this guy from Lennox Island--”

 

“Slick Albo motherf*cker.”

 

“--he wanted some tight operators. You're a tight operator, right, Bumpy?”

 

“Bumpy,” Reuben laughed. “That’s good.”

 

Latrell nodded.

 

“We was gonna meet the guy in a couple, we bring you along, sh*t’s f*cking beautiful. We got diversity. We love diversity. Youse is diverse, they're diverse, it's a diverse f*cking carousel. Whole city every block is a motherf*cker speakin’ one language or another. We pick up and we drop off diverse people all the time.”

 

Interesting metaphor. “I got ideas.”

 

Frank smiled, “Shoot, Laquell.”

 

“Latrell.”

 

“Bumpy,” Reuben chuckled.

 

Latrell thought a moment. Thought hard. Had the paths cross in his head and the bulb go off and his eyes flicker. Anarkiss Ink Tattoo. A fresh start.

 

“I was,” he said, “running this thing with a couple guys.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“The guys went. You get me?”

 

Frank snorted, “Sure.”

 

“Now this… this is one thing. This sh*t is procedural profit, son. But me and these guys was working on something’d get a motherf*cker a lot of cash, a lot of seed capital, in a very short period a’ time.”

 

“f*ck’s a seed capital?”

 

“Startin’ money,” Frank shot. “Go on.”

 

“These guys at the docks. They Italian too, I think.”

 

“Yeah?” That weren’t neither of the guys, that was Philly. First word of the day.

 

“Yeah,” Latrell continued. “They’re big boys. They movin’ weight outta one of the warehouses. No eyes on it. Real quick gig, in, out. Heroin, I think.”

 

“Which docks?” Phil again.

 

“East Hook.”

 

“Only thing in East Hook docks is yuppies and Swedish furniture.”

 

“That was they idea, I think.”

 

Phil put the cup down. “Hm.”

 

Latrell scratched his ear, “Just thinking, if you get a couple niggas in there, you get ‘em sprung, they move in… that’s some good money. Just saying. Was a good hustle ‘til the homies split.”

 

“Were they Ballas?” Frank asked.

 

“Nah. Was a thing I was doin’ with these other guys, unaffiliated, no tax, no shakin’.”

 

“Then why’d they go?”

 

“Long story.”

 

“Sounds good,” Reuben said.

 

“Sure. Sure. Sounds good.”

 

“Thank you,” said Latrell.

 

“Hey, f*ckin’... forget about it, eh? We said, we said pitches. We can get up on this sh*t when the ball’s rolling, you know. With the Albo.”

 

“Albo’s slick,” Reuben agreed.

 

“Slick f*ck. He’s got a line on ganj’, this great f*ckin’ line, knows people who grow the sh*t themselves.”

 

“Hydroponic.”

 

“Is it hydroponic?”

 

“Some sh*t like that.”

 

“It’s good sh*t either way. Wants us on some sh*t that’s a kinda f*ckin’ mutual kinda arrangement, suits both parties.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

They were just talking to each other at this point. Latrell turned - Rod was gone, door was shut. Didn’t hear. Turned back, two Italians were just gabbing to each other. Weren’t even facing Latrell anymore, just each other, back on themselves laughing.

 

Latrell drifted to the side of the room. Drifted to the water cooler.

 

Drifted to Philly.

 

Pulled out a paper cup and flicked the right button to get the water tinkling down, right up next to the guy. “Philly,” Latrell said.

 

“S’what they call me.”

 

“What they call you?”

 

Guy shrugged. “Jelly. Rusty. I’unno. Philly.”

 

Latrell nodded, blinked. “Why?”

 

Philly pulled a face. “My name’s Phillip.”

 

Laughed, “No, I mean… Jelly. Rusty.”

 

Philly, Rusty, Jelly - he had his elbows leaning on the wall with a smirk. “Long story,” he said. “Rusty Irish. I’unno.”

 

Hm.

 

Latrell tried again.

 

“You’re Irish.”

 

“No sh*t.”

 

“You run with these guys.”

 

“Sure, kid.”

 

“You met Blondie Waldroup?”

 

Long story short - Blondie was a tough-boy Botolph gangster. Ran Massachusetts, killed people, the works. Had a film about him made, was gonna come out in a couple weeks. Question got Philly snorting, chuckling, "Irish gangsters I knew were named Gerry n' Derry, but sure. I met Blondie. Real pussycat."

 

"Was he like in the movie?"

 

"Didn't cuss that much, but sure. Peachy keen. Weren’t much a meetin’, he was just at a truck stop someplace up for a trade. The fellas up Mass-way never sent emissaries. Always did the jobs in person. Cowboys."

 

“Cool, man.”

 

“We sold him rifles. Pretty sure he got indicted the next year.”

 

“Rifles.”

 

“You know - f*ckin’... Kreugers. Single shot. No autos. He was a funny guy, had jokes on him. Wish I could tell you some.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“It was a one time thing.”

 

“Good, though, right?”

 

“Good, sure. Good. He was a crazy f*ckin’ mick. How things shoulda’ been. Instead… you know. You know, you know.”

 

“S’how it goes, man.”

 

Ice building. Ice built. Latrell paused, took a sip, waited for the inevitable, for the goddamn ice to break. Looked over, saw Phil milling it through his head, the gears turning.

 

“So,” he went, f*cking finally. “That dock thing you was talking about.”

 

Snap. There went the ice.

 

Latrell chuckled.

 

The Glossary

Liberty City Map

Edited September 30, 2023 by slimeball supreme

[slimeball supreme]

Nutcracker

 

Bar buzzing mad-like late at night. Cash only sports bar not too far away from Kassian’s place, with big black and white checkered floor and wooden tables and mugs with Pisswasser Ice or Logger Light proudly printed on the glass. A dozen or so guys with eyes planted on a flatscreen.

 

The Swingers absolutely pummeling Cottonmouth. 9 - 3 to Liberty as it stood. Pathetic. Expected, but pathetic.

 

Bar had been mostly attentive at the game before but eyes had dropped and brew went down and the numbers kept climbing. Was a safe win for the safest team in the league shining pristine cleats on the cheapest pitch they could find. Two-man team of Asaltacunas and Rapazar throwing balls nobody hit and homing balls going straight on.

 

Whatever. Abbot f*cking hated baseball. Didn't really get it.

 

Vadim had spent a chunk of the poker cash on a new watch; gold Kronos he'd said was the ‘patrician Swiss’, a sentiment Abbot only partly understood. Started going on about watchmaking, then the tech industry, then some sh*t about Silicon Valley. 

 

Abbot had downed his drink and went to take a piss.

 

The bar was on a neighborhood border, Bantonvale to the east and Dartford to the west. Your regular South Broker townies and nobodies striking fierce with guido types wearing sunglasses indoors still scoping the game. Abbot was a couple drinks down and couldn’t give one f*ck or another.

 

The bathroom door swung open.

 

Wasn’t a very appealing sight.

 

A couple stalls flanked by a urinal trough with way too much ice dumped in, dumped so high the toes’d touch if you stepped too close. Dirty mirrors with streaks of brown, dirt and dust, running top to bottom. Doors with busted locks and marker scrawl.

 

It all blurred together. Abbot moved on, hopped up, unzipped.

 

Was alone with his thoughts.

 

It’d been a while since the robbery, a good week, maybe less or maybe more. Mind was swimming. Mind was swimming in what happened a good week or two before that, a couple blocks away. The garage they drove past on the way to the bar with a couple forensics guys still camped outside. Had this feeling in his gut when he saw the cops guarding the exterior eye the car a moment before turning back. Still felt the ache in his back on occasion where the bullet left a bruise. A nasty bruise on the border of bleeding but just that - a bruise. He’d made off better than the other guys.

 

That’s what he’d told Kassian and told Paulie when he asked for the gat back. Three magazines, one unused. One vest that could go back in the armory. Or the shoebox. Whatever. Made his peace with the cash and got a look when he said he didn’t take the oxycodone back. Abbot said there weren’t no time and the drugs would paint a better picture than just a couple pieces of stolen property.

 

Pasha had his complaints, but the complaints stopped when he got the ghzel duck back.

 

Abbot looked at his face in the mirror, the dirty f*cking mirror, when he was rinsing his hands. Hadn’t shaved in a while. Beard wasn’t groomed, wasn’t near groomed. Scruff down the neck length and getting unkempt. Glasses needed adjusting, hair needed cutting, red-out eyes’d been a result of sleepless nights and toked mornings.

 

Filled his hands with water. Cold water, water with no soap. Moved his glasses up with forearm.

 

Scrubbed his face.

 

Felt water drip-drip off his nose and down the face and past lips. Felt his knees kinda buckle a moment. Just alone, just alone.

 

Door swung open again. Dude with a beanie and a leather flight jacket with eyes on the urinal that quickly jumped to Abbot. Had a second to spare; Abbie dusted himself off, got back up, pushed himself off. Played it cool and slipped out while the door was still open.

 

Back into the light. Back into noise.

 

“Fly ball, right field - it is off the top of the wall… and gone!”

 

12 - 3 now. Some guys in the bar clapping. God knows why, what dumbass, are they gonna hear you in Georgia?

 

Kaz had his foot in the middle between the bar and the seats, waved out a moment and beckoned him over. “Game, huh?”

 

“Yeah,” Abbot said. “It’s a game.”

“I tell you, motherf*cker,” Vadim was half-shouting now. “Is genius. He is a f*cking genius.”

 

“Swingers haven’t had--”

 

“The next billionaires… are today millionaires. You know?”

 

“Sure, Vadim. Abbot--”

 

“Or other way around. Moreso. Moreso it’s the other way.”

 

“I know.”

 

“Than Vegter. He’s f*cking incredible. Is you think about it–”

 

“What?”

 

“What you f*cking mean what you f*cking what? What’s it for?”

 

“Is that a guy?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“What kind of a f*cking name is that?”

 

Abbot laughed.

 

“Listen to me.”

 

Kaz barely holding on, “I’m listening but- but what the- did you make that up?”

 

“I didn’t–”

 

“That’s not a name.”

 

“He’s going to get you to f*cking Mars is what he is going to do, f*cking ingrate. This is what the future is. He makes the Coil. The cars, he makes the cars.”

 

“He makes the cars?”

 

Abbot, “I know Coils. The electric ones.”

 

“Oh.” Kassian nodded. “I know those.”

 

“Yeah. The one- they made the new one, it’s gonna save the f*cking world, that’s right.”

 

“Oh, well, they always say that.”

 

“And they’re going to drive to f*cking Mars with these f*cking cars is what they’re going to do,” Vadim spat, “And I get really sick of it. Ты меня игнорируешь, идиот, you piss me off.”

 

“Sure, Vadim.”

 

“Kazy-” Vadim was slurring but he hadn’t even had much. Lightweight. “-you no take the future seriously, no? You no take revolution seriously.”

 

“Call it a revolution when they cut a guy’s head off.”

 

“You not liiiisteeen! You not listen to me! Doug Hatchet. Than Vegter. Motherf*cker motherf*cking Kanye West. OG Loc, moz’erf*cker.”

“Isn’t his manager on trial?” Abbot asked.

 

“That’s Madd Dogg,” Kaz replied.

 

“That is totally basically irrelevant because Madd Dogg, he no do sh*t! You stupid! Eduard know this kind of sh*t, Kazy. Eddie is the knower of the future, he understand the wave. He talk to me about these kids we get, you no even ask about the poker. The poker!”

 

“Easy.”

 

“And it’s a USB. Idiot. It’s a U-S-B. You think about that. Aha.”

 

 Kaz spat, “Успокойся, Вадим.”

 

“Kanye… listen to 808s and Heartbreak. Do it for me. You listen to this jazz sh*t, you listen to this Charlie Parker or whatever the f*ck. Split Reed. The First Degree Willies. You put Beautiful Fantasy in, motherf*cker, you mind… pfft… explode.”

 

“Kanye probably samples jazz. I dunno.”

 

“Kanye does it f*cking differently!”

 

Abbot tried getting a word in edgewise, “Vadim--”

 

“Vadim, Vadiiim,” was the rebuff. “Eddie and me, we listen to- euh… we listen to this music and we get f*cked up, man. We take tabbies, man. Tabby man. Beautiful, man. The f*ck is a sample? Okay, buddy.”

 

Kaz was getting irritated. Abbot just found it funny, “Sample’s like, taking some music and making it different.”

 

“Sure. Then he do it f*cking different, yeah?”

 

“Maybe I'm not saying it right.”

 

Kaz slammed palms on table, “Maybe--”

 

Thud.

 

Look to the bar side, where Kassian had his leg haphazardly straight across the walkway, where somebody'd have to step over him to get past. Look at the floor, where some poor motherf*cker in a flight jacket and a beanie had tripped over. That guy. Bathroom guy.

 

He was still standing, granted. But two pints worth of Pisswasser were on the floor and all over his nice jacket. Still intact glasses rolled into crevices.

 

“What the f*ck is your problem?”

 

“Excuse me?” Kaz went.

 

“The f*ck is with the f*cking foot, fa**ot?”

 

Kaz stood up so fast the chair nearly got kicked over, “What did you just say?”

 

Vadim didn't stand, “What you want, buddy?”

 

“Your friend had his goddamn foot in the way. You're paying for my drinks.”

 

“Lick it off the floor.”

 

The guy shoved Kaz. One of the guys from the bar stood up, “Watch it, Dylan,” but flight jacket shoved again.

 

Kaz shoved back.

 

Abbot threw himself in between, “Cool it guys,” nearly got a shove for himself from Kassian no less. Wall between the two.

 

Dylan wasn't budging. Pointing right in Kassian’s face, “You're a prick.”

 

“f*ck you.”

 

“Guys, come on--”

 

“Your friend here--”

 

“Abbot--”

 

“--is a queer f*cking nobody leaves his foot in the way.”

 

Kaz shoved again, harder, bared his teeth and said something harsh. Abbot weren’t sure if it were Russian or English, but it was mad. Other guy snarled, nearly threw back a fist but stopped himself.

 

Little old man came walking through. Chest height, babbling something, “stop stop stop”s and “woah”s. Guy was holding a mop, started sweeping, kicked the thing half in the middle to wipe up spirits and started cursing in maybe-Yiddish maybe-Libertonian.

 

“You’re lucky, motherf*cker--”

 

“You start sh*t, you leave the bar!” little man was going while he was sweeping.

 

“Little baby boy!” That was Vadim. Nobody was quite sure who he was talking to, but everyone got a little more irritated at him in turn.

 

Fizzled out from there.

 

Fizzled out while Vadim was slurring some more sh*t and the guy started picking up his glasses and muttering. Flight jacket walked off, right to the other side of the bar where a friend was sitting, started chittering some sh*t and looking back at Kaz’s table.

 

Swingers were up two more points.

 

Kaz sighed. Rubbed his head. “This game.”

 

Abbot drank. “This game.”

 

***

 

“Today billionaire…” Kaz was laughing, doing a bullsh*t accent, “is will be the tomorrow millionaire! Ah? Eh?”

 

Abbot was laughing too.

 

He always played the designated driver when the drinks got drunk, but f*ck it, a couple couldn’t hurt. That was the thought process and it culminated here: a risky as all f*ck drive back the same way they came, eyeing the same people, passing by the same crime scene. Dropping Vadim off at his apartment a little ways up before going down again.

 

Stumbling onto steps at Kassian’s place.

 

Kaz fumbling keys with that stupid smirk.

 

Slumping to the ground to take off his Pikeys and tossing them aside like trash, not like a couple $60 sneakers, leaning back on the wall and letting out a yelp: “You no liiiisten, Abbie. Abbie. Abbot.”

 

“I try.”

 

“You try not to listen, Abbot?”

 

“That's right.”

 

“I try when that motherf*cker is going, I swear to god.”

 

“Ah, c’mon.”

 

“You hear what he was f*ckin’ saying?” Kaz was on his feet now, sockless, “What, he gets at that f*cking guy, he's sitting down acting like he’ll back me up. f*ck him.”

 

“C’mon--”

 

“That cocksucker f*cking, Guberman. Gooberman.”

 

Abbot blew out his nose, “Really?”

 

“Eddie the f*cking goober.”

 

“Eddie’s fine.”

 

“You met Eddie a grand total of one, maybe two times.”

 

“And he was fine.”

 

“Fat f*cking idiot means fine, sure, fine. Fine.”

 

Another blow out the nose, leaned on the wall. Kaz fell down onto the couch, made a noise when he realized he fell on the remote and the TV turned on and gave the little logo jingle when you start the f*cker up. Whole room filled with blue.

 

Abbot turned the lights on.

 

“No, no,” Kaz said. “Keep it off.”

 

“Can I at least turn the kitchen on?”

 

Sigh, “Sure.”

 

Flicked back off, stumbled through carpet with kinda-blurred vision and kinda-cluttered floor, not sure if you were gonna step on some disused trash or a can or some sh*t. Felt his way through silhouettes to the kitchen light, flicked it on. Bulb there was dim, dim as all hell, which meant the house was still mostly dark.

 

Kaz illuminated by late night TV - by infomercials and ads with booming wiseguy voice. “You want a little something?”

 

“Maybe, Abbie.”

 

Didn’t need much more.

 

Back to the cupboard, back to dwindling oxycodone stash in sterile boxes. Pulled a razor out the same spot. “How long you known Vadim?”

 

“I don’t know. He came a little while after you left.”

 

“2000? Two-thousand-what?”

 

“Yeah, around. He was working with some of the Georgian guys, some of the poker guys. I think he met Pytor through this one little prick, you probably know him.”

 

Casing got scraped off with the blade. “Who?”

 

“Vanya. You remember Vanya?”

 

Sniff, “Cat burglar guy. Did insurance scams. Bytchkov, right?”

 

“Yeah, yeah. But you know. A little here, a little there with him. Vannie made off with that per--”

 

“Vannie?”

 

“f*ck you, sure.”

 

“Just say his name. Same f*cking syllables.”

 

“That wouldn’t piss you off, though.”

 

Laughed. Still felt sober. Needed some more. Pulled the glass pipe from the shelf. Lighter from by the cutlery drawer. Lit up on the way to the sofa and blew smoke out with the feeling rushing down the bones, “You want one?”

 

“Nah,” Kaz said. “Not now.” Drinks did him good enough, he guessed.

 

Guessing no longer.

 

Fell down to his side and let his eyes go back and the surge leak through the stream to the sound of Big Paulie’s f*cking autos and... man. Man!

 

Man.

 

Warm.

 

Warm.

 

Numb. Like you’re walking on air, peace motherf*cker. God.

 

“And you know,” Kaz went on, humming now, just under breath, “Vadim came to us.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“You get the records from Rahim yet? The jazz? We- we could play jazz now.”

 

“No.”

 

“The vinyls.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“You should get them.”

 

“Yeah.” Nodding.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Nodding. Nothing.

 

TV noise.

 

Kassian looked at Abbot.

 

Abbot just stared off.

 

“Yeah.”

 

Kassian moved closer.

 

“Yeah,” Abbot said. Murmured. “Yeah. Yeah.”

 

Kassian moved closer.

 

Abbot didn't move.

 

Kassian right on Abbot. Leg to leg.

 

Abbot didn't move.

 

Slowly rubbed his thigh. Kassian went up, Kassian went down.

 

Abbot didn't move.

 

Put his hand on Abbot’s belt.

 

Breath got short.

 

Heads up against each other. Side by side.

 

Abbot froze.

 

Kassian thought.

 

Kassian kissed.

 

Abbot froze.

 

Started to unbuckle.

 

Stopped.

 

Stopped.

 

Stopped for so goddamn long that time stopped, that the air stopped and the little bits of f*cking dust in the air stopped moving with the TV light gone blue now bleeding over, bleeding over. Abbot weren’t looking nowhere but you could feel the eyes, the steely eyes, you could feel them drill into Abbot. Into his temples, his eyes, his neck.

 

Time was still. Breath was still. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

 

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

 

Dead.

 

Abbot wasn’t sure what happened when he hit the floor, but he knew he was shoved. Wasn’t sure how hard. Just that his face met floor, met carpet floor rough on flesh. “Why?” Like a smash cut, like one second he was up and the next he wasn’t.

 

“Why’d you do that?!”

 

Abbot let out a “What?”

 

“Why? Why the f*ck did you- f*ck, why the f*ck did you do that?!”

 

“K--”

 

“Why the f*ck did you do that?!”

 

“What?”

 

Stammering, stammering, “You need to get the f*ck out. Get out.”

 

“Kassian--”

 

“Get the f*ck out of my f*cking house!” Got off the couch and knocked something down Abbot didn’t see but felt the hands grab on his arm and back and pull him up still dizzy, “Get the f*ck out!”

 

Wasn’t even sure what was happening. Arm in lock and foot in lockstep. “Yeah--”

 

“Why- why the f*ck? Why the f*ck did you do that?”

 

“I didn’t--”

 

“God f*cking damn it!”

 

“Kassian--”

 

“You f*cking idiot! You f*cking idiot! Why the f*ck did-- rauughh, f*ck!” Arm locked in and Kassian f*cking with the doorknob so hard he might as well have been breaking it, kicked the door and kicked the door and opened it inward.

 

Tossed Abbot to the brick stairs. Not rough, just tossed. Like the shoes.

 

“Kassian--”

 

“Get the f*ck out!”

 

Door slammed. Lock clicked. Felt heaviness on the door.

 

He was still there.

 

And then he wasn’t.

 

Abbot took off his shoes. Just his elbows on concrete and socks to the chill, fall chill and wind and monochrome. Warm light a long ways away from dark hues he found himself in. Barely registering it, barely registering so much: high as a f*cking kite and not quite sure what happened.

 

But what else is there to do?

 

You get up and walk.

 

The Glossary

Liberty City Map

Edited October 21, 2023 by slimeball supreme

[slimeball supreme]

Pomp & Circumstance

 

Adam had the Tree open on the office PC.

 

 

“Mike La Manna?”

 

“The mayor’s a bully.”

 

Was it an obligation to come down to the rug store? Maybe. Maybe a duty. Something to ponder rolling and moving and cleaning f*cking shag or manning the register for the occasional guy, guy, that might come in. One guy - maybe a neighborhood guy trying to score a conversation, maybe a guy looking for a deal or something cheap or something close, because it’s not like a lot of people come down to District Park for rugs and carpet installation.

 

Cohen Family Carpets. A Cohen Family Carpets monitor in the office with a couple pop-up ads for closing and a Tree page open.

 

“I dunno about that.”

 

“He killed that groundhog.”

 

“Sure. But he didn't bully the groundhog, pa.”

 

“So you're fine with the mayor killing the groundhog?”

 

“No--”

 

“He hates cops. He kills the animals. He says all this drek, this socialism stuff, this about the two cities and the rents. He hates us--”

 

“What do you mean, the mayor hates us?”

 

“He hates Jews!”

 

Chuckled, “Ain’t sure about that, dad. Guy’s not bad.”

 

“Look what he does with the mohels!”

 

“Least he hates the Governor, hates that f*cking prick Iorio, pa. Those pricks upstate.”

 

“You don't mind him with the mohels? What he's doing?”

 

“Don't put words in my mouth, pa.”

 

“But do you?”

 

“What about mohels? What's the guy doing with mohels? Come on.”

 

Adam was by the door, darting in and out, in and out grabbing and moving and checking the register. Stopped a moment going in, going out, going in: got red-faced and leaned on doorway to keep his eyes straight on Abbot. Frustrated, “He’s- you know, he gets these doctors in and you need this oversight and--”

 

“What's wrong with that?”

 

“It's a sacred ritual!”

 

“Come on.”

 

“You come on, come on. What's with you? There's a privacy to it! There's dignity in our rituals, Abbot! Nebby bureaucrats and these doctors, and these is goy doctors and, you know what Rabbi Maltz tells me?”

 

“What? More mohel sh*t?”

 

“Language.”

 

“Stuff. Stuff, come on. What?”

 

“He’s gonna ban the horses next. You know, the horses, with the carriages. Me and Mr. Bardach, he comes up to us, and he says he’s gonna ban them from goin’ around Middle Park and- and you know, I mean come on!”

 

“They do it through summer and they get tired, I heard.”

 

“The horses are fine. They’re fine! Your cousin Ariel, his old buddy Igor, he still does it, and the kids, they love it, you know. And he always sends the couples off, and the couples- Igor knows how to make it romantic, how to make it a good time, and he sends ‘em off with a mazel tov and a prayer. He loves those horses more than his own son, they don’t die or get hurt or nothing like that. You want him out the job?”

 

“I ain’t seen Ariel in a long time, pa.”

 

“Ariel don’t drive the carriages, Abbot! He hates us! He hates our way of life!”

 

“Dad--”

 

“And he disrespects the police, and you know what? You know that’d be it.”

 

“How would it be it?”

 

“You head up South Slopes the blacks up there still give you bad looks, I’m telling you. I’m telling you, Abbot.”

 

“Please, let’s not- can we not talk about that?”

 

Arms folded and his eyes narrowed, “What? Like what? I say something wrong?”

 

“That blacks stuff--”

 

“You know what, you know what? Blacks can say whatever they want and do whatever they want about us. Call us names, give us bad looks, you know- take handouts. And what? I say that, and I’m the bad guy, come on.”

 

“I’m just saying.”

 

“What’re you saying?”

 

“The rabbi, you know. I don’t think he knows what he’s talking about, pa.”

 

“Oh, and you do?”

 

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

 

“You’ve got this wisdom he don’t? You always disrespect him. Why? Why don’t you respect the temple, Abbot? You disrespect him, you don’t go to temple, you don’t respect family.”

 

“I- what? I don’t respect what?”

 

“Family.”

 

“I’m here now, ain’t I?”

 

“You haven’t seen Ariel. You know, since when do you even ask about Ariel? Or Igor? Your cousins, they ask me all the time how my sons are, and what do I say? Ariel has his practice, and he tells me he’s got this girl and she’s expecting and this and this, and what? And what you tell me?”

 

“He asks about your sons, huh?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Sons? Or son?”

 

Beat.

 

Felt his phone vibrate.

 

“What are you saying, Abbot?”

 

“What, you seen Achban around recently? He called?”

 

“I- that- you come on, Abbot.”

 

Phone vibrated. “No, you come on. You say I’m disrespecting you, what, he come over? He helped with the rugs?”

 

“Sure.”

 

“When?”

 

“You- you don’t have to- you are being so low.”

 

“You’re being low! What does that even mean, low? What am I being?”

 

“Unfair.”

 

Phone stopped vibrating. “At least I’m here. You say I don’t even give a f*ck about family and--”

 

“Language!”

 

“--and for what, dad? When was the last time you even f*cking saw him?”

 

“You don’t talk that way around me. You don’t. What happened? Why you treat me this way?”

 

“I talk, but he doesn’t say anything, does he? He can’t when he’s in Florida, when he’s gone years without nothing and then--”

 

“You don’t know what he has been through.”

 

“Does he? When ma-” phone started vibrating again, “when- I’m sorry.”

 

“What?”

 

“I’ve got to take this.”

 

“You’ve got- what? What?”

 

“My phone. It’s been ringing. I need to answer the call, I’m sorry.”

 

“You say this--”

 

“I’ve got a call, pa.”

 

That was it.

 

Adam went to say something, but he didn’t. Just sighed. Threw his hand, shook his head, eyes on the floor.

 

Abbot walked past, shifted by him still in the door, walked through tile out the glass door onto the street. Checked his phone, unknown number, sighed on the up taking phone to ear. “This is Abbot.”

 

Familiar voice, “You pick up the phone now.”

 

Benny.

 

“Mr. Saravaisky, I- you know--”

 

“I don’t.”

 

“I’m with my pa. At his store. You know.”

 

This terse pause before he replied, “I didn’t.”

 

“What is it, sir?”

 

“You come to me. I wish to see you.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“I don’t discuss on phone. Why you come, that is. But you come. You come.”

 

He was thinking about subway rides in his head. “Now?”

 

“Now.”

 

“I’m with my pa.”

 

“I know.”

 

For whom the bell tolls. “Where?”

 

“The Garden. Hove 1st. Don’t wait.”

 

Line went dead.

 

The Garden.

 

Abbot put the phone down and went to get his coat.

 

Adam was by the door still cross-armed and narrow-browed and red-faced with his foot tap tapping, ready to jump back in to “So what the heck are you even saying to me?” but Abbot stopped.

 

And grabbed his coat.

 

“What, you going?”

 

“Yeah,” Abbot said. “I have to.”

 

“Why?”

 

“It’s a work thing.”

 

“In the city?”

 

“Yeah, pop. Emergency.”

 

“So you just are going? Can you not, I mean--”

 

“I can’t. I’ll see you.”

 

The door shut.

 

***

 

They called it Gulag Garden as a joke; got started by old guard emigres in the 70’s, some of whom had spent time in Siberia getting pen-ink tattoos and mining copper. Least it put the memories in a different light, least you wanted to come here. Founded by an old school tough named Argov: moved to the states in ‘75 and died around ten years later from two gunshot wounds to the head.

 

Said it all.

 

Stood on the corner of Mohawk and Hove 1st in jade green paint with GG in gold. Restaurant-Lounge. Place had been a neighborhood staple for going on four decades now, had its own bloody history and its own mythical reputation and its own hallowed halls where the big men wined and dined. At the base of an apartment block, across the street from the old house where Lenny Petrovich once lived, where babushkas sat on folding chairs.

 

Abbot had never stepped foot inside before. Abbot knew he hadn’t, and knew that his pa and his ma sure hadn’t, but wasn’t too sure about the odd one out. About his brother. You don’t go to the Garden unless you matter. Abbot mattered now.

 

Abbot stepped foot inside.

 

Smelt like matzo and kosher wine.

 

Empty stage at the back with all the lights turned off and the stagecraft lying dormant and the tables with pink tablecloth unattended. Took on a plaza shape - a bar in the center with a granite statue standing loud and proud, a forest of a thousand tables radiating off. Everything that weren’t table or stage painted velvet red and rose pink. Red carpet, red walls, green ornate ceiling and paintings and…

 

It wasn’t empty.

 

The bar was still stocked.

 

Meaty men at the bar with their backs turned craned heads to face doorway. Hit Abbot immediately, one was a woman. A large woman with hair in a bun and a mole on the cheek dressed in black with the other two. One of the guys had a ponytail and a mustache and a rat face. Other guy didn’t turn. Just bald.

 

They all scowled a moment before turning back to drink. Woman pointed chunky arm to the room corner.

 

A single table, where bald man Benny Saravaisky sat.

 

Abbot approached. On the way kept looking, realized the place really wasn’t empty, all kinds of goons planted here and planted there with eyes trained and lips parted to lines. A million eyes on Abbot, a million eyes drilling. Enough to hurt.

 

Benny didn’t look up when Abbot came closer. Wore a pistachio green dress shirt with a gold chain and grey chest hair peeking, a glass of rosé and a salad.

 

“It’s kosher.”

 

Blink. “Okay,” Abbot said.

 

“It’s duck. So it’s kosher.”

 

“Duck salad?”

 

“It’s duck salad.”

 

“That’s- okay. That’s okay. I didn’t ask, but--”

 

“Sit, Abbot.”

 

The chair legs ground on the wood floor. Abbot sat. “Okay.”

 

Nothing.

 

Benny stabbed the duck and the leaf with his fork, drank his wine, didn’t look up. You’d think there’d be music, there’d be chatter, there’d be something, but you would’ve thought wrong. That ear ringing, chirpy, grinding silence that click-click-clicks in your eardrums.

 

Nothing.

 

“I know what you did.”

 

Good start.

 

“What did I do, Benny?”

 

“You did a very good favor for a very good man. I met Pavel in Germany, Abbot. He knew how to make a good f*cking money. I want to thank you.”

 

“It was no problem, Mr. Saravaisky.”

 

He chuckled. “Good. And what you did, that was no problem for you?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

Benny looked up. “Do you?”

 

Abbot had a thought - he liked it better when Benny wasn’t looking him in the eye. “I--”

 

“You work for me now. Okay?”

 

Blink. “How- excuse me?”

 

“Seva. You met Seva, yes?”

 

“Uh--”

 

“He was at the cafe, Abbot.”

 

“Oh. Yeah. Okay, yeah. I met Seva.”

 

“Seva is- well, he has- he is not with me anymore. Greener pastures, is this what you say? He is in Netherlands. Poppy farming.”

 

Was that innuendo? Didn’t matter, Abbot got the drift; “Okay,” he said.

 

“He used to drive my car. My baby. You see this parked outside?”

 

He didn’t. “Yes.”

 

“My Enus. He drive my car.” He looked Abbot square in the eye again. “You are driving me now.”

 

“I mean,” kind of speechless, kind of breathless, “I appreciate it,” Abbot said. “But I’m not really working- well, you know, I work, but not for anyone particular. You know.”

 

“I know,” Benny said. “And now you work for me. You are going to drive my car, and you are going to work for me.”

 

This was not a choice.

 

This was not a choice.

 

“Okay,” Abbot said. “Thank you.”

 

“You come here. This is where you come to. If I am not here, someone knows. You go to cafe. I have restaurant in Beechwood. You go there. You will see my car, and you will drive it when I am telling you to. Is this understood?”

 

“Yes, Benny.”

 

“You are good to listen, Abbot.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“You have always have been good listener. You always have. The new kids, they do not listen, they do their own thing, they get these f*cking sneakers and tattoos and cars and think they are big shots. But they don’t listen. So they do not go nowhere. They drive their f*cking Lampadati right into police auction, yes?”

 

Abbot laughed. “Yeah.”

 

Benny took a sip. “You remind me of your brother.”

 

Smile went away. “Yeah?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Felt the corner of his lip kinda twitch, took his hands off the table down into his lap. “Is that good?”

 

“I always liked your brother, Abbot. I like you. I like Achban because he come in, he listen, he do what he is told. Smart. Clever. Did not- he didn’t spend his money bad or f*ck around with wrong people. The right people always talk good of him. Right people talk good of you.”

 

“Hm.”

 

“Blond Mr. Feygin at the news stand. Pavel. Peter Poker with the card games. Maybe not Feygin--”

 

“Does Teddy not like me?”

 

“Teddy speaks of you better than his son. But right people… I don’t know.”

 

Hmph. “Teddy ain’t done nothing wrong by me.”

 

“By you, Abbot. Maybe.” Another sip. “What good a man does is not dictating of how good a man is.”

 

Nothing again.

 

“Can I have a drink, Benny?”

 

“Not now.”

 

Okay.

 

The Glossary

Liberty City Map

Edited October 25, 2021 by slimeball supreme

[slimeball supreme]

Where The Towers Are Tall

 

DB lived in a small apartment in one of the towers; an apartment Latrell’d never been to, in a tower he’d stepped foot in only a couple times. DB was new guard, relatively, young blood who got lucky finding his way into Latrell’s circle.

 

One of the few.

 

New kids were hard to come by these days - went looking for new cliques or went unaffiliated or wore colors without the say-so of the bosses. DB went looking for the real thing when he was 13, reminded Latrell of Latrell, got beat in a couple years after running small drops or guarding stashes or jumping kids at school for green backpacks and showing he had the balls to do the real thing. If it were still 2005, being the real thing woulda counted for something.

 

Now everyone was a Balla. Or Family. Or Lords, or one of the Dominican crews, or Marabunta Grande. You just had to say you were, and you were.

 

Stairwells were dark, chipped red paint turning pinkish and green walls turning teal. Hallways empty, no folks, no friends. Just civilians.

 

There were these kids on one of the floors who didn’t do nothing wrong that much, went by a name that Latrell forgot and went with the other kids and picked fights and bummed cigarettes. Latrell was there at one point, he was, but he wasn’t anymore. Saw them on the stairwells in snapbacks and sagged skinny jeans and one of guys in a bubble vest with a skull face got up in Latrell’s. Did a dog snarl.

 

Kind of faltered when Latrell just looked back at him and stopped on the stairs and stared him down when they kept going. Kid was 15 tops. “Orlando, what you lookin’ at?” He was looking at Latrell.

 

He turned, kept going. You keep going.

 

Door knocked on DB’s apartment and waited, knocked again, waited. Was thinking of turning away when the door got answered and DB wasn’t standing in the crack. Little old woman in thrift store clothes and gray hair frizzed out and slippers, little reading glasses still on. “Hello?”

 

“Hi.”

 

“You want- you want something? We, uh, ain’t no sellin’ we want none or nothin’--”

 

“I’m- you- Delmar. He wanted to talk to me.”

 

“Delmar, huh?”

 

“Yes. Are you his, uh--”

 

“Are you with those boys he hangs out with? The ones runnin’ ‘round the PJs ackin’ like they own the place and causin’ a ruckus about?”

 

“No. Nah, no.”

 

“They wear colors and act a fool.”

 

“You could say, yeah. They do.”

 

“You ain’t?”

 

“No. No, ma’am.”

 

Adjusted the glasses, squinted, unsure. “Okay,” she said. “You wancha’ come in, some?”

 

“Okay.”

 

He did.

 

You don’t have a lot of wiggle room when it comes to the project apartments - they are what they are; old, small. This one was older and smaller than so many others - old white wallpapers and tabletops still clean and old chairs, kitchen avocado-green and plant pots made out of macrame. Couch by the little TV still with plastic cover. “What you want with Delmar, boy?”

 

“I’m a friend.”

 

“I know that, boy.”

 

Little woman shuffled to the kitchen to check the cupboards, Latrell stood doe-eyed in the center. “We ain’t talked in a while, and I weren’t reachin’ him… so, you know.”

 

“You know he’s been hangin’ out with scumbags?”

 

“I don’t- I, uh- I keep my nose outta that sh*t.”

 

“You do, huh?”

 

“That’s right.”

 

“What’s your name?”

 

“Latrell.”

 

“And you’re…”

 

Beat. “I’m what?”

 

“You like to hang out with boys? ‘Cause Delmar, he’s a boy.”

 

“Huh?”

 

“He’s 19, Latrell. How old’s you?”

 

“I- well, you know, man--”

 

“I don’t.”

 

“I’m 27, ma’am.”

 

“And you hangin’ with boys?”

 

“I don’t hang with boys, ma’am.”

 

“Delmar, he- he- he been, he- too many old men. Too many old big men out the projects ackin’ fools and gettin’ the little ones, the little boys, gettin’ em-... you ain’t, you sure you ain’t?”

 

Throat drying, “You sure I ain’t what?”

 

“With the men.”

 

“I’m with-” throat like a f*cking desert, “I work at the community center.”

 

Kinda saw her face flicker. “The where?”

 

“On Bow Lack. You drive past, see the colors- the, uh, the painted colors? We do daycare, recreational, teach kids English, that kinda thing. He ain’t said?”

 

Eyes burning. “No,” she said.

 

“Well- you know. I’m--”

 

“What’s he doin’ at the community center?”

 

Thought a second, thought hard, “Well… you know. A little extra.”

 

“Extra what?”

 

“You know.”

 

“Honey, I don't.”

 

“Books. Reading. We- I give him, I help him a little. Reading up on things.”

 

“He’s reading?”

 

“You know…” Slip, “Du Bois?”

 

Like her eyes started twinkling, goddamn it, “Nooo. Really?”

 

“Winston King, too.”

 

“Y-” faltered, “you mean Cole?”

 

“Sure, yeah. Yeah. Nah, I ain’t- it ain’t what I was readin’, that stuff. But Du Bois, yeah. He was reading Cole. We got these books--”

 

“The community center got Leopards books?”

 

“Yeah. Well…” faked cupping his mouth, “we got ‘em, but we got ‘em. You know?”

 

Just smiling now. That’s all it was with this woman, woman was staring out cupboards and dusting but slowly just turning and turning to face - now captive, now caught in the eyes. Frail moving closer to Latrell as he just stood dopey, beckoned him to seat, “Why you standing? Why you- c’mon, sit, c’mon.”

 

Chair was old. Chair was creaky. Latrell took a seat.

 

Woman didn’t. “Never I never…” muttering, tutting, wowed more than anything.

 

“You his grandma? Delmar’s?” Latrell asked.

 

Her standing dopey in the center now. “Did he tell ya’?”

 

“He don't tell me much.”

 

“I ain't know the boy was headin’ to the center, was- so, we’re…” trailed, “we’re in the same boat.”

 

“He ain’t been around as much as recent, why I came. You know. He's a good kid.”

 

“I hope.”

 

“I'd hope you know.”

 

“I thought he was up to...” smiled. She smiled. “You have told me something very good today, Latrell.”

 

“And that's why I came down. Because he's a good kid, he ain't said nothin’, I was worried.”

 

“I thought he wanted to see you?”

 

Chuckled, adjusted collar, “It’s a long story, ma’am.”

 

“Please, it's-... it's Verna.”

 

Latrell sighed, “Verna Belcourt.”

 

“That's righ’.”

 

“I heard a friend of Delmar’s,” Latrell clasped hands, “he passed. Or got hurt.”

 

“Del’ been cut up about that.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Name was, euh… name was Kavon, but he had this nickname.”

 

“I just know Kavon. No nicknames.”

 

“The kids got nicknames. They do. They all do, boy got shot - the Kavon boy, Delmar tell you that?”

 

Throat dry again, “No.”

 

“Was dealin’ drugs. And he ain't dead, neither, he’s in the hospital. I knew his parents, they grievin’, they go to the same church as… you go to church?”

 

“I ain't religious.”

 

“Your mother go to church?”

 

“She- yes. Yeah.”

 

Just sighed. “Poor woman. Nelsons were, they was involved. Did what they could. You know how it is. You want a juice?”

 

“I’m okay, ma’am.”

 

“I’ll get you a juice.”

 

She rose. Latrell didn’t, just watched. Watched her open fridge with a single bottle of something red and just went “thank you”.

 

“Boys is just killin’ boys, Latrell.” Got a glass. “Nothin’ new, but nothin’ nice.”

 

“It ain't.”

 

Poured shaky, “You seen it.”

 

“Delmar has.”

 

“It ain't nothin’ new. I… I knew this boy similar, when I was his age. Back'n… oh… you know.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“‘56 or ‘57. Huggie.”

 

“They called him Huggie?”

 

“They called him Huggie. And I was a girl too, and y’- kn- y-”  drifted to muttering. “He was a good one. But he got in with bully boys and started-... it’s ancient history.”

 

Glass smacked on bare table. “I'm sorry.”

 

“It's cranberry.”

 

“Where is Delmar?”

 

She just kinda looked off. “You know Martin Luther sat at this table?”

 

Didn't answer his question. “Okay.”

 

“I used to hand out papers with Eustace in Holland, we’d take the train--”

 

“Eustace?”

 

“My husband.”

 

“And he's…”

 

“He’s with my daughter right now. He won't be back for a while.”

 

“That's- okay.” Least he weren't dead.

 

“I'm from North Carolina and we moved up, my family moved up to Broker… long time ago. We’re actually moving back soon, with Delmar. And we got involved with sellin’ the papers and with the freeway they was buildin’ and what they was doin’ to folks, and… yeah. He was with his book and he visited and… I got pictures. You wanna see ‘em?”

 

“Is Delmar here?”

 

Like the flush in her face just went. “Well, y- I wouldn’t want to keep you, of course. He’s up his room up the hall a lil’, but… if you wanna hear some more. I’d be happy.”

 

Latrell got up.

 

Glass was untouched.

 

DB’s room was retrofitted. Might’ve been someone else’s some time ago, you could tell by the smell. Old people smell. Undecorated aside from the desk and the bed and the cupboard and the seventies lead-chip looking wallpaper.

 

Kid was at his desk occupied - laptop, earbuds, head nodding, nodding, nodding.

 

Nodding ‘til Latrell walked up, tapped his shoulder, double-tapped. “Oh.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“‘Sup.”

 

“What's that?”

 

“Oh- yeah, ‘snothin’.”

 

“What you listenin’ to?”

 

“You like Thugga?”

 

“Who?”

 

“Young Thug.”

 

Brows up, eyelids down. DB just shrugged. Latrell went for the bed, sat down, “Your grandma--”

 

“You- sh*t.”

 

“She gave me some’, man. ‘You been steerin’ my Delmar right, ain’t ya’ kinda’ sh*t. You know.”

 

“Shoulda-- sh*t. Sorry.”

 

“I saved it. Don't worry. She thinks I'm out from the community center daycare sh*t up near the graveyards.”

 

“Where- yo, near where them baseheads used to cop up the playground?”

 

“Some’ like that.”

 

“Hm.”

 

“You can call a motherf*cker clever, son.”

 

“She gon’ wanna visit, maybe?”

 

“Nah.” Thought a second. “Maybe. Nah. Nah, you good. More’n one daycare on Bow Lack, I think.”

 

“You think?”

 

“Homie, I weren't practicin’ this sh*t on the elevator. I- you know, she just asked, sh*t, I ain't up'n f*ckin’ you over tellin’ her I'm a friendly neighborhood representative a’ the local… mu’f*ckin’... what--”

 

“It's--”

 

“Be worse I say I flag.”

 

“It's cool.” Eyes on the ground, DB sighed. “How’s Knot?”

 

“Huh?”

 

“I been meanin’ to visit, but, ch’you know. You know.”

 

“I know,” Latrell. “Hurts.”

 

“Sure.”

 

“I been down a couple times,” Latrell lied. “He’s okay. He’s holdin’. He don’t talk a lot,” laughed. “But you know.”

 

“Yeah. How- you know, his parents, they--”

 

“They okay too,” Latrell lied. “They holdin’. Go to the church and they pray and they hand out what they hand out but, ch’know.”

 

“Gets in yo’ f*ckin’ head.” DB sighed, “I rolled with him since the day.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“And the- and the, you know.”

 

“I don’t wanna talk about it no more.”

 

“Sure.”

 

Cut out.

 

Nothing.

 

“You always been straight with me, Latrell.”

 

Latrell looked the kid in the eye. “Sure,” he lied.

 

“You workin’, right?”

 

“People gotta eat.”

 

“Yeah… and you got that thing. With them. That whole thing with the cars.”

 

“Ha! Nah. They nobodies,” Latrell said through grit teeth. “I ain’t care ‘bout that sh*t. And you shouldn’t neither, man, I’d cut a nigga the f*ck in if it mattered. But they don’t matter. I went to see them, they call me monkey, do all this kinda bullsh*t, it’s nothin’.”

 

“I hope.”

 

“Forget it. I will. Gotta tie sh*t up for Slip and then I ain’t give one f*ck.”

 

“Good.”

 

“So what?”

 

DB nodded, kept nodding. “I know these people.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Wet like Lozano. You know.”

 

“So what? We gon’ start sh*t back up?”

 

“Nah. That sh*t, too much work, too much. That- whatever the f*ck they was pullin’ with the port, drop it.”

 

“I have,” Latrell lied.

 

“But, you know. He straight. He know cats.”

 

“Sure.”

 

DB kept f*cking nodding, “I wanna cut you in. You’d do the same.”

 

“No doubt.”

 

“They got fentanyl.”

 

Blink. “Yeah?”

 

“Easy to get but this is good. Don’t want no tax from the big boys, and f*ck, I ain’t gonna be here by… April, May no-how anyway. I got the scars but I ain’t a Broker Balla by ‘16. So f*ck it. I get my money, I start my sh*t up, who the f*ck knows what happens.”

 

“They got Ballas in South Carolina, b.”

 

DB shrugged. “I ain’t Ballin’ in South Carolina. I ball with you. I ball wit’ my f*ckin’ dogs. So I cut you in. Maybe Xavier?”

 

“Nah.”

 

“Nah?”

 

“You the only one out hea’ matterin’, man. We get the gravy for you.”

 

Nodded. “Okay.” 

 

“Easy. Fret, sh*t, we ain’t frettin’. f*ck a fret. You know. This guy, he good?”

 

“He good. Omar.”

 

“That his name?”

 

“Yeah, but ch’know, you know, he Mex. He got these motherf*ckers in-... I’unno. Vasquez cats.”

 

“He Vasquez?”

 

“Nah. I don’t know. We gotta organize a meet, but…”

 

“I like.” Latrell did. He liked.

 

***

 

“How are you, honey?”

 

“I’m good, mom.”

 

Little woman stirring a pot by the oven craned her neck to see. “You know what happened to the smoke detector?”

 

“They all busted. I talked people say they had theirs broke when they moved in. You know.”

 

Nodded. “I got spaghetti.”

 

“That’s good.”

 

“What you been doin’, hon?”

 

“Talk a friend. Chillin’. You know. We headed to J’Ouvert next week and that, you know.”

 

“You are?”

 

“Yeah. You wanna come?”

 

“I--,” shook her head. “People get up to stuff at that, I- I-, you know. I ain’t.”

 

“I know.”

 

“You ain’t doin’ nothin’, baby?”

 

“No. ‘Course not.”

 

“Good. It’ll be done in a few, okay?”

 

“Sure.”

 

Bedroom door shut.

 

Cut out.

 

Nothing.

 

Latrell took off his shoes.

 

Latrell got down, laid on the made bed.

 

Latrell stared at the ceiling.

 

Latrell kept staring.

 

The Glossary

Liberty City Map

Edited January 7, 2020 by slimeball supreme

[slimeball supreme]

Y'know?

“This is our f*ckin’ neighborhood.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“So he knows who the f*ck he’s f*ckin’ with if he tries nothin’. But he’s clean. We know the guy a long time, he’s like a cat’s ass. Like a whistle.”

 

Latrell, “A cat’s ass?”

 

Frankie just shrugged. “Sure.”

 

Bantonvale was Bantonvale. Bantonvale don’t need introductions. You read the LC Post and flipped to the crime pages and read about Sal this and Tony that, you already knew Bantonvale. You came down to get good bread or sausage or see your uncle Lou who runs that great place and’s got that little stutter but f*ck, you know, he’s never did f*ckin’ nothin’ to nobody - you know Bantonvale.

 

Latrell knew Bantonvale because a kid got shot on his stoop by a cop here in 1989. But you don’t let that get in the way of good business.

 

He was in the back.

 

Eyes out the window while the car snaked and dipped through grid traffic on a long trek. Starting out in East Liberty and going down, down, down - Frankie reminiscing that his ‘peoples’ used to own a place on Moses Ave, own a cab stand, that he knew people that got into movies, some other bullsh*t. Mostly kept out while the Italians in the front seat conversated and kidded around.

 

Irish was in the back too.

 

Phil Irish wasn't speaking neither.

 

“Too many f*ckin’ Chineses.”

 

Passed another grocer or snooker hall or restaurant with Mandarin on the sign. “Bullsh*t,” Frank muttered. “Total.”

 

Reuben spat, “Too many Chineses all over the f*ckin’ place these days. Period. You know. But the neighborhood, too. You believe that?”

 

Who the hell was he asking? “Sucks,” Latrell said.

 

“We was gonna meet at this place my man Tone used to run, woulda’ played pool with this guy. But you know. We go there, he don't own the place anymore since he's moved down the Florida. It's chink sh*t now. There's these f*ckin’... what is it?”

 

“What?” Frank said.

 

“Banners. Stoogatz. I don't know what they're called but you know, they got all these chinks inside. What the f*ck? Come on.”

 

“Stay in f*ckin’ Chinatown.”

 

“Chinatown’s f*ckin’ teeny,” Phil said.

 

“Va fungool, what the f*ck I f*ckin’ know then, Rusty?”

 

“Ain't what I'm saying.”

 

“What, they go up Dukes. Keering. Wherever all the Chineses go, but they go down here.”

 

“He just wants them outta the neighborhood,” said Reuben.

 

“I just want them out the neighborhood.”

 

“I mean, it’s Chinese New Year every f*ckin’ day now. Chinese Easter. What-the-f*ck, you know. We all know. There’s too many f*cking Chinese. Goddamn f*ckin’ Santa Claus with his Chinese goddamn elves.”

 

Phil, “How the f*ck you know they’re Chinese?”

 

Frank, “I got a feeling.”

 

“Yeah, and it’s metaphorical,” Reuben went. “They go politically correct or whateva’ and make all the elves Chinese or black or - no offense, Bumpy, but you the f*ck know.”

 

“Yeah,” Latrell said.

 

“See?!” Frank laughed, “Even he agrees.”

 

Onto 17th.

 

Car rolled southbound past shuttered stores and brick townhouses with the Joe Schmoes of urban Americana. A hundred pest control businesses. Laundromat. Age care clinics. This plumber’s spot, Criscuolo & Sons Plumbing and Heating Supply, place with a bunch of old Italians sitting outside with plastic chairs in front of flashy cars. A Cavalcade, an Obey, a f*cking yellow Progen T20 that Frank pointed and laughed at; “There it is.”

 

Reuben stayed on the wheel with eyes to the front, “His prick son’s gonna be there, eh?”

 

Latrell, “Who? The car?”

 

They knew which car he meant, “We’re in with the guys up here,” Frank said. “They’re with us. Friends of ours.”

 

Reuben, “We chose the cafe so we could have a talk after. You know.”

 

“Nice peoples. His son’s always on the f*ckin’ LifeInvaders though.”

 

Phil, “Booby? Booby and his kid?”

 

“Yeah, at the plumber’s.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Reuben, “Swear he was drivin’ a Comet or some other thing, the white one.”

 

“He leased ‘em. So he ain’t drivin’ ‘em,” Frank said. “Or he rented this one, I’unno, his dad’s got a good one with the thing, little spoiled f*ckin’ brat.”

 

“He earn?”

 

They’d stopped the car in front of the cafe by now. It was up the street. “Nah,” Frankie laughed. “Booby don’t let him in the back.”

 

Guess they knew the guys on this block.

 

Parked Frankie’s car, mid-range Fathom four-door sedan painted steel-gray (Reuben’s car was still in the shop. Sorry.), right on the corner behind a black-or-blue Benefactor, front door right in front of a tree meaning Frank had to squeeze out the door so the paint didn’t scratch. 

 

Pointed at the brickwork on the corner cafe, Ramo di Rame, pointed at the green banners advertising paninis and espresso, past regulars sipping coffee on the patio and the flower pots.

 

Stopped. Reuben turned, “Eight o’clock.”

 

Two outdoor eating areas on both sides of the restaurant - place was on the corner, after all. Door in the middle splitting it off. Patio on the 17th Avenue side was full. Patio on 83rd was empty, bar one.

 

One was this slender guy with a garish floral shirt, a lot of red and yellow and blue, tucked into deep-navy ProLaps trackpants. Gray sneakers. Receding hair and a chin strap, crooked nose, top few buttons cut open showing off a double-headed eagle chain.

 

“That’s the Albo.”

 

“You sure?”

 

“Who the f*ck else gonna dress like that?”

 

Hm. Phil, “We talk?”

 

“No. No. Follow me.”

 

Albanian gazed out onto the street. The guys headed into the cafe.

 

Cafe was packed decent. Chalkboard menu and tables, lunch time lunchtimers with eyes on the flat-screen in the corner playing sports channel. Went up to the counter where the servers served and got a “What can I do for you?” from a twenty-something brunette.

 

Frank, “Toots, you know Lemmy?”

 

Immediately taken aback. “Uh- you, yeah.”

 

“Yeah, hun, can you get him out here?”

 

“Wh- what, you want me to get my boss?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“He--”

 

“Your manager or what the f*ck. He here? Yeah. He’s cool.”

 

“I- okay. Uh, sure.” Gave this bewildered look and just went back. Frank laughed, leaned back, pointed.

 

“She’s nice, eh?”

 

Reuben, “Yeah. Heh. I’d like that.”

 

“What you think, Bumpy?”

 

Latrell blinked. “Uh, sure.”

 

“Yeah, she ain’t… what’s the word. Ass ain’t enough for you.”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

Pfft, “He knows,” said Reuben.

 

Server came back mild-faced with ‘Lemmy’ in her stead - stout little Italian man with bad skin and goggle glasses, feather-light hair and an apron.

 

Frank grinned. “Thanks, sweetheart.”

 

Server just nodded. Walked back to the register to talk to some guy.

 

Frank kept looking, “She’s good.”

 

Lemmy croaked, “What’s up, Frankie?”

 

“Yeah. We’re here for the thing.”

 

Lemmy nodded.

 

Frankie thumbed to the window, thumbed to Albo staring out the road - “He good, Lem?”

 

Lem side-eyed. “He came alone. I ain’t seen nobody. Car stopped out the street and no motherf*ckers followed. Unless, you know. They got some guy out the winda’ keepin’ watch. But he seems legit, you know.”

 

“A’ight. Thanks, Lem.”

 

“No problem, Frank.”

 

“Tell sweet-heart over there she gets the a tip for the tits next time, eh? Maybe she see me she let me signal, she talk nicer than how she did.”

 

Lem nodded.

 

“Good. You expect some customer f*ckin’ satisfaction.”

 

“I’ll tell her, Frank.”

 

Lem walked. The guys went out.

 

Frank muttered something about hospitality.

 

Out the door past the tables to the street, stepped a couple out to look like they never went in - probably poorly. Waited a second, waited a few more, nodded at Reuben and got Reu nodding back before approaching Albo.

 

“Oh, Frenkie!”

 

“Hey, we didn’t see ya’.”

 

“Nobody- yeah, nobody come to these seats. It’s good. I been waiting.”

 

“And now you ain’t.”

 

Handshakes, handshakes, didn’t shake with Phil or Latrell. “Sit, you guys, come on.”

 

Albo sat back down. Frankie and Reuben took the two seats opposite.

 

Phil to his side.

 

There were only four at the table. “f*ck.”

 

Phil, “What’s up, Latrell?”

 

“There- yeah, ain’t enough seats.”

 

Albo sighed, “sh*t. You okay standing?”

 

“Yeah,” Reuben said. “We won’t be long, nah, it’s no problem.”

 

“Because all of the tables here got four.”

 

“Nah,” Latrell sighed. “I’ll just steal one a’ the others, man, it’s good.”

 

Frankie, “You sure?”

 

“Yeah, man.”

 

“Because, if, you know. Somebody wanna sit there--”

 

“Nobody sitting out on this patio, Frank, it’s good.”

 

Latrell made a grab for the one next-over, dragged it over the cobbles. “Okay,” Frank said. “But you know, if someone sits there, you gotta give it to ‘em.”

 

“They can just take one of the other tables, man.”

 

“Okay. Yeah, okay, sure.”

 

“It’s no problem,” said Phil.

 

“Yeah,” went Albo. “Yeah, he can- yeah. Is good.”

 

Latrell sat behind Frank and Reuben. Square in the middle. Eyeline with Albo.

 

Albo.

 

Albo?

 

What’s his f*cking name?

 

“Can you, uh, introduce?”

 

Albanian - “Excuse me?”

 

“Just, you know, I want to get a feel - we, my homies, we want to get an idea of who you be and all.”

 

Frank, “He’s- yeah. Sure. Say it for my friend, uh…”

 

“My name is Mergim.”

 

“Yeah- Mergim, yeah. We didn’t tell you that, Bumpy?”

 

“Did you tell the guy ‘bout me?”

 

Rubbed neck, “Well, we told you you was coming,” Frank said.

 

“Did you say my name?”

 

Albo, Mergim, shook his head. “Just someone who can help. Someone who know he can do some things and get it done.”

 

Latrell, “That’s f*ckin’ me. Latrell, you know. And you Mergim.”

 

“I am Mer- yeah. Yes. No sh*t.”

 

“Okay.”

 

Silence.

 

“Okay.”

 

“Look, I say introduction ‘cause, uh… you know. I wanna know your peoples. You know. Who you run with, your crew, that kinda--”

 

Frankie put a hand on Latrell’s shoulder, “What we sayin’ is we just- he wants an introduction business-wise, not person-wise. You get me? Because, we ain’t talked about what we doing, just that we’re doin’ it. Good place to get everyone on the station onto the train, right? Especially in a good spot like this where we know nobody gonna know what we know, no?”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Mergim, and I known Mergim a long time, he’s got great pot, great dope, but me and Mergim go a long time. Mergim runs with some other guys in Lennox, right?”

 

“Lennox and Bohan.”

 

“Like us, ah? Yeah. Easy come, easy go. And Mergim’s people got a lot of seed capital to give us, and sh*t. And seed capital,” he turned to face Latrell, “if you didn’t know, is a lot of good money to start an expansion.”

 

Latrell blinked. “Yeah.”

 

“So,” went back. “Latrell here’s with some guys who know how to spread that sh*t around. Inside.”

 

Albo smiled, “Sure. You tell me that. You gangsters? Like me. I’m a gangster.”

 

Latrell, “Whatever you want.”

 

“Beautiful,” said Frank. “See? And now we all know each other. We’re all friends. We’s all know each other, we all know who the f*ck we are, now it’s just what the f*ck we want. Okay?”

 

Albo nodded. “Well.”

 

Phil, “Spit it out, pal.”

 

“I work with people who are not pleased about the current state of things, okay? I think this is fair to say.”

 

Frank, “Yeah, totally.”

 

Got serious, “We have a problem. With a man. And you offer to solve it. And we want to work with you people,” nodded at Latrell, “and you. But there are problems with distribution and personal affronts to the men I work for which need to be resolved. Is this easy to get?”

 

“And that’s why we got our friend here! Help youse take care of this problem.”

 

“A mutual problem.”

 

“You get this, Bumpy?”

 

“What?”

 

“You’re gonna help us get rid a’ this mutual f*ckin’ problem.”

 

Blinked. “Am I?”

 

“Yeah. We need some guy who ain't gonna look like we went and sent him. Same with you, right?” Signaled at Albanian, Albanian nodded back. “Here's the kicker - tell ‘em who.”

 

Albanian was creasing in the face. “Vyvyan Spadina.”

 

“Viv the Chick Spadina! Beautiful.”

 

“It’s a- you--”

 

“He says mutual because, you know, Reuben - what’s this prick?”

 

“He’s a dumb prick.”

 

“He runs with, the, the uh- well, he’s a made guy. You know. With the Messinas.”

 

“It’ll be like a f*ckin’ movie, you do this guy. Like The f*ckin’ Denoument.”

 

“See, this prick - he come down to this guy we know and he does all this bullsh*t because of this beef he got with this thing. He smashes up this guy’s flower shop, he starts talking this sh*t, he gets his bosses and none them don’t talk to our guys up top. They got their guys in the joint who run things and the street guys won’t send the message up.”

 

“They don’t f*ckin’ respect us.”

 

“Messinas is a nobody family. They been a nobody f*ckin’ family for years. They got Noto - you know Harvey Noto?”

 

“Sure,” Latrell said.

 

“They got Harvey Noto on 200 beefs, they got this snitch who gets him on tape for a f*ckin’ decade, and every f*ckin’ word he says is bullsh*t. He puts this guy who ain’t even Italian, not a f*ckin’ drop,” could see Phil squirm, “he gets this guy in his number two. He gets all these people killed and talks all this sh*t and disrespects this whole thing we do. Everybody in that family turns rat. Everyone.”

 

Reuben echoing, “Ridiculous,” lapping it up.

 

“You know this already. You see the f*ckin’ papers, disgraceful sh*t. They get half the f*ckin’ families in court, who goes on stand? Harry Hall. Mel Skivs. Noto. f*ckin’ everybody. They are f*ckin’ rats. They are vultures. None of our peoples did that. None of our bosses.”

 

“No boss ever. And we get made to eat the f*ckin’ scraps.”

 

Frank was spitting, “Zito still pays these f*ckin’ chumps! They don’t give us sh*t, they give these pricks who should be in the coffers, should be f*ckin’ extinct, they give them gold cards and tickets to the f*ckin’ zoo. And they disrespect us. And you kill this f*cking guy.”

 

Blink.

 

Frank again, “You kill this guy.”

 

Everyone looking at Latrell.

 

Blink.

 

“Okay,” he said.

 

“Okay?”

 

“I’ll get it done.”

 

Albanian was just f*cking wide eyed. “He, uh, f*ck with our pot, too. And other stuff.”

 

“And whatever,” Frank said, “he disrespects these f*cking guys too. Messinas take their asses back to f*cking Montreal, who gives a f*ck, f*cking scumbag f*cker f*cks.”

 

Albo nodded. “Yeah.” Honestly, probably surprised he didn’t have to explain himself.

 

Frank looked back on Albo, “Mergim,” he went. “We gotta get our bosses, my boss. My- whatever. My pops, if you wanna say, we gotta get the okay from him. He gives us the go, we take this prick out. And he’ll give this guy the go because we all want this guy on a f*ckin’ table.”

 

Albo looked at Latrell instead. “You take another. Don’t go alone. He drives- well, I tell you his house. He drives a red Dinka SUV and goes place to place on his own. Answers to someone I-no-f*cking-know.” Craned his neck forward, “I want this public.”

 

Frank grinning, “Pow!” Slammed his fist on the table again.

 

“I want it done public. Like the movies. I want him like Gus Gambetti on the barbershop floor, whatever. I want his name and I want his face in the paper so they know not to f*ck with me. Not to f*ck with my friends.”

 

Latrell locked eyes. “Easy go, easy done, Mr. Mergim.”

 

Mergim nodded.

 

“What I tell you, Latrell?”

 

“I dunno, Frank.”

 

“I told you this would be good for us. Because we do this, we get good pot for our thing, and who knows, maybe my pops bumps us up and puts the good word with the folks inside. We go up the ranks a little, get you guys a seat at the table.”

 

Reuben, “Woah, what you mean?”

 

“Make it official.”

 

“But what--”

 

Frank cut air, silence it said. “We’ll be with you every step a’ the f*ckin’ way, Latrell. Every step. You do this, we are in it. These guys get what they f*cking deserve. You know?”

 

“I know.”

 

“What I f*cking tell you, Mergim?”

 

“You tell me--”

 

“This guy! Madon’, I’d kiss this f*ckin’ guy, I’d kiss you. We have a f*cking deal, man? We do?”

 

Albo nodded. Albo got up, got handshaking, got smiling, “Thanks and thanks, and you- thanks you, man--”

 

He looked like he wanted to get out of there.

 

They let him.

 

Festival of squawking as everyone was spitting out goodbyes and thank-yous over each other and acting cordial as cordial could be, in that spitting-Italian kind of way where you’re trying to hug the guy as he’s halfway out the door. Thank you, goodbye, thank you, goodbye, thank you, goodbye ‘til he was crossing the street to his Lokus and looking away.

 

Frank staring. “You never know with these guys.”

 

Latrell, “With who?”

 

“Albanians,” said Phil. “Crazy.”

 

“Sell their mothers,” said Frank.

 

“But this guy’s cool?”

 

“Sure, Bumpy. He sells me pot. But you know.”

 

“You know you never know?”

 

“Sure.”

 

The car left.

 

Just them.

 

“We gotta check the deets, guys,” went Reuben. “We gotta.”

 

“We headed to the plumbers, Reu?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Frank got up.

 

Reuben got up.

 

Latrell got up.

 

Frank held out a hand, “Not you two.”

 

“Why?” said Phil.

 

“Euh, you know, we gotta have somebody watch the car. It’s good. We’ll be quick. Youse two can just keep watch here and just, you know- just stay here.”

 

“Yeah,” Reuben agreed. “Watch the whip.”

 

“Okay,” said Latrell.

 

They went.

 

Latrell had to watch the whip.

 

Just gotta… watch.

 

Just street noise and city sh*t and eyes on the ride and back to his phone. Went for texts, went to Xavier, went to type.

 

 

“Hey, kid.”

 

Latrell looked up. Looked at Phil. Phil looking awkward and big on a little seat to his diagonal, Phil looking past two chairs. “Yeah?”

 

“You wanted to know why they called me that thing.”

 

“Huh?”

 

“You know.”

 

Latrell put the phone down. “Jelly?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Latrell smirked. “Sure.”

 

“And it’s funny, ‘cause these motherf*ckers meet with this guy and I’unno what-the-f*ck, but y’know. It was funny. But yeah. Y’know why they call me Jelly?”

 

Latrell bit. “‘Sthat.”

 

And Phil was chuckling. Through smiles, “Thing with Albos, too.”

 

“Cute. What happened?”

 

Another chuckle, “Balled this whore was one these guy’s cousins. Took a few bucks after, never rang, nothin’ spesh but what-you-know, these things is these things. And I go to this donut place in Lennox, this is a week later. Rusty Browns, you know.”

 

Latrell was laughing too, “Yeah?”

 

“These Albanian guys jump me. This guy Qendrim a’ somethin’. f*cked Arab name like that.”

 

“And what you do?”

 

Snickered. “Stuck this guy’s head in the fryer.”

 

Latrell laughed hard.

 

“Third degree burn.”

 

“Goddamn!”

 

“See, these guys try jerk you off, I rip off the hand. Y’get me?”

 

Haha, “I get you, son.”

 

“And, y’know.” Shrugged, “Now I’m Jelly.”

 

He was Jelly.

 

The Glossary

Liberty City Map

Edited April 23, 2020 by slimeball supreme

[slimeball supreme]

Clockwork Dog

 

Enus idled outside the house on 1890 with the radio off.

 

The house on 1890, or well, on the corner of Koodkirk and 19th - huge Victorian mansion painted teal with looping walls and conehead roof like a slice of southern Americana in the dead center of Broker. With big green lawn and thatch patio. Newspaper-on-the-porch sh*t.

 

The home of Benny Saravaisky.

 

It was an upgrade to the 3 train, you could say. Or, you know,  taking the 8 uptown and then switching to the inner line and - whatever. There isn’t wood paneling on the subway. There’s a lot of wood paneling in a Caesar Cipher. Wood panelling and cream leather seats mashing hard with cheap 90’s plastic on the wheel and the radio and the cheapo buttons that Abbot couldn’t parse the function of.

 

Waiting.

 

Waiting.

 

Benny didn’t like the radio. He just liked the cruise.

 

Benny shut the door and tip-tapped out down the steps and half-jogged down the path and onto the street and slammed the back door already halfway into a conversation Abbot hadn’t heard, “-and this f*cking pussy mother, he- you believe this sh*t? You do?”

 

“Huh?”

 

“Step the foot on the gas pedal.”

 

“You get what you needed?”

 

“Yes, papa, let’s f*cking go.”

 

Abbot went go.

 

Benny just kept yammering, “I talk to Felix this guy, he says it’s no problem to do nothing, you have to do what you have to do - we go to hardware store on Onondaga - but this--”

 

“We’re going to the hardware store?”

 

“Yes. What, is- when I talk Devdariani, you think he’s heading to this place? You think this cocksucker, he pay this cash to this--”

 

“It’s okay.”

 

“Okay. Yeah, okay.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“See, Revaz don’t need that sh*t because Revaz don’t even give to nobody no more, Revaz- he- he only run these sports books and he get Tamaz to rough up the motherf*cker and he has the brothel, oh, we head up there later, too.”

 

“We head to his brothel?”

 

“Yes. But he commute all the time and he used to have Tamaz to drive but he commute from Gurnesey County, from f*cking Underrock, he wear those goofy f*cking big boy sunglasses, he- god, this- he always think he’s the boss--”

 

“Where’s the brothel, Benny?”

 

“--and hot sh*t because he get tattoos and he work for Catfish in Spain--”

 

“Catfish?”

 

“Keep up.”
 

“Where’s the brothel?”

 

“I’ll tell you the goddamn brothel we get to the hardware- woah! This f*cking guy don’t even turn on the f*cking blinkers!”

 

“What?”

 

“No, no, go down on Oneida, you don’t listen to the f*cking satnav, you go down Oneida and take right on Glascoe because always the traffic on Montauk Ave and you- but, okay, so- this guy he always was, Revaz- when he was up to--”

 

On and on.

 

Abbot wasn’t really quite sure what Benny was talking about.

 

Was Benny? 

 

“--he take this guy to the parking lot of the Grain of Truth, or the Yum Yum Market, cheap f*cking bastard, and he get Tamaz, little boy, think he Cam Odom, he get him to slap the sh*t--”

 

Even if he didn’t, he liked to talk about it.

 

Car would turn corners and Benny would squawk and keep squawking about associates and about the traffic and the guy in the other lane who he thought was a c*nt or would tell Abbot to take a road he knew would mean a longer drive, but f*ck it, he’d take it anyway because if he didn’t he’d get berated.

 

All Abbot was thinking was “let’s hope they ain’t bugged the car”.

 

Onto Montauk. Onto Onondaga. Past the big mall on H and the Eris store and the guys lining up by the social security joint and then “Woah, Abbo, Abb, stop- stop, ‘ey, stop--” stopping into the big hardware lot and f*cking around with the parallel parking where the trash cans are all lined up and Abbot going to unbuckle his seatbelt.

 

And then Benny putting his hand on Abbot’s shoulder.

 

And telling him to wait.

 

“Okay,” Abbot said.

 

And Abbot waited.

 

Abbot knew Revaz, sort of, now. Revaz from the card game went from Revaz from the card game to ‘the guy with the tattoos’ who thought he was Vin Falcone and would whine about his brigade not paying up to the boss and who drank vodka like water and got a crossbow as a gift from Tamaz Chelidze, who was a boxer who one time brought a little Armenian man into a parking lot in West Vinewood and beat him until he lost his septum.

 

Once again, lucky there weren’t a bug in this motherf*cker.

 

Benny came back with a paper bag with money in it.

 

“The brothel is in Cork Villa.”

 

“Who was that?”

 

“Geek play wrong card game and borrow wrong due. Next time he threaten to talk to police, next time he threaten to f*ck whole thing up, is next time we do to him like we do to Fat Senya and we take him to apartment to gut.”

 

“W--”

 

“What the f*ck you doing, you wait for red light, dumbass? Drive? Bozhe moi.”

 

Abbot drove.

 

Getting to strollerville in Cork Villa is remarkably easy in a grid system - you’re already on Onondaga. So head up until you hit Gibson Street, go around the little loopty-loop and hug Outlook Park until you hit even more numbergrid streets.

 

This is relatively easy to understand.

 

Benny did not like easy. He didn’t like traffic, or ‘speeder cams’, or every moron driver who would do the wrong thing because “this f*cking city is the f*cking zoo and they smear the sh*t all over the place, you believe this?” Abbot didn’t believe it, really, much like he didn’t really believe he had to zig-zag through Beechwood until he realized Benny was taking him to Soldier’s Plaza.

 

Wow, let’s take a f*cking snapshot, since we’re goddamn tourists on our way to the Lennox Island ferry. Oh look, is that a f*cking bodega? Is that the same bodega we’ve circled twice now because you couldn’t navigate this borough to save your goddamn life?

 

“Okay,” Abbot said instead.

 

The brothel was a brownstone. The brownstone was owned by Revaz’s cousin named Yevdokim, or Kim, who made a habit of going to the Indian casinos in Quinnebaug and betting money he didn’t have on sports he didn’t get and eventually having to turn his apartment into a place where fat little men spunk on Russian girls. But hey, y’know, go Penetrators.

 

Maybe his cousin would give him a good go at one of his betting parlors. Or maybe, Benny said, Revaz would get Tamaz to hold him out of a third-story window.

 

Benny went up the brownstone steps.

 

And Abbot had to wait.

 

And Abbot kept waiting.

 

And Abbot’s hand drifted to the radio, and the dial drifted to 108.5, and Nat King Cole drifted to Orange Colored Sky.

 

Flash! Bam! Alakazam! I got a look at you.

 

Abbot had been ‘sleeping around’. Sleeping around being - sometimes he went to a hotel and paid with cash and a name like Ray Hoffman or Earl McCormick or whatever the random name generator he Duplexed told him.

 

Or maybe he slept at Kassian’s house.

 

Kassian opened the door when he came. But Kassian did not talk to him. Abbot did not try to talk to Kassian either, really. Abbot went into the room where Kaz’s dad would’ve slept and Abbot slept. And then he left. And really, it was as simple as that.

 

Flash! Bang! Alakazam! Out of an orange colored-sky.

 

Across the street, a man walked out of his apartment and went down the stairs and kicked a flower pot by accident and the pot fell down. The pot tumbled and broke and soil split and the flowers rested on pavement. The man swore very loud, not that Abbot could hear what swear it was, and went to pick up the pieces. The man was thin, had Jew curls, looked around mid-twenties and wore a blue v-neck.

 

Abbot could’ve helped.

 

Abbot watched. 

 

Out of an orange-colored, purple-striped, pretty green polka-dot sky!

 

“Hey!” Tap-tap-tapping on the rear window.

 

And Abbot turned the radio off.

 

And Abbot unlocked the door.

 

“Radio depreciate the f*cking value.”

 

“Sorry.”

 

“Just don’t. Come on. Drive.”

 

At this point, Abbot knew one thing. You don’t have to really know where you’re going on the initial. Only that you’re going somewhere.

 

It took Benny around four minutes to say “We go to the city.”

 

So Abbot would’ve kept driving north onto Montauk Avenue, which he did, and he would’ve passed the MounteBank Center, where “Tamaz going to be do the big match with this black man, this little man, instead of cocksucker who take the steroids and the cocaine and go back to his scumbag rat pasta-eater family”, which Benny was happy to brag, and he would’ve driven up and kept driving until he’d gone through Downtown Broker and onto the Algonquin Bridge.

 

But, woah, buddy buster. “You need to stop here.”

 

“Why? What?”

 

“I want to get something.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“And you follow me into the place this time, okay?”

 

“Okay.”

 

So the car zig-zagged through the brutalist buildings and mock-tall skyscrapers and the rusty looking storefronts and Benny was telling Abbot to trawl, trawl, trawl, whatever the f*ck that meant. Fast fashion stores and street stragglers and Benny gripping Abbot’s arm and telling him to swerve into what looked like a one-way street.

 

It wasn’t, thank god, but Abbot nearly got t-boned for his trouble.

 

Past a Maze Bank branch on Feldspar and Abbot thinking ‘what the f*ck now’ and then Benny nearly screaming, “HERE! HERE!” and Abbot braking so goddamn hard the car burned rubber into…

 

Ah.

 

A Bean Machine.

 

“So after this, we visit this guy in the Papaver Village who think--”

 

“So what?”

 

“So what?”

 

“So, we head up the city, we stop here?”

 

“What?” Beat. “I want a f*cking coffee.”

 

Ah.

 

Abbot blinked. Benny left.

 

Abbot followed.

 

Abbot walked past crowd and nearly shoulder bumped into some guy and followed past the bike stands into the Bean Machine, which Benny - triumphantly, in leather-gloved hands and black trenchcoat, pushed open the doors and let it close so Abbot had to do the very same.

 

Benny smirked, got out his phone from the coat, pointed. “You head there.”

 

“You want me to wait on line?”

 

“Yes. You get me the coffee.”

 

Ah, f*cking sweet. “What do you want?”

 

Question didn't seem to phase him, “I going to talk to Felyenka, you know Felyenka?”

 

“What?”

 

“Ponytail. I talk to Felix because he talk to Revaz and he is doing moron retard f*cking scam where he get his sexy girl friend of his to f*ck rich man from the online, in Kingdom Come, knock the guy out. Steal his money and his watch. And I tell Revaz this is stupid bullsh*t, this is not sustainable, this will get you in the jail--”

 

“We’re in public, Benny.”

 

“Who gives a sh*t?”

 

Abbot blinked. Looked around.

 

Turned out, nobody. Too loud, too much chatter. They just wanted their coffee.

 

“What do you want, Ben?”

 

And he sighed like it was obvious, “Medio cup, caramel macchiato.”

 

“You got the cash?”

 

“Do you have your wallet?”

 

Abbot blinked.

 

Benny went to sit down.

 

Okay.

 

So Abbot lined the f*ck up and stayed on the line and checked his shoes and sniffed and pat his jacket pocket, pat pat to check if the smack for tonight was in there and kept waiting and checked his wallet for the cash - twenty bucks, fine - and noticed the line for the bathroom was longer than the line for the caffeine.

 

And then the redhead at the counter warbled something and Abbot didn’t know what the f*ck, medio Caramel Macchiato, and she said some other sh*t and Abbot just repeated himself, medio Caramel Macchiato, and she asked for a name and Abbot just went f*cking “My name is Quentin” because it’s the first name he thought of.

 

And the register woman blinked and said “Are you okay?” and she seemed genuinely concerned because Abbot was holding up the line and looked tired as sh*t and he was sweating and pouting and had his hands on the counter.

 

And Abbot wanted to say no.

 

But Abbot said sorry, I’m just tired, and then she told him to get the coffee from the other side.

 

Abbot did not take the change.

 

Abbot rubbed eyes and blinked and realized, f*ck, why is this all so bleak?

 

And another guy came back, this doofus with dork spectacles, and he handed the coffee over and squinted and said “Quentin?” and Abbot nodded and took the coffee and saw that Quinton was what they wrote.

 

He was going to complain, but who gives a sh*t? Could’ve been either.

 

Nobody gave a sh*t at f*cking Bean Machine.

 

Benny was looking at his phone again and laughed when Abbot came back and said “This stupid- I swear, Felix- he thinks because he has done all of these things and has been with us for the so long, he thinks he’s high and mighty and the king of the world. Sure, man.”

 

Abbot blinked. “Felix?”

 

“I already tell you.” Coffee went down on the table. “With the ponytail and the nose. Felyenka G.”

 

Abbot just nodded and sat down.

 

“Come on, we go back to the car.”

 

God f*cking damn it.

 

So Abbot got up. And Benny got up. “Papaver Village?”

 

“Yes, Abbot, what I tell you? Felix tells me, you won’t believe this, that Revaz finds f*cking swiss goddamn chocolates.”

 

Door opened. “Okay.”

 

“Like a million pounds of this sh*t.”

 

“Okay?”

 

“And he don’t f*cking tell nobody! Already have these buyers lined up and he don’t even get me to vet him, these piece of the sh*t Georgian--”

 

And onto the street.

 

And to the Enus.

 

And a little f*cking meter maid cocksucker writing a f*cking ticket.

 

“Hey, woah! What the f*ck?”

 

Meter maid stopped.

 

Meter maid was a bike cop with a bike helmet, Asian guy with sunglasses on the collar and the hi-vis vest, and meter maid looked up and frowned. “Sir, is this your vehicle?”

 

“We were here for, like, 5 f*cking minutes.”

 

“Sir, you can’t park here.”

 

“Like f*ck I can.”

 

“This is a crash hazard, the road’s too narrow.”

 

“And nobody’s f*cking crashed.”

 

“I have to write you a ticket.”

 

Benny, “We just get the coffee,” held up his cup.

 

“Sir, I understand, but you legally cannot park here. It’s unsafe.”

 

“And what are you going to do about it?” Abbot got up in his face, Meter maid didn’t balk. “Cocksucker?”

 

“I’m gonna write you a ticket. Step back.”

 

“Or?”

 

“Sir, step back.”

 

“This Soviet goddamn Russia?!” Abbot shoved. Meter maid kind of half toppled, pedestrians gawked, guy went stable and stared and went red faced.

 

And Abbot pushed again.

 

Onto the street. No cars, just these guys, just a crowd forming, just Abbot screaming, “What now? What now?!”

 

Clenched fists.

 

Abbot threw a punch.

 

Abbot missed.

 

Guy dodged and threw up fists and Abbot scowled, another punch, another miss, went to grab for the torso trying to tackle but cop held steady and elbowed in the back and sent Abbot to the floor. Scrambling, scrambling, Abbot kicking with the legs and cop taking cop boots to Abbot’s dumb f*cking leg.

 

“Augh!!” Tried getting up again and the cop went again, pow, kicked Abbot in the cheek and got it purple. Abbot rolled, got up, felt the cheek and felt it bleed and went for another punch and saw it connect in the chest. Saw cop frowning and half-grinning and blinked and bang. Guy was on top of him.

 

Punch.

 

Punch.

 

Kick.

 

Benny screaming, “Что за хуйня? Hey, hey, get off! Get off!” Crowd murmurs getting louder, could feel the phones recording and saw the Russian guy, the big Russian in a trenchcoat, saw him pull off the cop and pull him aside and hear talking.

 

Abbot wasn’t listening.

 

Just head down on the road, on the asphalt. Staring up at the sky.

 

Abbot felt something.

 

Abbot smiled.

 

Abbot felt good.

 

Abbot saw Benny and saw him spitting and mouthing words that maybe sounded like “You stupid f*ck?! What was that?!” and could hear him maybe, maybe telling the crowd to disperse and the cop doing the same, and the cop saying it wasn’t an issue and thanking someone for a donation or something, something, something.

 

Abbot wasn’t listening.

 

Abbot didn’t care.

 

Abbot felt good.

 

For the first time in a while.

 

The Glossary

Liberty City Map

Edited August 24, 2022 by slimeball supreme

[slimeball supreme]

Yeah, My Bad

 

They were in Alderney now. Tudor. Bad memories.

 

Big Paulie sold budget cars on Emery Street - not Big Paulie’s, just Big Paulie Budget Cars. Advertised himself with a green-white-red caricature of his squinting face for a logo, which, you know. Odd, but whatever. You can count on Paulie.

 

Reuben didn’t come this time. Something with his wife.

 

Just Latrell, Frank, and Phil.

 

“I knew these guys, these Ancelotti guys, who was smuggling cum outta federal prison.”

 

Latrell, “Get outta here.”

 

“I’m dead f*cking serious.”

 

“Who was that?” Phil said. “Was that, uh… Rivetti’s people in East Hook?”

 

“Frenchie? Nah. They was with the Lennox boys, you know, euuh… ah, f*ck, I dunno. Lispy or Red, f*ck. One of those guys used to hang around The Scrapes and flick chins at Old Man Gio. Whatever.”

 

Latrell bit lip and thought a second. “You guys roll with the Ancelottis?”

 

Phil laughed, “f*ck no.”

 

“Those guys, disgrazia. If they smuggle cum out the joint, they got brains like f*ckin’ pebbles. I mean, with Gio in the pen you’d think- ah, whatever. They play a million sides and get burnt. Suckers.”

 

“They drop like flies or they rot in cells, f*ck it. They work with Albos and Russians and those f*ckin’ Alderney goombah retards and all these guys and they think they won’t stab them in the back.” 

 

“Trust your own people. That’s all.”

 

Stung a little but you move on. Latrell, “Ain’t we workin’ with Albanians?”

 

“That’s different,” Frank said.

 

“How?”

 

“It’s one Albanian versus f*ckin’ fifty who you call fags behind their back. We got respect for them. Albanians- f*ckin’, half of them speak Italian, you know.”

 

“But Phil--”

 

“Whatever Phil said- look, it’s different.”

 

Latrell blinked. “So who do you guys roll with?”

 

The Fathom rolled down Phalanx Road and stopped on the corner. Frank switched gears. “Well, you know.”

 

Out the car, “I don’t,” said Latrell.

 

Phil tried to phrase it, “Well, you know, look--”

 

“We’re the Broker arm of a Bohan thing, lemme’ put it that way.”

 

Phil muttered something that Latrell couldn’t hear.

 

Latrell kept thinking. “So you guys is Lupisellas?”

 

On the corner, Frank and Phil traded glances. “Sure. You want me to say that?”

 

“Yeah, Frankie.”

 

“Then yeah. I’m not f*ckin’... see, I just hope you ain’t got no f*ckin’ thing on you.”

 

Phil kept going, “Frankie’s got his button but… you know, whatever. I can’t. Like it means nothin’ these days no-way.”

 

Got a glare from Frank.

 

And Latrell kept thinking. “But… you roll with that Gravelli guy?”

 

“Yeah,” said Frank.

 

“But- well, you know. Ain’t he with, well, he would be with the Gambettis, right?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“And you don’t hate the motherf*cker?”

 

Frank laughed, “No. Why would we?”

 

“You guys is all rivals ‘n sh*t. You know, Denoument. He the Gravelli kid or nephew or cousin or whatever, he ain’t like, boss or nothin’?”

 

Phil answered, “No. And no.”

 

“You think we roll with Rod f*cking Gravelli? Spoiled brat f*cking reality star f*cking kid? Makes money selling molly to Derney Shore wannabes and throwing firebombs at f*cking pizza parlors?”

 

“He ain’t joking,” said Phil.

 

“Rod’s tattoos is cool to hang out at. And he’s a funny guy. But we hang there because of Titus and their whole thing, they used to box or whatever. Rod goes to court every other f*cking year because he punches some moo-, uh, you know, f*cking idiot in the face or whatever. He goes to parties and gets high.”

 

They were standing stupidly on the corner discussing assault charges.

 

Latrell rubbed his hands together. “We gonna head inside?”

 

They headed inside.

 

Into… Big Paulie Budget Cars. The dealership was this red-brick two story with a glass window covered in jibber-jabber servicing sh*t to the right of the car lot - massive space with only a couple rides inside with tape label stuck to the windshield. A Declasse Merit here, a Dundreary Admiral there. sh*tty cars and land yachts and vehicles with a million miles taken off with sawdust. Up the corner, this trailer-turned-diner called Babe’s Italian Sandwich Shop hawking sausages by propane tanks. Down the street a health and wellness center and a thousand miles of strip mall.

 

Every purchase gets a full tank of Xero!

 

Inside was… well, it felt like a house. It was this old seventies pattern carpeting and desks on shag and water coolers and a suburban staircase by the doorway. Place wasn’t built to be a dealership - made Latrell do the math. Dealership lot probably just converted vacant grounds with the weeds pulled out.

 

Phil headed for the corner, as one does.

 

Was extended a hand nonetheless.

 

The hand was thick, the hand was cut off from circulation - from meaty arms - by gold jewelry and bracelet and watch. The hand belonged to this massive guy with a fat pouty chin and squinty eyes and white streaks in the hair and grease practically dripping to the floor.

 

The man was, presumably, Big Paulie.

 

Big Paulie shook hands with the mick. Big Paulie did not with Latrell. Had this goddamn squawk voice, “Frankie, who da’ heck is this?”

 

“Latrell.”

 

“Who?”

 

“Latrell. He’s doing the thing. We’s is getting the waters for him, he’s gonna be delivering the cups.”

 

Like Paulie’s eyes were coated in sweat. “And he came with?”

 

“He came with.”

 

Paulie looked. “Okay.”

 

Latrell, “Is there a problem?”

 

“No. Just… contractors, they don’t tag along. Latrell.” Turned back to Frankie, “And you know I’m on edge.”

 

“It’s fine. He’s good peoples. He’s tough, but he’s good peoples for this gig.”

 

Paulie kept sweating. “Ain’t polite to just do business and go. You guys want sausage?”

 

Huh.

 

Why not?

 

Kitchen had another guy by the rear exit: slender guy in athletic wear, a thousand lines on his forehead and big black unblinking eyes darted across all four faces. Went in for the hug with Frankie, shook hands - “Vinny Barbosa,” said Frank. Vinny shrugged and kept back to the door.

 

Paulie opened the fridge.

 

Paulie got the pan out the cupboard.

 

Paulie started frying the sausage.

 

Breakfast sausage.

 

“Take a seat.”

 

Frankie, “You got eggs or nothing?”

 

“No,” Paulie said. “Just sausage.”

 

They took a seat.

 

Table had red-checker cloth strewn and morning light shining through the windows and Paulie keeping up the chatter, “I like a little spice in my sausage, don't matter what time a day,” and Frankie just nodding along and agreeing and spitting small talk while Paulie was dipping back and forth to the fridge. Banana peppers, bread roll, that kind of sh*t.

 

“Paulie has this thing - like, he saturates the sh*t with the juices in the bread. You don’t even need no salt. It’s just the juices.”

 

“Cook-out thing.”

 

“Yeah, cook-out thing.”

 

“We had this thing, you know, it’d be us Bufanos, Barbosas - guys from the ‘Derney wing’d come down and they- you know, this is a family deal. Mazzas and the Procidas too, you guys from Broker. We’d get all the guys--”

 

Phil, “You guys did?”

 

Frank, “Well- you know, yeah. Sure. Just a close knit thing, we invited friends, you know.”

 

Phil frowned. “Okay.”

 

“But you know,” Paulie went on. “It was good. Good times.” Paulie put the peppers on fry. “You guys want eggs, too?”

 

“I asked that.”

 

“Yeah, Frankie, but- you know, I checked the fridge. I thought we ain’t had the eggs and I check again and you know, we have eggs. It’s okay. Youse can have eggs.”

 

Peppers, onions, romano cheese, sausage. Paulie put the eggs on fry.

 

Latrell wanted to say something, but, you know. Free food.

 

It was a thing now.

 

“Where’s Scott?”

 

Phil, “Did Scott go to those things?”

 

Paulie, “Yeah.”

 

“He’d bring-” Frankie stopped, smiled, “you remember his wife?”

 

“The little Vietnamese number was like half his age, yeah.”

 

“They went a few times but they stopped coming because a’ the whole veganisms thing or some sh*t.”

 

“And they’d- Phil, with Gerry Giordano there was always--”

 

Latrell was just lost, “Jerry Giordano? The radio debt guy or what the f*ck? Kill Debt Dead?”

 

“That's Jerry with a J,” Phil said. “They's is brothers but- ch’know, it’s- Gerry with a G is Gerardo and he’s with us and he runs at the top and then Jerry's his kid brother. He's doing some bid with Loopy.”

 

Gerardo. Gerardo Lozano. Gerardo Giordano. f*ck. “Is Jerry Giordano with you guys?”

 

And Paulie just turned, “You sure this guy is good for this--”

 

Frankie stared him down. “Yes.”

 

Gruff pause.

 

Phil all quiet, “He makes enough on the TV, you know. Whatever.”

 

“Scott’s with the cups,” said Paulie. “That right, Vin?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Vin says it's right.”

 

Frank, “Did Vin say it was right?”

 

“I said it was right,” Vin said. “You didn’t hear me?”

 

“No, I heard, it’s just--”

 

“I got the sausage.”

 

Paulie had the sausage.

 

Sausage got set down with a thousand other plates and a thousand other pans and a thousand other ingredients and the pepper smell and the eggs and the cheese and the bread and a grater he got out the cupboard and Vin coming up from the door to set the table. Sad eyes on these two guys as they got ready for a meal, an impromptu meal of sausage and peppers and eggs and bread for the f*cking breaking.

 

Half an hour or an hour ago nothing had been there at all.

 

They all went “Salut’.”

 

Phil went “Gesundheit.”

 

Latrell stared at plates.

 

“How’s things been?”

 

Paulie getting the forks, “Life grabs you by the balls and squeezes until it’s nothing. Like crap.” Got out a f*cking six-pack from near the fridge and passed Benedict Light around in cans. “Both of us. Both me, both Vinny, both friggin’ nobody. We all get screwed by the almighty. I don’t know.”

 

Vinny nodded.

 

Latrell, “What happened?”

 

Paulie looked at him like he pissed on the carpet. This scowl. Was it any of his business?

 

Phil jumped in, “Paulie lost his brother. Angelo.”

 

Paulie stuttered, mumbled, something. Nothing to no effect, this vague speech for the sake of speaking. “I’m sorry,” said Latrell.

 

“Got shot by these guys robbed him.”

 

Latrell, “sh*t.”

 

Frankie, “Yeah.”

 

Paulie looking at the ground, at the tiles. “I wanna say these things happen, you know? Happened to Vin, too.”

 

Vinny looking at the ground too. “Yeah.”

 

“His kid brother, Johnny. You know. These things, they f*cking take you out, you know? He was a good kid. He really was a good f*cking kid. But he fell in with these guys and they made a f*cking mess and this little punk who thought he was a bigshot got him and these other guys domed. For what reason, you know?”

 

Vin said nothing.

 

“I’m sorry,” said Latrell.

 

“I don’t even get that.”

 

Vinny, “It was the marijuanas, I don’t know. He was a kid.”

 

“He used to drive his car, the Ruiner, he used to drive the thing really fast, yeah? The 80’s T-top.”

 

“I don’t wanna talk about it, Phil.”

 

“Y’gotta remember the good times.”

 

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

 

“Latrell, they called the kid, Johnny, they called him Johnny Spaz because--”

 

Paulie, “Drop it.”

 

The sausages were getting cold.

 

Vin sat down to eat.

 

To eat sausage. To eat peppers, and eggs, and cheese, and bread, and whatever-else.

 

In silence. With car noise and heater rumble and birds chirping.

 

To eat sausage.

 

Took a long time for anyone to pipe up, for Frank to pipe up with “I’m sorry about Angie.”

 

It was something he’d said before and said a lot, and you could tell. “Thanks,” Paulie said. Seemed he didn’t care how many times, he just wanted to hear it. “Angie weren’t a kid. I got that. You know?”

 

“I know.”

 

“He’d do this f*ckin’ thing, where…” trailed off. Trailed off nowhere. Stared at the checkercloth.

 

“Yeah, Paul.”

 

“He didn’t do nothin’ to nobody. He didn’t. He didn’t.”

 

“And--”

 

“Scott was there. Ticky was there.”

 

Latrell blinked. “Ticky?”

 

Phil, “This kid Timmy Zangari.”

 

Frank, “He here?”

 

And Paulie just waved it off and kept going “I pray to God every day and he did and we’s went to church and y’know, it’s just the randomness. It’s the f*cking randomess of it all. You know? Not even a f*cking open casket because these f*cking mutts they… God! God! Vinny- he- sh*t, and- it’s like- f*ckin’- you just- have to-...” Paulie stopped. Just went back to the sausage.

 

Latrell watched him.

 

Watched him poke and pout and watched the wet eyes dart.

 

“They don’t let you smoke in the doors no more, right?”

 

“That’s just public buildings in the city,” said Phil.

 

Frank went on, “So you can do it in ‘Derney?”

 

“You can do it on ya’s property.”

 

“In the city?”

 

“Even there, yeah.”

 

Frankie nodded. “Good to know, yeah.”

 

Could hear the throats clear as the cutlery clicked.

 

Took a while for the meal to go. But it did. Latrell poked, wasn’t hungry but you gotta be polite, was halfway finished when everyone was done. Gave his plate to Vinny as he went collecting and looked Latrell up and down a moment before taking it to wash.

 

Frankie lit a cigarette and got a scowl from Paulie but did it anyway, got up from the table and talked “We get this sh*t out the way?” through pursed lips and teeth clenched. Paul nodded, pointed, took over cleaning dishes and let Vinny lead the way.

 

Out into the back.

 

“Sorry about Paulie,” Vin said.

 

Who was that directed at?

 

Latrell took it anyway, “No problem.”

 

Guessed right. Walked through the screen door into a little back area with propane tanks and a little brick building with a thick door, “Usually ain’t antsy but this was only couple months ago. Was some black guys, too.”

 

Latrell’s breath cut short. “Yeah?”

 

“Or Jamaicans or some sh*t,” Frank said.

 

Vinny, “f*ck’d Jamaicas be doing in Tudor?”

 

“I heard.”

 

Vinny pulled out keys and let ‘em jingle. “It’s ain’t racism, just, euh… you know. You gotta be careful.” Door clicked. “Lowlifes.”

 

“Scott was there. He’d know.”

 

Door opened.

 

Latrell saw Scott.

 

Oh.

 

Latrell knew Scott.

 

Scott was a middle-aged guy with a barrel chest and a gray Eris polo shirt and these massive gold Gnocchi sunglasses too big for his head. Widow’s peak hair and this meaty boxer face, mushed up, cauliflower ears.

 

He knew that face.

 

That was Mushface. Mushface from the gas station. Mushface Latrell’d stuck a gun in the face of and watched get covered in pieces of brain at the gas station for a truck full of f*cking antifreeze or dish soap or whatever. Mushface whose truck was at the bottom of the West River.

 

Latrell froze up.

 

Oh.

 

Latrell knew how Angie died.

 

Latrell left himself a moment and saw himself walk, no, stumble into the room and stop by the wall to observe. To observe Scott, Mushface, watch him get up from a crate and greet with a grin and shook hands and this little tremor in his arms as he did it.

 

He didn’t hear what Scott said but heard the words ‘Vinny’ and ‘Paulie’ and ‘Angie’. Zoned back in to hear him say  “-that bullsh*t was f*ckin’ that. Bullsh*t.”

 

“Was Angie talking this sh*t around when he said it?”

 

“He lost his f*ckin’ head for it if he did. I don’t know. f*ckin’ n- eurgh, whatever. And the kid?”

 

“That’s Latrell.” Frankie cupped hands, “Latrell!”

 

Jumped out his head. “What?”

 

“Kid’s in the clouds, euhh, yeah. Scott was just sayin’ where we was gettin’ the cups.”

 

Scott had this cigar gravel growl, “We don’t want youse gettin’ trails so we got the stash here for youse. You drop the thing in the river and give us a slice for replacements.”

 

Latrell, “Huh?”

 

“Stock, boy. Stock. We got the cups here you use so we don’t get no trails.”

 

Latrell shook his head. “Sure.”

 

“It’s two of youse, correct? You got a homie or whateva’ the f*ck,” chuckled.

 

“Yeah. So yeah. Two cups. All we need is two cups.”

 

Scott gave a nod and crossed the room for more boxes - whole little building behind was filled with shelves upon shelves with boxes upon boxes - have to assume that they weren’t all cups, but… you know. There were cups in there.

 

‘Cups’ didn’t mean cups.

 

If you didn’t get the memo before, you knew when the wood box got pulled out and the lid was opened to show a quartet - two .38s, two 9 millimeters. “They’s Boiuna. Brazillio. 9 by 19. Semi-auto sh*t’s is made in the factories they used to make the Chitarras, the MP models, whateva’ the f*ck. Call it an M3PB. Now da’ six shot’s got rubber grips so it’s easy. Easy to load but you get less bang.”

 

Latrell blinked. “Yeah. Looks like the Chitarra.”

 

“They make ‘em at the same factory.”

 

Frankie, “You said that.”

 

Latrell muttered, “Semi-auto’s is good.”

 

“Huh?”

 

“The semi. The Chitarra, I’ll- yeah. We’ll take that.”

 

“It ain’t a Chitarra.”

 

Phil, “Looks like one.”

 

And Scott nodded, “They make ‘em at the same factory.”

 

Latrell’s hands shook as he pointed and pulled out the pieces and gave them over to Frankie. Noticed Vinny had left, must’ve never entered. Was feeling chills down his spine as he backed up to the door and got listening as Phil and Frankie spat, “This whole thing with you peoples. I’m sorry.”

 

“It’s okay, Frankie.”

 

“It ain’t.”

 

“It’s Paul I worry for, you know. I ain’t lost nothing. We lost money and… you know. What’re you gonna do.”

 

Phil, “I’d f*ckin’ comb through Acter with an AK. Thats’d I f*ckin’ do.”

 

Frankie, “We’ll find ‘em.”

 

And Scott shook his head and sighed and said “No.”

 

“No?”

 

“They was shake-up guys. Stick-up guys. That’s it, right?”

 

“Stick-up, yeah.” 

 

You could see his little head dart to Latrell before saying “They was garden variety titsoon jamoke motherf*ckers. A million of them.”

 

Latrell didn’t know what those words meant.

 

“We took care of those Ancho’ beaners, though.”

 

“They was easy to find.”

 

“Shouldn’t a’ been.”

 

“It’s nothing. It’s done. I’m resigned to that.”

 

Could see Frank and Scott lock eyes. Said something with them they couldn’t have said otherwise. A nod, a pat on the back. “We’re goin’,” Frank said.

 

They went.

 

Vinny was out back smoking a cigarette.

 

Walk was short and sweet back into the dealership with the guns before Latrell tapped Frankie’s shoulder, got him to stop, took him and Phil aside where the desks were while Paulie was still cleaning the dishes and Vin was back outside with the fall air beating down.

 

The three of them.

 

Latrell bit the bullet. “Ancho’ beaners?”

 

Frank laughed. “That’s a great story.”

 

“Story?”

 

Phil nodded off, “I’m gonna get a water.”

 

Just two.

 

Frankie sat him down by the desk and leaned back and laughed and clenched his fists, “This was in the fall of ‘08. The bad times. Everybody dropping like flies. You know.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Was these guys. We had sh*t around town and we was working with these guys and we was sellin’ heroin for cheap and it was a good gig. And we had these gigs around town, we had one at Honkers - you know Honkers?”

 

Latrell smiled, “Who don’t?”

 

“We did some sh*t at Honkers, we was moving some weight at those construction sites in Chase Point, whatever. And there were these spics. These Dominican guys who robbed us, they shot our guys, they took our sh*t, pain in the ass. But we knew ‘em. We knew their names, we knew where they hang out - Northwood. We knew the three a’ them because they was tryna’ rob everyone in the city f*ckin’ blind. We do more digging and they got these Ancho, Ancelotti connects.”

 

“How?”

 

“One of them was a bouncer at Maisonette 9. Right under our f*ckin’ noses.”

 

Latrell blew out his nose. “Okay.”

 

“So we got the guy. We got two a’ his pals, the guys he was sticking us up with. And we thought Old Man Ancelotti would be spittin’ sh*t because they was with him, turns out we call him up and he wants to cut the guy’s cock off because he killed his in-law. Some sh*t. So we get these wetbacks, we take ‘em to Loopy - Mark Lupisella - we take ‘em to his basement.”

 

Latrell nodded. “Yeah?”

 

Frankie grinned. “And Mark Lupisella cut their cocks off.”

 

Color left Latrell’s face. “Yeah.”

 

“Mark Lupisella’s a mean f*ck. They call him Loopy for a reason. They do. You give the guy a reason and he won’t let go. Used to do the boxing and he beat a motherf*cker to death in the ring. Tried getting this f*ckin’ TV thing done about him being a port worker boss and bein’ a legitimate businessman and answerin’ phonecalls and this guy calls him Loopy on set and he beats the f*ck outta him with a chair.” Frank smiled, kept smiling, smiled like this was so good to him, “I was in that basement. This was a favor when my pa didn’t hate Mark’s f*ckin’ guts so much.”

 

Latrell, “You helped these guys out?”

 

“We was drivin’ along and settin’ the thing up. And Mark is stompin’ down these steps and he’s got this f*ckin’ box cutter out and he’s laughin’ up a storm. And he says he knows these guys. Because one of these pricks f*cked his daughter. I don’t even know these peoples names but he loved it.”

 

“Loved what?”

 

“Cuttin’ a motherf*cker’s cock off. He loved it. Take the blade right to the ballsack. Old Man Gio he calls, he says he can deal with the loose ends, all this sh*t with that homo- euhh you know, but Gio wants a gift so Loopy sends him a bit a’ his dick in the f*cking mail. I sh*t you not. And we helped clean up.”

 

Latrell nodded. Look at his feet, look at his foot tapping and tapping and tapping without him knowing and got him leaning his elbow on the knee. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. “Cool.”

 

“That’s what he does to people who f*ck with us. That’s how he does it. There’s honor in this thing and these f*ckin’ animals don’t like the honor, these animals get burnt. They take a friend and a family member away from you and you carve them up like f*ckin’ cheese. Forget about it.”

 

Latrell said nothing.

 

Phil came back.

 

They just kinda stood there a moment.

 

“We headed out?”

 

“Yeah, Phil.”

 

Latrell, “This place got a bathroom?”

 

It did.

 

Door slammed into the wall hard and Latrell keeled over and f*cking spewed.

 

Like his guts were on fire. Eyes red and shot and bleeding and head sweat dripping and the thoughts ending. They weren’t going through his head anymore, no, they’d stopped. You stop thinking in the moment and let the body take over and alleviate.

 

Alleviate peppers, and onions, and romano cheese, and eggs, and sausage.

 

The Glossary

Liberty City Map

Edited April 28, 2021 by slimeball supreme

[slimeball supreme]

The Dry Cleaners

 

Benny was a restaurateur. That’s what he wrote on his taxes or whatever anyway, he was the professional manager of several banquet halls in Broker; the bankroller, the money man. He started none of them. Two of them were inherited from his bosses - Gulag Garden previously being ran by this little guy named Lev Abbot’d heard about here and there, mouse faced guy, threw good parties. The other was a catering hall for weddings in Hansen Basin his father Lazar used to run, a man Benny only spoke about in past tense if at all.

 

Those, he inherited legitimately.

 

One of the restaurants he ran was an Uzbek place on Koodkirk in Fulham, actually a pretty short drive from his house and, funnily enough, a couple blocks away from the good doctor Yugo Churkin.

 

Stepping into the restaurant, this gaudy looking place called St. Basil Palace with red stucco and a fancy walkway and murals of Moscow landmarks on the interior, with a big ceiling that was painted black with LED lights like the night sky, place was f*cking tacky enough you’d think Benny was in on the ground floor.

 

Wrong.

 

The old owner was named Abdul, and Abdul still ran the joint in person. Abdul also had to put up with the litany of Hove Beach toughs making the place their home away from home. Abdul had to put up with getting a chunk of the proceeds, if not all, taken right out his pocket. Abdul had to deal with the fact he lost a finger in what, to this day, he insists was a car accident on the expressway.

 

Benny took the cash.

 

Abbot stepped in, talked to the maitre d’, stepped into the private room.

 

Past crystal-glass window.

 

No meals were booked for today.

 

Felix and Benny.

 

Felix with the beard and the ponytail and the little scar above the brow and a leather blazer over a turtleneck, room temp probably too hot for it but he looked like the kind of guy who didn’t care. Bald Benny in the pink gingham dress shirt with the chai pendant and aviators on the table.

 

Felix and Benny mid-conversation, Abbot getting half-stopped by a bruiser at the door in a tight t-shirt before a quick “Он в порядке” from Benny letting him in.

 

Felix, “You.”

 

Abbot, “Me.”

 

Benny, “Abbot.” Pitter-pattered on the table and beckoned over, “I need you to do little favor.”

 

Felix, “We should get--”

 

“No, no, no, no,” Benny put up a hand. “Abbot do it.”

 

Felix just shrugged.

 

“What do you want me to do?”

 

“Atta boy,” Benny smiled. “A friend of ours.”

 

Felix, “Half a friend of ours.”

 

“Friends from a long time ago need ends met on our thing we have going on in East Hook. They grease the wheels, you know, keep everything smooth. Always had a hand over there so they help us.”

 

Abbot didn’t care how vague it sounded, “So?”

 

Another smile.

 

Benny hoisted this fat f*cking duffel bag from under the table.

 

Wow.

 

“You don’t open this, Abbot.”

 

Abbot nodded.

 

Felix, “They’ll know if you open the bag, Abbot.”

 

Benny pushed it over. “This is our laundry.”

 

Abbot just blinked. “Okay.”

 

“Laundry needs to be cleaned. You take it to one of these Spin On This places, the one on Boot Street, you knock on the door and you go to the back room - you tell cashier it is for the party and they will let you past. You knock on the door, a man answer. You hand him the package and you will come back. Okay?”

 

Abbot kept looking at the bag.

 

“Hey,” finger snap, “Abbot?”

 

“Yeah. Okay.”

 

Felix, “I- if you really want him talk to them--”

 

“I do.”

 

“Okay, okay, okay. Okay!”

 

“It’s a big bag,” Abbot muttered.

 

“A big bag you don’t open.”

 

“Felix. He understand.” 

 

Abbot nodded. He did.

 

Felix nodded too. Felix nodded deliberate, unsure, eyes-squinted and arms folded and invited him over, “Take it, then.”

 

Abbot took it, then.

 

And f*ck, was it f*cking heavy.

 

Benny noticed, “Don’t ask.”

 

What’s in it? Abbot didn’t. Abbot just took the thing and lugged it out the f*cking door.

 

***

 

Seaside Broker was brownstones and dockland where pizza parlors used to stand. Now what stood there were juice bars and craft beer places and digital bus-stop advertisements and people walking yorkies with their baby strollers. Boot Street had all that, Abbot knew walking by the mailbox with ‘Dismantle Patriarchy’ scrawled on the side with marker and the store on the corner of Wayne Street called PICNIC that Abbot couldn’t discern the purpose or trade of. Did it sell food? You couldn’t tell.

 

But down the street was the catholic church, this big baroque thing Abbot had forgotten the name of, staring off into the sky. You could still see it. They hadn’t knocked the f*cker down to build condos. So you know, the old neighborhood still lived.

 

Spin on This! Charming.

 

There were a few around town, one on Iroquois Avenue Abbot remembered, but you know. It’s a 24 hour chain laundromat and dry cleaner, who gives a sh*t? It’s one with a pretty vulgar name but you take what you can.

 

Inside.

 

Inside, a row of machines, and a row of clothes in plastic covers with yellow name tags and little carts and little laundry bags and a little guy at the desk with a dimpled chin and scratchy cheeks and a nametag that said ‘Ralph’. So, inside was Ralph.

 

Ralph took one look at the bag and his face creased up like he bit a lemon. “You good, man?”

 

“I’m fine.”

 

“Did you walk here?”

 

“I took a cab, it’s fine. It’s for the party.”

 

“The what?”

 

Looked Ralph in the eye, “It’s for the party.”

 

“The what? What party?”

 

“Ralph.” Slower this time, “It’s for the party.”

 

And Ralph stopped. And Ralph looked at the bag. And Ralph nodded. “Okay.”

 

“I gotta talk to the guys.”

 

Nodded again, beckoned, let him through to the rear. Led him past more racks and more coats in plastic and more nametags to a door, left him there without a word, without nothing. He got it.

 

Abbot knocked.

 

Could hear chatter, got nothing. Knocked harder, longer.

 

Locks clicked. Door cracked.

 

“Yeah?” Big blobby eyes and greasy neck-length hair and a red tracksuit and face shaved clean. Feathery eyebrows and a Virgin Mary necklace. “What?”

 

“I got the party supplies.”

 

Looked at the bag. “For what?”

 

“You know.”

 

“No.”

 

“For the party. You know, I’m with the guys.”

 

“What the f*ck are you talkin’ about?”

 

Frustrated, groan, “Do- did they tell you about me f*cking bringing this?”

 

And then it clicked. “Oof, madon’!”

 

“You get it?”

 

“Yeah. Sure, sure, hey,” clicked the door open, crack went wide, “you come on in.”

 

Abbot looked. “I was told--”

 

“You want a soda? We got eCola in the fridge, you want some of that? Or diet? Come on,” pulled the bag from him, “come on, man.”

 

And Abbot, empty handed, confused, at the edge of the doorway with warm light filling in from laundromat gray, came in.

 

Like a different building.

 

Must’ve been a break room or something like that, fridge and mini-kitchen and amenities and a TV with a couch, dart board, another door at the end. Around four or five Italians in the room excluding tracksuit with the bag - two of them, one in a green track with sunglasses indoors and slicked grey hair, the other in blue jeans in tucked shirt he didn’t have the figure for, both of them sat at a little table.

 

Wood table turned poker table. 

 

Tucked shirt went up, “You bag boy?”

 

“What?”

 

“You bag boy. You get the bag from the fellas with the accents?”

 

“Yeah. Sure.”

 

Red track, “You want lemon-lime? Orange?”

 

“You don’t got an accent.”

 

“No,” Abbot said. “Guess I don’t.”

 

Red tracksuit by the kitchen counter zipping the bag open, pulling sh*t out. Cash bundle, cash bundle, cash bundle. “Is Rud’ still out?”

 

Green tracksuit, “Yeah, we’s still f*ckin’ waiting.”

 

“Hey, bagboy. You mind seatwarming?”

 

“Huh?”

 

“You play poker?”

 

Abbot blinked. “Sure. What, you want me to play?”

 

Green tracksuit, “Rudy’s getting sangwiches. And I’m tired of f*ckin’ waiting.”

 

T-shirt agreed, “I’m tired of f*ckin’ waiting, too.”

 

Abbot looked. They looked back. Kept looking. “You sure?”

 

T-shirt, “You can’t?”

 

“No, I can. Just, can I?”

 

And t-shirt opened arms. “Why the f*ck not?”

 

Why the f*ck not.

 

Abbot shrugged and sat down. Got his introductions; Stu in the t-shirt, Glen in the tracksuit. Other guys didn’t introduce but had their hellos, sat Abbot down in the lone chair with its back to the door and had Glen deal the cards out. Red tracksuit came down with the can of Orang-o-Tang and went back to count buckies after a “good luck.”

 

Abbot checked his hand. An ace of spades, a 10 of clubs.

 

“You’re bettin’ his cash,” said Stu.

 

“Will he mind?”

 

“Maybe,” said Glen, “but he shoulda’ just got sum’n else to get the f*cking sangwiches.”

 

“I don’t get him,” said Stu. “With the orders. Picky f*ckin’... whatever.” Small blind. Abbot was big blind.

 

“You from Russia, bagboy?” Glen asked.

 

“Broker,” said Abbot. Raised.

 

Called, “That’s good, that’s good. See these guys they f*ckin’ send, they’re all foreigners and f*ckin’ jerkoffs who can’t speak the language. Sayin’ all this bullsh*t nobody f*ckin’ gets, you know.”

 

“I guess.”

 

“Where, then?”

 

“Where what?”

 

“Where in Broker?”

 

“Hove Beach.”

 

“So you is Russian?” Stu raised, raised the bet.

 

“My pa’s from Belarus.”

 

Glen called, “Where’s that?”

 

Raised, “Y’know, f*ckin’... East Europe. Still was Soviet, I guess.”

 

“So Russia?”

 

“Soviets were- no, not exactly. I’m Jewish, I prefer that.”

 

Stu half-jumped, “No f*ckin’ sh*t! Rennie’s wife is Jewish. Hey, ho, Rennie?”

 

Red tracksuit looked back up from the bag. “Wha’?”

 

“Where’s your wife from, Ren?”

 

“Broker.”

 

“No, I mean her, uh, familial.”

 

“Her what?”

 

“Where was she born or her parents or what-the-f*ck?”

 

“Uh… I dunno. Slovakia a’ something. Slavakio? Slovakia.”

 

Abbot called the bet, “Okay.”

 

Community cards - 10 of clubs, 9 of spades, 6 of hearts. Stu bet, “Is Slovakia in East Europe?”

 

“No sh*t,” said Glen.

 

“So youse and her wife is from the same country?”

 

“No,” Abbot said, Abbot checked. “I mean, it’s two different countries.”

 

“Yeah,” Glen raised. “So no.”

 

Abbot raised, “Is Rennie’s wife Jewish?”

 

Stu raised, “I just told you.”

 

“It’s just, is she Slovakian or is she Jewish? Or is she both? I dunno.”

 

“Both.”

 

Abbot sighed, “Okay.” Called.

 

Turn card showed its face. 5 of diamonds. Stakes doubled.

 

Stu bet.

 

Abbot raised.

 

“Youse is playing ballsy with another man’s money.”

 

“It’s another man’s money.”
 

Glen folded.

 

Stu just f*cking laughed, “Cheeky f*ckin’ cheeky.”

 

“You know,” Glen said, “if Rudy comes back and he’s a hundred out the f*ckin’ hole, he’s takin’ this guy’s neck. Abbot, right?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“I ain’t the one bein’ thrown in the Humboldt.”

 

“Trust me,” Abbot said. Raised, “I won’t.”

 

Stu laughed. Called.

 

Glen rubbed hands.

 

River card. Queen.

 

Abbot put his cards on the table. Got a laugh.

 

Stu put his down.

 

Abbot got a pair of 10s. Stu got a pair of 9s.

 

“Are you f*cking kidding me?”

 

“You cocky f*ckin’- Jesus.”

 

“So what,” Abbot asked. “Rudy gets the pot?”

 

Stu muttering, “Least it weren’t no f*ckin’ high. f*ckin’ aces high card.”

 

“I mean, you want the cash or you want Rudy the f*ckin’ cash?”

 

“Is Rudy gonna throw me in the river?”

 

Glen didn’t answer quick enough for his “no” to be convincing.

 

“Rudy can keep it.”

 

Stu back up from mutterville, “You wanna go again, Abbie?”

 

Abbot didn’t get to answer.

 

“Look who the cat f*ckin’ dragged in, boys!”

 

The penny dropped.

 

Everyone stood.

 

Like everything started happening all at once.

 

Gus and Stu didn’t wait to finish sentences; stood up, walked over. Rennie dropped f*cking cash to the countertop. Nameless duo by the TV let eyes switch and pushed themselves off to congratulate a man in a crowd, a man with a posse. Rudy - or who Abbot assumed was Rudy, ruddy faced blue-collar type in a beige polo - had brought 3 other guidos in dressed in sweaters and sportswear.

 

Surrounding one.

 

Abbot knew that one guy.

 

Truth is, if you’d been in this town and seen a tabloid headline or a news report over the past odd-ten, twenty years; you knew that guy. You knew the smirk, you knew the hazel eyes, you knew the pretty boy looks and coiffed hair like he was someone to look at.

 

The man was staring at Abbot.

 

The noise had stopped.

 

And he wasn’t smiling anymore.

 

“Who’s this?”

 

Abbot blinked.

 

“Reynold, who- who’s this?”

 

“He’s the delivery guy with the thing.”

 

“And you just let him in?”

 

Abbot got up, put up hands, “I’m with--”

 

“I’m not f*cking talkin’ to you. You say sh*t to me when I f*ckin’ talk to you. Who the f*ck are you?”

 

Abbot stared.

 

“I’m talking to you now. Who the f*ck are you?”

 

Abbot kept staring.

 

Man walked closer, “Ain’t the time to be silent.”

 

Abbot blinked. “I’m not going to say my name in this room.”

 

“Do we have a f*ckin’ problem?”

 

Like sharks were encircling. “No,” Abbot said. “In case anybody we may not want to listen is listening.”

 

The man laughed. Threw his head back, almost like he was putting it on, “You really think?”

 

Abbot didn’t break contact.

 

“There’s a guy in this room every hour. They don’t get in here. They had a van outside a’ couple years back, I came out and gave ‘em a box of donuts.” Another step closer, “No rats on this ship and we keep the walls clean so the bugs don’t spread. Who are you?”

 

Abbot let that sink in a second.

 

“I’m Abbot Cohen and I work for the accents.”

 

“And they sent you here with the bag?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“And you didn’t leave?”

 

“They invited me in.”

 

And the man bit his knuckle and kept looking. Kept looking with hazel eyes and used his other arm to adjust his camel coat. Man thought.

 

“Okay.”

 

“Okay?”

 

“And you know who I am?”

 

“Yes,” Abbot said. “I do.”

 

“They pat you down?”

 

Abbot looked back. “No.”

 

Sucked in his cheek and looked him over again. Searched him, searched Abbot head to toe, eyes down and eyes back up. “They didn’t need to,” he said.

 

“They didn’t?”

 

The man looked at Abbot again, hard. “No,” he said. “They didn’t.”

 

This awkward silence simmering and simmering and all these eyes on these two men. A million guido eyes glaring. No room to breathe in an optical gunfight. Man bat his hand up sharp, “Everyone back to whatever-the-f*ck. Whacha’ f*ckin’ doin’.”

 

The man’s entourage stayed put by the door but let eyes stay fierce. Reynold did the same. But the rest of the room, slowly, ever slowly, orbited back to wherever. Table stayed empty.

 

“Rennie. Clear it.”

 

And Reynold cleared the table, cleared the cards, cleared the chips. Locked eyes with the man a moment stood a ways away; backed up, backed up, backed up. Backed up to the counter and backed into the duffel bag.

 

They were alone. Relatively. They wouldn't show it but you knew everyone in the room was listening.

 

Listening to silence.

 

“Siddown’,” the man said.

 

Abbot sat down.

 

The man sat down.

 

Abbot stared into the eyes, dead into the eyes, of Roy Zito.

 

Roy Zito, the boss of the Gambetti crime family. 

 

Roy Zito was Roy Zito. You didn't need an introduction to Roy Zito because every newspaper already did and every other crook saw him like the Messiah. Something like that; this big guy standing 5’11 with broad shoulders who made jokes to reporters and smiled for the cameras. Built like a movie star, dressed like one. Got shouted out in rap songs and took pictures with nightclub socialites. You know the type.

 

A regular Bruce Spade. The heir to Jon Gravelli. Celebrity. God.

 

Roy Zito stared back into his eyes.

 

Nothing.

 

“Bad mark on the face, there,” Roy said.

 

There was. Abbot got cut up bad by steel-toe pig boot, cheek gone purple. Wasn’t gonna leave a scar, wasn’t gonna leave nothing. But for a week, two - purple. “I f*cked up a cop.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Parking ticket.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Roy kept looking. “You done time?”

 

Abbot let it sit. “Yeah.”

 

“How long?”

 

“Two years. Two of probation.”

 

Roy nodded, “I don’t trust nobody who don’t done time. You know? I don’t.”

 

Abbot didn’t reply.

 

“How old are you?”

 

Blinked, “What’s it matter?”

 

Firmer, “How old are you?”

 

“31.”

 

“And you’re Russian?”

 

Beat. “Yeah.”

 

“You don’t sound it.”

 

“I’m as Russian as you are Italian, Roy.”

 

Roy chuckled. When Roy laughs, everyone laughs. Room was unsure but laughed cautious, scattered. “Is that so?” Bit his cheek again, smirked. “Then youse is Russian like Rasputin, ‘cause I’m more paisan than Caesar.”

 

It didn’t sound like much of a joke but the room laughed harder all the same.

 

Abbot kinda laughed too.

 

Reynold in the corner, “Check this f*ckin’ guy, he’s got jokes.”

 

“Rennie, you f*ckin’ listening?”

 

“What?”

 

“We’re talking about bugs over here, this guy’s like a f*ckin’ walkin’ wire. Madon’.”

 

More laughing.

 

But Roy didn’t stop looking at Abbot.

 

Blinked.

 

“I want you to see me, kid.”

 

Abbot said nothing.

 

“I want you to see me.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“You know Stanzino? My spot on Brown Place? In the city?”

 

Didn’t know the address but Abbot knew the place. “Yes.”

 

“Roy--”

 

“What?”

 

“This guy?”

 

“What, Rennie?”

 

“You wanna talk to Don about this? Talk to Jacky? I mean--”

 

“No. f*ck that. The kid talks to me. I wanna see him.”

 

Reynold took the hint. Reynold backed off.

 

Roy kept looking. “Okay?” he asked.

 

“Okay,” Abbot said.

 

“Okay.”

 

Locked eyes one more time.

 

Wordlessly.

 

Roy put up a hand. And Abbot understood.

 

Abbot left.

 

The Glossary

Liberty City Map

Edited October 7, 2023 by slimeball supreme

[slimeball supreme]

Tomato Can

 

“I got ‘em eatin’ out the palm a’ my hand, son.”

 

MounteBank Center was a giant rusted f*cking eyesore and testament to the Broker that was becoming the Broker that is. A Broker made for the rich men of Algonquin who made money in media careers to lug their cars over the bridge or under the tunnel into their little brownstones. Forget it.

 

MounteBank Center wasn't just founded by English bankers who sold stock on the FTSE - no. MounteBank Center was Nü Broker, BRKR, personified. Part-financed by Tony McTony and half the real estate developers that ruined the city, built over apartments and groceries they eminent domain’d into dust.

 

Literally made out of pre-rusted metal.

 

A ‘f*ck you’ to Montauk Avenue.

 

Latrell liked it. Picked his teeth and ran his eyes up the monolith to the green gardens and the MounteBank logo planted square onto the facade.

 

Xavier kicked his feet. “Yeah?”

 

It was night. Deep night. Passing through a crowd of people in down jackets and snapbacks and Trauma brand t-shirts. Up on a big LED sign on the looping entrance, in a deep blue, words bore down.

 

 

“Easy as f*ckin’ pie. Wops love me.”

 

Xavier was paying more attention to weaving in, weaving out, weaving in, “And this whole thing is mafia sh*t?”, weaving out. Weaving to the big front facade that looked like one-way glass with the the lights tinted blue on the interior. Past the in-house Bean Machine and the security guards who gave the two an extra long look.

 

“You know,” Latrell said. “f*ck yeah.”

 

The stadium’s gaping maw. The VIG Insurance Atrium entrance, get tickets checked to the right, take the The Mount Experience Bar, don’t forget to get some Broker Hoops merchandise at the f*cking swag shop. Check the lights, check the brands, get the tickets checked.

 

They had got tickets.

 

Slip knew a guy and Slip’s guy got them, got them cheap, got them scalped, got them whatever. VIP sh*t, fine, needed lanyards and all these checks and balances and probably had to get searched by the big boy bouncers up the next few stair flights.

 

Tickets checked. Woman handed them some lanyards.

 

VIP GUEST - TEMPORARY MEMBERSHIP. 

 

Fair is fair.

 

Xavier needed a breather.

 

Some seats near the stairs.

 

f*ck. This constant stream of people coming in and coming in and security-men sizing them up and Xavier biting his knuckles and grunting “All this for us?”

 

“I guess.”

 

“And what’s his name? Dijon? Mustard nigga?”

 

Latrell thought. “We’ll find out.”

 

Xavier just wiped his face. “Lord.”

 

“S’all easy, son. We good.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“I din’t bring a piece, man.”

 

“Well, y’know,” Latrell scratched his head. “They’d check a nigga for that sh*t anyway. They got detectors. I’unno.”

 

“Just don’t feel good.”

 

“You think these clowns gonna just pull a gat out in the VIP’s?”

 

Xavier just stared out at the people.

 

Noise.

 

“X, chill, b.”

 

“You sure this is--”

 

“Yes.”

 

Blink. “I don’t like crowds,” he said.

 

Latrell smirked. “It’s fine.”

 

“You can’t think. I don’t know.”

 

“I feel you.”

 

“Remember we’d head out citylike and we’d get to Star Junction and it’d just be a million niggas and a million lights and niggas dressed up like cartoons ‘n sh*t? Like that. And then you’d see some other niggas and you’d scrap and it’d be nothin’ and- I- I don’t know’m I sayin’.”

 

Latrell didn’t either. “It’s cool.”

 

“Yeah.” Cleared his throat, “And, you know. Your thing.”

 

“What about it?”

 

“I don’t know these niggas. I ain’t seen ‘em.”

 

“That’s the point.”

 

Xavier squinted, “Yeah?”

 

“Youse gotta be separating’ the powers n’ sh*t and insulating yourself from that sh*t. They got me for the messages and I conveyin’ that sh*t. And I ain’t gonna leave you out with no nothin’ or nothin’, you feel?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“They dumb. These guys. Or ain’t dumb, we just smart, you feel? Whiteboys is old. I been inside where they hang and they been tellin’ me all this sh*t and I done met their boss and sh*t.”

 

“For real?”

 

“Yeah,” Latrell lied. “And, you know, they hardcore motherf*ckers, but they just what we steppin’ on. We’re what matters here. This sh*t we got goin’ on, you and me, I wouldn’t give this to anybody Ion’t trust, even though this sh*t easy. Because, we do this for ‘em, we get in they good books, who knows. Sunglasses and smoked out cars and sh*t.”

 

Xavier was nodding. “Okay.”

 

“One my hands, they eatin’ outta. The other, I got ‘em by the balls.”

 

X laughed. “C’mon.”

 

“No homo, son, I’m just saying.”

 

“A’ight.”

 

“And, yo, and this sh*t we gonna do? We pop this guy? It’s easy. We got the guy’s address, old Italian type dude, we head to his house with the pieces they been got us, we just wait outside his place. We drive your car, we follow the nigga, see where he stops. And then when he does, when he walks into the spot he headed or whatever; two of us walk out and pop him a few times on the sidewalk. And that’s it. We don’t even need masks, b. Daylight movie sh*t. We get back in the car, this is that. We done did it. And then we can get back to plannin’ that thing we was doin’ with Ramon and we can--”

 

“We still doin’ that?”

 

“Hell yeah.”

 

Squinted. “DB--”

 

Hand up, “Ah, well, y’know… the kid, Ion’t wanna get the kid hype or nothin’ and we might not even be doin’ it when he’s here, you know.”

 

“So we ain’t gettin’ him in?”

 

“No. No. Ain’t what matters. You matter. And I’m tellin’ you everything I know on this one, b, you my consigliere, b, you my dog.”

 

Xavier looked better. “I- yeah, man, for sure.”

 

“For sure for sure, my nigga, for sure. And, yo, they got dope we can sell and we got sh*t we can sell them and we can do this sh*t without payin’ Slip a cent. We do this to get him off our back, we go independent, we get our names on skyscrapers, son, we got our own f*ckin’ lights ‘n sh*t.”

 

“We still ball.”

 

“Yeah, we still ball, but we ball for us and not for five stars. sh*t, we’ll be five stars. And we’ll get ourselves seats with the mafia and we’ll meet niggas and we’ll be Gambetti f*ckin’ Messina Pavano dudes in purple. Vin Falcone, Altieri niggas. Gravelli niggas. You know?”

 

“Okay.”
 

“So chill.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“You chill, son?”

 

“I’m good, b.”

 

“How good, son? How good you be?”

 

“I’m good.”

 

“We ready to rock, my nigga, we ready to f*ckin’ go?”

 

“Okay, okay,” X was nodding fierce, “Okay, son.” Got him in the moment.

 

Keep hyping. That’s what you gotta do, “We good, baby?”

 

“Let’s go, b, we easy, b, we ready, b, let’s see this nigga, b. Let’s go.”

 

“Then let’s go, son.”

 

“Let’s go.”

 

Let’s go.

 

Up the elevator.

 

VIP entrance was another way around - they had to take the long way there. To the little bulbs and the chandelier and the bouncers wearing suits instead of uniforms and nodding you along when they see the lanyard.

 

Elevator. Elevator with pop music playing and some dad in a Swingers cap with his wife and his kid and this older black guy and bam; these fluorescent lights hitting you like a motherf*cker. Carpeted black-and-grey flooring with ads on the walls and doors leading to places where the guests don’t go but the employees in waistcoats and bow-ties and black aprons darting in and out.

 

Walls blasted in light.

 

Bouncer-men at the big doors with frosted glass and Anna Rex Lounge printed in big letters right above.

 

“Lemme’ check the tags.” Big Italian guy with greaseball hair. Suit looked small for him.

 

He checked.

 

“I’mma need to check youse for no sh*t on ya’s.”

 

He let the dad and the kid go in without hassle.

 

But they didn’t have a reason to hassle.

 

“Youse clean.”

 

Latrell knew.

 

Opened the door.

 

Noise.

 

Chatter-noise. Mingle-noise. Mingle noise of people wearing blazers and snapbacks at the same, guys with lanyards and chinstraps and piercings - 45 year olds who thought themselves 20. That kind of noise. Mumbling, impotent, bored. Mostly white guys, a few parents with kids maybe. Bullsh*t like that.

 

Buffet tables stocked by underpaid workers dressed up to look a little nicer with plates full of pasta or sushi or meatballs or whatever-you-want. Tepid pop music on the speakers. Maybe a blogger. Maybe a couple.

 

One exception to the rule.

 

“SUWOOP!!”

 

Their guy.

 

Their guy had a posse of about five or six flunkeys in purple - purple sneakers, purple tees, purple hoodies, chains with B in big blackletter encrusted in gems. Hollering and hooting and high-fiving and cracking jokes about any other sad lumpy guy sipping whiskey with his wife in the Anna Rex Lounge.

 

Latrell and Xavier weren't kitted in flags. Expected the guy to do the same. Nope.

 

He was basically head-to-toe in purple. Purple track pants, purple ProLaps hoodie, purple bandana hanging out the back pocket wearing sunglasses indoors. Had notebook scribble tattoos all over the face: spider web here, skull there, rose and La Vida Morada under the right eye. Straight black hair down to shoulder length standing out because he was the loudest, loudest of the bunch.

 

Latrell and Xavier exchanged glances.

 

And they approached.

 

Got a hand to the chest from one of the groupies saying a thousand words a second, “Hey brother the f*ck you doin’ son where you at nigga who this--”

 

Latrell, “We with Slip. We from East Liberty, son.”

 

“Okay brother okay son how you headed son who you reppin’ son you zambarau son you--”

 

“Dijon!” Xavier was shouting over the noise now, “Hey Dijon!”

 

Head-to-toe stopped and lent an ear over and pulled through and just said “Lastyear.”
 

“Lastyear.”

 

“It’s Lastyear.”

 

Latrell now, “Lastyear.”

 

“Lastyear, son. ‘Nahmean?”

 

Latrell didn’t. “Sure.”

 

“Who you, nigga?” He wasn’t black. “Big B ballin’ nigga sh*t, nigga?”

 

Blinked. “Slip’s dudes, man.”

 

“You from the Killing Fields, b?”

 

“Sure.”

 

“sh*t, son, hug me, son,” went in for the embrace with Latrell and got Latrell thinking how tall the guy was, “Cato sends his love, son, wus’ poppin, son.”

 

“We-” grunted through the hug, “we send love to Cato, son.”

 

“Gang gang, nigga.”

 

Xavier just squeaked out a “Gang.”

 

“See - b, I let my niggas call me Dijon, ‘cause that’s my homie name, my homies call me that. My Ballas call me that, ‘nahmean?”

 

Latrell, “Sure.”

 

“And we Broker Balla brothers, nigga, that’s who we be, President ass Broker Baller niggas, nigga.” Cupped his mouth again, “Suwoop! Balla sh*t! A-9, twenty-four-seven, two-one-twelve-twelve-one, nigga. You feel me, b?”

 

“Okay.”

 

“We in the kingdom, nigga!”

 

Another flunkey, “Ballas, son!”

 

“So,” Lastyear was grinning and you could see the grills, “since you my niggas, you can call a nigga Dijon, nigga. We on that sh*t, son. You Slip’s dudes?”

 

Xavier, “He said.”

 

“Y’all names?”

 

“Xavier,” said Latrell. “Latrell. He tell you?”

 

“He told me some gangsters was comin’- yo, you niggas want some liquor, b, you wanna lick some liquor, b, we schlurp life, b?”

 

Schlurp life. “Just wanna get this sh*t settled.”

 

“We got the Schottler set out here, these ain’t any old niggas this is Firefly Projects, big dick niggas. You know what I mean?”

 

“I know, yeah. We sort this sh*t out.”

 

“And we sort this sh*t out, we do it mad style, son. We do it king long dick, Lastyear style, and we deadass toast that sh*t, son. You feel me, son? You know I rap?”

 

Xavier, “Huh?”

 

“I spit.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Sure,” Latrell sighed. “Les’ get drinks on, f*ck it.”

 

Two Roosters Wine Bar. Red lacquer and a lot of yuppies. Lastyear pulled the guys over with the hollering groupies, took the lead, and slapped two one hundred dollar bills on the countertop.

 

Bartender stared at it a moment.

 

“Macbeth, b. Macbeth.”

 

Guy next to him in a Broker Hoops sweater and a Broker Hoops fitted cap took a look at the posse and nudged away. Bartender got the bottle, tall bottle with 12 Year Double Cask printed on the label, got glasses and spread ‘em and poured ‘em and slammed the f*cking shots down.

 

One of the guys yelled. They followed, chanting, chanting, “Shots, shots, shots-” and got some of the white yuppies to pack up lanyards and laptops and move out. Bartender was this delicate white woman who seemed more intimidated than anything else but kept pouring regardless, asked “You want to pick some select--” and got stopped by Lastyear who pounded a fist and said “More whisky, bitch.”

 

Some guy, “We get wine we go- yo, yo, we got no none f*ckin’ champagne?”

 

“You got Blêuter’d, nigga?”

 

Lastyear, “No champagne, we bring the sham-pain, yeah.” Turned to Xavier again, “I spit.”

 

Xavier nodded.

 

“Yo, you seen Tony McTony out this nigga, you seen him? He hang out? He got the champagne?”

 

Bartender muttered, “He’s got his own lounge at the--”

 

“I’m a member, nigga, I know, motherf*cker.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“He here tonight, son?”

 

“No.”

 

“You got Blêuter’d, then?”

 

“No. They have that at his lounge.”

 

“Where the f*ckin’ lounge?”

 

“You’re a member.”

 

“You gettin’ cute with me, bitch?” Stopped a moment. “Wouldn’t be starting.”

 

Okay.

 

Back down the stairs to the lounge they went and pulled about seven other guys who kept raising fists and high fives and one of the Schottler Ballas knocked some woman’s cap off while she was sitting at a table. Bouncers at McTony’s lounge, with the big gold TMT, they looked the crew up a couple times and sighed and opened the doors.

 

Some f*cking hip hop sh*t playing. Lastyear bumped Latrell by the shoulder and shouted over the noise, “You know why they call me Lastyear?!”

 

“What?!”

 

“You know why the f*ck they f*ckin’ call me f*ckin’ Lastyear, nigga?”

 

“No.”

 

“Because I dick a hoe so fast she wake up last year, son!”

 

What the f*ck? “That's good.”

 

“Yurp.”

 

At the counter; Lastyear peeled off another couple hundreds and said “Blêuter’d” and did this dumb grin and a wink at the bartender, this time a heavyset black woman with hair tied back. She frowned and went for the bottle.

 

Music kept on.

 

Lastyear, “Listen.”

 

Latrell looked over. Looked back at Xavier who was trying to dodge other patrons and other Ballas who were still going mad and half-screaming. “What?”

 

“This is the Slip and this is the Cato sh*t, right?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“We tryn’ eye-ron that sh*t the f*ck out, right?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Yeah-man ass. Les’ dialogue, b.”

 

“I mean- okay.”

 

“Cato raised me the f*ck up. Yeah? Cato was the born troop, he was big dickin’ little dicks before Slip was got his Five stars, he was OG, on god. And this is about them Jo-Jo Jamaican niggas out in South Slopes who got the hook-the-f*ck-up, right?”

 

“You know this.”

 

“Ahm’ makin’ sure because I wanna know the f*ck what business we doin’ is. Because how we makin’ this sh*t up?”

 

“We just want to split what we got in for the sake a business. You know. I was workin’ face to face with the guy, the Jamaican guy, Kenton. I know how he works, I know this is personal sh*t.”

 

“‘Kay.”

 

“So we just don’t want no trouble and we wanna keep everythin’ square.”

 

“All I am is trouble, nigga, I’m a trouble eatin’ motherf*cker.”

 

“I--”

 

“Slip ain’t respectin’ what this sh*t is. Still ain’t said his apologies or nothin’ and still drops bullsh*t lines and calls us bitches. Hell to that. He send bitches to pay respects’n should be sendin’ hisself to kiss my nigga Cato toes, nigga. I’m tryna’ show you niggas the f*ck what you get when you roll with Cato and Lastyear, son, you get mad Balla ice out sh*t. We square sh*t wit-- f*ck!”

 

“What?”

 

“Bitch, where the f*ckin’ champagne, bitch?”

 

Bitch frowned and shook up the bottle and took the fun away by popping the cork herself, got the glasses and started pouring past the disappointment from the purple guys. Xavier said he’d pass, and Xavier passed on and looked over the crowd. Lastyear’d lost his train of thought, was muttering under music. Latrell just sighed, “You like boxing?”

 

“No.”

 

“We at the boxing match.”

 

“I like to f*ckin’ drink.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Noise gettin’ to my head. I know sh*t. I know this sh*t, Leroy. We gotta respect. We got that sh*t.”

 

“What?”

 

“We need us some privacy. You want some privacy, we get some privacy?”

 

Latrell didn’t answer but Lastyear didn’t care. Pulled the guys before they were done with the drinks and Latrell and Xavier had to tag behind.

 

Xavier muttered at the back as the groupies were going wild again, “Guy’s like a f*ckin’ cartoon pimp.”

 

“Guy’s the guy halfway between us and Slip.”

 

“Guy’s a f*cking idiot.”

 

“Things is simple, b. I’ll talk. No pieces so no sh*t finna go down.”

 

Xavier side-lipped and nodded.

 

Looped back out the door past the bodyguard who patted the two down who gave a big wave, yelped “Lastyear, hey!” and Lastyear shot finger-guns back. Back to the doors by the hallway, the bowels, Lastyear swung them open and swung into unpainted hallways past uniformed workers with the troupe laughing and following suit. Carnival sh*t. Lastyear turned around a moment, started walking backwards and yelling through the crowd, “I got three tracks, son!”

 

Was that addressed at Latrell? He just gave a thumbs up.

 

“I got three tracks. Three tracks! And I’m workin’ on an album. I’mma make an album. I got- yo, I was talkin’ to Q-Whispers, I was talkin’ to Q-Whispers, you know Q-Whispers? He was tellin’ me he wanted to feature. PG Jackson. PG Jackson.”

 

Xavier, “Cool.”

 

Down stairs, down stairs, down stairs into real bowels. Painted brick and parked cars and plastic tubs and uniforms switching from bowties to reflective vests. Concrete, concrete, concrete. Painted yellows and a van and more stairs down past the security cameras Latrell couldn’t help but eye.

 

No more noise, no more music, no more crowds. The hollering was echoing now. Past a chain-link entryway and past another van and past MOUNTEBANK ARENA painted on the brick in bold white, new white. A maze of the same hallways and the same windows and the same buzzers and the noise upstairs starting to rumble. They were missing the draw.

 

Fluorescents and greys. Lead them past a loading bay into another hallway with the painted bricks. It was dark.

 

This light beaming from behind this garage door and this empty security booth and reggaeton playing muffled behind glass. Lastyear stopped. Lastyear turned. Lastyear let the posse splinter off and crowd around.

 

The announcer was saying something upstairs. “From Henderson, Ohio; weighing in at--”

 

Lastyear through pursed lips, “So what did Slippy tell y’all was the deal youse wanted?”

 

Latrell bit lip. He hadn’t said. Improvised, “We split it 60/40 our direction.”

 

“On god?” Lastyear said.

 

Muffled, “Lloyd… Dovedale!!”

 

“Kenton came to us first, we thought he’d--”

 

“Kenton left you first.”

 

“And that’s our bad. But we got these networks--”

 

“Ballas got these networks.”

 

“Milden Houses got the hook on half the cell blocks in Astors.”

 

“A.9’s do. Not East Liberty. Slip might’a been down the pen a while but he weren’t running the joint.”

 

Announcer booming, “--Kutaisi, Georgia; the Talisman, the Dare--”

 

“We just want our mans back.”

 

“Cato told me you niggas was feisty. And I respect that.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“But you ain’t been showin’ me love tonight. And from what Cato done told me ‘bout Slip that ain’t the f*ck outta character for you niggas. That ain’t.”

 

Latrell flinched. “Excuse me?”

 

“No offence to a Five Star. I know the rules on disrespect, so I ain’t mean no disrespect. But Wheels ain’t been a personable one for no time and he thinks he can drop sh*t and pick it the f*ck back up.”

 

Xavier, “Wheels?”

 

“No disrespect.”

 

Latrell, “That sound pretty disrespectful to me.”

 

“And what the f*ck done Slip done said respectful to Cato?”

 

“I don’t know that sh*t,” Latrell was spitting, “I just know we lost a hook-up and if we don’t sort this sh*t out he’ll lose the flags entirely.”

 

“Then tell him to apologize.”

 

“What?”

 

“Tell Slip to bring his ass over to Schottler and say he sorry for disrespectin’ and callin’ a nigga phony and callin’ a nigga faggy and callin--”

 

“He called Cato gay?” Xavier asked.

 

“What the f*ck it matter?”

 

“It’s a big deal he called a Five Star homo-sexual, son, that’s what it matter.”

 

“Broke ass nigga leg, vro, broke ass nigga leg.”

 

“The f*ck you say?”

 

“Xavier--”

 

“This dumbass pushin’ my f*ckin’ buttons, L.”

 

Schottler Ballas dropped into a chorus of “Whooah!” Edged closer, started getting restless, “The f*ck he said?”

 

Lastyear, “Yeah, I’m stoopid, huh?”

 

“Xavier, calm the f*ck--”

 

“Who the f*ck is Cato?! Ain’t heard no f*ckin’ Cato, Cato f*ckin’ god? Cato help the f*ckin’ blind, son?”

 

Lastyear was lost in his own, “Cato said you motherf*ckers disrespect, said you said I was a fake, said you said he was a bitch--”

 

“I’ll show you bitch--”

 

“--and now they--”

 

“--Mr. f*ckin’ Tattoo motherf*ckin’ fa**ot ass--”

 

“What the f*ck you just say?!”

 

“You a fake ass, mark ass, poser ass, fag ass tattoo face motherf*cker, Dijon, you f*ckin’ mustard lookin’ ass--”

 

“Xavier!”

 

Lastyear pulled a pistol out his waistband.

 

Oh.

 

All the other Schottler dudes pulled theirs.

 

Oh.

 

“WHO THE f*ck’S A FAKE ASS NOW?!”

 

“Thought there weren’t no f*ckin’ pieces?!”

 

“You niggas don’t bring biscuits to a meet you niggas is retarded!”

 

Latrell froze.

 

Six f*cking barrels at his f*cking brains.

 

Latrell took a step.

 

Ballas took a step.

 

f*cking face to face.

 

Latrell pushed, “You f*cked this whole thing up!”

 

“Ezekiel ass nigga--”

 

“They got this sh*t on the videotapes, son!”

 

Could feel those words echo.

 

Could see the flunkeys flinch and look to the ceiling and see the big black orbs stuck to the roof staring down and could see the eyes drop.

 

Lastyear didn’t.

 

Looked Latrell in the eye.

 

Blinked.

 

Lastyear shoved Latrell to the concrete and half-jumped back and started wildly firing the gat in just about every direction except flesh - Ballas followed and drilled holes and dove for cover and behind any object that looked about waist-level. Latrell scrambled, scrambled on his back and ran for some wall leading off to another hallway by more plastic tubs and felt the bullets ricochet off the brick and-- “ARGGHH!!”

 

Latrell pat himself down and couldn’t find anything.

 

“Rhondell, b, Rhondell, b!”

 

“He got a f*ckin’ gun, son!”

 

Guns kept popping and popping and pooping but the shouts got louder and then the footsteps started, Lastyear shouted “Go, son, go!” and f*ckin’ bolted back toward the way they came. Ballas scattered, some went with and some split off by other exits and past some tubs to Latrell’s left and f*ck.

 

That was probably six seconds at most.

 

Breathed this breath that was more like a cough.

 

Searched fast, shouted “Xavier?!”

 

Looked to his right.

 

Saw Xavier.

 

God.

 

Heard shouting, heard footsteps, heard bootsteps and heard code-phrases and realized it was either security or f*cking cops and realized f*ck they had to f*cking jet and and grabbed Xavier by the shoulder and twisted him around to the behind and just started running.
 

Endless, maze f*cking hallways. Dipped right, heard shouting, heard cop-shouts and Balla-shouts and dipped left and left and another right by more boxes and dove for some stairs and all of this sh*t looked the f*cking same.

 

“LCPD! LCPD! Hands up, hands up!”

 

“Get the f*ck off, f*ckin’ jake, f*ckin’ bitch!”

 

Some Balla got nabbed.

 

Pandemonium setting in and the boots being matched with yelling, a chorus of “LCPD!” and “Police!” and Latrell mashing up the stairs with Xavier in tow lagging and huffing and puffing.

 

Where was he now?

 

Could hear the crowd sounds getting louder.

 

Hallways. Carpeted hallways and framed pictures of logos, of the Hoops logo and hockey logos and Tony McTony with chains and a snapback and god, Latrell was getting sick of his f*cking name and his f*cking face.

 

Xavier breathing, “We out the basement?”

 

“Was we in the basement?”

 

“I don’t know, man, I just wanna f*ckin’ get, man, f*ck--”

 

Doors opened.

 

f*ck.

 

“--what’s happened? No, no, we can’t shut--”

 

Guy in a reflective vest marched right by speaking into some gadget or another and just like that, gone. Door he left from - quiet, well lit. Door he entered - darker, louder, more noise.

 

Crowd noise.

 

Latrell was barely making sense of the maze. But, you know. 

 

Looked like a good door.

 

Just murmured “f*ck” and booked it rightwards. Rightwards into darkness and slowing, slowing to walking pace and into some area with windows and chairs and light and doors and--

 

Latrell pushed through the doors.

 

Latrell was in the stadium.

 

Noise.

 

They were these seats halfway up in the middle ring - not quite nosebleeds, definitely not up in the midst. Plush seats with civilians sipping drinks and wearing caps and cheering. Latrell clocked his left, wall. Clocked his right, more seats, wall.

 

Only way was down.

 

Arena was darkened and the seating was flashing with camera lights and clothes colors and darkness sweeping down and down into the center, into the boxing arena. Two blips, one black and one white, one in red trunks and one in white; both leaning against the corners of the ring and getting watered down and talked up while the audience kept going and going and going.

 

Latrell looked rearward, saw Xavier lagging to take it all in. Grabbed him by the arm and pulled him on. Pulled him by seatings and concessions and getting right up to the place where the seats went from stadium to steel chairs, where the audience went from t-shirts to button-ups and guys dressed nice and drinking nice. Could barely think over the noise.

 

“Latrell!”

 

“We goin’ ‘round, son!” Wasn’t sure if Xavier heard but he was certain he was following.

 

Saw security looking sharp and talking into mics over the noise and checking the exits. Lord. Skirted ‘round seating and temporary fencing and audience going “Watch it!” and Latrell muttering apologies.

 

It all looked the f*cking same.

 

It all looked the f*cking same.

 

But the exits were the same.

 

Stairs.

 

Up a pathway past seats and up stairs, up stairs, up to the light screaming ‘Exit’ and his lungs running empty and trying to play it cool, cooler, coolest to--

 

Lobby.

 

Cops.

 

The penny dropped.

 

Entrance was swarming with f*cking cops.

 

Rain was going nuts outside and half the cops had their coats on and the waterproofers on the hats, but Christ it was flooded with blues. Blues with walkie-talkies and blues talking to security and blues casing exits and conversation filtering in and out of noise.

 

“--so where exactly would they--”

 

“--the basement, we found--”

 

“--nobody’s dead, we know th--”

 

“--10-10, 10-72, they got bl--”

 

“--really wanna interfere with LCPD--”

 

A hurdle.

 

Latrell braced.

 

Walked.

 

Looked back again and saw Xavier stalling and pleading with wide eyes and grimacing and Latrell trying to give his best face saying “Chill out.” Ended up looking like “Shut the f*ck up.”

 

Xavier sighed and relented.

 

“--got a description on the suspects? Particu--”

 

Slowly.

 

“--had VIPs? You gave felons--”

 

No eye contact. Just focusing on the door. Focusing on moving through the sea of blue.

 

“--drugs or controlled sub--”

 

“--three in custody, how many--”

 

Xavier lagging behind. Xavier putting his hands in his sweatshirt pockets and staring directly at the ground and tagging along a few paces from Latrell’s rear as the gap closed more, closed more, closed more. Two cops by the door with Hawaiian Snow shades around the neck with one of those neck straps watching two guys walk closer.

 

Closer.

 

“--so ten perps? And we--”

 

“--they were wearing purp--”

 

One of the sunglasses cops was watching with squint-eye; black dude with a goatee and the head shaved out. His partner, Puerto Rican, was looking out over the sea.

 

Latrell got closer.

 

“--this Dijon Bustamante, what they call--”

 

Latrell looked up.

 

Locked eyes with sunglasses.

 

Cop squinted.

 

Latrell smiled.

 

Cop nodded.

 

Latrell got through the doors.

 

Felt the air on his skin. On his face, on his neck. Felt the rain now, felt the rain and the wind whipping at him and getting on him and getting through the big loopy f*cking rusted building and heard Xavier’s feet pitter pattering and “What the f*ck, Latrell?!”

 

“Don’t run.”

 

“What?!”

 

“They’ll know. Don’t run.”

 

Turned to face Xavier. Turned to face Xavier with the rain streaming and the whites in his eyes bulging and the hood over his head now soaking up the water and his mouth agape.

 

Xavier looked back and saw the line of squad cars running up the block to the end of the road with the lights flashing and the blue-on-white LCPD.

 

Latrell mouthed it now.

 

“Don’t run.”

 

Eyes open.

 

Xavier nodded.

 

They walked to the subway with lips shut and hands in pockets as sirens wailed and rain screamed down. As rain sweeped the gutters and got to the wheels and soaked the boots and the windows and the crowd was roaring from the rusted metal walls of the MounteBank Center.

 

But Latrell and Xavier walked, and they walked to the subway station, and they disappeared.

 

The sirens wailed anyway.

 

The Glossary

Liberty City Map

Edited February 17, 2021 by slimeball supreme

[slimeball supreme]

Who Are We To Judge?

 

Yulya was the woman with a mole on her cheek and her hair in a bun; big woman more fat than muscle but wore the stomach-hugging tracksuits anyway, had these massive gorilla arms that seemed too long for her torso and always had this wordless frown on.

 

Benny’d told Abbot that she was actually a nurse or a health aide or something, helped old couples upstate when she could.

 

She grabbed the man by the throat and held him up with the other arm and tossed him into a shelf and knocked a dozen pill boxes and pill bottles off onto the lino floor and she growled, “Подними это!”

 

The man was 78 or so, wiry thin guy with spectacles, and he didn’t speak much Russian. But he knew what she meant, and so he picked himself off the ground and started picking up the boxes.

 

Grunted, “I’m sorry!”

 

Yulya, “I’ll give you of the f*cking sorries, yeah?”

 

Abbot checked his watch.

 

This dinky little corner-store pharmacy in Rotterdam Hill that was cramped as sh*t, more medicine than room to breathe. Doors plastered over with lottery stickers and big stock photos of beaming young doctors with lab coats and clipboards and stethoscopes. It wasn’t easy to see inside. Good.

 

The mark’s name, the 78 year old’s name, was Sul Riskin, and Sully had his wife Lucille and son Fletcher run the place. Lucille was stout and ginger-curled and bespectacled - son wore glasses too, was dark-haired and around Abbot’s height and looked pissed off.

 

Abbot kept by the door in a black down jacket and looked at Fletcher and gave him the look that said “Don’t.”

 

Fletch looked back with angry eyes that said nothing.

 

“Where money?”

 

“I bet it where you told me to bet it!”

 

“And where the f*ck the money go?!”

 

“You told me he’d f*cking win!”

 

Yulya kicked him in the chin. “Curse again you pierce my pretty virgin ears, eh?”

 

“Dad--”

 

Abbot, “Shut the f*ck up, bud.”

 

“You say you bet the money here, we suggest you bet more, you say this sure bet.”

 

“I--”

 

“Vigorish high, Sullivan.”

 

“I told you I bet where the f*ck you wanted me to--”

 

Yulya spat and let the saliva bounce and pulled the old man up by the polo collar and roared in his f*cking cauliflower ears, “What the f*ck do I tell you?!”

 

The old man was hacking up blood over the silver mustache. “I--”

 

Slam.

 

Head into cash register counter and cracked glass and blood drizzling from the old man’s head. More hacking, more coughing, more wheezing, mother yelping “Sully!”

 

More spit from Yulya, “Degenerate f*cking cardshark gambler sh*t.”

 

Abbot checked his phone. Too late. Mid-afternoon buzz and the sun filtering in and the store lit up with unnatural whites on top of the sterile paint and the sterile posters and the sterile boxes. Looked back on the old man crawling out past the counter toward his kid and getting pulled up by the shirt again.

 

He wasn’t talking anymore. He was just coughing.

 

“Dad--”

 

Abbot again, “Shut the f*ck up.”

 

“Why are you doing this?”

 

“Shut the f*ck up, kid.”

 

“I don’t think he’s okay.”

 

Wifey Lucille now was coming closer just cooing “Sully? Sully?”

 

Sully was coughing and going purple.

 

That got Abbot’s attention. “I don’t think he’s okay.”

 

Yulya, “He’s bleeding out he f*cking ears.”

 

“His face’s f*cked up.”

 

“What the f*ck you do to my dad?!”

 

“You know this medicine sh*t, Yulya, the f*ck is wrong with him?”

 

“The f*ck is wrong with him he’s use us as excuse to bet loan money on the f*cking boxing matches, that’s what the f*ck he’s wrong with him.” Guy was still coughing and wheezing and being bent backwards while Yulya crouched, woulda grabbed him by the hair if he had much on the top of his head, “You f*cking pussy man?”

 

“I-” cough cough, “f*ck-” wheezing f*cking cough, spat bile and red on the floor, “-f*ck! Let--” grabbing at his f*cking chest now and it felt like his eyes were going yellow.

 

“Yulya, let him go.”

 

“Where my 15k, motherf*cker?!”

 

“Yulya, let go.”

 

“Let go of my dad you f*cking bitch!”

 

“Fletcher! Don’t--”

 

“Mom, he’s gonna f*cking die, mom, mom, he’s--”

 

“The f*ck you call me?”

 

Abbot took a step forward and put his hands up but the kid wasn’t having it. “Get the f*ck off of him, Yulya.”

 

“You hear Mr. fa**ot here, you hear what he call me?”

 

“Get off my f*cking dad!”

 

And Yulya did. She dropped him by the beige collar and thwacked his head onto the lino and his arms were starting to twitch and the bruises were starting to mix with the skin. Yulya stood up over him standing way too tall and looking Fletcher up in the eyes.

 

Little old jewish mother was holding her son’s arm and the son was gravitating toward Yulya like he wasn’t even moving his feet. Abbot got closer, said “Let’s cool it,” but it was like he was speaking over alarm bells ringing and eyes getting red and the air getting hot.

 

The kid, Fletch, he pulled his arm from his mother’s grasp.

 

And he swung.

 

Fist connected.

 

Hit Yulya below the temple by the cheek and she got rocked a little off her balance but it was like her eyes just didn’t break contact. Bobbed back, bobbed forward, socked.

 

Fist connected.

 

Fletch went reeling from a hook to the side of the face that half knocked the spectacles off and sent him straight into a propped up shelf and got his mother screaming, screaming “NO, NO, NO! STOP, NO!” but Yulya went in again while he was on the ropes - pulled the kid off by the chest for another hit, but the kid was still fighting. Did these weak jabs to the side as she was on top of him and then ptoo, spat in her face.

 

Saliva dribbled down the side of her head, Abbot had to step closer. Yulya snarled. Rocked him with a headbutt.

 

Heard something snap and felt the boxes fall and could see the shelf nearly tip over and hear the mother screaming and screaming and “Get off my baby!” and slam another fist to the kid’s face.

 

And he looked up and he grimaced through blood and peaked a smile.

 

Stubborn f*cking idiot.

 

“Yulya, that’s enough.”

 

Sul on the ground still wheezing and coughing and deflating like a balloon. “F--” cough spit, “f--” this strained breath.

 

Abbot knelt down. Slid and checked the guy out and grappled him and pulled him and propped him up as Yulya just kept wailing into the kid, “f*cking loans, you loan what you can pay, f*cking roach,” just hit after hit after hit and the Fletcher kid getting worse and worse and worse but he wouldn’t let go.

 

And there was a moment where the dust was starting to settle and the blood was coming out his nose and mouth and cuts on his eyes and bruises, and Yulya was holding him up by the neck scruff taking a breather.

 

Like a burst of energy, Fletcher started kicking again. Flailing legs and pushing while his mom screamed and Yulya didn’t know what the f*ck and Abbot shouted, “That’s enough--” but it fell on nothing.

 

Fletcher pushed the shelf back and sent himself and the woman backwards.

 

Mother went for the husband and checked his breath and started crying and had these tears coming down her ears as the plastic and the paper and the boxes and the honeycomb steel shelving scattered. Did it stop? No. The kid kept kicking and screaming and flailing and punching at Yulya and now the woman was starting to get dizzy.

 

Abbot came over shouting words he wasn’t putting any thought to.

 

Broke it up. Wedged himself in between like a flathead and pulled the woman off but, no, this lanky little dipsh*t burst up from the floor and started shouting and pointing and just saying “Why?! Why?! Get the f*ck- why?!” Tried pulling at Abbot’s jacket and Abbot grit his teeth and swung around and grabbed the kid’s arm and twisted it around his back and got him to yelp.

 

The screaming stopped.

 

Just the mother, just Lucille, just sobbing and the father wheezing.

 

Abbot took a breath. Took another. Pushed his glasses up to the ridge of his nose and wiped off the beading sweat and pulled the kid to his feet. “This place got a back room?”

 

Lucille, “What?!”

 

“Does this f*cking place have a f*cking back room?! A f*cking broom closet?!”

 

She looked at Abbot doe-eyed.

 

Abbot twisted Fletch’s arm harder.

 

Yelp, “Red door! Red door! He needs an ambulance!”

 

Yulya was growling something at her now.

 

Abbot didn’t wait to hear.

 

Pulled the kid to his feet and pushed him past the shelf, past a shelf, past a shelf to the rear while the kid was still putting up a fight - less of a fight than before, but still struggling under an armlock and huffing and heaving.

 

Fletcher kid muttered again, “Dad…”

 

“Huh?”

 

“f*ck you.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“You’re a scumbag, friend. A real dick.”

 

Abbot twitched.

 

“No, no, really - f*ck,” spat a little blood out onto the floor but Abbot kept marching, “You got a f*ckin’ dad? You got a f*ckin’ dad?”

 

“Stop moving.”

 

“You got a f*ckin’ dad?”

 

“Shut up, kid.”

 

“Kid. Kid. You got a f*ckin’ dad?”

 

Red door looming by the rear near another door painted yellow; Abbot tried to open with a foot, kicked once, kicked twice, gave up and used his free arm to grab the door handle. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

 

“You got a dad? You got a dad?”

 

“Shut the f*ck up.”

 

Fletch’s glasses were going down the bridge of his nose but he didn’t have an arm to grab them. “What’s his name? Where he work?”

 

“What did I tell you?!”

 

“Big man. Big people beating on a f*cking old f*cking--”

 

Sick and tired.

 

Abbot threw the kid to the ground. Pushed him by the neck and got the lanky-man to crumple to the knees and slip a little on the new room, backroom, shelves and fridge and computer and security feed showing live footage of a stout little woman screaming at two shapes on the ground.

 

The Fletcher boy didn’t fight. He stayed on the ground, snarled and bore red teeth and put up a show despite cuts and torn clothes. “You making your daddy proud?”

 

“Shut it.”

 

“Or what? Or you kill me, big boy? You f*cking kill me?”

 

Abbot shot back, “Don’t f*cking test me.”

 

“You send your loan shark buddies to kill my dad? You kill my dad, I’m dead, asshole.”

 

“I’m not an asshole.”

 

“Yeah? Yeah? You kill my dad, you kill me. You kill my dad, you kill me.”

 

“How do you work the security footage?”

 

“You think we’re calling the cops?”

 

“How?”

 

Fletcher kid sighed and pushed himself to the wall, time out, “Just--”

 

“I got it.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Now you don’t say sh*t. Now you shut your dork little f*cking mouth.”

 

Fletcher squinted and saw the face and heard the voice that just told him that. Laughed through the pain, “Really?”

 

Abbot put up a finger, wanted to say something.

 

Didn’t.

 

Just breathed out his nose and adjusted his glasses and told him with that finger to stay put.

 

Came out and heard one woman shouting and one woman crying and a cash register getting torn right apart. Snatch, snatch, snatch, snatch. Abbot was stomping down and hearing it get louder and louder and shouted over the noise, “Hey, Yulya!”

 

Yulya looked over.

 

“There’s cash in the back. Safe, security. Pills.”

 

“Ho ho!” Laughed and ran a hand through her hair bunched back, “Tamaz f*ck himself and we make up for it, eh?”

 

“Wouldn’t go that far.”

 

“I take the woman back, I take the man back?”

 

Was that a question? Abbot didn’t reply.

 

She went on anyway. “Okay. Okay! Big boy - ah, motherf*cker!” Stomped around the counter to old man Sully wheezing all swollen with crossed like a schoolboy. Grabbed him by a limp arm and pulled him to his feet, shaky legged and redfaced as all f*ck, wheezing and wheezing and--

 

“I’ll watch the door.”

 

Yulya, “Uh huh.”

 

Uh huh.

 

Gone. Like that. Just Abbot, just Abbot ankle-deep in spilled meds watching the door for pedestrians with the fall frost clouding up the windows and the sun beaming through the windows.

 

Thought he’d pick the bottles up. Maybe.

 

He didn’t.

 

Abbot thought Fletcher.

 

Abbot thought Abbot.

 

Abbot thought f*ck.

 

Abbot thought.

 

Abbot stared.

 

***

 

Abbot was in the neighborhood and Abbot had time to kill.

 

Copped a chopped cheese and walked down the avenue to Feldspar Street - not Feldspar Street by the Fishmarket, Feldspar in Broker - cutesy pop-up bars and green Dilettante cabs and new office space, by the LomBike spot and the bus lane signs and- it was all familiar. He knew where he was going.

 

He just hadn’t been around here in a while.

 

Feldspar flagpoles newly installed. Hardware store. Bagel place.

 

Red brick apartments facing northward by some greenery installments so the door wasn’t streetside. Gate had a buzzer but the door was always open, passed through into a patio with tree leaves casting shadow on the ground.

 

Abbot was looking for 941 Feldspar.

 

Abbot was looking for his - Rahim’s - apartment. Went through the right door and went up gray staircase past the flowerpot and the golden numbers and the letterboxes. Didn’t know any of his neighbors, it’d occurred to him. Didn’t know and didn’t remember.

 

Upstairs.

 

Upstairs.

 

His apartment. His door. White door, JAZIRI printed on the front, muffled metal noises and muffled talk and muffled clang, clang, clang, clang. Got closer.

 

Got closer.

 

“--we need a moderate. That’s what I’m saying. That’s what Boykin is saying. That’s--”

 

Rahim.

 

“--your, euhh… the pipes--”

 

Gillespie. Landlord Harry Gillespie.

 

“I read this article on LifeInvader, right? Boykin would win. That’s it.”

 

“Yeah. Okay. There’s this buildup--”

 

“And, look- more old white guys? I don’t know. I mean, I have Jewish friends--”

 

Abbot had his palms on the door, pressed against it, eye against the opposite end of the peephole. Felt for the brass doorknob, found it, grabbed it, pulled it - f*cker left his door open.

 

Abbot still had the keys. Guess he didn’t need them.

 

Thought a moment.

 

Listened. “--and his supporters on the internet, on Bleeter, they’re--”

 

Breathed.

 

Opened.

 

Opened into that familiar hallway and the familiar wax wood floorboards and the familiar bathroom off to the left with the sh*tty shower/bathtub with the sh*tty novelty bloodstained shower curtains Rahim bought and Abbot hated. The green paint on the wall to the right with the little table and the potted plant and the door to Rahim’s room. The familiar pathway into the living area with the kitchen and the living room and--

 

“Abbot?!”

 

“Yeah.”

 

And Rahim.

 

Rahim had shaved recently. Hair cut like a f*cking moron in camo joggers with a white tee, indoor wear, standing out by the counter with no seats far away from the sofa looking into the kitchen. Kitchen messed out and messed up with sh*t strewn and cupboards open and tools at the ready.

 

Out came Gillespie. Gillespie with a grey wife-beater that was probably white when he bought it - brown skinned, forehead-lined Gillespie with stubble and a buzz cut and and a washcloth on his shoulder. And no, I know what you’re thinking, he was Irish.

 

Rahim, “I thought you were f*cking dead, Abbot!”

 

Abbot, “Yeah.”

 

Gillespie, “Abbot?”

 

“Abbot.”

 

Flabbergasted. Rahim was spitting, “I don’t even KNOW how many f*ckin’ weeks it’s been Abbot!”

 

“Okay.”

 

“What happened to the f*cking rent, Abbot?”

 

Abbot turned to Harold. “I dunno’.”

 

“I could sue you.”

 

“You could.”

 

“I could.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Okay!”

 

“Okay.”

 

Blink.

 

Kinda lost track of what he was thinking.

 

“I’m getting something of mine,” Abbot said.

 

“Your sh*t? What the f*ck? You come here for your f*cking sh*t?”

 

“Yeah, Rahim.”

 

“It’s- c’mon, man, why don’t you f*cking call?! We talk the lease, what the f*ck?!”

 

Abbot started walking to his room. “Yeah.”

 

“Yeah?! That’s it, man, yeah?!” Stomping to follow while Abbot had his back turned, “Look at me when I’m f*cking talking to you, asshole!”

 

Abbot opened the door. “I’m not.”

 

His room - all of his sh*t was packed into cardboard boxes. Bed disassembled. Posters taken down and blankets removed and- “What?!”

 

Abbot knelt down. “Which boxes are what?”

 

“You don’t f*cking take my calls, you don’t talk to me, you might as well--”

 

“I need my records.”

 

“--’ve f*ckin’ just- died, man, I was talking to Bheru, he was looking for a place--”

 

“Rahim.”

 

“--and he was getting your room, I mean--”

 

“Rahim.”

 

“What?!”

 

“Where’s my Mingus?”

 

“What? Your Mingus?”

 

“My records. Where’re my records, Rahim?”

 

“f*ck your records, where the f*ck have you been?!”

 

“Which box?” Sifted through, pulled apart, “Which box?”

 

“Is this about your f*cking brother?”

 

Stopped. “Don’t.”

 

“What?”

 

“Don’t.”

 

“You--”

 

“Where are they?”

 

“One of the- f*ck,” he was flustered, “I don’t know. One of them. Is this your brother, this was Avi--”

 

“Achban.”

 

“Whatever. What? You- did he f*ck off again? What?”

 

“Shut up.”

 

“Shut up?”

 

“Shut up.”

 

“You don’t f*cking tell me that. Not after this, prick. Not after this--”

 

“I’m not--”

 

“You’re not what?!”

 

“I’m not a prick. Don’t say that.”

 

“You- what the f*ck is your problem?! You sure as sh*t, I mean- you didn’t- you didn’t say sh*t! The f*cking lease, Abbot. Gillespie could sue you.”

 

“I’m not a prick.”

 

“He could sue you.”

 

“Don’t judge me.”

 

“Shut up.”

 

“f*ck you.”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

Abbot was opening the boxes now, bullsh*t after bullsh*t after bullsh*t, bullsh*t he didn’t want and didn’t need, “Which box?!”

 

“Shut the f*ck up about your dumb f*cking jazz f*cking records and--”

 

“f*ck you, Rahim.”

 

“You got no f*cking right, Cohen. No f*cking right you Jew f*ck, you f*cking idiot--”

 

“Oh. Oh! Jew f*ck. Jew f*ck!”

 

“That’s not--”

 

Standing up now, getting closer, “That’s not what?! Not what?!”

 

“You f*cking just left me here, I don’t know what the f*ck?! Your dumbass--”

 

“Call me a kike.”

 

“What?”

 

“Call me a kike. Come on, f*cker.”

 

“Abbot--”

 

“Call me a kike. Call me a kike again. Do it.”

 

“I never called you--”

 

“Call me a kike, Rahim, you little pansy f*ck, you little nobody f*ck--”

 

Gillespie was shouting something in the other room, Rahim was squawking, “Chill--”

 

“You call me a fa**ot?! You call me a fa**ot, Rahim?!”

 

“Abbot--”

 

“I’m not a f*cking asshole! I’M NOT A f*ckING ASSHOLE, RAHIM!”

 

“Abbot, pl--”

 

“YOU CALL ME A f*ckING- f*ck, WHERE’S THE f*ckING RECORDS, WHERE ARE THE f*ckING RECORDS--”

 

“Harry--”

 

“WHERE ARE THEY?!”

 

Abbot had backed Rahim into the closet door.

 

Door handle digging into his back.

 

“You’re scaring--”

 

“WHERE?! WHERE?!”

 

“I don’t know--”

 

“CALL ME A KIKE, THEN. DO IT! DO IT!”

 

“Harold, he’s gonna--”

 

Abbot socked Rahim in the f*cking face.

 

Rahim tumbled. Tumbled off the door handle and into disassembled bed, knocked planks and yelped, yelped something in Arabic. “Abbot!”

 

“Where?! Which f*cking box?!”

 

“I don’t know?!”

 

Kicked him, “Where?!”

 

“Abbot!”

 

Kicked him in the f*cking face, “Cocksucker! You call me that?! You call me a cocksucker?!”

 

He paused.

 

Abbot was crying and he wasn’t sure why.

 

Rahim was getting up.

 

Abbot kicked him in the gut. “You gonna tell anyone about this?!”

 

Rahim coughed.

 

“Are you?!”

 

Whimpered, “No…”

 

“No?!”

 

“What the f*ck is wrong--”

 

“No?! NO?! NO?!”

 

“No, Abbot, no!”

 

“Where are my f*cking records?!”

 

“Abbot, I don’t f*cking know, Abbot, I don’t- I don’t, Abbot…”

 

Abbot blinked.

 

Abbot stared.

 

Rahim didn’t know.

 

Okay.

 

Abbot went back to the boxes.

 

Abbot opened.

 

Abbot opened.

 

Abbot opened.

 

Abbot opened.

 

Abbot opened.

 

***

 

Abbot walked up to the door with the box under his arm and his knuckles raw and his face still red. He walked out of Rotterdam Hill knowing nobody would say anything. He knew.

 

Abbot walked up the stairs.

 

He was in Fulham.

 

He rung the doorbell.

 

Bzzt.

 

He waited.

 

He rung.

 

Bzzt.

 

“Kassian.”

 

Nothing.

 

“Kassian.”

 

Heard something behind the door.

 

Waited.

 

Nothing.

 

Knocked.

 

Knock-knocked. Knock-knock-knocked. Knock-knock-knock-knock-knock--

 

The locks clicked.

 

The door opened.

 

Nobody was there.

 

Nobody was there when Abbot walked through the door and sat down and put the box aside and took off his shoes and took off his socks and stuffed the socks in the shoes and took a breath and kept looking and looking around the room and saw him. Saw Kassian standing by the TV dead-faced, unblinking, arms crossed and then zip, moved on when he realized eye-contact had kept on.

 

Up the stairs.

 

Abbot got up.

 

Abbot sighed.

 

Abbot checked the boxes.

 

Six records. Six records and a few chachkies and some sh*t he’d kept around in Rahim’s apartment. All he had there. All he’d left. Bullsh*t, all of it.

 

Bullsh*t.

 

Abbot pulled one of the records out.

 

Looked at the cover.

 

 

He wanted to smile. He really did.

 

He put it back.

 

He walked.

 

Abbot walked up the stairs with the box under his arm and the stairs creaking and this feeling in his head, this feeling like something was drilling deep in between the flesh and the skull, like something was sticking there and it was staying. Like it wasn’t moving. Just this spot.

 

Abbot reached the top.

 

He heard a door lock.

 

He heard Kassian’s door lock.

 

“Yeah,” Abbot said.

 

Nobody heard.

 

He opened the door to his left.

 

He put the box down.

 

He got on the bed.

 

He got the pills and a needle out.

 

The Glossary

Liberty City Map

Edited March 18, 2020 by slimeball supreme

[slimeball supreme]

Therapy

 

Abbot didn’t shoot up that morning because Abbot had business, and business is business, and business is business.

 

Or something.

 

He was in the city.

 

Mightn’t have shot up that morning. But that night? Eh.

 

Eh.

 

Abbot had been walking up Brown Place for a while.

 

Little Italy and Chinatown had careened into each other a long time back, mushed together on Parlor Street past Diamond and had the Vietnamese restaurants and street-corner handbag salesmen coming right onto the border where the fire hydrants were green-white-red. Where the buildings were green-white-red. Where they hung tinsel from across the rooftops and had the expensive Italian places and the foreign tourists criss-crossing and the souvenir stores on the crowded streets. Past the bakeries and the restaurants and you’d see the t-shirt stores, the off-brand LC baseball caps, the sandwich boards outside the eateries blazing specials.

 

American flags and Italian flags side by side, scooters parked on the curb. Across the street it was Cantonese writing and novelty license plates reading ‘FUGGEDABOUTIT’ or ‘THE BOSS’.

 

You’d be surprised if any Italians still lived here.

 

Abbot had kept walking. Past the hub. Where the Chinese places petered out to the gentrified how-do-you-do’s. More Suffolk nowadays than nothing else. More curio stores and falafel places and vintage shoes. Onto 247. 247 Brown Place.

 

The exception.

 

247 Brown Place was Stanzino Social Club; a building less renown for its architecture as much as it was for the men who owned it. Wasn’t too long ago the place was a red-brick unpainted facade with an aircon above the door and lawn chairs out the front where ruddy guidos’d sunbathe in wife-beaters and shorts. Beers’d be passed out and folks’d get the grill out in the summer, that kind of joint.

 

Thing was, the joint was started in the late Fifties by a man named Jon Gravelli. And when Jon Gravelli was out of town, the place was ran in part by a man named Chick Pompa, and when Chick died and Jonnie was a little bit above it all sitting on the throne, a man named Peter Rea - a linen suit wearing, cross-around-the-neck tough guy braggart - inherited the place thereafter.

 

Roy Zito was the latest in a long line of men with checkered pasts running the place. Spruced it up, relatively, painted over the bricks with white and removed the aircon and put decoratives on the cement-line past the neighboring apartments and, in a little act of ego, put up a gold plaque to the left of the door.

 

STANZINO SOCIAL CLUB

EST. 1958

Cosa sai? Cosa te ne importa?

 

Abbot knew this because the editors at the Morning Horn couldn’t keep the building off the front page to save their lives. Always some grainy photo of some guys in tracksuits smoking out front or a man in colorful suits with colorful hand gestures walking in and out.

 

Abbot was gonna say hi.

 

Black door with 247 printed on the front. Black door with this glistening sheen feeling newly painted, feeling new, feeling like Abbot’d get sh*t all over his knuckles if he knocked. He knocked. He didn’t.

 

He waited.

 

Door opened inward. Doorway filled with a stout little man in a sweater and a blazer and an underbite and a broom looking shrouded by bad lighting.

 

Beat.

 

“D’yeah?”

 

“I’m here to see… y’know.”

 

Could feel the gaze wither, see the eyes squint. “Who’re you?”

 

“Is he here?”

 

“Maybe. Who’re you?”

 

“Abbot.”

 

“He know Abbot?”

 

“If he doesn’t, tell me to f*ck off, I’ll take the train back to Broker with a thumb up my ass.”

 

Guy chuckled. “Okay. Abbot?”

 

“Abbot.”

 

“Abbot.”

 

The door slammed shut.

 

You just had to wait.

 

Abbot waited. Abbot checked his sneakers and felt his chin and rocked back and forth on the ball of his foot and realized how stupid he looked, how obvious he looked, how a van parked across the street - or an undercover car or a surveillance or some spook camped out in an opposite apartment or what - would see some goon in a parka and a Swingers dad cap just waiting outside a known mob hangout all dopey-eyed with his hands in his pockets.

 

God, of course. God, of course. Backed up to the lightpost and started looking frazzled, looking paranoid, started dusting his shoes and bending over to tie them and getting on his knees to try to hide behind the cars parked up in a row in front of the--

 

Abbot heard the door opening.

 

Abbot darted up.

 

Got met with the underbite man’s gaze and he said “Y’ain’t takin’ no train, friend.”

 

Guess he didn’t notice.

 

Abbot nodded.

 

Abbot entered.

 

Stanzino’s was near-empty. Wasn’t quite sure what to expect, expected someone other than the day cleaner, but hey. Expected it to be bigger, too. Stanzino’s was a small space, felt like a broom closet: a bar and a soda machine and two tables by the front and a sofa and bam, that’s the observable floor space filled. Walls plastered with scorecards, soccer sh*t maybe, with portraits of old men and old men when they were young, with a gold record for some doo-wop album that Abbot didn’t know.

 

And a picture to his right. Caught his eye.

 

A grainy one from across the street. Obviously cut out from something. A bunch of guys crowding around the street and a man in the center in a striped polo and white slacks with matching white loafers and a man out of frame looking pissed.

 

Old newspaper photo, full page. It was Jon Gravelli.

 

“Roy’s in th’other room, he’ll be out.”

 

“There’s another room?”

 

“I’ughnuh’.” He didn’t know.

 

He went back to sweeping.

 

Hmph.

 

Barstools for seating, which Abbot took.

 

Abbot looked. Three doors - one in the center by the sofa small-like, broom closet, half open with the dust bunnies practically seeping out. Right door, bathroom. Maybe. Unmarked and bare. Door to the left was past the broom closet’s outcrop and tucked into the corner, unknown use. Maybe stairs. Would there be stairs?

 

The man kept sweeping.

 

He looked up. Looked at Abbot uncomfortable-like.

 

“You want a soda pop or somethin’? A drink?”

 

“Nah.”

 

“Nah’kay.”

 

“No drinking’ on the job.”

 

Man nodded without much else.

 

Kept sweeping.

 

Heard something.

 

Heard something in the wall to his left and heard it tap, tap, tap, the tapping getting louder and met with murmurs and blurred words getting sharper and sharper and sharper--

 

The left door opened.

 

“--but that’s how it is.”

 

“Whaddya’ want from me, Roy, I told youse, same as nobody else--”

 

“Yeah, yeah. I’m just sayin’.”

 

Three men. Bespectacled old man with big ears and a leather blazer over a bowling shirt walking out with a combover and a snivel nose going sniff-sniff, “Sure,” he kept going, “Sure, sure.” Flanked by this guy with thin brown slicked hair and stubble, blue eyes, meaty face in a black coat and a black shirt.

 

And Roy right behind them. Roy dressed flamboyant or crazy or both: pewter green suit, off-white pencil stripe dress shirt, emerald diamond-pattern tie to cap it off with these shined slip-on loafers and this uneasy smile you could feel the fakeness of.

 

Old man and young man stalled, eyes on Abbot. Abbot nodded their way.

 

Back to Roy, “But you know what the kid said.”

 

“Sure, Don.”

 

“GQ. That asshole Herbie. Don’t buy their sh*t.”

 

“Who’m I seein’? I see GQ, it’s congratulations for promotions, fugeddaboutit. That’s it.”

 

“That’s it?”

 

“That’s it.”

 

Back on Abbot, “Sure.”

 

Black coat, “I’ll be seein’ ya’s, Roy.”

 

Past the broom.

 

Abbot looked at Roy.

 

Roy dipped his hand in his breast pocket and pulled something out, adjusted. Pocket square. Must’ve fallen in. Cleared his throat, walked on by, “Yeah.”

 

Abbot nodded, “Yeah.”

 

Pat Abbot on the back out of nowhere, leaned on the bar, “You like the place?”

 

“Sure.”

 

“You see the plaque?”

 

“Yeah. You did that.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“I know.”

 

Chuckled, “That’s good.” Half smiled and looked at him deep again, “That’s good.”

 

Silence.

 

Roy kept smiling. “‘Ey, Harmon.”

 

Sweeperman’s ears perked up, “J’yeah?”

 

“When Ricecakes and Johnny come back, you tell ‘em I’m in the suite and he’s gotta wait downstairs, okay?”

 

Harmon, sweeperman, he stopped sweeping. “You sure?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“With--”

 

“Alone, yeah.”

 

“Okay, Roy.”

 

Pat Abbot again, “We’re movin’.”

 

Abbot rose.

 

They moved.

 

Were halfway to the door when Abbot asked sly, “Ricecakes?”

 

And Roy just chuckled, and Roy said “Yeah.”

 

The door opened.

 

A stairwell. Another door. Passed by the door and some potted plant in the corner up the stairs, up and up, Roy said “That was Avenue Don.”

 

“Who?”

 

“Old guy. He was with this other guy, Jacky Acri, Jacky Boy. We was talkin’ paperworks.”

 

“That’s good.”

 

“Thing with Donato’s is he’s got this broomstick so far up his ass he can sit in the car and it ain’t even a f*ckin’ thing. You get me?”

 

Blew a little air out his nose, “Yeah,” Abbot said. “I get you.”

 

“Get me, get me, yeah yeah yeah. Yeah. Jackie’s a good kid, too. Reminds me a’ me. Ain’t as fun, but yeah, me is me. Goddamn… smartass f*ckin’ rat sh*t lappin’ up some old guy.”

 

“Don your boss?”

 

“No. Nobody my boss. The government, maybe, but me - no. Nah. Don’s old. That’s all. Him and him, they uh, they know these guys and they’re good guys and when I was doing some time they was cleanin’ up while I was in school. Nothin’.” 

 

“Okay.”

 

Another door.

 

Lead up to a shorter flight of stairs shadowed by bannisters, shadowed even more by this apartment dressed bare without much in the name of amenities. Two sofas, big recliner like the king’s throne, table in the middle with empty and emptied glasses and a half-full bottle of liquor.

 

Liquer.

 

Old wallpapers and a door to the bathroom and a kitchen mostly empty aside from a shelf with more liquor bottles. TV on a table by the stairs. A lot of green, a lot of white, a lot of brown. Chestnut brown.

 

Stopped at the end. Roy kept going, “You want a drink?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

“I got this thing. I don’t do business unless I can have a heart-to-heart with a motherf*cker and pour mine out to whoever’s listening. Yeah? I got my traditions where I only do business with conversationalists.”

 

“Yappy motherf*ckers?”

 

“No, conversationalists.”

 

“There a difference?”

 

“Sure,” Roy was in the kitchen now. “Yappy motherf*ckers, they yap. Conversationalists, they converse. Siddown.”

 

Abbot chose one of the sofas. “I guess.”

 

“Ninety-f*ckin’-nine percent of the time, a yapper has this f*ckin’ aura. It ain’t them bein’ smart or retarded or nothin’, it’s this thing I get. I know. I know a motherf*cker when they’re the type to lay their cards down on the table and spill the sh*t to someone who shouldn’t listen.”

 

Spoke for itself. “Everyone says that. Until it happens, y’know.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“You’d ever rat?”

 

“I got the opportunity. I had it, I was on my ass, I had people puttin’ me on for racketeering, murder, fraud, all the sh*t you can throw. And I told my lawyer, I told him the day I take a plea is the day they put me out like Christ and got me splayed out on the sticks in Middle Park. I got drinks.”

 

Abbot turned, he did. Two glasses, bottle of Richard’s Kentucky on the counter. “Crucifix.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“When was that?”

 

“‘06.” Drinks got placed on the coffee table. “‘95. And they did it again in 2011.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Roy took a sip. “Yeah.” Kept standing. Kept looking.

 

“Whiskey man?”

 

“We had whiskey. I drink whiskey. I don’t got preferences. You like music?”

 

“Sure.”

 

“What music?”

 

Abbot bit his lip. “I’unno.”

 

“Fleetwood Mac?”

 

“Sure.”

 

“Yeah. Okay, baby.” Walked over, walked over to the other side of the room by another table Abbot’d missed, saw Roy pull a phone out another pocket and put it on a speaker dock and saw the iFruit on Choosy. Roy swiping, Roy tapping, Roy narrowing. “Ah-ha.”

 

Play.

 

Music.

 

Roy turned it down.

 

“It’s good.”

 

“You don’t talk to me like I’m somebody.”

 

“Sorry.”

 

“No. I don’t like an asskiss. That’s it.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“You got Snapmatic?”

 

Abbot blinked.

 

Now here you go again, you say you want your freedom

Well, who am I to keep you down?

 

“No.”

 

“Aw, c’mon.”

 

“No, I don’t.”

 

“Kid like you. I love the sh*t. I’d show you my account, euh,” looked to the dock but decided against it, “I- you know the @s?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“They’re the account thing.”

 

“I know.”

 

“@zeetsRoy73. Yeah? You got your phone?”

 

“I don’t have Snapmatic.”

 

“When you get back home, you go on Snapmatic, you should follow my account. So f*ckin’ good, man. I take pictures with people in the street, they see me, I say hi, they ask for photos, I go sure. Beautiful cars, lots of f*ckin’ cash, these flash f*ckin’ parties.”

 

“That’s nice.”

 

“The f*cking chicks. These girls with f*ckin’ tits like melons. Yeah?”

 

Abbot took a sip, went down hard. “Yeah.”

 

“If you care about that sh*t.” Looked Abbot close again. Eyed him deep and said again, “If you care about that sh*t.”

 

Abbot thought. “I’m- I don’t do it for that.”

 

Roy smiled. “That’s good.” 

 

Walked closer.

 

Oh, thunder only happens when it’s raining

Players only love you when they’re playing

 

Sat down in the recliner. Like a prince, like a king. “I’m tryin’ to parse you, Abbie. Right?”

 

“I’m an open book.”

 

“Don’t bullsh*t me,” laughed, “Don’t bullsh*t me. But, see, I know- I think, I think that you’re a guy like me. I think. I ain’t lightly sure, but that’s what I’m thinkin’.”

 

“I don’t know. I don’t- uh, I don’t have people take my pictures.”

 

Drank, “Guess not.”

 

“Or anything like that.”

 

“And you don’t care about bitches and tits and money and guns and coke coke coke.”

 

“I don’t know. No.”

 

“Good.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“I put myself in these pictures with that sh*t, because a’- it’s about what people think. And, I don’t know. I’m tryin’ to start this thing in Florida. This restaurant. In Pozo Roca, you know, Vice City, call it Zito’s.”

 

“That’s good. Good luck.” Sip, “I guess.”

 

“Good luck. Yeah. You come down to the city and you look at these restaurants on Brown Place and it’s all these fake ass sh*thole f*ckin’ places and they’re sellin’ linguine with, f*ckin’... lobster thermidor or bullsh*t. sh*t nobody f*ckin’ eats, right? And I mean, I grew up how I did, I’m Broker.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“You’re Broker.”

 

“Yup.”

 

“You left town often?” Roy asked. “You seen sh*t?”

 

“Not- I mean, yeah,” Abbot sipped. “Not much. I- my brother, he’s down in Florida- or, eh, was, I don’t know.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yeah, helped some friend with some business there and got- he- we, euh, it isn’t a lot of talk going on. You know.”

 

Roy nodded. “I get you.”

 

“Not sure how I feel about him right now.”

 

“Again. I get you. I ain’t gone down much often, I’m up here, I always been up here, Ninety-f*ckin’-nine percent a’ the times I got out a’ Liberty it was to go upstate or go to a correctional in another state. Right?”

 

“Heh. Yeah.”

 

“Where’d you do your bid?”

 

Abbot paused. Didn’t speak.

 

“Your two years, yeah?”

 

“I did ‘em in the city. On the island. No transfers.”

 

“And how was that?”

 

“Sucked.”

 

“I done more’n half a decade now, I think. Lost count. I did two for fraud, kiddy charge, f*ckin’ sweat off my back charge from 2012 to last year. Six seven or eight. I think. I lose track.”

 

“I didn’t lose track.”

 

“You only did two.”

 

“People do a lot more, sometimes, Roy.”

 

Roy smiled. “I like that.”

 

“You like what?”

 

“I like Roy. I got people call me Mr. Zito or Zito. I f*cking hate it. I was- when I was working out sh*t in Florida that was all they called me, half these f*ckin’ guys never even spoke to me before and I’m saying hey, hey, hey, I ain’t f*ckin- it’s Roy. It’s Roy. Some dumbf*cks thought that was short for Rosario. And I go no, motherf*cker, my name is f*cking Roy. Roy’s on my f*ckin’ birth certificate and Mr. Zito is my dad.”

 

“Roy.”

“Like that. Nobody call me, nobody should be f*ckin’ callin’ me Zito unless, who? Who, it’s the judge. That’s it. Saint Peter’ll call me f*ckin’ Roy.”

 

“And you’ll go to heaven?”

 

That stopped Roy. Hit him like a wall. “Hm.”

 

“I don’t--”

 

“I don’t know if I’ll go to heaven, no.”

 

Abbot stared.

 

But Roy finished his train of thought, “I don’t know if I want to, neither.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“You think they let you play craps in heaven?”

 

Abbot thought. “No.”

 

“Then no. I don’t want to go to heaven, Abbot.”

 

“Probably a lot of rules in heaven. You probably can’t drink.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Gambling a sin? They let you sin in heaven?”

 

Roy laughed, took a long drink, smiled on the down; “Where’s the fun if you can’t, right?”

 

“Right.”

 

Blinked. “What was we talkin’ about?” Roy asked.

 

“Restaurants,” Abbot said.

 

“Yeah. You know Drusillas a couple blocks down?”

 

“Was in all the guide books a few years back, yeah.”

 

“I ain’t Neapolitan, they served Neapolitan and seafood sh*t and that kinda’ thing, but I want my own sh*t like that. Or- or, Ali Mac’s, in Broker. Owner there’s a friend a’ mine all personal-like, you know, and it’s all food people f*cking eat, for real, real people. Human beings. No f*cking ragoo and ceviche and whatever-the-f*ck. I knew the owner of both.”

 

“I- well yeah, another little difference there. I eat at the restaurant and I leave and the owner doesn’t have much else to do with it.”

 

“Owner of Drusilla’s, Tony Black, you know him?”

 

“No.”

 

Made a f*cking pop noise with his cheek, “Northwood, ‘08? That ring?”

 

It did. “Sure, yeah,” Abbot said.

 

“You eat there?”

 

“No.”

 

“Ali Mac, a friend of mine. Tony Black, a friend of ours. Him and his guy Teddy Boccino, another friend of ours, though in his case friends is a subjection thing.”

 

Abbot let that slip, “Were they good?”

 

“They were both with other crews so it was on-and-off. Tony Black was always a good guy. Real f*cking cosa nostra. Rest his soul. Boccino family are… sh*t. Teddy was, you know, a guy. His little sh*t kid- kid was my age, a couple years younger, his name was Ray and he acted like he was f*ckin’ 50.”

 

“Sounds good.”

 

“Pssh. Yeah. I met him at parties a couple times and he’d go to clubs in suits and he wouldn’t do sh*t. He’d sip water and talk to waiters. And who’s he get made with? The farmers. Alderney. Nobodies. Spoilt sh*t acts like he owns the place and runs the place and shouts and throws phones and he thinks he’s a wiseguy because his daddy gets him a job and a bunch of low-brow crony retards to do errands.”

 

“I can think of a lot of people like that.”

 

“Food’s a hospitality business, you know? Some people, they don’t know that.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“I did blow with this little sh*t once, I swear to god. After some f*cking thing we had. Worst f*ckin’ party of my life.”

 

Abbot laughed.

 

“No joke. He can’t f*cking let loose, this guy. He has this one story he tells about a f*cking dump truck or some sh*t and he goes on and on and on and on and on. And he says it’s his f*cking sanitation thing. I say, no motherf*cker, it’s your f*cking daddy’s f*cking sanitation thing, you just come down every fortnight to pick up some lunch money and sit on your ass watchin’ ‘em work. f*ckin’ nobody, this f*cking guy.”

 

“What’s he doing now?”

 

“Dead. But that’s the thing,” Roy breezed past that so fast it took Abbot a second to register, “this kid thought he was the hottest sh*t in the world and he could shake hands with fingers crossed and nobody would realize.”

 

“He died?”

 

“Over some dumb f*cking thing, yeah.”

 

“He thought he was hot sh*t.”

 

“Yeah, I said. He thought he was this badass motherf*cker who could say all he wanted and be the f*ckin’ big boss f*ckin’ mystery movie f*ckin’ guy and make a gajillion on get rich quick schemes. And everyone who meant something said, this guy ain’t to be trusted. This guy is an entitled brat kid who operates in LC with no sanction. This guy- I don’t know, you get me?”

 

Abbot squinted. “I guess.”

 

“I used to have this f*ckin’ thing where I always thought I was the big guy and I was a self made guy and I got here by myself. You know what I was when I was 29? I was made. I was acting capo. They called us preschool, I was running f*ckers two times, three times my age. But they behaved. I made my money. They f*cked off. But I knew I didn’t just get there myself.”

 

“Nobody gets there themselves.”

 

“Exactly. There’s always a helping hand. I gotta thank Jon for that. Jon and Jon. Gravelli, Mr. Gravelli - he gave me so f*cking much. I don’t know. And his kid, I was always friends with his kid Junior, and- he’s doin’ time upstate right now, but f*ck, he was a guy.”

 

“I have a guy like that.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Kassian, yeah. That’s his name.”

 

“Jon was my f*cking boy. The amount a’ bullsh*t, unmediated accusations against my person - it goes up to here. If we was to listen to every f*ckin’ queer, every loser tryna’ spread sh*t and lie, I’d be dead. But Junior and Mr. Gravelli, they always f*cking got my back. Gravelli told me sh*t’d make youse f*cking head spin.”

 

“That’s good.”

 

“Kassian, right?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Kassian half that?”

 

“I hope.”

 

“You gotta know. I know motherf*ckers when I seen ‘em. I knew I could tell youse about these guys because I saw it on you, I see it in you, I smell it. I smell a bullsh*tter. I see a bullsh*tter first thing I walked into the room. Hey- you- you wanna talk f*cking bullsh*tters? Bullsh*tters who’re f*ckin’ yappers and ain’t conversers and f*ckin’ think they’s self made when they ain’t?”

 

Like a vein nearly popped in Roy’s head. Abbot was weary, “Sure,” he said.

 

Glasses were empty. Roy got up, “Sammy f*cking Bottino. You know Sammy Bottino?”

 

Who didn’t know Sammy Bottino? “Yeah.”

 

“I know Sammy Bottino.”

 

“I know.”

 

“You heard what he said about me, right?”

 

“Some.”

 

“Don’t believe f*cking any of it. None of the yarns he’s f*cking spinning to no reporters from his cell or the books he’s optioning or no movie no producer’s gonna be sayin’ about nobody. All of that sh*t is fake as f*cking sh*t.”

 

Abbot watched Roy get the bottle out, “I guess.”

 

“He is,” Roy kept pouring, “a pompous little f*cking psycho f*cking self-glorifying little press hound f*ck and I knew it before anyone else. Anyone else. Anyone else.”

 

Glass was looking a little too full. “That for you?”

 

“It’s my glass.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“You want it?”

 

“Sure.”

 

Roy nodded, Abbot got up. “I smelt it on him. That’s why he said the sh*t he said on the stand for the benefit of some bald little fat little Indian f*ck prosecutor. You know Sammy Bottino? Sonny Bottino? He hated that f*cking nickname. He hated that nickname so much, he’d tell you to shut the f*ck up you call him that. He’d punch walls. He hated that.”

 

“Ouch.”

 

“He said call me Pops. I’m Pops Bottino. Poppy Bottino, Pop Bottino, Sammy Botto; shut the f*ck up, madon’.”

 

“Yeah, sounds- uh, like an asshole.”

 

Roy started pouring into Abbot’s glass, “And he was a f*cking psycho. He never says that, he says he killed because he made an oath, but f*ck if he acted like he never did. He killed because he loved the kill. He’d kill a man who smiles at you because he liked outsmarting someone. He made it a sport. He loved the thrill. He beat his f*cking wife, I seen it. I seen his wife with f*cking bruises but he won’t ever say that to a f*cking journalist.”

 

Abbot looked at his glass and saw the whiskey filled up to the brink like it was gonna drip. Didn’t feel safe drinking. “Was she okay?”

 

“He killed his brother-in-law.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Oh yeah. And he never regret it. He bragged about it. He told me he got the poor guy crying and he told him he had a shoulder to cry on and laughed because he choked the guy out and shot him. And he laughed. And he does the little baby boo-hoo-hoo tears on the stand like he didn’t wanna. He f*cking wanted to. He always wants to.”

 

Abbot kept looking at the glass and saw Roy gun the full thing in the corner of his eye. “I don’t know these guys, man. I just know what they say on the TV.”

 

“Don’t believe any of it. Jury certainly didn’t, that’s why I’m here and I’m not in Colorado, I’m not in AD-f*ckin’-X, but trust me. Trust me. He’s gonna go back on the stand as soon as the cops round me up again, trust me, and he’s gonna cry his eyes out and call me a fa**ot f*cking monster. Yeah. But let’s just have faith in the system, huh?”

 

Abbot clasped for the glass, “Yeah.”

 

“I’m against the Bottinos of the world. That’s my policy. I knew as soon as I met him, f*ck.”

 

This uncomfortable silence in the air.

 

This air feeling like gravel whipping through the window, like a sandstorm, like these prick-prick-prick feelings on the back of Abbot’s arm.

 

Slowly took a sip of the glass, “Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”

 

“Atta’ boy.”

 

“Sure.”

 

“I talked to the accents about you. Your boss.”

 

“You talked to Benny?”

 

“Benny, some name like that. Benny. Benny your boss?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Yeah, ok, sure. But the accents, they tell me you good for a test run, I let you go through. They gave me the thumbs up, approved for payment, whatever. I got a job. Wetwork. You do wetwork?”

 

Abbot blinked.

 

“What do you want done, Roy?”

 

And Roy looked up from the glass and smiled. Not fake, real. Real as they came.

 

Roy couldn’t help it. 

 

“Thank you, Abbot.”

 

The Glossary

Liberty City Map

Edited March 22, 2020 by slimeball supreme

[slimeball supreme]

A Letdown

 

Phil and Latrell were getting donuts while the two guys talked at the table.

 

Phil kept looking back at them from the back of the line while this look on his face and this look in his eyes kept creeping, creeping, creeping. 

 

“--no leads in an arson case leading to the death of one, a Seth--”

 

“Check this, eh?” Phil snapped fingers, “Look’it that.”

 

News ticker kept going strong on a local station with the gutted corpse of a double-story portable office building behind some reporter chick in a peacoat. Tudor, likely an electrical fire, not ruling out fraud. Some other bullsh*t.

 

Not what Philly had his eyes on.

 

“They're gonna be talkin’ about what happened.”

 

“What happened?”

 

“--the second death in connection to Port Authority after a double homicide in East Liberty--”

 

Latrell felt something down his neck.

 

“--and his mother, found--”

 

“What’re they- what’d they find?” Latrell was speaking a little louder now, didn't have his throat working, “You said they found something?”

 

Phil blinked.

 

“--Mr. Cvjeticanin had an ‘ear to the ground’ with both the Seamen’s Church and Port--”

 

“That your dock thing, eh?” he said.

 

“What'd you--”

 

“You do that?”

 

“No,” Latrell went like a bullet. Reflexively. “No,” again, softer.

 

“You don't have to don't tell me f*ckin’ nothin’, eh?”

 

“No. I didn't.”

 

“No?”

 

“No.”

 

“But it f*cks with you.”

 

“I don't know.”

 

“That guy important?”

 

“I never heard a’ that guy. I- he’s- I don't know.”

 

“Seamen’s Church.”

 

“Huh?”

 

“He's PIA or Port Authority or some sh*t. I don't know. What youse wanted to do. f*ck’s you gonna do with him? Bribe a f*ckin’ priest? What?”

 

“Phil.”

 

Phil blinked again.

 

People were looking.

 

He had to move up a little.

 

He did.

 

“Yeah,” he said.

 

“Yeah,” Latrell replied.

 

Yeah.

 

Line was hardly moving.

 

Phil moved in closer, pat the shoulder, “There.”

 

Eyes back on the TV.

 

Christ.

 

Burned out solitary confinement wing of some prison somewhere, back and forth from footage of angry tattooed men pouring bottles of something flammable in through a door hole and lighting a match and woomph. Up it went. Back from that, forth to a man standing outside a jail in the middle of the desert.

 

“Christ.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“That it?”

 

“That UD thing. One of those guys, the white guy, the alive guy who ain't in the embassy or the consulate with the smearing sh*t on the walls or what-the-f*ck that was, I’unno. With the hair. His f*cking name, euh--”

 

“These f*cking names.”

 

“Ch’yeah.”

 

“UD’s white boy sh*t.”

 

“This is white boy sh*t.”

 

“This is bossman sh*t. This is organized sh*t.”

 

Up a little in the line, Phil scratched chin, “I don't know.”

 

“Niggas see screenplay options ‘n sh*t and they go damn, nigga, that's some real sh*t. Nobody I know give a f*ck some dudes steal some gold and get they ass got a month later. f*ck that. Nothing in that.”

 

“And the boats thing?”

 

Latrell didn't reply.

 

“You know how I feel about that.”

 

“Boats thing.”

 

Closer to the front. “No,” Phil said. “No, I told you. I'm on-the-f*ck board. They ain’t, but I am.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“You think these f*ckers is f*ckin’ listening to this?”

 

Phil was talking about the line. Line they were now around halfway-through still waiting with orders written down on a napkin in a gas station f*cking Rusty Browns and Phil looked close to sneezing or something. Red-eyed, tired. Maybe just a hangover, maybe a cold, maybe maybe maybe. Maybe they were listening. “Maybe,” Latrell said.

 

“They want their sh*t.”

 

“Who don't?”

 

“f*ckin’- exactly, Latrell. f*ckin’ A. That's it.”

 

“What?”

 

“They want their sh*t. People in this line. We talk business, guys around us, they want theirs. Right?”

 

Blink.

 

The donut place smelt like stale dough and salt, latter of which it shouldn't have; it was a donut store. Donut store in beiges hawking pinks and creams and sprinkles and the line still not f*cking moving and the car parked outside because they’d stopped for gas and Frank said “f*ck it.”

 

Another blink.

 

“Am I right?”

 

“Phil, we out here for donuts.”

 

“And these guys want donuts.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“They only want for themselves.”

 

“They want theyselves f*ckin’ donuts, nigga.”

 

“I’m having a cookout.”

 

Latrell blinked hard. “f*cking what?”

 

“I’m havin’ a barbecue. At my place. I got these franks and I got this sh*t and y’know, anytime, you come on down to my place, and that’s that.”

 

Unsure. “Okay.”

 

“Ain’t nothing to okay, you wanna come?”

 

“Is this a Frank-and-‘em kinda thing?”

 

“No, it’s a f*cking me and f*cking you kinda thing. Get it?”

 

“Is it a family thing?”

 

“No.”

 

“Then--”

 

“No- I mean, sh*t. I thought you was-... Frank and the other guy won’t be there.”

 

“Reuben.”

 

“He isn’t coming.”

 

“So it is a family thing?”

 

“Yes. My family. Us. Yeah.”

 

“You sure I should be comin’, then?”

 

“You’re- no, I want youse to come.”

 

Huh. “Okay.”

 

“Good.”

 

“When is it?”

 

“Whenever. We’ll- you know, sure, yeah. We’ll- just come on whenever and we’ll put the grill on and f*ck it, you know?

 

“Next, please.”

 

Latrell just nodded, “Okay.”

 

“So, you’re coming?”

 

“Next, please?”

 

“I--”

 

“Hey, bud- I mean, you’re holding up the--”

 

“Pal,” Phil said.

 

“Sure,” Latrell went. “Sure.”

 

Sure.

 

Latrell was still wondering what that sure meant while Phil was placing the order.

 

***

 

The car pulled up a little ways off this sh*theap in Lanceport and Frankie said they were getting out and “hoofin’ it to the f*ckin’ cocksucker” with a finger tryna’ pick out something in his teeth.

 

Latrell asked why, obviously.

 

Reuben piped and said, “You’d like to f*cking know.”

 

And Frankie stopped on the corner of the street, looked aways, and said “Y’know. I mean. These f*cking parking tickets. And it’s near the bus stop. And these guys they f*cking ride you and there’s this house on the street and the motherf*ckers- they- they, y’know, they tell ya’ don’t f*cking park there and we had--”

 

Reuben, “You gonna do this?”

 

And they started walking, “Yeah,” Frankie said. “There’s these spic guys that live there, there’s this built f*cking guy and we had the lawn chairs out the front. Dennis came out--”

 

“You told me about Dennis,” Latrell said.

 

“Did I?”

 

“He’s in the joint.”

 

“Grand larceny, rest his soul, but f*ck it.”

 

Reuben, “You really--”

 

“Shut the f*ck up. Dennis came out and Dennis is this big strong motherf*cker and pow, he f*cking wipes at him with his fist and tries to fake him out. Dennis, he used to do football, he’s got these shoulders wide like a goddamn pickup, and the beaner looks at him, the beaner’s this scrawny kid and the big guy’s son and he was whining about the music we had on, he f*cking goes bang with a bottle.”

 

Phil chuckled.

 

“You mean they hit him?”

 

“Yeah, Bumpy, they knocked this f*ckin’ guy on his ass. Saint Dennis, man, he’s f*cked, he’s clean out. And we can’t tell these guys to leave or whatever, they’re next door. I mean, you start sh*t these days on the f*cking main roads, and what--”

 

“Frankie--”

 

“It’s a good f*cking story, Reu.”

 

“Are you f*cking kidding me?”

 

“What?”

 

Reuben just stared, just started walking on, a little faster, got Frankie going fine, f*ck, fine.

 

“What?” Latrell said.

 

“Y’know, it’s- look, we don’t park in front of the place and we f*ckin’- you know, then there’s no problem. That’s it. And it’s next to the bus stop. Okay?”

 

Okay.

 

Latrell didn’t know what place he was talking about.

 

There was this funny thing he was thinking on the ride, after they went down to the PJs and picked him up and Reuben immediately locked the doors and rolled the windows up - is this a  Broker thing? They said they were the Broker wing.

 

This wasn’t Broker.

 

This was Lennox Island proper. This was boots-off-the-ferry, 20-minute-drive-from-the-Passage-Bridge Lennox Island. North East Lennox that was only a block or a few away from the oceanfront where the Liberty Bay gave you a shining view of the skyscrapers and townhouses and rusting dock cranes in Alderney.

 

Giglio Street was a corridor avenue lining from the ferry to the bridge. This was middle-area where the deli stores and tobacco shops and the knick-knacks congregated. An aquarium place on the corner. 

 

The important thing to remember is that this wasn’t Broker.

 

Popped into Latrell’s head when they crossed the boulevard and saw a row of suburban houses with pointed rooftops next to a deli with a dirty sign. Deli advertising the state lottery and two framed ads posted up on the brickwork shilling for a methadone clinic and to thank whoever for shopping ‘cause their business was appreciated.

 

Latrell fumbled for his packet of Debonaires and realized he left them in the car and got the itch when he saw this woman in yoga pants and a pair of Curbcrawlers smoking fierce in front of the shop window.

 

He turned to Frankie, “Hey.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“So this is… y’know.”

 

“We’re coming up on the spot. You know what?”

 

“This is your dad.”

 

“Yeah. We’re seein’ my dad.”

 

“And this is a Broker thing.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“But we ain’t in Broker?”

 

“It’s a Broker thing because everyone’s from Broker. We’re all from Broker. Don’t have to be in Broker to be Broker- ‘ey, Porkyyy!”

 

I guess that’s the best he was getting.

 

The place.

 

Reuben had already said hi and entered this unmarked beige looking building, guess what, in front of the bus stop. No windows on the ground floor, woodwork and 60’s pebbled roofwork on a little outcrop above the door and below the second storey windows. Second story, over one of the windows, a sign:

 

 

You know they didn’t call it that.

 

Porky was in an orange-and-blue tracksuit with a dopey double chin face and mirrored aviators. Porky gave this deep hug on Frankie, pat him hard on the back, pat him again, again. Turned to Phil for a handshake and “what’s up big guy” before pausing on Latrell.

 

Smile faltered. He didn’t speak.

 

“This’s Latrell,” Frankie said.

 

“And he’s coming in?”

 

“Did Reuben say?”

 

“Reuben didn’t say sh*t to me, Frank.”

 

“He’s gotta come in. He’s gotta- we gotta get the okay from you-know for the thing.”

 

“The Stop?”

 

“Yeah, he’s gotta come in The Stop.”

 

“And we- you know--”

 

“I got the ok, Ralphie, chill the f*ck out.”

 

Porky slapped his forehead, you knew it was a tic, grunted, “Okay, okay.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Latrell, c’mon.”

 

Latrell stood there.

 

He didn’t know what the f*ck was happening.

 

The door opened inward.

 

The Maritime Navigation Appreciation Society.

 

Brown. Brown brown mauve beige brown - well lit, lights illuminating the brown carpet and the brown kitchen cutout with brown fridges and counters and the brown tables and the pool table showing green but that’s it. Stairs to the top and doors to the back; this room was long, not wide. And it was filled half-to-bursting with Italian men with bad hair and bad clothes talking and laughing over Frankie Valli.

 

Baby, baby, oh, girl!

You know you’re gonna hurt yourself

You know you’re gonna hurt yourself

 

Phil pat, more like a slap, Latrell on the shoulder. “Welcome to The Stop, brother.”

 

A few eyes on him. They weren’t inviting. They were guidos wearing sunglasses inside and they didn’t look f*cking pleased.

 

When you’re broke and worn out

When your heart is torn out

Don’t call me!

 

Saw Phil tear open the fridge by the counter and pull out a beer can of unknown branding and down half the f*cking thing before pointing at some skinny old guy and saying “Yo, Momo.”

 

Momo squinted back and didn’t say anything. And then he squinted at Latrell. And then he eased his eyes and went back to talking to someone else.

 

Someone turned the music down a little. Illuminated the chatter - moreso how little there was. Awkwardness got Latrell jumpy, too jumpy, so jumpy when Frankie brushed past him and said “Earth to Bumpy” Latrell half-jumped and said sorry.

 

“What’re we doing?”

 

“My poppy, he owns this thing- or, y’know, his friend owns this thing and he’s- it’s, y’know. Poppy’s- oh, Reuben!” Grabbed Latrell by the arm and dragged him through the place, got the wops parting like the Red Sea to let him to the end of the room with some red leather sofas and…

 

And Poppy, Latrell guessed.

 

There was a man next to two other men. One of those men was Reuben, who was f*cking with a jukebox - the other was an old man with sunken eyes and spectacles and a Lézard polo. They were next to Poppy. Poppy who Frankie got down to kiss on the hand.

 

Poppy was old. Poppy was in a wheelchair with an oxygen tank running onto a coffee table, wearing a green sweater and a gold crucifix with a blanket over his legs. This old man with liver spots and flesh-face and beady little eyes that looked sad. He had a baseball cap that said #1 Papa. He was ruddy. Real ruddy, red faced and saggy with a lot of hair no matter how thin.

 

Frankie was ecstatic. “This is my dad.”

 

The old man breathed.

 

“Hello,” Latrell said. “It’s- an honor.”

 

The old man breathed. “‘Dis is-” croaky, paused, this heavy Brokerese accent, “de’ uhh… you know. ‘Dis is him ain'it.”

 

“Yeah, pa, this is the guy, pa, who I told you about. With the guys.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Latrell, this is Sammy Mazza. And he’s skipper, yeah? And he’s real f*ckin’ happy to meet you.”

 

Sammy Mazza croaked again, “The guy- so- we do- you know- son, it’s good. Okay.” Coughed.

 

“Yeah,” Frank said.

 

Sammy smiled. “This is the guy with the guys, pa. Son.”

 

“That’s right.”

 

“My grandson- he’s a- my grandson- he’s a good kid. Granddaughters- ‘dey not only, ‘dey- uhh… ‘dey not only love their dads and ‘deir grandpas but ‘dey always like ‘dem, and ‘dat’s the good thing. Thank you son.”

 

Latrell blinked.

 

“Yeah, I haven’t spoken to Sean in a while, pa.”

 

“Huh?”

 

“Sean.”

 

“Yeah, Sean.”

 

“No. Frankie.”

 

“Ohh. Da’ Tom Hickey Bridge.”

 

Guy in the Lezard polo got up, “Sammy, you want a drink?”

 

Croaked, “Wha’ time is it?”

 

“Do you want a drink, skip?”

 

Latrell, “What about the bridge?”

 

“When we drove da’ car on da’ bridge and we got da’ car door and- we was- hello. Yeah. And the new generation- the, uh- and this hophead and he- but I don’t wanna get into ‘dat.”

 

Polo shirt, “I‘ll get you a water, Sammy.”

 

“Son.”

 

“Yes?” Frankie said.

 

“Cosa ci fa qui un tizzone?”

 

“Papa.”

 

“‘Da cleana’?”

 

“No, papa, I told you. The thing.”

 

“‘Da whore?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“How is Frankie?”

 

“I’m okay.”

 

“Frankie?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Frankie.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Papa. Are you- did you talk to Loopy?”

 

“‘Dat f*cking cocksucka’.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“I f*cking hate ‘dat f*cking cocksucka’. ‘Dat two-shoe cocksucka’.”

 

“Dad, did you get Titus to get the okay?”

 

“I got ‘da okay. I got ‘da okay.”

 

“You got the okay?”

 

“I f*ckin’ hate ‘dat retarded little punk and his retard f*cking daddy. When am I seeing him?”

 

“Seeing who?”

 

“Vinny cocksucka’.”

 

“Dad.”

 

“I f*ckin’ hate--”

 

“Vinny’s- you know. Vincent ain’t around no more, dad.”

 

“What?”

 

Latrell was standing gape-eyed. “Did we get the okay?”

 

“I hate ‘dat cocksucka’. I’d roast that cocksucka’ on the- euh, uh- I- what’s the time?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Yes. Yes. Yeah. Yes.”

 

“So we did?”

 

“Yes. Yeah. Yeah.”

 

Frankie grinning, “Perfect. We’re f*cking good, Latrell. Thanks, dad. Really. Thank you.”

 

“Yes. Yeah.”

 

“You know, Latrell--”

 

Sammy, “Latrell.”

 

Latrell blinked. “Yeah?”

 

Sammy, “Latrell.”

 

“What’s up?” Thought a moment, “Sir?”

 

“You- euh, you wanna- I got these stories. I got these- you wanna hear a stories?”

 

Polo shirt had come back with a water in a styrofoam cup and Reuben had stopped f*cking with the jukebox. Latrell had the feeling on his back, this presence - Frankie and Phil. Phil he knew from the smell, that smell you get when you leave a jacket too long in the sun and it’s baked leather and dust.

 

He knew all eyes were on him like a hawk.

 

“Yeah.”

 

Sammy smiled so hard his eyes sunk into his head. “I love your stories.”

 

Before Latrell could say, Frankie said “Tell ‘em, pa.”

 

“Okay. Okay. You kids, huh? You kids. I swea’. Whea’ was- uh, how about ‘68? It was ‘68. 1968 and I was with euh- you remember when I was up in Maschapi with da’ club and ‘dat? And ‘da cab stand? We was in Bohan for a thing with the big man, with cocksucka’ Vincent. And there was ‘dis bar in St. Marks, and ‘dis was oua’ neighborhood. Wea’ on the street and we see these big f*ckin’ biker guys riding up to da’ bar. Revvin’ their engines. And this is a bar a friend of ours had so we went ova’ there and they’re makin’ a scene. They’re shoutin’ and our friend is shoutin’ and they’re saying ‘our problem is he’s sayin’ we ain’t properly dressed like oua’ money ain’t green!’ So I think ‘dats fair and I says f*ck it, you get some drinks. And I leave thinkin’ ‘dat’s dat.”

 

“You want your water, Sammy?”

 

“I’m tellin’ the story!”

 

“Okay.”

 

“I’m saying- euh, yeah, I think dat’s dat. But they shout and they start sprayin’ the bartender wit’ the alcohol! So I go, now you gotta leave. And they go f*ck you, we decide when we leave. You know what I do?”

 

Frank, “Whaddya’ do, pop?”

 

“I lock da’ door. And I say, I say, NOW YOUSE AIN’T f*ckIN’ LEAVIN’!” Laughed, grinned, “And the boys come out ‘da back with baseball bats and we f*ckin’ kick da’ crap outta them! It’s f*ckin’ bang, bang BANG! We open the door and we throw these cocksucka’s right into ‘deir bikes, and ‘dey smash onto ‘da pavement these leather chap cocksucka’s, and the neighborhood kids come out and they start f*ckin’ kickin’ the sh*t outta them!”

 

Frankie laughed. Reuben laughed. Polo shirt was laughing.

 

Latrell didn’t.

 

“f*ckin’ community spirit, son, I’m tellin’ ya’,” Sammy laughed. “So f*ckin’ good. Man, ‘dose were the days. You could, eh, you could f*ck some jokers up and the streets’d come because we were ‘da streets. That was ‘dat.”

 

Polo, “You want your water, Samuzzo?”

 

Reuben, “Never got that bika’ sh*t. That much leatha’, that’s fanook sh*t.”

 

Sammy laughed.

 

Polo, “Sammy?”

 

“Ho sete come una cagna! Grazie. Give it ova’.”

 

Conversation fizzled out when he reached for the water and drank it with both hands and started coughing and Phil walked off. Latrell did too, leant over to Frankie and said “is this happening?” and Frankie just nodded.

 

Followed Frankie. Followed Frankie into the other corner and saw him pull out a box of Redwoods from his pocket and put it to his lips and light it.

 

“Can I--”

 

Another voice, “You can’t f*ckin’ smoke in here, Frankie.”

 

“It’s legal,” he said.

 

“No it ain’t.”

 

“Phil said some sh*t about ‘dis public-private property thing and how you can do it on ya’s on property. So what?”

 

“First off, you gonna f*ckin’ do that with Arnie’s f*ckin’ cataracts?”

 

“Okay, well--”

 

“Second, public f*ckin’ property on ‘da deed or whateva’. So put the f*cking light out.”

 

“Come on, Momo.”

 

“Put it out, Frank.”

 

And Frank put it out.

 

And Frank turned to Latrell.

 

And Frank asked, “My f*ckin’ pops, huh? His stories. He’d tell us sh*t like that all the time.”

 

“That never happened,” Latrell said.

 

Frank paused.

 

“What?”

 

“That’s from a movie. That story, b, it was in a movie.”

 

“How the f*ck you know that?”

 

“The lines, that f*ckin’ ‘now you ain’t leaving’ thing, that ain’t- that’s from a movie. He was remembering a movie.”

 

“How you know it ain’t based on real life? Badfellas was. My dad probably had a f*ckin’ bit in Badfellas.”

 

“But- you sure, I mean--”

 

“What?”

 

“I’m just saying.”

 

“My dad is fine. It’s fine. We’re gonna do this and we’re golden. What’s the problem? I do this, then I tell him about our business thing, sh*t, I’ll get capo when he retires--”

 

“He ain’t retired?”

 

“Why would he?”

 

“How old’s he?”

 

“Doesn’t f*ckin’ matter, eh? I mean, we’re- we’re gonna rumble. We can rumble, Bumpy. And then, the both of us- I mean, we’re in it. And you’ll be along.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“You’re my boy, Latrell. And your crew is our crew. That’s it. We good?”

 

Latrell was. “Yeah.”

 

“Home run, brother. This’ll be nothin’ but home f*ckin’ runs. You know Spadina’s place? You get the text?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“And ya’s friend, uh… what’s-his-name.”

 

“Xavier.”

 

“Yeah, Mr. X. Whozit. Everything’s good?”

 

“Yeah, I pitched it, he’s on board, we’re good to--”

 

“Frankie!”

 

“Reuben, ‘sup?”

 

Frankie walked off. Frankie walked to Reuben and talked a short second and walked to the back door and entered. Reuben followed. Latrell tried following - got stopped by polo shirt.

 

“Members only.”

 

“He was talking to--”

 

“He ain’t no more, okay?”

 

And that was that.

 

The Glossary

Liberty City Map

Edited March 30, 2020 by slimeball supreme

[slimeball supreme]

Left

 

 

This close.

 

Latrell was looking at the message again while sitting in the passenger seat of Xavier’s still-a-little-f*cked-up Presidente with a Debonaire limply hanging between his lips. Thought about asking if he could get behind the wheel but remembered how difficult it was to convince Xavier to even get the thing out the body shop, let alone use it for this. So, you know. Touchy subject. Maybe not the best idea.

 

f*ck.

 

He’d known Frankie a month and was killing a man for him.

 

f*ck.

 

Window was open.

 

Xavier, “Time.”

 

“4:16.”

 

“And when he leavin’?”

 

“Didn’t say. Just said midday.”

 

“These niggas got they numbers counted?”

 

“I’unno.”

 

“They scoped this nigga?”

 

“I came out the address once or twice,” Latrell lied. He’d only gotten the address the other day. “I saw the joint. I never saw him leave--”

 

“So that’s his car?”
 

Xavier motioned head toward the driveway - burgundy Dinka SUV. New plates. Sitting pretty ready for reverse across the street. Latrell had his arm out the window with the smoke drifting, “Sure, yeah.”

 

“Sure?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“That don’t sound encouraging to me, son.”

 

“What? The f*ck is wrong with sure?”

 

“Like you ain’t 100 percent.”

 

“If I’m sure, I’m a hundred percent, b.”

 

“So, you know he route?”

 

“I don’t know the nigga route. How the f*ck I know a nigga route? f*ck he doin’ on the day to day. sh*t’s simple. I told you. We don’t need to know. We pop him and we done and we go home. We go--”

 

“You sure?”

 

“--daylight style on a nigga and get him got whenever he stoppin’. What you mean I’m sure? I just said I’m sure.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Cool it.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“You know I ain’t throwing a nigga in the dog house for a thing I ain’t know a sure thing, son, you know me, son. Don’t bug like that.”

 

“I got you, L.”

 

“Easy,” took a puff of the smoke and rubbed his eye. Exhale, “Easy.”

 

Spadina’s place was not light on the eyes. Retrofitted little white house with red roof and red window cover. Signs galore. BEWARE OF DOG, NO TRESPASSING, THIS AREA IS UNDER CCTV SURVEILLANCE; spiky white fence spiked up harder and garbage bags lying next to the gate as the garden, with roses and weeds and trees, sprout out. The man was obviously not the trusting kind. Not the clean kind. Clutter on the porch and a lawnmower in the grass and a big black metallic mailbox that obviously wasn’t there when he bought it.

 

Took Latrell a second as he was looking. There were two ‘beware of dog’ signs.

 

Xavier sniffed. “That dog gonna smell us?”

 

Blink.

 

“What?”

 

“The dog gonna know we following him?”

 

“How the f*ck a dog gonna know that?”

 

“I’m covering the bases.”

 

“I got the f*cking bases covered.”

 

“I’m just saying.”

 

“The dog gonna run out the gate and chase the car? Stupid. No it f*cking ain’t.”

 

“What if it do?”

 

“What the f*ck you think this is, Xavier? Preschool comedy hour sh*t? Dog gonna get the mailman too?”

 

“f*ck you.”

 

“Don’t f*ck you me, motherf*cker.”

 

“You always gotta be the boss.”

 

“I got it down.”

 

“Sir Palmer out here got the keys locked. He know the drill. Quit blowing smoke in my f*cking face.”

 

“I got it out the window.”

 

“Cut it the f*ck out. It’s f*cking distracting me. That sh*t smell f*cking bad.”

 

“I gotta get the nerves down somehow, son. You want one?”

 

Xavier scrunched nose. “No.”

 

“So you bitchin’ for what?”

 

“Second hand smoke f*ck a nigga hand-eye concentration, b. You know that.”

 

“Says who?”

 

“I’unno.”

 

“Come on. You heard it somewhere. Who said it, son?”

 

“Same niggas that say it give you cancer.”

 

“I’m gettin’ the cancer, son, you’ll be fine.”

 

“Second hand give a dude cancer too.”

 

“Says who?!”

 

“Goddamn doctors, nigga.”

 

Latrell blowing smoke in the car now, “Which doctors?!”

 

“You blowing in the car again.”

 

“You blow niggas in the car.” Laughed.

 

“Funny.”

 

“What? That piss you off?”

 

“I’m just- f*ck, man--”

 

“Chill.”

 

“Eyes.”

 

“What?”

 

“Eyes, son! 2 o’clock, peep it, someone out the house, dude.”

 

Oh.

 

Latrell threw smoke out the window fast-like, eyes on the house - yeah. 2 o’clock, some motherf*cker.

 

Old stubby man in khakis, blue t-shirt, sunglasses. Bald dome shimmering as the door cricked open and the man stepped out and arf arf, little f*ckin’ Yorkshire Terrier came along too and started nipping at old man’s heels.

 

Beware, huh?

 

“God.”

 

“Chill, Xav’.”

 

“That him?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“You sure?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“You got the look on the dude’s face?”

 

Old man got down on the knee, let the dog jump up on him and grasp at his legs, gave him a pat-pat-pat and said something he couldn’t make out. Dog was tail-wagging. Man walked down, walked to the gate with the dog following suit and clicking the gate and back onto the sidewalk.

 

“I know a nigga when I see ‘em,” Latrell said. “That’s Vyvyan Spadina.”

 

Vyvyan Spadina walked up to his SUV and unlocked the thing with his key and got the dog bark-barking again; thing was too small to get eyes up over the gate but it heard something.

 

Latrell rolled up the window, “Start the car.”

 

Xavier followed suit.

 

Presidente started. Idled.

 

SUV backed out the drive, out onto the pavement, onto the street. Headed west, northward from where the Presidente was sitting.

 

“Go.”

 

Followed.

 

Time ticked slow with the radio off and the car dash reading the time back in pixel dull-green. Xavier gripped wheel tight. Followed up onto 21st Avenue where the Dinka took another left, headed down more blocks.

 

“Where he goin’?”

 

“Shut up, Xav’.”

 

“C’mon.”

 

“I’m concentrating.”

 

Presidente slowed down and let the traffic overtake as the car kept going. Green light after green light. Another car turned onto the road on 73rd and started occupying the car length between the two, gave a little space before the Dinka turned off on the Anger Parkway.

 

Civilian car kept going down 21st. Xavier turned left again. Went down the road until the intersection at the end before stopping at a red, Presidente stopped right behind.

 

Latrell tried his best to keep eyes off. Looked at Xavier.

 

Looked at Xavier looking right at the lights like the red was staring back.

 

Green.

 

Dinka went a slight right onto Mondrian and kept chugging past the playgrounds and the Avenue intersection and Latrell looked down and realized his feet were tap-tap-tapping. Stopped himself, looked back up, went right back to tapping. What the f*ck? Why was he tapping? Car passed an Arrow gas station on the Royal Highway intersection and felt the brain bug digging deep in there and kept hearing bang bang bang and his teeth were rattling.

 

No, man, he was cool. Cool as a cucumber. Cool as a cucumber.

 

“When’s he stopping?” Xavier asked.

 

“I’unno.”

 

“Were you told?”

 

“No.”

 

“So what?”

 

“We follow ‘til he stops.”

 

Could hear Xavier breathe a ‘f*ck’.

 

Latrell looked back on the road. They’d cleared space with Spadina’s Dinka; still on Mondrian. Checked the car door and fumbled and fumbled and felt for metal and f*ck, f*ck did he find it. Pulled it out, pulled the Boiuna pistol right out and placed the f*cker between his feet and placed the magazine right next to it and looked back up.

 

They turned on 24th.

 

“When the f*ck- when do we do this?”

 

Latrell grit teeth. “When he stops.”

 

“How we surprise him?”

 

“What?”

 

“If he stops then what the f*ck, man?”

 

“Chill.”

 

Xavier was not chill. Xavier was holding the wheel so tight the knuckles were going white and you could see him biting his lip and staring out. Latrell looked out; saw the Dinka in eyeline.

 

Had he seen them?

 

Had he seen them?

 

“What do we do?”

 

“Xav’.”

 

“Latrell.”

 

“I told you.”

 

“We get him when he stop.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“In he car?”

 

“I got this.”

 

“Nigga--”

 

“You got your biscuit?”

 

“I don’t know what the f*ck we’re doing, L!”

 

“Have you got your motherf*cking piece, Xavier?”

 

“On me.”

 

“Then that’s it.”

 

“Latrell--”

 

“Just follow my direction.”

 

“What the f*ck, man?”

 

“Xavier.”

 

“What the f*ck is--”

 

“He’s f*cking turning off, Xavier!”

 

Car was turning off. Car was turning off onto 86th Street past the Bolt Burger with the golden bolt standing tall on that generic-modern brickwork and the drive-thru cars waiting patiently. Spadina was turning left, turning left onto the eastbound side by a dozen cars heading west. Awkward turn risking life over limb and nearly getting stuck and Latrell whispering Xav’, Xav’, Xav’--

 

“What?!”

 

“I got vibes, man.”

 

“What?!”

 

Latrell leant down to his feet and started loading the gun, grabbed the magazine, started sliding it in going “I feel it in my bones, b.”

 

They were under the rails.

 

12 foot clearance.

 

Dinka kept going.

 

Latrell looked up.

 

SUV was turning into the Bolt Burger. Was driving like a f*cking idiot with the traffic slowing up and a guy walking up past the firestation next-door putting hands up going “What the f*ck?!” because this Spadina guy didn’t turn on his indicators.

 

“You gotta park the car, Xavier.”

 

“Why?”

 

“He’s headed in the drive-thru. You can see up’n there,” started pointing when the motherf*cker starting slowing, when he did turn his indicator on. “We ain’t gonna get through.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“You saw the drive-thru?”

 

“No.”

 

“sh*t is blocked up.”

 

“So?”

 

“How the f*ck we gettin’ out? Car’ll be locked the f*ck in. Park up.”

 

Xavier was gritting teeth.

 

Spadina was rolling his window down.

 

“Screw it.”

 

Xavier turned the indicator on.

 

Xavier turned left, into the car park.

 

Xavier started reversing.

 

“I’mma get out,” Latrell said.

 

Xavier said nothing.

 

Latrell opened the car. Car still moving. Shoe sole skidding on pavement and getting Xav’ to brake a moment to go “Huh?” while Latrell ignored, while Latrell walked.

 

Heard a voice. Nasal. Broker accent. “--and uh… black coffee.”

 

Employee speaker all muffled. Latrell crossed the lot to the drive-thru.

 

“Yeah. That’s all.”

 

“Next window, please.”

 

Saw Spadina dipping an arm into the glovebox and, sh*t, was counting with one hand and slowing up to go bumper-to-bumper.

 

Heard footsteps. Heard Xavier.

 

Took cover behind a sign.

 

“Yeah, I’ll have a medium--”

 

Looked to Xavier.

 

Looked to Xavier bug eyed with his hand on his waist and the bulge of the pistol jutting clean out the band into his t-shirt. Looked at the sweat beading on the forehead while the wind whipped and felt it, felt it.

 

Car rolled up. Car in front of Spadina rolled up. Spadina rolled up.

 

“And that’ll be uh, $11.95.”

 

“Yeah.” Wasn’t Spadina’s voice. Woman’s voice.

 

Xavier grit teeth.

 

Latrell braced. “You ready?”

 

Xavier didn’t reply. Bit his lip harder.

 

Car rolled up. Spadina rolled up. Car rolled up.

 

“So, donut, black coffee--”

 

“You got napkins?” That was the nasal voice. That was Spadina.

 

Latrell grasped the sign. Looked on as the man in the Dinka SUV leant out with his credit card and pressed some buttons and said “I ain’t- they just left out the napkins last and, y’know, I’m drivi--”

 

“Next window, please.”

 

Spadina rolled up.

 

Now.

 

Latrell ran.

 

Drive-thru was a straight line onto 24th again. Spadina was locked in. Karin behind him and another SUV up front. Cars rolled, kept rolling. Latrell ran.

 

Latrell ran past the Karin and heard a man shout and pulled his gun out the waist onto the empty part of the two-lane and got adjacent with the SUV and heard the woman scream and another woman scream “He’s got a gun!!!”

 

Bang. Bang. Bang bang bang. Xavier coming in too, bang bang and the bullets bouncing off the car metal and people in the other two cars ducking and windows f*cking shattering and Xavier letting out this roar, “Wuuaagghh!!!” Bullets kept going and then you heard the bullet pop, pop right into the flesh and the scream of the guy. The target.

 

The Dinka turning left and slamming clean into the Bolt Burger brickwork and Spadina clasping his shoulder and bang bang bang as he rolled to his side and the top of his head, his scalp, popping off clean red.

 

Latrell saw brains.

 

Latrell heard screaming. Screaming into ringing.

 

Xavier standing still with the gun aimed.

 

Latrell screamed, “GO!”

 

He didn’t move.

 

“Go, GO, GO!”

 

Xavier feigned left, for the car.

 

No.

 

Latrell grabbed him.

 

Right.

 

Duo sprinted down the drive thru through the screaming and the screaming and the honking and down the pavement across 24th, past Bolt Burger windows and civilians cowering and guys on 86th Street stopping their cars to gawk. Hesitated, hesitated.

 

Onto 86th.

 

Cars kept going and Latrell nearly got hit and yelled “Hol’!” and didn’t know what the f*ck he was thinking. Past a deli on the corner and a sushi place and a Chinese place and realized in the minute - f*ck. f*ck.

 

Where the f*ck were they going?

 

There weren’t no f*cking alleyways. There wasn’t f*cking ANYTHING.

 

Darted left on Anger 35th, ‘cross the street, past a deli and a pharmacy and whatever whatever and these sirens blasting and looking left and looking right and seeing it - an alley, an alley by a cosmetics place and a Vietnamese restaurant blocked off by fencing.

 

“That way!”

 

Latrell jumped. Felt the feeling, felt the same feeling he felt a couple months or a month or however many f*cking months it was with Ramon and thought f*ck it, f*ck it, at least he was there.

 

That was a lie.

 

He wasn’t thinking anything. He was thinking f*ck.

 

Xavier followed over the fence and stumbled and said “f*ck, my knee,” but Latrell kept running, running past dumpster and fence and looked rightward and saw another fence barbed at the top too tall to jump from. Go straight. Go straight. Slowed up and went straight and heard Xavier gaining and slowed when he hit the other side of the alley and his head sunk into his shoulders.

 

They were on 24th again.

 

Went a f*cking circle.

 

Saw a crowd dispersing and, f*ck, already a f*cking squad car up by the drive-thru exit and these two cops talking to two guys in plainclothes. Too plainclothes. Tactical normalwear. Idiot fleece jacket and idiot cargo pants. All Latrell could make out and was doing equations in his head about f*ck, f*ck, f*ck.

 

“What do we do?!”

 

Scared the ever-loving f*ck out of Latrell when he turned back and saw Xavier and looked down and saw a little red on the knee. “What?”

 

“We went a f*cking circle, nigga, you see an alley?”

 

He didn’t. Not immediately, not ‘til his eyes were past the cop coming closer under the elevated tracks and looking west. Latrell was disoriented, Latrell was tired, Latrell didn’t know his left from his right and eyes hit the gym across the street.

 

YANKEE HEALTH. Saw potted plants and potted roses and a, yes, knee high black fence barring off another alley.

 

“Listen.”

 

“What?” Xavier said.

 

“Don’t ‘what’ me. Listen.”

 

Xavier said yes with his eyes.

 

“Walk.”

 

Xavier said no with his eyes.

 

“Just walk, son. We walk, we cross the street, they think we pedestrians.”

 

Cops were already cordoning off the block. Plainclothes number two in a pair of Hinterlands and new blue jeans and a baseball cap putting arms up and throwing up badge.

 

“My car, L.”

 

“This how we get yo’ car. They think we went that-a-way. We go in a circle, hit the lot, we go back. Simple. Right?”

 

“Was this the plan?”

 

“Yeah, it’s the plan, son, I knew from the start,” bit his lip and stared back on the road. “We stick to it we chill. Shut the f*ck up.”

 

Cop turned around.

 

“Wh--”

 

“Now.”

 

Now was a silent gunshot and everyone musta’ heard because it sure f*cking felt like it. Walking across the pavement and trying to stop it, not looking, just moving and moving and moving. Walking. Walking.

 

Heard shouting.

 

Heard shouting at them.

 

Halfway across the road and hearing the man in the Hinterlands putting an arm out and saying something at them.

 

Latrell wasn’t listening.

 

He was getting closer.

 

Latrell said “Walk.”

 

Xavier walked.

 

Latrell ran.

 

Xavier went down when the big man in the cap and the Hinterlands tackled Xavier clean and threw him to the road. Big man pulled a gun out the pocket and told him fast: “Shut the f*ck up! Shut the f*ck up! Shut the f*ck up!” while Xavier had his nose in the potholes and his lips kissing blacktop and the barrel in the small of his back.

 

Latrell didn’t get to see the handcuffs come out because by then he’d already jumped the fence. Ran into the alley, ran south past garage door and tree and felt his way through the cricks and cracks. Checked backward and didn’t hear footsteps and hopped over the fence and cleared through backyard bushes and ran through to 37th, past a parked Rebla by a laundry center through more onto 38th.

 

Kept going ‘til the train station. Kept looking behind himself to check for tails.

 

Nothing.

 

Was on the steps near 34th and the O’Deas on the corner of Mondrian, headed up to the turnstiles when he checked his six and saw nobody.

 

The train was in Firefly when he knew, f*cking knew he was safe.

 

He was gone. Xavier was too.

 

The Glossary

Liberty City Map

Edited April 2, 2020 by slimeball supreme

[slimeball supreme]

When the Charade Ends

 

The Enus went up Menaker Avenue with the radio off and stopped up at the security gates for the go-ahead. Booth-checker was Port Authority, checked Abbot and then checked the backseat and smiled and said “Ah, Mr. Saravaisky.”

 

No TWIC card necessary. No nothing necessary. Off you go.

 

East Hook docks.

 

Dock cranes move and the shipping crates pile and they paint the white lines for the trucks to move. Car pulled through. Car drew eyes and Abbot chewed face and stared back at blue-collars looking at the white luxury roll right by. f*ck it, he thought, f*ck it.

 

Something embarrassing about it. Didn’t know. Maybe they knew who owned it. Maybe they didn’t know the driver, but they sure as sh*t knew the man in the backseat, and maybe that excused it.

 

Road was unmarked up here - full of potholes, a lot of trucks waiting for containers to be strapped on freezing in the wind. The destination was Pier 14, told to park the car up by the little building a little ways down from it and head into the offices. Some kind of sh*t, talk to somebody, what-the-f*ck. All business, all obscured.

 

Pier 14 was big and blue.

 

Car slowed.

 

Pier 14 is what, Benny said, was called a pier shed - where loads were inspected, had some Border Patrol and NOOSE outcrop, that kind of thing. Big thing today, some kind of thing, some kind of thing out-the-ordinary with the Benefactors and the luxury sedans lining up in the parking lot nearby.

 

Abbot asked what, and Benny didn’t say, and Benny looked out the open window and smelt the sea air and answered “It’s a rent issue.”

 

The Enus rolled up by a pebbled brick building; light brown going orange, mellowed out in fall cold. Unmarked. Barred windows.

 

Abbot, “Security bad?”

 

“Break-in few month ago. Nothing of importance stolen.” Shrugged, went to roll up the window, “Black men think we have the monies or something. Idiots. They just mess up the record room.”

 

Fair.

 

Car slowed.

 

Small parking lot out the front occupied double-time - yellow Contender utility, black Sadler to the side. Cars ranging from mid-range Karin sedans to the luxuries, Benefactor. Ubermacht. Same thing as a little ways down the road. Man outside the front door to the building in all-black aside from a high-vis vest: black sweatshirt, black puffer vest, black track pants, black sneakers.

 

Car stopped.

 

Abbot opened the door for Benny.

 

Benny was in his best traditionals - gray two-piece suit and a red tie and purple-tint Sebastian Dix eyeglasses. Adjusted his tie and his collar and checked his pocket and checked back at Abbot and saw Abbot snorting through the cold-snot in his nose.

 

Stopped. Grabbed Abbot by the shoulder. “You no embarrass me, yes?”

 

Snort, “Hell am I gonna embarrass you for?”

 

“You stay f*cking clean cut. No cop-drop bullsh*t. You have eyes on and head straight.”

 

“Benny--”

 

“You have a late night?”

 

“No. What?”

 

“I smell it on you.”

 

“What the f*ck are you talking about?”

 

“We all get a little something of the something. You just stay sober today. You f*cking get me?”

 

“I’m sober.”

 

“You just stay straight-head.”

 

“Okay!”

 

“Good.”

 

Walked off.

 

Abbot stared.

 

He could smell it. Smell what? Smell smack? No smack this morning.

 

Could you?

 

Sniffed his shirt.

 

No, no. You couldn’t. No. No? No.

 

Benny walked on. Abbot sniffed at the air, sniffed at the cold, sniffed at the wind. Abbot followed.

 

Benny was talking to the doorman. Russian. “--нас был наш человек для этого, Хоккей Хед, но он упал.”

 

Doorman laughed, “Упокой Господь его душу.”

 

“Надеюсь, он сгорит в аду! Cраный педофил. Но с документами? Чертов гений.”

 

Dumbfaced. Abbot just staring as they went, Abbot hearing them go on, Abbot tapping him on the shoulder. Tapped again, tapped again, got a what-the-f*ck look from Benny and Abbot replied with a thumb.

 

Benny sighed. “Is good talking with you.”

 

“Same, Benny. Oy, удачи, брат.”

 

They hugged.

 

Hmph.

 

In. Into the office, into the brick. Into the heaters going and the brrr noise and a staircase to the left and doors upon doors with frosted glass. Entrance walkway had corkboards, water cooler, notes and notes and notes. And noise. Talking-noise coming from upstairs about a dozen voices deep in a dozen more accents.

 

f*ck it. Abbot went for a water.

 

Abbot drank.

 

Looked back.

 

Benny was already halfway up the stairs.

 

Abbot followed and scratched chin and sipped from paper cup or styrofoam cup or something cup until the second floor - the padlocked room marked RECORDS, guessed Benny weren’t bullsh*tting. Door behind him where the noise was getting louder, louder. Abbot turned.

 

Another man. Hard-faced man with jet black hair in a loose tie with a pencil stripe white dress shirt. Another hug, more Russian - “Ваня, как, черт возьми, ты был?”

 

“Хорошо, Бенни. Хорошо. Спасибо.” Looked past Benny at the haggard looking guy walking toward with the paper cup, “Очки. Он с тобой?”

 

“Мой шофер. Мой дворник тоже.”

 

Hardface extended a hand: “Добрый день.”

 

Abbot didn’t shake, sipped, “Dobriy den’, kak dela. I don’t- euh, you know. Speak it. Abbot.”

 

You could see Benny’s glare from the back of his head. Hardface just shook, nodded, “Ivan Sapozhnik.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Tired?”

 

Abbot tried to spin it, “Always,” put on a chuckle. Nobody laughed. 

 

Abbot drifted. Drifted off a little left while the Russians kept on and the mumble-noise kept going from behind the door, kept banging at his ears, kept gnawing and gnashing and--

 

“Abbot!” Benny.

 

Breathed out a “What?”

 

“You come?”

 

Took a sip of the water. Nothing. Looked down in the cup. Empty. Nodded, “Yeah,” nodded, “Yeah.”

 

Followed.

 

Opened.

 

Noise.

 

Accents became clear in the eyeline and it dawned on Abbot who the who’s and what's were. Room was a meeting room - long table, break table by the back with a coffee machine and some donuts and some other bullsh*t snacks. Windows gave a view of East Hook rooftops: of the warehouses, of the garages, the delis down the way and the condos far off past the Broker-Dukes Expressway. A view Abbot didn’t expect. A view the building probably didn’t deserve.

 

Russian and Italian mashed into each other. Melded.

 

“Oh! Abbie, eyy!” Familiar voice - Zito voice. Man in a black overcoat with leather gloves and a gray-and-red striped tie marched over with two goons behind him in sunglasses inside. Both about two heads taller than the man, both frownface and doe-eyed.

 

Roy hugged. Kissed on the cheek; Abbot didn’t kiss back. “Roy.”

 

“You don’t- that’s f*ckin’, how Italians- how we do it, eh?”

 

“What?”

 

“Madon’, this f*ckin’ guy. This f*ckin’ guy,” smiled, “Good to f*ckin’ see you. Your boss, he’s f*ckin’ happy with the thing.”

 

“The thing?”

 

“What you did up Alderney, with the guy, the preacher, f*ckin’ hymms and haws.”

 

“Benny ain’t said no thanks.”

 

“Believe me, he f*cking did on the phone. You believe me.” Dragged him on, arm around the head, lead him back toward the snack table and got the bodyguards moving out the way. Got Abbot’s eyes looking back on this tall bald bodybuilder man, on Gennady Roitman, doing the hug-and-kiss routine on Benny and passing on to some other goons Abbot didn’t recognize.

 

He was on the Italian side of the room. Cannolis. They weren’t donuts. Was a box of cannolis.

 

Five or so goons - three or so meatshields like Ricecakes and Johnny following Roy. Featureless men in tracksuits with big neanderthal foreheads. Who were they guarding? Jack Acri. Jack Acri from Stanzino in a leather bomber with a cannoli and a mouth zipped shut. Being talked to by another man: a man standing 6’4 with a potbelly, beige polo and black undershirt, greasy face and greasy hair. Kept whining on and on, “--this East Island scumbag, this two-faced piece of sh*t, I swear to god, Jackie. Really.”

 

“He’s your boss.” Had this hint of something-something in the speech, like he weren’t all-American.

 

“Makes Harvey Noto look like the f*ckin’ pope. Like St. Anthony. I tell you. I tell you.” Big boy grabbed a cannoli, shoved it in his gob, “And he rides me and Puck like it ain't--”

 

“Gordy!” Roy went.

 

Big boy stopped, “Ch’jea’?” through a mouth full of mush.

 

“You met Abbot?”

 

“Nuhpf’.”

 

Gordy extended a hand, Abbot shook, shook up and shook down and shook hard. “Gordy Blinks, he’s with the Messinas,” Roy said. “f*ckin’ good, huh?”

 

“I told you, Roy,” mouth chunks spitting out, “I told youse, I’m not no f*ckin’ pleased, Roy. You know what went down, Roy, you know what happened with my boy, Zeets.”

 

“And we’ll get to that.”

 

“Retards, Roy. Retards.”

 

“Abbot’s good, though. He’s flash. Took care that thing with the you-know-who. You know?”

 

“Oh.” Gord got a smile, “That was you. You ain’t Russian.”

 

“I just don’t got an accent.”

 

“You speak Russian?”

 

“No.”

 

“So you can’t tell these guys they gotta get theyselves f*ckin’ good f*ckin’ takeout or f*ckin’ nothing?”

 

Huh? “I don’t know. I’ll pass it along.”

 

“Yeah. Roy, hey- we need to--”

 

“After this.”

 

“You know. I talk to GQ--”

 

“And he said what he said. About the thing. With the you-know. We wait for Elmo’s people to come down and we’ll talk it out. I ain’t even supposed to be here, Gord, you know what-the-f*ck it is with Donnie, but I tell him, I say I ain’t f*ckin’ Sonny, I do this sh*t myself, I show the f*ck up myself.”

 

Jacky, “You know who Elmo’s sending down?”

 

“It ain’t you-know-who if you know who I’m talkin’ about.”

 

“Well, ‘course not.”

 

“The guy with the thing. On his behalf. With the chin.”

 

“Ah.”

 

Abbot was staring at the wall.

 

Didn’t know what they were saying. Didn’t care. Got snapped back to reality with a pat on the back from Roy, a grin from Roy, a “We on for you-know-when?” from Roy.

 

Abbot said “What?”

 

“Stanzino. You got the dates. Right? The thing.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“So youse coming?”

 

“To see you, yeah. I’ll be there.”

 

“Good. Good.” Another pat, “Yeah, you talk to Benji and we’ll see this thing the f*ck out, right?”

 

Abbot drifted off.

 

That f*cking view.

 

A thousand miles of f*cking Broker.

 

The expressway was a jagged scar through the brownstones and the warehouses and the parked cars and parked cars. Blue air sweeping and breathing and beating up on the glass and staring back. Blue mist, blue fog, blue coloring the brick and turning it melancholy with watercolor.

 

Abbot kept staring.

 

Men moved past the window and he stared through their heads with his hands in his jacket pockets and his eye gone red glazing over.

 

Men entered. More Italians, for one. Stout men in browns and beiges and mauves - motherf*cker who came in and got all the hugs had a newsboy cap. Abbot never caught his name.

 

The procession moved on.

 

A procession of death-dealers moved out into the stairwell and into the air of the port where the doorman lingered. Benny gave another two fingers, grabbed Abbot by the shoulder, asked if he was okay. The doorman, who Benny called Zakhar and was probably named Zakhar in turn, also asked if he was okay. Abbot nodded through eyeglaze.

 

Maybe he had a little bump this morning. So what? You do what you do to get up.

 

They marched.

 

They were met by men in reflective vests. Men named Sal the Skip, Frankie Fish, Joe Eighty - handed out more vests, cards, a couple hard hats. Got some of the big guidos putting them on and making faces like kids on a school trip. They marched on. They were with the International, Benny said. Union men. Gambettis had their share of the guys in Broker, Pavanos had stock on Port Tudor.

 

They marched.

 

There was a man in a suit, not a mob suit, a suit suit - this clean suit you couldn’t identify the designer of with an American flag pin and curly hair slicked back in that boardroom kind of way, spectacles. He was Greek - Greg Anastas, and he was with the EHSC LLC, who privately operated East Hook piers. Or so he pitched. He was with more dockworkers.

 

He broke bread - he told a story. He worked his way up. He’d worked here all his life and he’d done the duty on the Banana boats, and he laughed, and he asked you heard about the banana boats? Your breakfast banana?

 

And as they entered the pier shed from the front into the darkness he said every bodega gets half their bananas from East Hook. That’s right, he said, they come weekly from South and Central America. They come in reefer boxes, he said. They come hard as tack so they’re ripe when they get to the grocer.

 

And he thanked Benny Saravaisky, and he thanked Roy Zito, for making sure that that happened.

 

And they said the city was a f*cking c*nt, and rents were a c*nt, and all of it was one big ass-f*ck and you could thank Donald Love for the f*cking.

 

And Anastas would laugh, like it meant something. And he said that Torpedo Imports helped with the produce - helped with apples, helped with plantains, and he thanked them, truly.

 

Benny laughed too.

 

Abbot lagged.

 

The pier shed smelt like salt and rust, like something that’d been fermented for too long and had come out rotten and black. Like salt melted into salt and the salt-salt-salt and he felt seasick just walking through the black, through the warehouse, staring up at lights and staircases and knowing the thing went three floors high. Seeing containers unshackled and an unoccupied boat dock.

 

And they stopped.

 

And Greg Anastas shook hands and made a man shake hands with more men - and that man was dressed like a cop-shop wannabe nazi without the f*cking armband. And he was NOOSE. He worked with Customs and Border Patrol. They checked all the containers for contraband: invasive species, bombs, drugs, you name it.

 

And they let that simmer and they chuckled and went back to the hugs and kept walking.

 

And they talked.

 

And they walked. Up stairs. Through environs somehow sterile and filthy all the same. Through thousand-year old facilities of a dying port where the frost broke into the lighting and the corpse rose undead.

 

Abbot lagged further.

 

Lights, white lights and cargo piled a thousand feet high. All warehoused. All waiting. All packaged and ticked and taxed and sent on trucks and the men in charge of it all walked forward. And they spoke. And what they said mattered to a lot of people; but not to Abbot. 

 

Someone made a joke about cameras. Abbot didn’t hear the punchline. But he laughed in tandem. He laughed when they laughed. Even though nobody looked behind to see him laugh.

 

Abbot saw a face.

 

The face saw him.

 

Among the crates on the second floor there were more men. They weren’t workmen - they wore sneakers, some didn’t wear vests, they wore tracksuits. They weren’t blue-collar.

 

They were organized by a bald man with growing chin stubble in a high-vis for the sake, in black faded jeans, in a gray sweater and a black leather blazer.

 

He stopped and looked up at Abbot.

 

They were miles apart. But they knew each other.

 

Abbot knew him.

 

Abbot marched up into the crowd and pushed through the guidos and asked subtle, and then louder, and louder: “I need to go for a second. I’ll be downstairs.”

 

And Benny said something in Russian that Abbot didn’t understand, but he sure as sh*t took as a yes. And Abbot marched back. Back down the fluorescent hallway and back down the stairs into the dark - back where the lights were dim when they didn’t come from the open mouth of the pier that gaped into the Humboldt River.

 

When Abbot had gotten downstairs he saw the bald man was leaving for another door. He’d handed over his high-vis, said excuses, hurried off. And Abbot thought not today, motherf*cker. Not that easy. And he marched on. He marched through the container maze and the box maze and the checker-men with checker-boards and into the door.

 

Another hallway. Empty. He looked right, toward the east, toward the exit, toward the offices, and he saw the bald man march on.

 

Abbot shouted “Hey!”

 

And the man kept going.

 

And Abbot started to pace after him. And he quickened, and he quickened. And the man slowed.

 

The man knew.

 

The man stopped.

 

Abbot grabbed him.

 

Achban turned and stared back with dark eyes shadowed under brow with the forehead lines and the breath cold out his mouth. He chewed, sucked his upper lip, stood an inch taller but felt a thousand feet more.

 

And Abbot said, “What the f*ck?”
 

“Huh?”

 

“Where the f*ck have you been?”

 

“Quiet,” Achban said.

 

“Go f*ck yourself. Where the f*ck have you been?”

 

“I’ve had work.”

 

“You’ve had work for a decade. Eat sh*t. Where the f*ck have you been?”

 

“Abbot, please--” putting on a stutter, putting on a sigh, “It’s- look, pal, it’s been a long--”

 

“You scumbag two-faced motherf*cker. You don’t pull that.”

 

“Abbot, I’m sorry--”

 

“No you f*cking aren’t.”

 

“I’ve just been occupied--”

 

Abbot pushed.

 

Achban grabbed Abbot by the shoulder and slammed him into the wall.

 

The front broke. He wasn’t sobbing. He wasn’t sighing. He was straight-laced and contemptuous and all-above f*cking mad.

 

He glared.

 

Abbot glared back.

 

“Don’t try to worm your way out of this--”

 

“Who the f*ck do you think you are?” Achban asked.

 

“Your brother.”

 

“You f*cking cocksucker.”

 

“Where the f*ck have you been?”

 

Achban spat, “I’ve been working.”

 

“Same as I. I say hi to my f*cking family.”

 

“Family. Yeah. Work. Yeah. Heard you were doing dumb sh*t with Kaz, that kind of work. Errands for Hove Beach guys graduated to the school of robbing-card-games-for-heroin.”

 

Abbot put on a face, “Never been,” he said. “They got good tuition?”

 

“My god, shut the f*ck up.”

 

“No, Achban. Not yet.”

 

“I do a favor for a friend. I do a favor for Kassian because he asks. And you take that branch and you break it, you f*cking idiot. You f*cking retard.”

 

“All apologetic?”

 

“It’s dime store ni**er sh*t, Abbot. You know it. I see the junkie snot on you. What you’re doing with that fa**ot Kassian, that f*cking rockeater, that sack of sh*t who wasted everything his dad gave him and came up f*cking short. You take to him, you take to that little wretch instead of Teddy Bread and the f*cking moneymen.”

 

Abbot stared into a face he didn’t know. “I haven’t spoken to him in a while.”

 

“Keep it up.”

 

“Who are you?”

 

“I’m done with this.”

 

“Done with the stuttering? Done with the buh-buh-buh I’m sowwy--”

 

“Listen here. Listen to me,” grabbed Abbot by the cheek, got his fingers on the cheekbone, pressed. “Listen. I don’t want to be here.”

 

Abbot glared.

 

“I. Do not want. To be here. I didn’t want, never f*cking wanted, to talk to you, or dad, or Kassian- that little f*cking cockeating f*cking weasel Kassian, ever f*cking again. Do you read? Do you read?”

 

Abbot glared.

 

“You bad mouth me to Benny again and I sock you in your f*cking mouth. You talk sh*t, you talk it to me. I have to mop up after Kassian, the f*cking idiot, and I have to hear these little f*cking tall tale f*cking idiot nonsense sh*t--”

 

“Achban--”

 

“Shut the f*ck up. You junkie. You do smack too? You cop?”

 

“I don’t.”

 

“Yeah. Yeah, sure. I bunk with Kaz a week and I get so f*cking tired of him, I trade for Von Crastenburg. You like that? You like talking to him, sleeping with him, you suck each others f*cking dicks--”

 

“You got no right.”

 

“I got all the right. I got all the right.”

 

Kept glaring.

 

“You talk to Teddy. He tells me you ain’t spoke. That’s it. You leave it there. You spend more time with that little ungrateful f*cking sleaze, he talks sh*t about me, you talk sh*t about me- it’s over. My dad f*cking calls me up again I change my number and I strangle you.”

 

“He--”

 

“You don’t find me.”

 

Pushed Abbot into the wall by the throat.

 

Abbot just stood there.

 

“You don’t f*cking find me.”

 

Walked.

 

Left.

 

Abbot stared.

 

Abbot slumped.

 

Sat on the ground.

 

Sat on the ground watching the felt carpet swirl and the patterns jump and the blue hit his eyes, and then the red, and then the nothing.

 

Abbot sat.

 

The Glossary

Liberty City Map

Edited March 6, 2023 by slimeball supreme

[slimeball supreme]

Or Was It a Lie At All?

 

Achban had stayed at the rug store on Oakley Street early to watch the guys from Gulag Garden play cards with his father. And they always had a good time, absolutely - Adam could play with his eyes closed, kept saying he coulda’ gone pro, this confidence with it he didn’t have much elsewhere.

 

It was Maxim for one who always came over: Max, Mack, Pockmark. Sandy-hair sunk-cheek in a denim jacket and a t-shirt, always liked Adam and always liked Achban. Who else? Zakhar from Firefly. Ivan Bytchkov the paper-tamperer and house-robber and card-shark. A few faces Achban weren’t too familiar with too: Sergei and Downtown Tommy and Aleksey-who-went-by-Alonso.

 

Oh, and Teddy the Blond. Blond Teddy. Kassian’s dad. He was here today.

 

They were occupied.

 

Achban watched carefully with the broom from across the room. Heard whispers and heard small-talk and heard talk-talk in Russian and English both, felt himself an insider, felt himself big. The guys smoked; cigars, cigarettes, drank glasses of whiskey for breakfast and let the smoke billow with the windows shut. He’d get them sh*t, if they asked.

 

“How is your mother, Achban?”

 

“She’s okay, Mack.”

 

“Good. She’s good woman. Adam - hey, Adam--”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Как поживает Лидия?” He was asking him this time.

 

“Oy, ты знаешь.” Adam said she was okay.

 

“Я очень на это надеюсь.” Max said he hoped so.

 

“Ее мама, она просто очень упрямая. И магазин, вы знаете.” Said her mother was stubborn, something about the store.

 

Teddy piped up, “Хорошо, что ты все еще с ней дружишь. Я не. Я не мог быть.” Said it was good Adam was still friends with her. He couldn’t be with his wife.

 

Max laughed, “Как она тебе снова позвонила?” What did she call you again?

 

“Если вы думаете, я повторю это--”

 

Zakhar was at the table, piped up too, “Что произошло?” Asked what happened.

 

“Жена Федора назвала его забавным оскорблением.” Teddy’s wife called him something funny, Adam said.

 

“Она не должна была.” She shouldn’t have.

 

“Я сказал это!” I said this, Teddy said.

 

“Ваша жена должна уважать вас. Это так просто. Слишком просто.” Zakhar went on, said that a woman’s gotta be respectful. Got a nod from Teddy but the guys kept laughing.

 

Adam asked, “Вы смущены?” Are you embarrassed? Got Maxim laughing harder.

 

“Трахни тебя. Нет.” Of course not, said Teddy.

 

“Тогда скажи нам.” Then you should tell us, Adam said.

 

“Это не так просто.” It’s not that simple.

 

“Она поймала тебя на попытке трахать горничную? Это то, что случилось?” Maxim was wondering, what happened again? Was it a maid she caught him f*cking, or what?

 

And the guys laughed harder. “Горничная или почтальонка или сантехник или что-то.” It was a maid or a plumber or something like that, Adam said.

 

Zakhar squinted, “Даже не вашей любовницей? Даже нешлюхой?” So it wasn’t even your mistress? Not even a whore?

 

Maxim was shouting now, English, “She just came through the f*cking door, man!”

 

Room laughed except Teddy. Achban chuckled. Achban swept. Swept dust off the floor and smiled and felt like he was one of the men. Big dick kingpin; turned his head to the storefront window out onto the Hove Beach side streets and smirked. Brother, he was in on that joke.

 

Ma was at home. Money was tight except when it weren’t. Why was he thinking that? f*ck it.

 

When he was done cleaning and the room had cleared and gone quiet and Zakhar had went home, Achban went.

 

Bike was locked outside. Knew where they were meeting.

 

Jizzy Jim’s on Mohawk. Smoky-smoke pool hall on the corner a little ways away from where that Georgian bakery used to be.

 

Pedaled.

 

Springtime sun streaming through the train tracks overhead painting the ground golden-yellow when it weren’t shadowed or driven over. Mohawk Avenue shuttered stores and Cyrillic signs and the cell phone kiosks and the knockoff clothing stores. Rode close to the elevated support beams, made a game of getting the wheels on the yellow line, kept going.

 

LomBank on the corner of Mohawk and Wappinger. Comrades’ Bar neon with the big Jakey’s Benchmark bottle propped up right next. And Jizzy Jim’s.

 

Dumb f*cking name.

 

Locked the bike.

 

Anton smoked and he made a big deal out of it now. Kassian and Achban dropped out a year ago and Anton still stayed in for the GED - that he definitely made a big deal of. Big Tony. Big, bad Tony who was chalking the pool cue with the little whisker-stache he never shaved and the hair growing out on the chin and sides. Hair slicked back with a hand, unzipped bomber.

 

Kassian. Kassian with both hands on the pool table and sandy-blond hair, white graphic long-sleeve, little silver neck chain, eye glint. Saw Achban walking up from the doorway and got the glint in his eye but didn’t say a word.

 

Lenny tried to kill himself last year and his dad started fretting and Lenny stopped coming around so often.

 

“f*ck kinda’ Jew is blond?”

 

Kaz shaking his head, “Tony. C’mon.”

 

“Your dad ain’t f*cking practice. Nobody f*cking practice. Lenny- his mom, you know his mom.”

 

“There ain’t no--”

 

“It’s phenotypes.”

 

“What?”

 

“Every race’s got their phenotypes.”

 

“I’m not a real Jew because my parents were blond?”

 

“Your dad and your mom, I mean what-the-f*ck. He coulda’ lied for the visa. You know that.”

 

“I’m Jewish.”

 

“It’s f*cking nature’s f*cking way. Why you think a ni**er’s always got a big nose?”

 

“What the f*ck is with you?”

 

“Answer the question, Kazy.”

 

“That’s f*cking idiotic.”

 

Achban watching from the sidelines grinning. Kaz saw. Kaz pleaded with his eyes.

 

“My case is closed.”

 

“No it ain’t.”

 

“You throw the fallacies at me and then--”

 

“What?”

 

“You get f*cking fallatical. You can’t answer the question and then you insult me.”

 

Okay, that’s enough.

 

Achban threw the life preserver.

 

Approached.

 

“f*ck you two f*cking goin’ on about?”

 

Got a little, “Hey, Ackie,” from Kassian that got drowned out by the noise - footstepped closer and got the empty table into view; no balls. “Nothin’.”

 

Tony, “You think Kassian’s a Jew, Achban?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“He’s blond.”

 

“So?”

 

“Both his parents are blond.”

 

“So?”

 

“It’s f*cking genetics. I tell him his poppa lied about that sh*t with the immigration so he could get here faster.”

 

“Okay. How you know?”

 

“He’s blond.”

 

“That don’t prove sh*t.”

 

“Yeah it do.”

 

“C’mon. Hell’re we here for? Who we waiting on?”

 

Tony laughed. “Okay.”

 

“Yeah, okay. What?”

 

“I got- uh, well, it’s the three of us and the kid. And--”

 

Gave Achban pause, “Abbot?”

 

“Yeah. Kazy told him ‘bout you know who--”

 

“And you told me zip?”

 

“You expected more?”

 

“What’s the problem?” went Kaz.

 

“You know.”

 

Kaz, “C’mon, baby.”

 

“He’s good for it,” said Tony. “What, 16?”

 

“15.”

 

“We was doing sh*t like this his age. He already- what, the sh*t he used to get up to--”

 

“He cracks windows and hotwires and runs ragged, yeah, but that ain’t license. He comes with me. What, you was gonna go without me?”

 

Kaz, “Nah, Ack, nah. Nah, we was waiting on you. What, he hits the corner without you, you’re fine, but this?”

 

“No. It’s not that. Just- c’mon.”

 

Tony, “What?”

 

“Least let me get his head straight.”

 

“What the f*ck for?”

 

Beat.

 

Achban wasn’t sure.

 

“It’s the same guy we usually get for,” Kaz said. “Kid is keen, I caught him off guard, I mean what the heck, right?”

 

“And we can do the same schtick with three, we just need a runner,” said Tony.

 

“What the f*ck does that mean?”

 

“I’m just saying.”

 

“So you was?”

 

“Was what?”

 

“Going the f*ck without me?”

 

“No.”

 

“You said three. What the f*ck, man?”

 

“I mean, I’m not going, bro.”

 

Blink.

 

“Oh.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Why?”

 

“I mean, we get the you-know-what from you-know-who; I stay, you go.”

 

“You stay with- who the f*ck put you in charge?”

 

“Ack,” Kaz said. “I mean, he said he was in for something big.”

 

“So you just--”

 

“Yeah, I just. I just just just just what? We’re friends. I’m still gettin’ f*ckin’ educations,” there it was again, “I mean, I do the best with the math here. I divide and f*cking conquer. You guys gather and--”

 

“We got ourselves Jon Gravelli.”

 

“I mean, I can’t go with youse anyway. This is miggle sh*t.”

 

“Mingle.”

 

“Huh?”

 

“Mingle, dumbass.”

 

“You don’t f*cking call me that.”

 

“You don’t--”

 

Felt the presence.

 

Turned.

 

Out bathroom-way, Abbot. Hoodie on and zipped up and scratching head with cuffed, scruffed jeans. Adjusted glasses. Stared through ‘em.

 

Fine.

 

“Okay,” Achban said. “Whatever you want.”

 

“Achban--”

 

“Yeah, Kaz?”

 

“I mean, you know. I don’t wanna- you know. He does it--”

 

“It’s fine.”

 

Abbot kept staring.

 

***

 

“Vey iz mir.”

 

Trees were green, green as hell walking through Sunrise Park with hands in pockets and that moist-hot spring air feeling sweeping through like nowhere else. Felt free. Felt like putting a cig through the lips and letting the smoke run backwards through the air.

 

Headed north, back to Kassian, back to the designated spot they’d set - and Abbot was being a f*cking idiot.

 

“Don’t be like that,” he said.

 

“Don’t be like what?”

 

“You dropped out.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Okay, what?”

 

Achban sputtered-sput, “Okay, I dropped out. I had my reasons. If you’re having trouble with sh*t--”

 

“It’s not just that.”

 

“It’s not just what? It’s bullsh*tting and bullsh*t and ma losing her head twice in a row. What, what you gonna do? Not a degree?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

“You say what I think you’re gonna say--”

 

“What?”

 

Maybe the air was getting colder.

 

“You’re gonna do this.”

 

“No!”

 

“I feel it.”

 

“No.”

 

“This is a sideline.”

 

“No,” went Abbot, “No.”

 

“You’re--”

 

“No.”

 

“Grass is grass. Don’t ‘no’ me. I’m talking. You do that--”

 

“Do what?”

 

“That. f*cking that. Interrupting. It’s f*cking rude.”

 

Could’ve replied to that. Abbot didn’t. Put the straightface on silent-like.

 

Kept walking.

 

Walked.

 

“You know why I’m saying this.”

 

“Sure,” Abbot said.

 

“You know ma. You know how she’d go. You know how pa’d go.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“It’s because I- I don’t want you doing sh*t you f*cking regret, right? There ain’t many opportunities- you, f*ck, where you- y’know, where you can unmake the mistake. You think dad’ll be happy you work at the store still?”

 

“I inherit. I don’t know.”

 

“You wanna flip patties at Bolt Burger? Work at the deli? I mean, you know. What else’ll you do? What plans? You gotta--”

 

“I just don’t feel it’s working out, Achban.”

 

Achban looked him down.

 

They kept walking.

 

“I’m sorry,” he said.

 

Abbot didn’t reply.

 

“There’s job security. And the chance for stability. And- and the value of a f*cking education. And that’s something you’re up for and I ain’t. I don’t want you making the wrong choice.”

 

Abbot didn’t reply.

 

“Okay?”

 

“I want to do something I’m good at.”

 

“Abbot.”

 

“I mean--”

 

“What’d I say?”

 

“H--”

 

“What did I say?” It weren’t a question. It weren’t said like a question. Like a full stop. It was over.

 

They left the park. Exit on the corner of 7th and 41st. Momma with a stroller. Pavement gone sidewalk gray. Cracked roads. Abbot put a hand up on the pebbled park walls and walked and when Achban crossed he nearly didn’t. Felt the pressure and the eyes drag and the feeling he f*cked up and crossed.

 

Someone had wrapped crime scene tape around a tree.

 

Meeting was on 41st near and alley by a fire hydrant and this white-lookin’, southern-lookin’, sliced-bread-lookin’ house on 671. Wide entrance, gated, probably used by the residentials for parking. Used for parking regardless; residentials or not.

 

Gate had no lock. Achban opened with hand. Abbot followed.

 

Gate stayed open.

 

Kassian stood by one of the cars with a hand on the hood and another in the pocket staring up at the clouds to occupy. Heard footsteps. Looked back. Looked at the duo and smiled and said, “Cohen, Cohen, Cohen,” walking up with two fingers to the lips like he was smoking an invisible cigarette.

 

“How’d we make out, Kazy?”

 

“Good. Very good. I’m out. Collecting my f*cking earnings. We’ll do the math--”

 

“We’ll do the math, we’ll do it,” Achban said. “Right, Abbot? Right, whiz?”

 

“Yeah,” he said.

 

“Whiz is right.”

 

“Abbie,” Kaz went, “you make out good?”

 

“Sure, Kaz.”

 

“We’re f*cking solid,” Achban said. Put a hand over hoodie and smiled and said, “Solid like a f*ckin’- you know. Whatever. Yeah. We get home--”

 

Gate creaked shut.

 

Kaz craned head and craned neck to spot.

 

Spotted.

 

“Yo.”

 

Achban looked back and saw around five-or-maybe-six guys dressed raggedy, ghetto, he thought. Puffer jackets and puffer vests and hoodies and baseball caps turned front or side or backways. Around their age - few lookin’ younger.

 

Guys.

 

Guys with eyes looking like they found good eats.

 

It was six guys, Achban realized.

 

“f*ck-a up the f*ck with you, white boy?”

 

“Holmes, the f*ck you doin’ on this block?”

 

Abbot turned last.

 

“Just talking,” Achban said.

 

“Yea’, talking. Talking. We saw youse was doing past the park. Corner-boy sh*t.”

 

“What?”

 

“You deal on the corner without permission.”

 

“Who the f*ck are you people?”

 

“We gon’ need a cut, fam.”

 

Puerto Ricans, Achban thought. Maybe Dominican. “This ain’t the towers.”

 

“This ain’t the towers, this ain’t the towers. fa**ot.”

 

Achban getting closer, “f*ck you say?” Guys stayed back.

 

They were all talking but to Achban it all sounded like one voice. No one figurehead but he zoned in one a middle kid with a goatee and a durag under a Swingers cap. Swingers cap noticed and got closer but if anything he was staying silent - someone else went “We saw the pot, son.”

 

“Whose block is this?”

 

“Our block. You dealt on a dozen blocks.”

 

“You Spanish Lords?”

 

“Racist ass.”

 

“f*ck you,” someone else.

 

“We run with Lords because of what?”

 

“‘Cuz you think you run the neighborhood you f*cking beaner spic cocksuck--”

 

Durag punched Achban in the gut. He knew it was coming but he didn’t act like it - bunched up and toppled to the ground.

 

“Who the f*ck--”

 

“--you don’t--”

 

“--cracker motherf*ck--”

 

They were crowding around and leaving no exit, encircling, hungry. Some of them started slapping something metal and Achban looked up and saw a tire iron getting pulled out a chore coat and he grit his teeth and went “This ain’t your pot and this ain’t your money,” and the durag-man got right up close and tried to pat him down for something- no.

 

Achban grabbed him by the neck and tried punching and punched, and punched again.

 

Rabble-rouse noise. Smacking.

 

Fists flew and metal flew and Achban made out a chain and something else, didn’t have time before this chubby guy jumped him from the side and made with fists and started beating in the chin and chest. Achban grabbed wrists and dug fingers in and tried pulling up the sleeves for a bite - ended up rolling him onto the side and kicking to jump off.

 

Jumped for another without looking elsewhere.

 

Looked elsewhere and saw Abbot getting hit in the back and then the side and then the leg by the guy with a tire iron.

 

Ran for it and passed by Kassian getting his face popped right into the car and getting beat on to charge the tire-iron kid and pow, knocked him down with his head and tackled him over and almost punched before seeing Abbot slam a sneaker sole right into the kid’s tooth and stomped again and again and again on the nose and left a bruise and then punted him when Achban backed off and got grabbed by the shoulders and pulled back and got his ass dragged a foot or two before getting his face- f*ck, f*ck, f*ck, getting his f*cking head slammed into a f*cking car rim and letting his teeth taste rubber.

 

Looked up and started kicking at the pavement and the bits of dust-like-gravel and kicking it like a cloud anywhere and everywhere. Maybe got it in a kid’s eye, maybe not, who f*cking knows; but he was patting himself and grabbing himself and realized somebody ripped off his jacket and tossed it.

 

That was a nice coat.

 

Had his arm around the tyre and kicked again and kicked again and got the foot connected to a dipsh*t with sagged pants and got a grin trying to pull ‘em down, but didn’t, and didn’t much feel satisfied when the guy with the jeans came over and stomped him in the groin.

 

Felt his eyes go black and go white and go like he’d put his face right up to the TV LED flash-flash, flash flash, got himself pat down and thrown back in the metal and his eyes still flash-flash-flashing.

 

Licked the ground by accident and then got a kick to the cheek and saw through the color and saw Abbot throw a f*cker into a fence and he was seeing blood. And he didn’t know whose blood it was but felt for his head and felt wet and yelped thinking it was 50/50 on blood or sweat.

 

He saw Kassian somewhere and realized someone had tore off a sleeve or maybe a chunk and he’d been left shirtless. Saw Abbot without the sweatshirt with another Puerto Rican grabbing him by the arms but the kid was still squirming and kicking and kick-kick-kicked until he’d kicked the guy behind him.

 

Guy tried pulling Achban’s pants off and Achban pushed off with the arms and leapt and swung and realized it was durag cocksucker.

 

And Achban stomped durag cocksucker.

 

And Achban tried kicking - but durag cocksucker rolled and went and ran - and through blurry flash-flash eyes saw the Puerto Ricans running with their jackets.

 

Felt his head and checked his hand and through the eyes couldn’t make out what color the liquid was. Looked black. Looked black. Looked thick and felt thick and Achban thought it was grease and, sh*t, maybe it was.

 

Fell down.

 

Heard Abbot crying.

 

Crawled.

 

Crawled, got up from knees, walked haggard.

 

Grabbed Abbot, pulled him up.

 

Hugged.

 

Checked Kassian and shouted, f*ck, our f*cking money, in the f*cking jackets - or he thought he shouted, maybe he was thinking and the thoughts were melding and meshing and mashing into what he heard and what he saw. Saw Kassian with his bare chest and maybe-cuts and maybe-scratches all red from the pressing.

 

Heard something but he didn’t know what.

 

Sighed.

 

Slumped.

 

Sat on the ground.

 

Achban sat. Saw the colors and the colors and the colors and saw Abbot and tried to catch his eyes. Were his glasses broken? He didn’t much know.

 

Abbot sat.

 

The Glossary

Liberty City Map

Edited April 13, 2020 by slimeball supreme

[slimeball supreme]

The Fan

 

Latrell was headed down to courts. The set was posted up there; wanted to talk to DB about you-know-who and you-know-what.

 

Music on.

 

Smoke in.

 

Chill.

 

Chill.

 

Nobody knew anything right now. Nobody at large; Jasmine had talked to Teflon and then talked to Slip about bail money for Xavier if they let him get bailed out at all. But it’s all well. No other suspects, he sure as sh*t weren’t talking to anyone’s knowledge, nothing nothing.

 

Just had to talk to the guys and help them understand.

 

Music on.

 

Smoke out.

 

Take your drink

To the end of the bar

Buddy

 

Fall air in the Milden Houses played with your eyes. Mist after rain dousing the road in gasoline and twinkling light-fire on the horizon through the trees.

 

The courts were across Stanley, but in an area you could still call Milden was a lot with a couple of park benches and empty concrete. Get the music out? It’s chill as sh*t. Noise and purple and purple and noise and the streets empty aside from the parked cars.

 

Let her stay there

Now don’t be a fool

 

Took a draw of the cigarette and kept walking. Put his hands in the hoodie pockets and let the smoke follow like a shadow and the breeze wet his face and the cool go through the veins like an opioid. Nobody watched him. Nobody looked out those windows in the towers and saw the guy walk, but he acted like they did all the same.

 

I’d as soon have a hot seat in Ninnimissi

Than to sit down by her on that stool

 

Heard the noise interfere with the headphones and the bass-bang hit and reverberate through the cement and the sealed-up windows.

 

Like a radar homing in. He was headed the right way.

 

Right way toward a dozen guys out on the street looking bad as a motherf*cker and pissed off without a thing to be pissed off at. Brotherhood vibes through the chainlink fence.

 

What’s that you say

I guess you’re right

It’s nothin’ to me

 

Latrell tuned the music he didn’t want out for the music he felt like he needed.

 

“‘Ay, L.”

 

Latrell said his hi’s.

 

Rasheed. Malik. Noodles. The guy Cevonté with the phone with good speakers and the snapback who’d make the videos online and run around screaming with the kids in the PJ’s. Older-men types, older-men with memberships and dogmarks and the beads. Latrell didn’t have beads. f*cking 90’s thing. f*cking 2005 again nostalgia sh*t for a different time.

 

Waited. Searched.

 

Hm.

 

Drew smoke.

 

“Malik,” called him over.

 

Malik was talking to Reynaldo about some sh*t or another.

 

Wouldn’t come.

 

Latrell brought himself.

 

There you are

Stretched out on the floor, buddy

Now you see what you made him do

 

“Malik, yo.”

 

“Sup, balla.”

 

Reynaldo turned to greet, Latrell didn’t hear.

 

Here they come to take him off

To jail, buddy

 

“You seen DB ‘round, b?”

 

“Nah,” Malik said. “Nah.”

 

And tomorrow someone will bury you

Oh well, that’s life

 

Pulled the earbuds out. “Huh?”

 

“Ain’t seen him, I said.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Yeah. Past his bedtime or sum’, huh? Ha.”

 

“Sure.”

 

“What?”

 

“Huh?”

 

“What, you ain’t laugh?”

 

“No, it was funny, son.”

 

“But you ain’t laugh none.”

 

“I thought it was funny, b. I just didn’t laugh.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“What?”

 

“You hear this sh*t, Rey?”

 

“Malik, the f*ck, son?”

 

“What. What. Yeah.”

 

Okay.

 

Fine.

 

“I ain’t got the time for your goofy ass.”

 

Said some sh*t Latrell didn’t heart and sure as sh*t didn’t listen to. f*ck it.

 

f*ck it.

 

f*ck it pulling another cigarette and lighting it and staring out onto the street, into the street lights, into the empty skies where the clouds gather but the stars don’t.

 

f*ck it.

 

Just sat down. A little ways away from the others. Unoccupied bench by the towers facing the road where the cars would park up and the grass would overgrow and the a bus stop paces away where they’d throw hard trash and garbage backs and they’d stew and fester. In summer that sh*t would bake. It baked bad a couple months prior.

 

Now they froze. The garbage men didn’t come down the avenue that often. They didn’t keep the cans out here. They just let it sit and they just let it mold. Where the litter would come and the wind would blow the paper and plastic by. Tumbleweeds.

 

Latrell took a drag.

 

Music pumped.

 

Music pumped.

 

Had the earbuds in his ears but nothing was playing and this song, trap song, Antidote by Travis Scott, song Latrell didn’t know and didn’t much understand and didn’t much care for; had that sh*t drumming in the ears--

 

Car rolled up the empty road.

 

Car Latrell knew.

 

What the f*ck?

 

This blue Sultan went down the street double the speed-limit and pulled up quick and left the cuts in the ground from the skidmarks and veering over the noise.

 

Pulled up. Stopped. Reversed. Latrell got up, drew the smoke, spat the ash, f*cking approached and squinted and made sure his eyes weren’t playing no tricks and, f*ck, motherf*cker they weren’t.

 

Car door slammed.

 

Did they f*cking know?

 

Frank. Reuben. No Phil, at least no Phil he could see. Middle-ager guidos grit teeth and did military march down the road to the music. Approached the music. Approached like a sixth sense like they knew if Latrell was anywhere, Latrell was here.

 

Followed.

 

“You motherf*ckers know where the f*ck Latrell Palmer is?”

 

Any other white boy, they’d ask if the cop knew what tower he was in and where he kept the warrant.

 

They knew these guys.

 

That meant ziplip.

 

They just stared.

 

“You f*cking- look, he ain’t--”

 

Reuben, “You shout this guy’s f*ckin’ name, I mean--”

 

“Yo.”

 

Latrell said yo.

 

Reuben didn’t even flinch when he turned around and grabbed Latrell by the shoulder, and then by the arm, and then pulled the motherf*cker on. Latrell looked back, saw Frankie go “You!” to some f*cking guy and do the same.

 

Latrell sputtered.

 

Saw the bull-moist snot and steam spin out Reuben’s nose. Heard him whisper. Heard “Two bit f*cking fa**ot,” heard mumbles and grunts and felt the pavement go like a treadmill beneath the feet, and saw the car door ahead open and shut.

 

AC was on and it was cold as a motherf*cker inside and out.

 

Shoved Latrell to the left seat in the back.

 

Heard somebody.

 

Saw somebody.

 

Noodles.

 

Reuben got in the driver and took off without a word.

 

Silence.

 

Ticka-tack static silence crackling in the ear.

 

Latrell looked at Noodles dopey with pleading eyes and shrugged and wondered why the f*ck did they take Noodles?

 

Frankie turned. “Latrell.”

 

“Frank.”

 

“And you’re one of Latrell’s friends. Xavier, right?”

 

Blink.

 

Latrell kind of stuttered but Noodles answered anyhow, “No.”

 

“Whoever. f*cking block-boy-f*cking-you. We got a f*cking problem.”

 

Latrell couldn’t speak.

 

Noodles barely. “I- wh--”

 

“You ain’t, f*ck, you ain’t- FUUUCK, YOU AIN’T- f*ck, you ain’t- ugh, f*ck. f*ck.” Started thumbing at his forehead and blinking fast like there was something stuck in there. “That nobody sack of f*cking nobody f*cking sh*t. That f*cking nobody. That f*cking nobody.”

 

Latrell had a clump in his throat the size of a fist. “What?”

 

“That f*cking Albo. That f*cking cocksucker.”

 

“What?!”

 

“That stupid f*cking Bohan f*cking fa**ot f*ck, he f*cking lied. He f*cking lied. He f*cking lied. He f*cking lied, Bumps, he f*cking lied.”

 

“About what?”

 

“That Islam durka-durka f*cking idiot f*cking f*cking Albo f*ck cocksucker. That f*ck. That f*ck.”

 

Nearly whispering, “About what?”

 

“Vyvyan Spadina pissed off our boss.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“But we didn’t get no f*cking authority.”

 

“Your dad said we did.”

 

“Pa did a f*cking miscommunications- f*cking Titus, that dipsh*t- f*cking- we got no f*cking sanction. We got no f*cking sanction.”

 

“So what?”

 

“So we’re lucky he weren’t f*cking made. We’re lucky we- f*ck. Fuuuck.”

 

“So he ain’t made.”

 

“So this Viv the Chick guy pisses off this Albo, this f*cking c*nt--”

 

“Mergim.”

 

“What?”

 

“He was your pot guy, right?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“His name was Mergim.”

 

“Yeah.” Frankie paused. “I know. Who f*cking cares? His name is f*cking stupid sh*t. That’s his- f*ck, his f*cking- f*ck. I need a line. I need another line.”

 

“What?”

 

Frankie started fumbling and grabbing and seething, “He ain’t got no f*cking pot. He ain’t got no f*cking connections. He don’t know f*cking nobody. This Albo fa**ot don’t got a pot to f*cking piss in, Latrell. He’s a f*cking nobody. He’s got peoples in St. Marks who run illegal slot machines and they was cutting into his cousin’s f*cking takes.”

 

Latrell blinked. “What?”

 

“You what me. You what me. You what me.” Could see in the rear-view mirror Frankie with a little something-something in his hands, held deep, something he sniffed hard into and snorted out and got the nose runny and rub-rub-rubby. “You- fuuuuck me, oh my god. God f*cking damn it.”

 

Noodles looked like a doll. Close to limp in a loose t-shirt and his mouth open perpetual-like.

 

Reuben grabbed whatever Frankie was holding and snorted it and threw it to his feet.

 

Where they knew? A thousand minutes in a second. Latrell looked out the window and saw trees and the railyard off the Main Drag Junction and the freeway overpass and rows and rows of f*cking graves as they started heading down the parkway.

 

They were basically in Dukes now.

 

Back at Frankie staring at his feet. Back at Frankie clacking his teeth.

 

Silence crackling.

 

Latrell said soft, “Where are we going?”

 

And it was like that scared Frankie. Burst out his seat and started shaking his head and going “We are- f*ck- that little fruity fa**ot f*ck is in St. Marks right now. I got it on the authority. I got it on the authorities. He’s on Morgan Avenue. Slurping f*cking spaghetti. And he’s slurping it up. And we’re gonna regret him lying. We’re- we’re gonna make him regret him done lying. Is what the f*ck we’ll gonna do. Him and his f*cking boss. His f*cking nobody f*cking boss. His f*cking lying f*cking nobody f*cking boss f*cking lying f*cking idiot. What I say to myself?!”

 

Was that at him? “I--”

 

“I’m GODDAMN- f*cking- I’m speaking. WE have got BISC- we have got guns. We have got pieces. And we are going to go in there. And we are going to kill him. And his pal. And his pals. And everybody. And they aren’t gonna know what f*cking hit ‘em.”

 

Wait.

 

Really?

 

“We’re gonna--”

 

“You and Xavier and me are going to go out there and we are going to use- check this the f*ck out, I got them- f*ck, hold on-” smacked open the glovebox and pulled out a piece and wagged it in the air. CAT-10. Looked taped together. “Oh. Ohhh, f*ck. That’s right. We walk in-the-f*ck there and we f*cking kill him and we f*cking kill him and we take what we owe and we f*cking kill him, you dig me, you dig me, you dig me?”

 

Latrell was foot-tapping the floor. Oh. Oh. “And we’re good?”

 

“We are f*cking ace. And we can do whatever. f*ck the pot. f*ck the pot, man, f*ck, f*ck the pot- we- we- we’ll- f*cking Zito, we’ll f*cking- fuuuck the f*cking pot… I’ll spill his f*cking brains like you throw it at the f*cking wall.”

 

Reuben just SHOUTING with the windows down, “YOU KNOW THE HELL WE DID WITH PUSSIES LIKE THIS BACK WHEN?!”

 

Latrell hoped he weren’t swerving. “W--”

 

“WE’D PUT THEY’S f*ckIN’ FEET IN THEM CEMENT SHOES… AND WE’D DROP ‘EM IN THE f*ckING HUMBOLDT.”

 

Frankie did an animal roar.

 

Latrell looked rightway. Saw Noodles slinking back. Thought about saying something to him.

 

Didn’t. “Okay.”

 

“You guys done drivebys or whatever the f*ck, right?” Frankie went. “Youse got the f*cking experientation. So this’d be like- like a f*cking- put on some music, Reuben.”

 

“I’m driving.”

 

“I want some of the f*cking music.”

 

“You got the radios or the phones or the music players. The f*cking MP3s.”

 

“Shut the f*ck up. Hold on.” Pulled out his phone, flicked and tapped, “Hold on hold on hold on hold on--”

 

“What is youse putting--”

 

“Hoooold on, Reu, hold youse f*cking on, hold it--”

 

“What is it--”

 

“You people- I’ll play some of their music.”

 

What?

 

Tapped.

 

Tapped.

 

Pissant tapping as the car kept going and it felt like it was going a thousand miles an hour and the wheels were skidding on slop slick and sh*t. f*cking rain-wet. f*cking headpounding, f*cking Frankie putting the gat near the gearstick and--

 

Word up, son, word

To all the killas--

 

“-and one hundred dollar billas! f*ck, Latrell, you know this f*cking sh*t?!”

 

For real niggas who ain’t got no feelings

Blinking. “Yeah.”

 

“Fuuuck this is a f*cking- f*ck--”

 

Check it out now

 

“I--”

 

“Here it comes, woah, woah--”

 

I got you stuck off--

 

“--the realness - we be the Infamous, you heard of us, official Hepburn murderers! The Mobb comes equipped with warfare--”

 

--beware,

Of my crime family got--

 

“GOT ENOUGH SHOTS TO SHARE! C’mon, Bumps- f*ckin’-”

 

“Frank--”

 

“--profile and pose, rock you in the face stab your brain with your nose bones--”

 

“You guys--”

 

“I need a f*cking line, I need a f*cking line--”

 

Noodles now, “You--”

 

“--in these lands that we’re gunning, FUUUCK, f*ck--”

 

Tap-tap-tapping his chest with the freeway streaming and trees hiding corpses. Tap-tap-tapping down the parkway, tap-tap-tapping down the parkway; half an hour to Bohan. 15 minutes to the Bloemen Expressway looping around Meadows Park and the lake and, f*ck, Latrell looking to his right seeing more goddamn graves. Graves haunted him. Graves haunted him through the suburb and when they passed by the Monoglobe and the tennis courts and the stadium they were still f*cking haunting him. Trainyards out the gate and past the Huntington Street overpass and the empty cleared out land-graves of the parking lots by LomBank Field.

 

Frankie had played Onyx and then some other sh*t and then the car went silent as the expressways merged and snaked through Keering. The warehouses and the office buildings and the strip mall off the turn by a DMV with a goddamn Bolt Burger.

 

The ghosts kept chasing him.

 

Noodles hadn’t said a word the whole ride and he still hadn’t said sh*t while the car was slipping over the Kalksteen Bridge and the Humboldt gave a pretty pretty view through the metal slats and support beams. The skyline, the whole Algonquin skyline peering down at you standing right over Astors Island. A taunt. Looking noways right and it was more river, more river, more salt-river barges and the Dukes Bay Bridge and the steel trusses and the rippling waves.

 

The ghosts found him again in Bohan.

 

There was another graveyard by the golf course on the way into Little Bay. And Latrell wasn’t sure which was bigger.

 

But he just kept staring past Noodles.

 

Staring at the graves. Going onto the Northern Expressway as it slit a gash through the borough; what’d he see? More graves. The graves pointed and laughed as they crossed into Bohan Industrial, and then into Buttress.

 

The minutes melded and the silence grew and shrunk and Frankie and Reuben would bicker and groan and grunt. Ogre-grunt snarls with spit-tooth dagger jaws, ferocity, grabbing sh*t out the glovebox but never offering it to the men in the backseat. Huffing and swallowing and fidgeting.

 

The Ballas found a home in Buttress. If it weren’t Astor’s Island, that’s where they were born.

 

The car rode through Mecca and nobody said a word.

 

There was a short tunnel in Sybaris. Road built under more road or more building or more brick or more dirt. Rode under with the air getting tense, getting thick, getting tight - gripping around the throat.

 

Frankie and Reuben got silent.

 

The car went through. Through the darkness and the yellow lights.

 

Through the brickwork behind trucks and behind sedans and late-shifters.

 

And they came out the other end and breathed out like the air weren’t there, like they went underwater; like they’d come out for a breath.

 

There was a turnoff and they took it. Sandwiched in a two-laner next to a Benefactor; behind a big-rig carrying a Jetsam container. Past a Rusty Brown’s and Cherry Popper outlet on the corner, driving down Third Avenue past parkland and building and construction site.

 

“This is it,” Frankie said.

 

“We for real finna f*ckin’ do this--”

 

“We for real gonna f*cking get what we get, Xavier. Homeboy.”

 

Latrell looked out the windshield at the road and felt like he was running up an escalator headed down.

 

Frankie handed him the CAT.

 

Latrell stared at the outstretched arm grasped around the wrong end of an automatic submachine gun. Tried to regulate, tried to keep the flow steady and the mind straight but f*ck, f*ck, f*cking f*ck he could f*cking not.

 

“Bumpy.”

 

He didn’t say anything.

 

“Take--”

 

Noodles grabbed the strap with the hand furthest away and threw the f*cking thing in his lap. Saw the arm shaking - forearm shaking, palm on forehead to straighten.

 

Frankie had the hand out phantom-offering before withdrawing and getting another f*cking machine pistol out the glovebox.

 

Latrell took.

 

“We got one shot at this. One shot. One shot. Look at me--”

 

Frankie snapped fingers.

 

Latrell caught the bloodshot eyes of the man with the gun. Bloodshot death eyes, eyes without glint. Death eyes.

 

Latrell was looking.

 

“One shot, Latrell. You f*cking too,” finger pointing at Noodles, “one shot. One shot. Youse hit nobody then you know the f*ck. You know the f*ck. You know the f*ck.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Magazine goes splat in two or three seconds. You aim where you’re aiming and you pull that f*cker and you keep that thing steady or you hit the lamps or the windows or the f*cking waiters.”

 

There was a party center they’d passed. An electrical substation. A funeral parlor. Another park and a hospital and rows of houses and a housing project and a road junction. They were off now, though.

 

They were on Morgan Avenue.

 

They were past a Pops Pills and the jaws opened when Latrell looked and saw more trees on both angles and then the jaws snapped shut when they were off the junction. When they were on Morgan Avenue proper. When they were in St. Marks. Bohan’s Little Italy.

 

The storefronts were lit up and folks were sitting outside restaurants on folding chairs and the Italian names came up on the repeat. Light poles with flags on ‘em waving red white and green. People out. People walking and cars stopping and--

 

The car stopped.

 

“IN AND OUT, IN AND OUT, IN AND OUT--”

 

Frankie halfway kicked the car door off its hinges and all Latrell and all Noodles could do were run. Noodles looping and slipping and sliding back onto feet to follow but Latrell following past with the gat strapped and locked and loaded.

 

The place was adorned with a red sign and called Farfalla Fresca. Gold on red. Windows lit up.

 

Door opened.

 

Maître d’ jumped when the doors swung and the line dispersed and three armed men charged through past whatever and whoever was in their way to the dining area proper. Wine cases on exposed brick wall and plain white tablecloth on table and a television in the corner playing Italian football under the air vent.

 

Oh, god.

 

Frankie zoned in like he knew the place by hand and marched by the cashier on white faux-marble countertop and drew his entourage, drew Latrell, drew Noodles, into the corner.

 

Toward two men. Man one was Mergim. Didn’t take a genius to figure out the guy you’d seen was the same man then as he was now with the same sh*tty fashion sense and the floral shirt under track jacket under leather jacket next to this big motherf*cker, fat motherf*cker who-- the gun went bang.

 

A thousand bangs.

 

A thousand, deafening bangs.

 

Frankie opened fire without a word and sprayed the corner and got the other two spraying from a distance and turning those men seated there whether they were whoever or whatever into goddamn paste, red steaming f*cking paste spitting everywhere and the room full of white bright light brighter than the lights inside or out or the sun itself.

 

And they were dead.

 

Footstep patter and shrieks flooding into the ear and chairs toppling over and the light shaking like the very foundation of the building was built on crumbling sand. A thousand bolts in the brain stabbing at every exit, every surface, every wall of Latrell’s skull.

 

They didn’t stick around.

 

Latrell, Noodles and Frankie ran into the restaurant and fired.

 

Latrell, Noodles and Frankie fired.

 

Latrell, Noodles and Frankie fired.

 

And they left the way they came.

 

They dropped the guns in the gutter and drove.

 

Four died.

 

The Glossary

Liberty City Map

Edited March 27, 2021 by slimeball supreme

[slimeball supreme]

Good Evening

 

The phone rang.

 

The lights were off.

 

Cellphone ring-rang and Abbot got up in the bed squint-eye and stared at nothing a moment and kept hearing the purr, the purr: the ear-ringing, teeth-gnashing purr of the Drone phone on the bedside table.

 

Turned the lamp on. Reminded himself where he was.

 

Cheap motel. Or motor inn. Or whatever. On Munsee Avenue in Farnham-Slechtenhorst, next to a Department of Sanitation depot, window view of the high school down the road and the elevated train tracks that rattled your teeth when they passed.

 

Picked up the phone, didn’t see the caller ID, “Yeah.”

 

“Здравствуйте! Как вы, мистер водитель, мой водитель... оy, да... да?”

 

“What?”

 

“Я немного навеселе, Aббат. Я немного навеселе.”

 

“Benny?”

 

“Yeeees Benny, yess… yes. Yes.”

 

“What? What’s happened?”

 

“My- my of, euh… my car, yes?”

 

“...Okay?”

 

“I… am drinking.”

 

“Okay.” Sat up. Half-naked, legs on the ground, phone to ear, “Okay. You want me to come?”

 

“Da. Da.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Можешь принести, эээ... чипсы? Эээ... да…”

 

“What?”

 

“Chipsy. Potato chipsy.”

 

“Where are you?”

 

“Suffolk.”

 

“Where?”

 

“Suffolk.”

 

“Where? Address, bar name, whatever. Where?”

 

“Oh. Ohh. Oh. Да да. Да уж.”

 

“Da, da, da; where are you?”

 

Abbot was up on his feet with his head to his shoulder and the phone stuck between, leant on the cupboard throwing jeans on, heard “Sheba Speakeasy.”

 

“Cheapo Speakeasy?”

 

“Hotel on the Sheridan Street in the Suffolk, on the, euhh… on 60 Sheridan. Okay? Ладно? Ты собираешься забрать меня?”

 

“60 Sheridan.”

 

“Yes. My car on the road. You- you are coming to pick me up?”

 

“Yes, Benny. Yes.”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Yeees… okay.”

 

Abbot kept the phone on.

 

Heard crowd noise through the speaker. Benny forgot to hang up.

 

Hung up.

 

f*ck.

 

f*cking f*ck.

 

***

 

Nighttime city noise penetrates the glass like a gunshot and filters through - city city noise - the city. Algonquin shouting and honking and chirping and lights dancing and walking and hawking and noise.

 

Noise streaming through the half-cranked window of the taxi cab. Glass window ahead and the stickers and the marks and the TV slotted in the headrest with IBS news still chitter-chattering. Checked the map, checked the corner-signs telling him letter-grid streets, checked the mirror.

 

His name was Mohammad. Had a beard, glasses, Sikh turban. Had a little small talk on him out the way talking sports Abbot was barely following along with, then weather, then so on and so on and so on.

 

Abbot said he was stopping by the hotel on Sheridan because he had a dinner date, and Abbot got his bluff called by Mr. Mohammad who said that bordering on 12 AM is a little late for a dinner date to start.

 

And Abbot said it was hard to explain.

 

And they stopped talking.

 

Abbot tipped well.

 

Sheridan was the sh*tty cramped little street where the cars were bumper-to-bumper and you knew just by looking the rent was too high. Saw a Benefactor Surano parked up the block, saw a woman walking her dog, her little f*cking Yorkie, despite it being you-know-when at night.

 

Saw the new Center of Exchange - the tallest building in the country, probably one of the blandest - staring high from the end of the road.

 

The hotel was called the Triple S. Sixty Sheridan, Suffolk. SSS. Puke. Bistro next door with a cute little chalkboard menu and a guy in a white dress shirt and jeans speaking Farsi, fella moved out the way when a guy came by with big broad shoulders and a suitcase and said “Watch it.” Nearly bumped into Abbot but he just stared and didn’t say anything.

 

Kept walking.

 

Triple S was this posh-type swank affair that tried to keep it hipster-casual - which you knew by the cleaned-up silicon modernist aesthetic mashing deep with the quirky geometric carpet and the name brand bottled water. Whites and blacks dulled and colored in with water paint by the red-and-pink-and-blue-and-yellow neons they had put up all over.

 

Hotel bar.

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“What?”

 

“You--”

 

“I don’t want a room.”

 

“I--”

 

“Yeah, okay. No, it’s fine.”

 

“It’s guest only--”

 

“I’ll be a f*cking minute--”

 

“--sir--”

 

“--please--”

 

Left the hotel woman with the little shiny name tag to chew on that.

 

Into the bar.

 

Bar painted quirky in that Roaring 20’s look with this graphic flooring and old-lookin’ lights on bathing the place in gold on the mahogany. Would’ve been cigar smoke floating in the air if the city still allowed it. Hipster lounge. Cute little hipster lounge, happy little hipster lounge, hipster lounge with Lips 106 playing on the radio. Little mural of those flapper-women with the cigarette holders on the wall.

 

Barman was shining a glass and a few people were still out and Abbot zoned in on Benny.

 

Benny looked like sh*t.

 

Benny was sweating out the suit with his head on the bar and a hand wrapped around a nonexistent glass and pit-stains like a motherf*cker. Legs curled up and this wet sheen shining the bald dome out like a cue ball ready for breaking.

 

Abbot didn’t need to make sure.

 

Benny was f*cked up.

 

Abbot walked up fast and slowed so he wouldn’t scare the f*cker - or wake him up, maybe. Got close; looked back and saw nametag-woman chatting doubletime with some big man in security black.

 

Time to jet.

 

“Benny.”

 

Grunt.

 

“Benny.”

 

“Да, Севастян? Oy?”

 

“It’s- Abbot. It’s Abbot.”

 

“Ах, Aббат, ах, хорошо. Хорошо. You drink?”

 

“No. No--”

 

“У меня тут был хуесос... грузинский хуесос. Oy, euh… я говорил тебе о жирном педике?”

 

“Benny, we need to go.”

 

“Ой. Да. Моя жена. Моя жена.”

 

Got a hand on Benny’s shoulder, “‘Ey, uhp--”

 

“What the f*ck your problem?”

 

“Benny, you called me.”

 

“I know. I know.”

 

“The manager--”

 

“There is manager here?”

 

“I dunno. Goddamn bar woman, bar chick, she’s getting f*cking mad.”

 

“You get the reservation?”

 

“No.”

 

“Is reservation only bar.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“And the guests only bar.”

 

“Yeah. They ain’t- we need to go.”

 

“Я могу дать ей деньги. Как с гаишником. Ты помнишь?”

 

Benny was on his feet now, hand on bar, woozy-eyed. “I don’t f*cking understand you,” Abbot said.

 

“I say, you remember?”

 

Lead him on, “What?”

 

“The parking man. We’s- wis the ticket.”

 

Lead him on. Eyed him dragging hand on bar, hand on stool, hand past napkins, “Sure.”

 

“You f*cking убил этого ублюдка. You kill the motherf*cker. What’s the word, what’s the word-” started snapping his fingers with the free hand, “you bop him? You knock he f*cking light off?”

 

“He isn’t dead.”

 

“I- is the figure of speech.”

 

“Yeah, I did.”

 

Passed by nametag woman still talking to big-man, looked over with dagger eyes.

 

Abbot just said “Yeah, we’re going.”

 

That was that.

 

Where was his f*cking car?

 

Where was his f*cking car?

 

“Benny, hey--”

 

“Yah? Yeah?”

 

“Where’s the car parked?”

 

“Huh?”

 

“Where’s the car parked, Benny?”

 

“On the corner. On the corner. On the corner, yes?”

 

“Okay.”

 

They walked.

 

Car was down the intersection, corner of Emerald and Burlesque; big white clocktower Quincy Biro store selling eyeglasses, advertising CNT and LomBank on big spruced up billboards. Nightlife prowlers strutting, worker bees grabbing boxes out a PostOp truck parked parallel on the avenue.

 

Benny pulled the key out and it felt wet and Abbot didn’t think and just opened the f*cker.

 

“Who drove you?”

 

Benny mumbled, “I drove me.”

 

“And you didn’t call?”

 

“You my babysitter?”

 

“I drive.”

 

“No job. No job. Ты водишь, когда я хочу, чтобы ты водил.”

 

“Huh?”

 

“Achban knew Russian. Achban knew Russian.”

 

Abbot didn’t reply.

 

Just shoved him in the back.

 

Just drove.

 

“You bring the potato chips?”

 

“No.”

 

Drove.

 

Drove.

 

Drove through grid-street without GPS, without direction - just drove. Drove for Broker Bridge or Algonquin Bridge or Hedgebury Bridge or bridge bridge with the cold beating through the seats and the doors and the faux-leather.

 

Thought about the radio.

 

Didn’t.

 

Drove.

 

Heard murmuring.

 

Heard a question. Was down on Emerald Street near Brown Place, about to turn off on The Vole when he heard the murmuring repeat, repeat, repeat - tap tap on the eardrums.

 

“What?” Abbot asked.

 

“Nos’ing.”

 

“Nothing?”

 

“No. No.”

 

Felt the silence on the turn.

 

It weren’t nothing.

 

“What I gotta do to coax it out?”

 

Benny laughed but you knew he didn’t understand. “Yes. Yes.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“You friend with Achban?”

 

Abbot thought that over. “Why?”

 

“Achban friend wi’s me. Friend wi’s a whole lot of people. Yes?”

 

Achban. “Yeah,” Abbot said.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Friends, friends friends. A thousent’ friends. A million friends. У меня есть много друзей. Со всего мира.”

 

“What?”

 

“Когда я был в Одессе. Odessa. You know Odessa? I live- I go back to Odessa. For the times. For a times. And I come back for my friends. And I- when I was a boy and my papa was a man and- yes. Yes. Papa man. Papa man papa man.”

 

Abbot didn’t speak. Let the silence talk.

 

“I kill people.”

 

Abbot didn’t speak.

 

“I kill a lot of people.”

 

Abbot looked at Benny through the mirror with dead eyes.

 

“Do you think I am a bad man, Mr. Cohen?”

 

Abbot didn’t speak.

 

“You don’t speak because you think I am, yes?”

 

Abbot did a little shake of the head, didn’t want to let it show, didn’t think sh*t.

 

Benny did a laugh sprawled out in the back. “I am a bad man.”

 

Abbot didn’t speak.

 

“I am the bad little boy, Cohen. I am the worse man. I- you flatter me to think I am good man, you are wrong. Because I is do sh*t f*cked up beyond you make Earth crack.”

 

Abbot turned. Didn’t speak.

 

“Nineteen- eighty- f*ck, of- I don’t know.” Chewed his fingernails. Maybe digging through the in-between? “I killed a man who was talk sh*t to my best friend. I die for my best friend. Я попал в тюрьму за моего лучшего друга. Я умру за моего лучшего друга. Okay?”

 

Abbot didn’t speak.

 

“Oy. Oy. I killed… I am such a f*cking c*nt, Abbot.”

 

“No,” Abbot said. Maybe.

 

“Such a the f*ck a piece of sh*t what I f*cking do I do- f*ck Abbot. Маленький мальчик посмотрел на меня. У него были эти большие глаза. Большие маленькие детские глаза.”

 

Let the man sulk. Let the man cry.

 

He did.

 

He cried.

 

“It don’t matter to you in the moment.”

 

“No,” Abbot said.

 

“I killed him anyway, Abbot.”

 

Didn’t speak.

 

“I am going to go to Hell, Abbot. I am going to twist and the burn and rot with the bone curl up of my blood. Он даже не знал, что такое пистолет. Он даже не знал, что такое пистолет.”

 

Abbot didn’t speak.

 

“I pay for these things wi’s a thousand nightmares. I pay for these thing in my blood and bones. I see these thing wi’s my eyes closed.”

 

Abbot didn’t speak.

 

“God torment me wi’s my mistake. I don’t know him. There is no him. God cackle and he twist the blade. God don’t care for you or you feeling, only the action. Only the moment.”

 

Didn’t speak.

 

“I f*ck up so bad, Abbot.”

 

His eyes knew where he was but the mind didn’t register. “I’m sorry.”

 

“Lenny. Lenny.”

 

Lenny.

 

“Oh, my boy. Oh, my boy. Oh, my boy.”

 

His boy. “What do you mean?”

 

Benny smiled, this smile that weren’t a smile, blew air out the nose and let the air tingle. “I killed him. A thousand- euh, God take away what you have and spit. I am not a religion. I do- what the f*ck am I? I am not Jewish. I’m not sh*t. Я ем свинину. Я ем свинину.”

 

“Lenny.”

 

“Lenny my boy. Lenny my best friend boy. Lenny a good boy. Lenny- Lenny young boy I see him in the school. I walk him home. I walk him home. I walk Lenny home and Я читаю ему. Он был моим сыном, как и Кузьма. Кузьма мой брат.”

 

Lenny.

 

“Lenny got big and got mad and got mad and got mad. Lenny got big and got mad and he hurt people and he no understand he do. I come to station, I bail him out- is nothing. Is nothing. God take away for my sin. God take away for my sin.”

 

Lenny.

 

“He was a smart boy and he got angry. He got into sh*t. I got into sh*t. He get into sh*t. He don’t roll he sleeves down, and why? And why? You no see what is under the sleeves. You no see how he feels. Ho- f*ck, man. I comes home to see this.”

 

Lenny.

 

“He was mad at nothing. We’s all mad at nothing. He mad and he was a goood boy, Abbot. He was a good boy, Abbot. Achban knew him. He slit he wrist twice. And he slit down. He slit down to these elbow and he puts a the- cyккaaaaa. Cука. Cука.”

 

Lenny.

 

“Is all this. All this. I read the stories to him, he’s small. He so small. They so small and they big and they go. They not- f*ck, cука, сука блять. Блядь. Ey, блядь. It f*cking hurt, man. It not supposed to happen before you’s go. Before you’s, no. No. No. You understand this?”

 

Abbot looked in the mirror. “Yeah.”

 

“I got call and they come call me and Kusya and is what the f*ck. Is what the f*ck. And they put the bullet- and this the bullets line up from the neck from the head and he- f*cking- and is the worse. And is the worse. And is the doors to Hell open and shut and you is in but no’sing else. No’sing else. You sit down. You sit down- you legs snap and break. And you is nothing. And we is nothing. We lose something- some part of you go and you has nothing to see no more.” 

 

Abbot.

 

Paused and pursed lips, “Color go and space go and it no matter who you are. And you has nothing. Маленький еврейский ублюдок все же пошел на похороны. Но что он сделал, чтобы остановить это? Вы смотрите на надгробную плиту, и там написано имя вашего сына,” slapped himself, slapped himself, “And what’s left?”

 

Lenny.

 

“Kusya see nothing no more this day.”

 

He fell asleep.

 

***

 

The car pulled up on the corner and Abbot looked up at the big empty house and the man in the backseat who was lying unconscious.

 

Someone had been working on repainting the place. Some refurbishing by the door.

 

They were gone now. It was late.

 

Benny didn’t need waking up - when the car door opened, he got out himself.

 

Trudged up the driveway to the backdoor. Past blue-tarp half-visible in night light and street lamp. Abbot followed.

 

Door opened.

 

Entered.

 

Baroque kitchen when the lights turned on, bathed in light; bathed in deep wood-brown and sky-high white and curly little gold little squiggles on the doorknobs and cupboard doors. Fridge clashing fast with steel metallic.

 

Benny trudged through.

 

Hallway. House was a maze. House was painted in blue aquatic and all… uncanny. All dead. All furnishings bought with dirty money and splayed around with no sense. Portrait photos of the man trudging ahead: with a woman, with a dog, with hair. Bad hair, crows feet like a motherf*cker, but hair.

 

Balding Benny Saravaisky.

 

Bald Benny.

 

Abbot followed.

 

Bald Benny found himself on sofa. Big white sofa by the big corner windows with the big red blinds drawn clashing with the blue.

 

Benny yawned. Benny stretched.

 

Benny threw off a jacket and stretched like a cat and laid head-to-toe and stared up at the ceiling and then right at Abbot. Right at Abbot with cat eyes, cat smile, cat sneer. “Yes.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

He was examining. Toying. You knew it. Couldn’t hide sh*t with the liquor in his head. “Yeees…”

 

“Do you need anything else?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Oh? “What?”

 

Benny smiled wicked. “In my attic I have thees thing. Thees thing.”

 

Rolling eyes, hardly. Rolling eyes. “Yeah.” The attic.

 

“Yes. No. I want you to see this.”

 

“Oy, really?”

 

“Yes.” Looked at Abbot with serious eyes, “Yes.”

 

Hm.

 

Yes.

 

Okay.

 

Sure.

 

Abbot watched Benny as he rounded the room to the stairs - kept eyes on him as Benny kept switching face, switching from cat-sneer to dead-eyes. Hm.

 

Hm.

 

Up the stairs. No eyes to see.

 

Dark.

 

Flicked a switch and went down hallway and started searching, searching, searched. Found the lone little pull-string for the attic stairs and pulled right up and saw them tumble to the ground.

 

Climbed.

 

Climbed into darkness, unlit darkness, darkness lit by roof-window beaming blue night-light, blue moonlight.

 

No light.

 

Boxes.

 

Abbot searched for light. Searched for light and through boxes and found switch. Switch by box, switch by box, switch by box. Pulled past box and pushed through box and found stuff.

 

Kid stuff. Kid books. Kid reads, kiddy titles and kiddy colors and kiddy pastels and kiddy primaries. Red and blue and yellow and A and B and C. Squinted.

 

Squinted for light.

 

Flicked.

 

Light.

 

Light filled an unpainted burial ground of the thoughts lost to the mind - testaments to nothing. Smelled smoke and smelled dust and smelt books been everywhere. Saw toys, blocks.

 

Smelt rot.

 

Smelt rot.

 

Rot smell pushed Abbot away. Pushed Abbot further. Further toward the blue-light, the moonlight, to the rot green rot baring nose and cooking flesh.

 

Flesh.

 

Seva.

 

Seva the pitbull from the Undersea Cafe was propped up in the corner behind boxes. Red rings around empty fingers with the tips cut off; the same crew cut and the same pink face now popped and fleshy and blood-dry. It weren’t pink no more. Green, gray, red. Black-red dried and dripping from a face that looked mangled. Looked soulless. Eyes gone white and fly-buzz and maggot-chomp deep in the pores and pockmarks of decomposition.

 

Seva was dead. Someone had gutted the guy. Put holes in his torso that weren’t from bullets, stabbed him deep through the throat and ran gashes down the face. Left him lying ‘til you could see the bone and the stench had permeated but the blood was gone. The man was gone.

 

Seva.

 

Abbot stared.

 

Went back.

 

Went down the attic-steps.

 

Went down the stairs.

 

And looked at Benny with dead-eye.

 

Benny couldn’t hold it in.

 

He laughed. He cackled like a hyena and stared into his face and kept cackling, and cackling, and cackling, and oink-oink-oinked and kept cackling.

 

Abbot didn’t say anything.

 

Benny laughed. “Mister Amsterdam Poppy! Mister Police-little-piggy!” Laughed.

 

Laughed.

 

Abbot left.

 

The Glossary

Liberty City Map

[slimeball supreme]

Black Broth

 

Where did Phillip Donovan live?

 

Phil Donovan lived in East Island. Lived just off the cusp of Dukes within a five-minute drive of FIA - lived in a forest of tract-suburban housing in Lippe County where the homes were built same-like and the grass grew green. Down Rum Junction. Odd name. Hamlet-town. 

 

Phil Donovan lived at the end of a road, on the corner of two; the road ended on his house and got blocked off with a big, city-installed fence with reflective signs shouting DEAD END. Behind the wall was a mall. Big, massive f*cking mall off the Baldric Parkway. 

 

If you peeked over? You’d see the YouTool outlet with the parking lot desert stretching far. A million cars. A million stores.

 

If you looked to the left? Phil Donovan lived there.

 

Phil Donovan had an American flag in the yard as a part of his big front lawn blocked off by rope. Had the dead grass growing and the house itself - this big two-story rectangle - grown dirty lookin’ like it was swaying in the wind from disuse. First story was basement level, brick wallwork. You walked up those steps up to the entrance and that was the second. That was the front door.

 

Latrell knocked.

 

Adjusted the cigarette but kept the thing in his mouth and knocka-knocked again.

 

Latrell knocked.

 

Hm.

 

Rounded the house, away from the front door to the building’s right, to the driveway. Driveway by the DEAD END fence with a Willard Solair parked crooked-like, dusted-up gasoline green thing disused by a basketball stand. Dead grass grew willy-nilly, f*ck it.

 

Latrell smoked.

 

Walked to the backyard gate. Folded up umbrella poking over the picket-fence and mewing-noise.

 

Knocked.

 

“Hm?!”

 

“Yo.”

 

“Oh, f*ck--”

 

“Hey--”

 

“Latrell?!”

 

“Yeah--”

 

“Yeah- yeah, f*ck- yeah--”

 

Footstep noise and creaking and old man grunt. “Yeah.”

 

“You shoulda’ called, man, you shoulda’ called- hold--”

 

“I ain’t got your number--”

 

“Yeah, hold--”

 

Dog barking. Dog barking. Hm.

 

Got closer. Presence drew in and drew in and clicked the gate and--

 

Phil Donovan.

 

Phil Donovan was in cargo shorts and an unzipped beige fleece and an off-white tank top with the in-between-stitching stained from sweat. Socks up near the knees and slip-on boat loafers. Caught a glimpse in the face with the tired eyes and the lines and the gray and got him scratching the forehead and moving wispy hair out the way. “Yeah.”

 

“Hey.”

 

“Good to f*ckin’ have ya’, kid.”

 

“Yeah. You said--”

 

“I said come the f*ck on in, kid- euh, come on--” moved out the way and beckoned into backyard where the grass grew slightly less astray and the smoke-tip fume smell marinated. “Forgive the euh- the what’s-it, the f*ckin’ sh*t.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

The domain.

 

Phil had the paved backyard with a big pool as the centerpiece radiating off into more unkempt grass. Pool had the tarp over. Pool was dirty. Pool caught dark-deep green colors from where the tarp didn’t cover the water; tarp itself covered in fall leaves falling from the trees. Diving board.

 

Latrell followed. Stepped careful onto the cement and to the backyard with the brickwork and the make-do patio. Doghouse reading ‘OPIE’ near the off-grass with the empty food bowl and the grill. Expensive grill. Decent grill on the kickstand and the six bags of charcoal standing vacant nearby.

 

Lawnchair. Table aside. Half-read book lying up facing the sky. Aviators.

 

Phil walked by and snapped the book shut and stopped a moment to survey and mumbled, “Where the f*ck is he…”

 

“Hm?”

 

“Dog gets up and jumps around- and- I’un even know where the f*ck he gets to…”

 

Latrell just nodded. Kept the smoke in and withdrew and blew air toward the house-fence. “Yeah. Y’said whenever, right?”

 

“Yeah. Whenever.” Started gravitating toward the trees, “Where the f*ck is he…”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“You- uh, door’s open. You go inside. I’ll- f*ckin’...”

 

Kept walking. Yeah.

 

Fair.

 

Latrell went to screen door and slid the thing across and entered.

 

The domain.

 

Screen door and backyard lead into kitchen and living space - dinky 90’s TV on a stand and these two massive loveseats. Reclining-type, brown, with the little footstands that poke out and the cupholders. Latrell forgot the name. Latrell smelt liquor and smelt that stale-house smell and smelt brown. Smelt that nothing color that kept him to the tile-floor green-on-brown kitchen with the box fridge and sink full of plates.

 

Opened fridge.

 

Beer. Sizzle steak. Beef tongue.

 

Beef tongue.

 

Beef tongue.

 

Cigarette was going ash.

 

Cookout.

 

Latrell looked out the window past curtain to the trees and saw Phil searching confused-like through and clapping his hands and shouting “Opie, eh! Opie… Opie!”

 

Ashtray on the kitchen counter.

 

Latrell put the smoke out and screwed and sighed. Picked at his teeth.

 

You come whenever.

 

Latrell came whenever. When convenient, when nothing was on, whenever. Was going with DB uptown come a few weeks to talk to the fentanyl man, get his ear chewed off by the kid, whatever. Something about his grandma and the community center and Bow Lack and blah blah whatever.

 

What’d he care? Or whatever the sh*t. Kid’d be gone soon.

 

Break bread, bake bread, dip. That’s it.

 

Phil was coming out the trees with a finger ‘round the dog’s collar - little Jack Russel Terrier yip-yapping like it wasn’t being dragged at all.

 

Hm.

 

Cookout.

 

What f*cking cookout?

 

Cookout. Cookout when Phil saw Latrell through the blinds and put up a hand and did an aw, shucks face before pulling himself to the grill. Flipping switches and tapping and snapping fingers.

 

Latrell came out.

 

“You see this sh*t?” Phil said.

 

“What?”

 

“This ain’t no japtrap kinda’ sh*t. This is the real sh*t. This is good, f*ckin’... swear to god.”

 

The grill. “Yeah,” Latrell said. “I saw.”

 

“And it’s good?”

 

“Yeah. It’s good, yeah.”

 

“Ain’t no f*ckin’ japtrap sh*t.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“I got da’ steaks in the fridge. I got uh… good sh*t. Precious sh*t. f*ckin’ knock-your-socks-off sh*t. f*ck it. And we’ll have our own barbecue. Have a good f*cking time.”

 

Wasn’t sure what he meant. “Yeah,” Latrell said.

 

“Yeah. Two thousand f*cking big ones on this puppy. Five hundred f*cking-” little belch, “-f*cking big ones. It’s German.”

 

“I ain’t a big barbecue guy.”

 

“You f*cking will be, the sh*t I throw the f*ck on this motherf*cker. I didn’t buy this f*cking bad boy for f*cking two grand. I knocked that sucker down. I spent an hour’s f*cking time, two hour’s f*cking time jerkin’ the f*ckin’ wholesaler off for this thing. No, man. No. This ain’t no f*cking japtrap.”

 

“That’s good.”

 

“You pay full price, youse a sucker. Youse a sucker.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“I got beers in the fridge. Benedicts, that kinda’ thing. I, baby, I am gonna stick to the gin.”

 

Huh? Gin. Pulled a little plastic bottle out the jacket - clear, red accents, unidentifiable brand. “Huh.”

 

“What?”

 

“Just--”

 

“Here’s the thing. Here’s the thing. I f*cking haaate f*ckin’ whiskey. I do. I’m Irish, that sh*t runs in youse f*ckin’ blood, but no. I f*cking hate it. I’ll take da’ gin, I’ll take that over the f*ckin’ whiskies. You go inside.”

 

Latrell was barely following. “Okay.”

 

“Get out the meats. Get ‘em out.”

 

“The beef tongue?”

 

Beat.

 

“Yeah.”

 

Oh.

 

“What?” Phil said.

 

What. Okay.

 

Latrell turned tail and headed back inside.

 

Pulled a cigarette. Threw the thing in his lips and choked a little and pulled out the lighter for lighting. Snap, snap, snap right into the kitchen to prop the fridge open with Phil trudging along behind.

 

Phil did a little beckoning with the fingers.

 

Hm?

 

“Y’ain’t gonna share none?”

 

Ah.

 

Passed Phil the packet.

 

Slipped a cig’ out and adjusted in the corner and chewed the sucker like a toothpick while he got his own lighter out. Scratched cheek and muttered and said, “Youse ain’t- you pay full price, I said that.”

 

“Yeah,” Latrell said.

 

“Wops, man.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“How’re the wops? The f*ck you been doing with the wops late? Frankie’s been f*ckin’ up like a buzzin’ f*ckin’ something gone gorilla over f*ck all. I forgets. I’unno.”

 

“No,” Latrell said. “You ain’t wrong.”

 

“Frankie never tells me f*cking sh*t.”

 

“Nope,” Latrell said. “Me neither.”

 

“Yeah. Nah, that’s Frankie. That’s him and that’s me. Y’know, I- I- I mean, what the f*ck, with him. It’s this f*cking thing. This f*cking kid. Y’know what he says to guys ask him what his job is?”

 

Latrell let the silence linger a second to signal a ‘yes’.

 

“He works… and he does that. He does the little silence, the little, euh, the f*ckin’ thing with silence. He does that. He goes, I work, uh… construction. His dad was with the carpenter’s union. What f*cking construction?”

 

Latrell chuckled.

 

“I knew his dad when his pa weren’t dead in the head. And let me tell ya’, he’s always been a f*cking kid. f*cking idiot. Got made for sh*t and what-the-f*ck-am-I? It’s the surnames. You got the surname, you got the Italian surname and youse good to go. If you don’t got the surname then youse sh*t outta luck. Frankie’d be a f*ckin’ nobody if it weren’t for the f*ckin’ surnames.”

 

“Ah, he’s okay.”

 

“I been doin’ this thing since he was in diapers. I swear. I stopped f*ckin’ with the McReary guys, whatsit, f*ckin’ Gerald gets pissy at me over sh*t, I cut my ties - I come over here. And I mean, you know. What the f*ck? Happened with my dad too. He’d eat sh*t from the guineas and it was nothing.”

 

“I do alright,” Latrell said. He didn't know Phil’s dad and he didn't know any Geralds. “The homies like me and I ain’t Italian.”

 

Phil looked Latrell in the eye a second.

 

He was serious.

 

“What?” Latrell said.

 

“You sayin’ that for real?” Phil asked.

 

“Yeah. What? They don’t.”

 

Fridge was leaking cold ajar. Phil shut it, pulled out the sizzle-steaks, the ox tongues. “Brother- sure. Sure.”

 

“What?”

 

“C’mon. You see how they see you.”

 

“I think they like me.”

 

“They’re-” sighed, gulped. “I don’t trust Jews much. Right?”

 

Latrell stared.

 

“Hear me out.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Was this mad Jew’d roll with some of the guys who used to run this thing when he was still around. Moey. Moe from Bohan was this wicked f*cking smart kike and if his f*ckin’ surname ended like Spaghetti a’ f*ckin’ Stromboli or whatever da’ f*ck he’d a been made. That’s it.”

 

Latrell squinted.

 

“He’s dead now, a’ been a while, f*ckin’ pnuemonias or whatever the sh*t, but he was always just… associate. That’s us. That’s you. That’s me. We’re the help. Don’t get your f*ckin’ head up goofy. They like you because you’re doin’ sh*t for them. They only care ‘bout themselves. I broke my f*ckin’ back and- and- and- and what-the-f*ck.”

 

Got his head off track because he was hearing barking.

 

“Opie?”

 

“f*cking dog.”

 

“Look--”

 

“They’s f*cking- they won’t let you back for no--” dog barking, “For f*ckin’ nothing. I don’t know. What I try--” dog barking, “-and all it is to them is, I mean, from what I done, what the f*ck should--”

 

Dog barking.

 

“f*cking--”

 

Dog barking.

 

“Shut the f*ck up, Opie!”

 

Dog barking.

 

“f*cking mutt, man.”

 

f*cking mutt. f*cking mutt kept going and Phil barreled past with the arms full of meat and the cigarette in his lips making rough-growl noises at nothing. Growl turned into shout by the time he was out the door, shouting, shouting.

 

Dog kept barking.

 

“OPIE, C’MON- OPIE--”

 

Dog kept barking.

 

Latrell followed out the kitchen.

 

Dog stopped barking.

 

Door slid open.

 

Phil was down on his knees. Meats by the grill and the hands pat-patting. Picked the dog up a second but the dog wriggled out and started yapping again and Phil just shrugged, f*ck it, walked back to the grill, just muttering “f*ck it.”

 

“Dog has- y’know.”

 

Latrell didn’t. “Yeah.”

 

Latrell drew smoke and Philly came closer and started unwrapping. “I love him, though.”

 

Latrell nodded. Drew smoke.

 

“I give him some a’ the sizzle steaks sometimes for the f*ck a’ it. You know. He’s hungry. And, I mean, f*ck, if I had to eat the kibbles I’d be- y’know, I’d be f*ckin’ pissed, too.”

 

“They got all they dietary sh*ts in that, though.”

 

“Well, I mean- they got dietaries in a whole lot of other sh*t too. But it ain’t f*cking good. f*ckin’ Spartans eat pig sh*t and blood soup and that and I mean- it’s what the f*ck. You see that movie?”

 

Blink. “Lions & Donkeys?”

 

“That was da’ f*ckin’ Ancient Romans.”

 

Philly threw the steaks on and let the sh*t fry and the meat grill and went silent a moment for the thinking. Latrell moved. Latrell walked and took the air in and found himself by the pool and Phil got his radio on playing Crocodile Rock. Was having a good time of it.

 

Latrell smoked.

 

Meat grilled. Meat-smell.

 

Dog was quiet.

 

“You got another, eh?”

 

Latrell went turning, “Hm?”

 

“Another smoke.”

 

“Sure.”

 

“I don’t smoke the menthols too much,” Phil said.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“You do.”

 

“I only smoke menthols, man,” Latrell smiled. “All I smoke.”

 

“I got packs of f*cking Cardiaque they sell with da’ f*ckin’ champagnes ‘n sh*t to make youse feel like you’re f*ckin’ something. I ain’t something. I just want the good taste. Frankie, he smokes- f*cking fa**ot, f*ckin’ smokes cigars and does the whole- like in the show. He thinks he’s hot sh*t--”

 

“You want the smokes?”

 

“Yeah, I want the f*cking smokes. C’mon.”

 

Latrell turned heel and came.

 

Phil grilled.

 

Phil grilled and smiled and said, “But nah, the f*ckin’ menthols, though.”

 

“They good, right?”

 

“I’m missin’ the f*ck out. The menthol Debonaires or the menthol Redwoods a’ whatever. I’ll--” grabbed for the pack Latrell was handing out, “I’m gonna f*ckin’ add that to the f*ckin’ diet no-times.”

 

Latrell just chuckled.

 

Phil lit up. Nearly leant down to the grill to light it there but decided, no, the f*ck was he thinking, got up and did it himself and said, “You know Frankie’s wife f*ckin’ stabbed him with a fork?”

 

Latrell laughed, “No sh*t.”

 

“No. He’s got this kid, I mean- I’unno the kid’s f*cking name, he ain’t f*ckin’ talk about him. Sal or Tony or some f*ckin’ wop f*ckin’ name like that. There’s Peter, there’s Paul, there’s Peter Paul, what-the-f*ck.”

 

“Sure. Yeah. I’unno.”

 

“Nah. Nah, you know. But he’s- uh, he was, what- this was a while ago, he was f*ckin’ some Cuban bitch from someplace and they’d- she worked at a f*ckin’ bodega? Some place. And he met her and he was with his wife and then he was goin’ to her apartment and f*ckin’ all the time. And she found out somehow.”

 

“And what? That’s why?”

 

“Yeah. I mean, yeah. Yeah. They were having this thing- some cousin thing with something, I weren’t invited though what’s f*ckin’ new, she springs it on him when he’s with his brother and the nephew and sh*t. His brother’s Gianni or Giuseppe or some sh*t, and his kid, his kid’s named Sean, and--”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Oh?” Steak sizzled, “Oh, what?”

 

“His dad said somethin’- uh, you know. Mr. Mazza at the thing. With the folk. We was out there, he said some sh*t about Sean, I was thinkin--”

 

“His dad - I don’t mean no disrespect or nothin’, you know. But his dad is goin’. You saw.”

 

Latrell mulled. “Yeah.”

 

“He’s gone. He’s gone. We woulda’ gone to Big Al, he’s down in Lennox too, but you know- he’s gone. And Frankie’s on his sh*t thinkin’ if anyone’ll be takin’ over from big shot it’s him. But it won’t be. Trust me on that. You seen that f*cking idiot.”

 

“I mean, he’s doin’ this thing with our peoples--”

 

“The guys at The Stop - they thought, and excuse my language, they thought you was some coon-ass there to do the deed and go. They don’t know about your folks.”

 

Latrell blinked. “He ain’t say that.”

 

“He’s not bein’ one hundred.”

 

“No.”

 

“Kid--”

 

“Come on. What’s this, then?”

 

“You put anything into wherever with this guy?” Flipped beef tongue, “You know- I mean, think what he’s said. How’d the thing with the guy go? With your buddy.”

 

Latrell didn’t say.

 

“But he didn’t ask?”

 

“No,” Latrell said. “Don’t say some that sh*t, though. With the coon.”

 

“Sorry. ‘Ey, sorry.”

 

“Yeah--”

 

“You know what I meant, though.”

 

“That ain’t how it is.”

 

“Look. Kid. Listen to me. Listen.” Beef tongue fried, “I mean, was a moment- I mean, I was with you at one point. I took jobs from- they don’t… f*ck.”

 

“What?”

 

“Latrell. You and me, I mean. We done similar sh*t. I done this all my f*cking life. I can see this sh*t a’ mile away. Frankie thinks he can squeeze you guys on your thing and not get a dime for it. Is he payin’?”

 

“Well--”

 

“He paid you? Come on. Or your folks. They gotten any dough?”

 

“We get our sh*t from our thing. They ain’t on that.”

 

“They wanna be. And I mean, you know. They get what they want, they get all of it. That’s the squeeze. They done that sh*t when I was- before I was nobody. I mean, who the f*ck do you tell when sh*t goes- when they take it all?”

 

Philly took a swig of the gin. Latrell squinted. “But they won’t.”

 

“They won’t, ‘cause Frankie Mazza is a goon. And the rest a them’s is goons too. Reuben. That cocksucker f*cking babyface B and E retard f*cking- what’s his- Mondello. You ain’t met Mondello. Mondello- f*ck, Mondello’d not be f*ckin’ happy to see you.”

 

Latrell pulled the smoke out the lips and put his hands on the grill. “Why?”

 

“Latrell, baby,” sizzled steaks. “You’re black.”

 

“That don’t mean sh*t.”

 

“I- kid. Kid. I’m Irish. And I’m f*ckin’ stool pigeon. They didn’t want you in there.”

 

“Yeah, they did.”

 

“No. You saw their eyes. They didn’t.”

 

“You speakin- son, don’t say that sh*t. C’mon.”

 

“Kid. You just f*ck with ‘em. That’s what you gotta do. You gotta f*ck with ‘em.”

 

“I do.”

 

“What?”

 

“I mean- sh*t, son, I know the f*ck what I am. I know niggas try beat a nigga, I know that sh*t. I mean- sh*t, I got it down. I know what I’m doing.”

 

“The f*ck is this, then?”

 

“I- look--”

 

“That sh*t with the docks. That thing you came up with. All this sh*t with your peoples, y’know, f*ck. They think these guys you hang out with are all the f*ckin’ same. This dock thing. That’s it. That- they want to piss off people and make sh*t and do whatever the f*ck. f*ck with them. They’re f*cking with you. They care about theyselves. But- I mean, you know. f*ck with them, too.”

 

Latrell knew. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m trying.”

 

“Try- I don’t know. I don’t know, kid. Let me tell you somethin’ about God. Okay? God, and- and- religion.” Looked at Latrell a moment. “Nobody lives in holy matrimony. Only a few people get theyselves the good sh*t, and that’s by f*cking the little man. That’s a fact of life.”

 

Latrell knew. “Yeah.”

 

“Yeah. So the f*ck you do? That’s the f*ckin’ laws of nature. You know. So you f*ck ‘em back. Every would-be big man, you make them a f*ckin’ midget and you eat their lunch. You wanna get good, you f*ckin’ take it. You take it, and you take it, and you take it from the folks too weak not to, and you take it until you got nothin’ left to take.”

 

Looked in each other’s eyes a moment.

 

Deep.

 

Latrell knew.

 

Latrell knew.

 

“Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

 

“That’s what I hope. Stupid motherf*ckers think there’s room for you and room for the other guy. There ain’t. You keep yourself close. I mean, what the f*ck am I? My bitch wife ruins my f*ckin’ kid. I tell you- what the f*ck’s she got? My stupid f*cking bitch f*cking wife- I- I- she divorces me. For one. Family court’s the biggest f*cker of them all,” chuckled. “But she ruins my f*cking kid. She’s got some motor disease now. She’s got some f*ckin’ dysplasia, she can’t move her f*ckin’ arms right or nothin’. And that bitch f*ckin’ ruined her.”
 

Latrell thought. “That her fault?”

 

“She gave birth to her. My dick’s fine. What the f*ck is she? Dysplasia, dyspraxia, what-the-f*ck she’s got. Whatever. She ruins her. What the f*ck does she do? She poisons her. She poisons my f*cking daughter. She poisons- I mean- it’s what-the-f*ck. That didn’t f*cking end well-none. I married her. f*ck.”

 

Turned the grill off.

 

Meat was near-burnt.

 

Walked back for paper plates.

 

“You good?”

 

Phil coughed, “I’m fine. Yeah. You got another?”

 

“Anothe- smokes. Yeah.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“J’yeah,” Latrell pulled packet and drew a stick and held it over.

 

Phil got the plates and grabbed the smoke.

 

Put them down. Lit it.

 

“They might not care about you,” Phil said. “But I do.”

 

Latrell didn’t say anything.

 

“That ain’t bullsh*t. Youse- I mean- you’re a f*cking smart prick. You don’t ride this long with these f*cking humps if you’re an idiot. That’s it.” Put the smoke in his lips and sucked, “That’s it.”

 

“I mean, sh*t, son--”

 

“You. And me. I mean, f*ck, kid, I mean- you broke youse f*cking back for no people who don’t trust you and ate sh*t for too long and- f*ck, I mean-” coughed a little.

 

Latrell looked. “I get you.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Easy.”

 

“You. Me. We know how this works. We know how this sh*t is. We know how the people- we know what this is. That’s family. That’s- my kid, she’s dead. She’s dead to me. She thinks I’m dead. My- you know. That’s it. You and me. We know. We know what this is.”

 

Latrell did. 

 

Got the tongs and the sizzle steak and moved on while Philly got a beef tongue.

 

Latrell went. Wordless. Put the cigarette behind the ear and moved for the poolside seat.

 

Sat down.

 

Chewed cheek. Stared at Phil with the dog and the dog yap-yapping and making moves for the meat and Phil brushing aside.

 

Stared.

 

Thought.

 

The Glossary

Liberty City Map

[slimeball supreme]

Royal Minority

 

Abbot cupped hands and let the breath collect and billow.

 

Cold front was coming.

 

Downtown. Night. Again.

 

Brown Place. Again.

 

Waiting. Again.

 

Northern Little Italy was hardly Little Italy, it was Suffolk. Whole block was Suffolk running Suffolk-up and Suffolk-down with the little gritty-grot bars and the clean brickwork and the gutters run thick with grime.

 

And the church.

 

Not the only church in Suffolk by a mile, but another church. Catholic church rear on Brown Place, on the corner of Jape. Entrance was probably on Genco Street.

 

Thought a moment.

 

Church here.

 

Church at the laundromat.

 

Churches.

 

Roy Zito and churches.

 

Harmon with the underbite and the broomstick opened the door and beckoned Abbot in, and Abbot came. Abbot came and kept rubbing his hands and felt the cold-fog mist sh*t all over him and that everything become nothing in the heat.

 

Italian pop music playing. Couldn’t tell where. Didn’t recognize.

 

Harmon with the broomstick went back to sweeping.

 

What was he sweeping? Floor looked clean.

 

Abbot asked.

 

Broomstick Harmon thought a moment and looked at Abbot and said “Dust.”

 

“Dust?”

 

Shrugged, “Dust.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“I make’n sure it’s clean.”

 

“That’s good.”

 

Harmon didn’t reply and Harmon kept sweeping.

 

Abbot wasn’t sure exactly why Roy wanted him here.

 

Abbot wasn’t sure of much right now.

 

Wasn’t sure why he was told to dress presentable, but he was. Was told they were going to be discussing business, but he weren’t discussing sh*t right now. Had his hands folded on the table and he looked at the bar and felt everything had this old, maudlin--

 

Bang.

 

Jumped.

 

Grabbed for his waist.

 

Nothing.

 

Harmon sniffed and went to pick up whatever fell in the broom closet.

 

Rubbed his eye.

 

Motherf*cker.

 

The pop singer kept singing dulcet tunes Abbot didn’t understand. Pushed his hair back. Motherf*cker. What now?

 

Got up.

 

Looked at the pictures and the portraits on the walls in the middle-darkness; the pictures that were there at all.

 

Looked at the band poster, Italian again. Looked back at the newspaper picture of Gravelli sitting still in the crowd. Looked at the soccer sh*t on the wall and the big gold record above the record room he hadn’t seen before.

 

Walked up slowly to it.

 

Wanted to see the name.

 

PRESENTED TO

BEAN AND THE BABIES

TO COMMEMORATE THE SALE OF MORE

THAN ONE MILLION COPIES OF THE RECORDING

MY HEART GOES THUMP

 

Why’d he have it?

 

Why’d they have it?

 

When did they get it?

 

Broom closet door opened and Abbot caught eyes with Harmon a moment.

 

Stepped back.

 

Harmon passed by and kept his eyes trained.

 

But he went back to sweeping.

 

Abbot stared.

 

Door opened.

 

Door opened and Harmon didn’t open it. Which was strange - door was locked. Wasn’t much strange when Abbot realized who was opening the door, and went back to being so when he saw Roy alone in the doorway looking f*cking stark.

 

Roy Zito was wearing sunglasses, aviators, at night. Had on this floral tie, orange and blue, hand printed, this darker-hue blue silk sh*t that was glistening in the nightlight and interior yellows.

 

Dupioni silk, he realized. f*ckin’ flash.

 

Roy walked in like he knew Abbot was looking.

 

Beckoned with two fingers.

 

Abbot said “What?”

 

Roy said “Hey.”

 

Abbot followed.

 

Roy said “It’s dupioni, the shirt.”

 

Abbot said “I know.”

 

And Roy said “We’ll talk in the car, huh?”
 

And Abbot stepped outside and Abbot saw the car.

 

Wow.

 

Slick cherry-red Ocelot F620 parked curbside clean as a whistle. Not a speck.

 

“f*ckin’ tight.”

 

“Yeah, huh?” Roy went. “Yeah.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Car doors opened. “Yeah.”

 

He let the cat purr before he pulled out and drove. Wouldn’t get much else a chance.

 

Abbot felt odd.

 

They drove.

 

“It’s nice, huh?”

 

Abbot nodded, “Yeah.”

 

“Yeah, baby. f*ckin’ something. f*ckin- I grew up, where I grew up, weren’t much else other than dreams, this. Weren’t much this other than dreams. I drove nice f*ckin’ cars but they’s was always off-the-truck f*ckin’ nothing.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“I stole cars. I stole cars.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“I stole cars nice like this but they’s was uh… f*ckin’ joyrides. You know.”

 

“Yeah,” Abbot sniffed. “Why- what’re we doing?”

 

“I wanna talk to youse about some stuff. Docks. That kinda’ thing. What you did for me. Nothin’ much. We’re headed- I got this place. I got reservations, this whole f*ckin’ thing, take you out a little, you know.”

 

Abbot went scrunchface. “Okay.”

 

“I mean- wit’ my associates, y’know, wit’ the people who I associate with, ya’- I had that whiskey with you, right?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Yeah. You know. We talk, some drink, I mean with some f*cking people there ain’t no f*cking hospitality. You know. They come in, you bark orders, you tell ‘em to do it. What the f*ck is that? I don’t know.”

 

“It’s a nice car,” Abbot said.

 

Roy smiled, nodded, “Got my left nut cut the f*ck off for this thing. It’s f*ckin’- it’s got the horsepowers. The everything. The f*cking speed. And most of these f*cking guys settle- most of these guys I know, they settle for the Benefactors and the Albanys. f*ck you do?”

 

Lingered.

 

Was that a question? “I’unno.”

 

“What’s the point of all this f*cking cash if you can’t spend it? What’s the point? I’m a businessman. That’s all I am. I wash f*ckin’ clothes and I make cash and- and- and if that means I can’t spend money, what the f*ck? I ain’t a materialist. I ain’t. I just like nice sh*t. f*ck’s wrong with that?”

 

“Nothin’. It’s just- it gets attention.”

 

“f*ck that! They got their eyes on me and their cocks hard no matter what I do or how I spend. What- you think Jon--”

 

“I don’t think--”

 

“Not you, f*cking Don. Don says- he said, f*cking cocksucker, he says I gotta be more like Gravelli, more like Cangelosi, more like Vincent and Mike Test and Trunks and Elmo and f*ck youuu. Cangelosi gets a 15 year bid and dies. Gravelli, god rest his f*cking soul, f*cking Vincent- f*ckin’ stunad’. Fuggedaboutit. Why live?”

 

This little beat sitting in traffic while Abbot didn’t know how to reply.

 

Roy looked at him. Looked back at the road.

 

“I dunno’,” Abbot said. “I don’t know.”

 

“Why the f*ck you live if you ain’t gonna live, brother?! That’s what I says to him. He don’t say he thinks I’m a f*ckin’ idiot but I see it on his face.”

 

“Why don’t he?”

 

“I’m his boss. You ain’t allowed to talk back in this thing. A wiseguy is always right even when he’s wrong. And, even with all that, I’m his boss. And he’s a f*ckin’ slimy zip f*ck.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“And- and he’s old and he thinks ‘cause I, by f*ckin’ popular vote, by the word of my f*ckin’ pops, got the f*ckin’ boss title even though I’m however-the-f*ck-old- he thinks I’m a preschooler. He thinks I’m a nobody. He thinks I’m young and he thinks I’m stupid and he thinks I’m sh*t.”

 

Abbot thought a moment.

 

Car was on Garnet Street turning onto Union Drive East. Roy was clenching the steering wheel.

 

“Your pops?” Abbot asked.

 

“What?”

 

“Your pops. Your pops made you--”

 

“Gravelli. I meant Mr. Gravelli. That’s what I meant.”

 

Abbot thought.

 

Roy chewed silence.

 

“Was your dad--”

 

“No,” Roy said.

 

Abbot looked. “What he do?”

 

“Bullsh*t.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“He’d f*ck me up is what he’d do. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. I don’t care, though. I don’t care, though.”

 

“My dad works carpets,” Abbot said.

 

Roy nodded.

 

“Fabrics ‘n sh*t. Your shirt- the dupioni, my dad- yeah. That’s how I knew.”

 

Roy nodded.

 

“Your dad still around?”

 

Roy didn’t nod. “No,” he said. “No.”

 

“My mom ain’t.”

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“No, it’s fine,” said Abbot. “It’s fine.”

 

“I’m sorry, though.”

 

“It was a stroke. You know how it is.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Abbot blinked. “Do you?”

 

Roy blinked. “Yeah.”

 

“Why’d you call him pops?”

 

Blew air out the nose like a laugh except it weren’t that funny. “I dunno’.”

 

Abbot looked.

 

You knew he did.

 

And you knew Roy wanted to talk and liked to talk because he cleared his throat and said “His son was in the can a couple times. For sh*t. Idiot sh*t. I don’t- I think he’s out next year. Or year after. I can’t say. And I won’t diss the guy because me and him go way back.”

 

“Way back?”

 

“Way back. Way f*cking back. But he weren’t there when Jon got the sh*t in his kidneys and couldn’t leave the house and couldn’t leave the hospital.”

 

Abbot nodded.

 

“The papers were. Someone had to be. And I was. And Jon- Jon saw me,” and he gripped the wheel tighter on the turn on the highway, “and he saw who I was before nobody else did. And you know what, I was his son. And I think he thought the same way.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“I- his kidneys were f*cked and the f*ckin’- he had renal cancer. And it started with the kidneys and the doctors were saying it was gonna head up to the lungs, and the feds were barking up saying they wanted to see the write-ups and they thought this whole thing was bullsh*t like they was sayin’ with Vinny from Bohan.”

 

Vinny from Bohan, Vinny Lupisella. “Yeah? So what?”

 

“So I was bedside every other day and- and- and I f*ckin’ offered my f*cking kidney to him. And I loved that man so f*cking much, Abbot. I loved him so f*cking much. And he told me no, and I said f*ck that, and I went to this guy and- and- I got the scars. They cut that thing the f*ck out.”

 

Abbot flinched, “No.”

 

“Yeah. Yeah. And I put that thing in a bucket and they emptied the icebox and I put that sh*t on his f*ckin’ door and I said it’s goin’ the f*ck in there.”

 

“You got the scars?”

 

“It don’t matter because I don’t got the same blood types as him or whatever.”

 

“That was probably why.”

 

Roy scrunching, “Why what?”

 

“Why he said no.”

 

“Well, f*ck that,” sniffed. “f*ck that. f*ck that because I tried anyway. And goddamn it, if it’s stupid, f*cking fine, but what the f*ck were these doctors f*cking doing except fretting and eating cop dick? f*ck all. f*ck all, Abbie, f*ck all.”

 

“Abbie.”

 

“Abbie, Abbot, Abobobum, whatever.”

 

“My friends call me that.”

 

“That’s fine. That’s fine. I’m just sayin’.”

 

“It’s okay.”

 

“Okay, what?!”

 

“You ain’t stupid.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“No,” Abbot said. “You know, you didn’t know, but you tried, you know.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“And it’s better trying than it is having it in front of you and doin’ nothing.”

 

“Yeah,” Roy said. “Yeah. Yeah, exactly.”

 

Silence lingered.

 

The Humboldt River glittered with a thousand lights and the light-speckled bridges crossing island after island glinted on and on. Black. White. Black and white. Black and white and rear-car red.

 

Weren’t no speed in the Ocelot. Just the purr of the engine and the car colors snaking up the length of Algonquin.

 

“I don’t mind you callin’ me Abbie,” Abbot said.

 

Roy made a ‘mhm’.

 

“Kaz called it to me. You know.”

 

“I get mad because I loved him.”

 

Abbot nodded. “I love my dad. And people disrespect him and- you know. I don’t know.” Trailed off, “I don’t know.”

 

Roy nodded, smiled. Smiled in the corner and looked a little to Abbot and back on the road. “I do.”

 

***

 

They rode up Union Drive until East Holland.

 

They were headed to East Tungsten Street, T4, corner of there and Cod Row. They had some of the fire hydrants painted in that Little Italy red-white-green.

 

Little red corner restaurant and the restaurant was called Pazzo’s. Decked in red - painted red top-to-bottom with the name in white serif down a short flight of stairs. Last part of Italian Holland. Hardest table to book in town. 

 

Seriously. Hardest table to book in town. Lyle Cleethorpes had a table at Pazzo’s. Marlon Faraldo had a table at Pazzo’s. Crow and Nel Altieri and Devin Weston and Dean Boykin had a table at Pazzo’s. You had to reserve tables, VIPs had the tables booked.

 

And Roy Zito was a VIP, he said. “I fought tooth and nail, tooth and f*ckin’ nail, to keep these f*ckin’ seats,” he said. Because he inherited his table from Jon Gravelli, and “the old man, he used to come down all the time.”

 

Ocelot got parked out the front without hassle. “Nice,” went Abbot.

 

“Nice is f*ckin’ right. But then, you know, he goes, rest his soul - and these Albos come in and say they have the seats now. And they go up to the owner and they shout him down. And I'm like ‘what the f*ck’, I hear this and I'm like ‘what the f*ck’.”

 

“And they- did they get the thing booked?”

 

“They’re Albanian, f*ck no. They go in and they just shout at Dickie and they say this is our f*ckin’ seat now. Dickie’s the owner, and these guys used to roll wit’ Tony Black- and- and- it was a whole f*ckin’ thing. I got so mad I got some boys to go to their place and sort it out. And they sorted it out.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“And they ain’t didn’t come back after that no more, I’ll f*ckin’ say.”

 

Enter Pazzo's.

 

Restaurant was red. Restaurant was old school red and old school brown, decked out in a million framed pictures of smiling faces and famous faces and smiling, famous faces. This bar and these Christmas lights and Christmas wreaths and white tablecloths and “eyy” and “ohh” and “Roy, baby” and noise.

 

Eight-seater table by the entrance unoccupied and a two-topper table by the kitchen and Roy talking flash to a guy in a suit and a guy in a black shirt and saying hi-hi to some guido looking guy at a four-seater table with two girls and a goombah.

 

Roy led Abbot to the booth seaters and told him “This table, eh” and told him to sit and sit and Abbot sat.

 

Sat with a wall to his left with a million smiling famous faces.

 

Roy said Dickie did movie parts and had a thing in Badfellas and there was a cast thing and one of the guys - and he pointed to a picture on the wall of this famous chick and it has Love ya, Dickie written cute in marker.

 

Christmas decorations.

 

Abbot knew the joint because it was a papers-thing but, f*ck, you ever been inside Pazzo’s? Who the f*ck’s been inside Pazzo’s? Kept the straight-face on awkward while Roy was beaming and putting on the charmers.

 

“I got a monthly seat, sometimes this weekly thing booked - I mean, you know- it’s- you get a seat here, you use it. I mean, what the f*ck, right?”

 

Abbot nodded.

 

“f*ckin’ a millions a peoples and Dickie No-No and f*ckin’- man. I get a four over here and we get drinks and there was this one thing one time when Dickie got the juke on and they’s was playin’ these Consoli songs and he started singing and then everyone was singin’. Seriously. It's a f*ckin’ movie here every days.”

 

Abbot kept the eyes peeled. “Bruce Spade.”

 

Picture of the guy smiling with the old-face guido kept appearing in the pictures that Roy said was Dickie - “He’s got the seats here and he’s friends with- I mean, I said my f*ckin’ hellos.”

 

“Yeah,” Abbot went.

 

There was a guy who stood aside and looked like a waiter-type and ran through the menu. No menu, no, the guy went - nobody sees the menu. You get talked through it. And Roy went for filet mignon and got the pizzaiola side and recommended Abbot the porkchop, backed away and said “Nevermind, he’s Jewish, he’s Jewish” and Abbot didn’t eat kosher but let him speak for him anyway. And waiter-type pitched this linguine with clams and there was some bullsh*t talk about shellfish that kinda’ cut off half the f*cking menu ‘til the raviol' purses.

 

Roy, “And it’s got these f*ckin’ pears in ‘em and- you know, I mean- eh salud’ to the guys who f*ckin’ decided you put the f*ckin’ fruits in the pasta ‘cause I wouldn’t the f*ck-a thought a’ none a’ that sh*t.”

 

Waiter-type, “And there’s rigatoni filetta di pomodoro; white onion, cracked pepper, these beautiful tomatoes--”

 

“They make it sound fancy- euh, you got the pancetta with that sh*t? That ain’t kosher.”

 

Abbot, “Kashrut--”

 

“Whateva’. And- and- I mean, you know- they add the words and I mean no disrespects to Dickie but f*ck you ain’t come here for the gravy and the pasta, or maybe you do I mean it’s all f*ckin’ good, eh?” and Roy elbowed waiter-type and laughed. “The gravy’s good, though, it is.”

 

And they settled on the raviol' purses.

 

Eyes on a boxing poster. Signed pictures of LC Swingers swingers from the 70’s.

 

“You wanna see something?”

 

And Abbot looked at Roy across the table and Roy was stone cold serious. No smiles.

 

“Sure,” Abbot said.

 

Roy fished through the jacket and pulled out a red-leather wallet and slid his fingers in. “Check this out.”

 

 

Abbot squinted. “Is that you?”

 

“Liberty Tree, f*ckin’ courtroom artist. I was out on the block and I sees my face and I go fish through and I tore this f*ckin’ sh*t out. Looks f*ckin’ dignified. f*ckin’ painter sh*t.”

 

“Yeah,” Abbot went.

 

“It’s f*ckin’ cute.”

 

“Looks like you.”

 

“f*ckin’ A. And this was howeva’ many years ago, nearly 10 I think, but… you know. I showed it to Gravelli. And he says it’s the best f*ckin’ one he ever seen. Like, euh… when he’d flick through the papers his pictures’d be these old f*ckin’ mugshots and these sketches looked like f*ckin’... some old sh*t. I think Jonnie’s got a picture up somewhere in here but I’unno where the f*ck. Have to ask. They’d never put a picture a’ me up there, though,” he said.

 

Abbot thought it over. “Guess not.”

 

“No. No. They’d never put a picture a’ me f*ckin’ up there but look-at-this, I got my own f*ckin’ cartoonist at the f*ckin’ Tree doin’ caricatures. I’m a f*ckin’ celebrity. Any a’ these cunts, these f*ckin’ Vinewood star cunts, they go up there and they get the pictures taken but- but y’know. Whatever.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“I’m what sells this f*ckin’ joint. The fact I f*cking come here sells this f*ckin’ joint, you see the f*ckin’ papers they call this spot a wise guy joint and they got the internet pages that say this place is a mob joint and Whiz Caro and Petey Rea and whoeva’ got seats here but you know. I don’t get my f*ckin’ picture up.”

 

“You want it up?”

 

“I don’t f*ckin’ care,” Zito said that through his teeth. Stuck his bottom lip out, “But you know.”

 

Abbot didn’t quite. “Business.”

 

“I do not care about business, brother, I do not care. That f*ckin’ accent-” he meant Benny, “-said some sh*t about some f*cking- eugh. You know that guy at the office, that fat f*ck?”

 

“You introduced him. Uhm…” snapped his fingers, “Gordon. Gordootz.”

 

“Gordy Blinks. Something happened with some of the Lupisellas- I brought up Davey Caro, some guys with some of the Bohan peoples caused some sh*t and broke some heads at one a’ their spots and you know. That dumbf*ck retard son of Bohan Vin must’ve called a thing on their guy at this Burger Shot or somethin’ and it’s all a f*ckin’ mess.”

 

“So what?”

 

“So there’s thing come into Florida in the next couple and it’s not what we need. Y’know. Attention, y’know- there’s a lot a’ guys I want clipped. But I get mutual respects and I get everythin’ called and I get the Commission to straighten it out.”

 

“They didn’t get permission or nothing?”

 

“No.”

 

“Isn’t good.”

 

“No.”

 

“You want me to do somethin’ about it?”

 

Roy smiled. “No. Not yet. Maybe after tonight we see how things fly but I don’t give a f*ck. And this whole f*ckin’ thing- I want to thank you. Bottom my heart. Bottom a’ my heart - for the thing with the guy you did in Alderney.”

 

Abbot didn’t smile but Roy was grinning. “You know.”

 

“Thank you. And Benny, and you know who- it’s all a thing. I got my own folks but they don’t got the reliability factorship. Well, I do, but you wanna keep things cool.”

 

“It’s fine.”

 

“See, you don’t like to talk business.”

 

“No.”

 

“No, neither do I.” Kept the smiles, “We’re f*ckin’ similar, you and me. We’re f*ckin’ old school. We got what we got.”

 

Abbot looked at Roy.

 

Roy looked deep. Deep eyes.

 

“Yeah,” Abbot said.

 

“We swing for the same team, you and me. We don’t f*ck around. I got my- I mean, y’know, I got my share a’ sh*t and share a’ stories and I bet you do all the same and we and you and me and I’m a lucky motherf*cker I ain’t tell you to f*ck off at the dry cleaner.”

 

Abbot looked deep. “Yeah.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Roy put his hand on the table and held it out and went into Abbot’s space and smiled the warmest f*cking smile. “Yeah.”

 

Yeah.

 

Food came a while later.

 

Food was good.

 

Restaurant filled up quick-like and bustled and the music started playing and the quirks came. Roy said the bartender-man had these vests he’d pull out every now and then and the vests would light up in the dark like they were strung together with Christmas lights and you couldn’t help but feel there was some kind of f*cking Christmas thing going on.

 

“Kosher food good?”

 

Weird question. “I dunno,” Abbot said.

 

“You’re Jewish.”

 

“I mean- my dad, he didn’t practice. Until my mom died and then he got really into temple and he stopped eating pork and- but he weren’t really into that. I eat pork.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Oh, what?”

 

“You coulda’ gotten the f*ckin’ porkchop.”

 

“You come to an Italian place, you order Italian. And I’m eating pasta. And that’s Italian.”

 

“You eat jew food?”

 

“Yeah. Sure.”

 

Roy had this smug look, “But Jew food is kosher.”

 

“You can eat slav food that isn’t kosher.”

 

“So you eat slav food?”

 

“It’s semantics.”

 

“What the f*ck is semantics?”

 

“It- it doesn’t matter.”

 

“Semantical. Come on,” chuckled. “Come on.”

 

“I did though.”

 

“And is it good food?”

 

“I mean, yeah, it’s f*cking good food, Roy,” scratched neck and put the fork down, “I don’t know. It’s borscht and sh*t. It’s soup and it’s stew and it’s bigos.”

 

“Yeah?” Tone said he was asking what that last one was.

 

Abbot explained, “You get all these f*cking meats together, you get sauerkraut and onion and pepper, and you throw it together. And the meat is whatever. I’d go to this supermarket sh*t place on the corner near where we lived and I’d ride on the bike and just get whatever. Veal and pork and beef and whatever.”

 

“So it ain’t kosher.”

 

“We didn’t eat kosher. We didn’t practice. I mean- no f*ckin’ religion in the Soviet Union.”

 

“Ah, I get it. So youse and your parents was f*ckin’ commies.”

 

Laughed.

 

“No,” Abbot said.

 

No.

 

Food.

 

Mulled it over.

 

Thought.

 

“I mean, you cook. Your family cooks and you get the goods and everything.”

 

Was a period of silence broken. “I don’t cook. I got the groceries and I helped out and that--”

 

“That’s still cookin’,” Roy went. “That’s what I think.”

 

“Sure. I mean, I helped.”

 

“Yeah- I mean, y’know- my dad- my pa- it weren’t a thing. You know. But this place, y’know, I told you back at the club that I wanted my own thing in Florida. And I’m- I’m definitely gonna. But god I want something f*cking like this. Simple. Simple. It ain’t a challenge and it ain’t tacky and it’s homey. My grandma f*ckin’ woulda’ made some’ like this. Traditional. I want traditional.”

 

Abbot nodded.

 

“Liquor licenses, they don’t give that sh*t to felons. f*ckin’ ball breakers. Ball breakers. I mean- imagine that, they don’t give f*ckin’ liquor licenses to people who went to school for a couple years for nothing. If you got the cash to start a restaurant and you want a license, don’t that mean you’re on the straight and narrow? And I told Rennie to help out and he said he weren’t for it and I mean, legally I can’t even own the f*cking joint.”

 

“Celebrity.”

 

“Celebrity?”

 

“You’re famous. I don’t know.”

 

“Famous for sh*t I- for bullsh*t.”

 

“It isn’t fair. I don’t know.”

 

“What’d you go to prison for?”

 

Penny dropped. Abbot mulled. “It doesn’t matter.”

 

“Yeah, I think so. What’d you go to prison for?”

 

Abbot chewed. “You first.”

 

“Y’know what I gone to prison for. I did bids for armed robbery, I did bids for f*ckin’- for f*ckin’ manslaughter. For some bullsh*t thing.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yeah. And what’d you go for? Mystery man.”

 

Abbot chewed harder, “I don’t know.”

 

“Ho! Come the f*ck on,” smiling, “what, I judge you? What for?”

 

Abbot blinked. Bit lip. “I stole cars when I was a kid.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yeah. I don’t know.”

 

“Who for?”

 

“This friend of a friend had this thing and it was nickel sh*t. Nickels and pennies. And I got nabbed and they got me for some other thing on a possession beef and I did years on some sh*t. And it’s whatever.”

 

Roy pointed the fork at his chest, “I stole cars.”

 

Abbot looked up.

 

“I stole cars,” Roy repeated.

 

“Okay.”

 

“I did. Ain’t no shame in gettin’ nabbed. Nobody I know done no time or got no charges for nothin’ ever been trustworthy. Harry the Hat from Dukes, he didn’t go to prison for sh*t, he had a law thing, and look what happened. He gives everyone he knows up on a silver platter. That ain’t what we’re for. That ain’t Cosa Nostra. He wouldn’t know. Maybe you wouldn’t neither. Cosa Nostra is- y’know, Cosa Nostra ain’t toys or games or kidding… it ain’t clans or gangs or f*ckin’ sh*t. It’s none of that sh*t. It’s La Cosa Nostra ‘til I die. And that’s- I mean--”

 

Abbot stifled a chuckle.

 

“What?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

“What. It’s f*ckin’ serious. You can’t trust nobody can’t take an oath, can’t take a vow and stick to it. It’s- you don’t trust nobody done no time, neither. People who do no time- or people who get outta’ sh*t, or people who don’t get bugged for nothin’ or don’t got fed f*cks come down and give you sh*t- they ain’t trustworthy.”

 

“And that’s Cosa Nostra.”

 

“No! What? The f*ck’s with you?”

 

“I’m Jewish.”

 

“Whatever. It ain’t f*ckin’ nothing. Listen. It ain’t for laughs. I don’t know.”

 

“Sure.”

 

“You stole cars. I stole cars. When you do your bid? How old?” There was a pause for an answer but Abbot didn’t give and f*ck if it didn’t stop Roy from going on, “1990. I was 17 I got my first nab and it was dumb. It was f*cking stupid. I get my f*ckin’ arm caught in some sh*t and my guys run and I’m left by myselfs and I got to shout my way through the police station and my f*cking wrist is broke.”

 

Abbot laughed.

 

“See, that’s f*cking funny.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Did you f*ckin’ break your wrist and get these fag cops barking you up in the f*ckin’ interrogation trying to say youse got connections? No, f*ckin’ no, but I don’t speak. So then they beat me red and ragged, motherf*cker, they beat me bloody and black and f*ckin’ blue. They went at my arms with the f*ckin’ stapler. They stomp me out wit’ the cameras off. They get me in the holding cell, they get a broomstick, they get the batons. I don't even wanna... I don’t, you know what I’m sayin’, I ain’t proud of that. But I took that beatin’. I let them homos, y’know, I let ’em decimate me and humiliate me. I got this whole thing- I got my f*ckin’ public defender. We got this whole appeals thing going and I got my sentenced short and the cop who took me in got desk duty.”

 

Abbot laughed.

 

“That’s f*ckin’ funny.” Roy rubbed eye, “That’s amusing. But it’s smart. I got a limp f*ckin’- I don’t tell nobody this, right?”

 

Abbot got the laughing down and smiled and said “Okay.”

 

“I got a f*cked wrist. I got wrist drop because of that. It woulda healed, maybe. If they ain’t gone stomp my f*ckin’ a million times and mash my face and put staples through the f*cking thing and- and- all of that. I don’t tell nobody that. Y’know? You let the bulls get the better of you and you’re the weak one. After that I owed nobody no explanation. I got made the f*ck fun of, they called me limp wrist, I smacked ‘em. They called me a fanook, I beat ‘em. That easy. But y’know. I’m lucky it weren’t my writing hand or nothin’ but I always put the right on top and the left on the table. You notice?”

 

Abbot chewed. “No.”

 

“I’m good at hiding it.”

 

“I wasn’t looking for it.”

 

“Because I’m good at hiding it,” laughed, “I am.”

 

Abbot nodded, and laughed, and chewed.

 

Abbot nodded, and chewed.

 

Abbot chewed.

 

“I saw that record,” he said.

 

“Yeah?” Roy went.

 

“Celebrity.”

 

“Yeah. What?”

 

“You make music?”

 

“It all-” Roy chuckled, wiped hands, “Goddamn Spoleto. It all goes back to Spoleto. I talked to you about that f*cking guy and there’s that f*cking thing. That Boccino guy, his grandfather was a made Gambetti guy and he was with Gravelli and there was this whole thing they had with this Jew and this sh*t they rode outta’ Venturas.”

 

“Not Vinewood?”

 

“Nah, some tax sh*t, it was real f*ckin’ Sixties and hippy dippy weed sh*t. But that record- y’know, some moolies or nothin’ and it was these kids and you know. They make magic.”

 

“That racist sh*t--”

 

“I didn’t mean it like that. I worked with blacks. I’m friends with blacks. Nothin’ wrong with them, but y’know, they were.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“What?”

 

“All that sh*t and you don’t get a picture up on the wall?”

 

Roy laughed, “f*ck you,” playful-like. “No. I mean, I don’t know. What, I weren’t making it.”

 

“So where’s the picture of Tony Spoleto?”

 

“Tony Spoleto got his own restaurant. And it weren’t even him, it was his pops, and- f*ck. God.”

 

“What?”

 

Roy shrugged, “Nothin’.”

 

Nothing. Hm.

 

Abbot minded his own.

 

Put his eyes back on the pasta.

 

But Roy wouldn’t leave it.

 

Roy looked back up - “I miss him.”

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“It’s nothin’. Tony Black was Tony Black, he was this old f*ck- but you know, he was…” looked at Abbot and smirked and said “Cosa Nostra.”

 

“There it is.”

 

“Shut the f*ck up. I don’t know.”

 

“You do.”

 

Breath out the nose, “You ever got a question you wanna ask and you just f*ckin’ can’t?”

 

Abbot stared. “To Spoleto?”

 

“Anyone.”

 

Abbot thought. “Sure.”

 

“Had this f*ckin’ guy of mine with Spoleto’s crew who got the acting-spot and got- I mean, you know, it was this whole thing. Frank Garone. Frank Garone the cafone f*ck- this guappo idiot, I f*cking loved him, and we had this thing goin’ this once and we was gonna do lines and then, y’know. He went.”

 

“Died.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Sorry.”

 

“Sorry sorry sorry sorry, I don’t f*cking know.” Stuck out the lip again, “It’s bullsh*t. All these guys. All these guys. All these guys I knew and they just go. And Frankie was a good kid, he was a f*cking soldier, but you know- it’s like, we kid and then we f*ckin’ don’t.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“So many people go. I- Joey. Joe C from East Holland, that guy was right here and then he went. Joe C, and my boy Junior goes to prison, and all these guys you know just leave. Junior and Age and Eric and Toby and Cooze that f*ckin’ cocksucker and all of them.”

 

“Premature.”

 

“Exactly. They go before they f*ckin’ should go, y’know? I don’t know. I had- this stupid thing, we was talkin’- me and Frankie, we as talkin’ footballs. Wrath won that season, he was so f*ckin' happy. XLII. He was this diehard f*ckin’ Wrath fan and there was this thing and…” 

 

And Roy trailed off.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Never got to finish that conversation.”

 

Abbot nodded.

 

Roy drank. Roy had this glass and he was sipping vodka and he said earlier he wasn’t gonna drink that much because he had this other thing and had to drive and Abbot thought.

 

Abbot thought.

 

“I knew this guy Tony,” Abbot said.

 

Roy looked up.

 

“Anton. This guy was this dumb f*ckin’ rock, but he was that guy with the cars and he had this cousin and it was a whole thing. And you know. He died.”

 

Roy nodded.

 

“He got popped for some fight and it was dumb but…” Abbot bit lip, “y’know.”

 

“Premature,” Roy said.

 

“Yeah. Premature.”

 

Abbot bit his lip.

 

***

 

Roy’s last thing he had to show Abbot was in Midtown.

 

Bismarck Avenue.

 

Bismarck Ave at night, at night in blinking lights in an Ocelot with Roy smiling.

 

Roy gestured.

 

The Nicoise Hotel.

 

301 Bismarck, the f*cking Nicoise f*cking Hotel.

 

Roy parked the F620 out front like it wasn’t a thing. Maybe for him, it wasn’t. Flags waved and some valet f*ck got the car and Abbot and Roy walked into the Nicoise Hotel, the gold crested, 5 star f*cking Nicoise Hotel, and walked into the lobby.

 

Into the lobby with the chandelier and the gold and the paintings and the gold and the gold awnings and the gold and the gold and the gold.

 

Took the elevator.

 

Roy pressed number-buttons and let the thing go up. Didn’t even talk to the f*ckers at the desk.

 

Abbot looked at Roy and Roy looked at Abbot and Roy put a hand on Abbot’s shoulder and then wrapped the arm around him.

 

Elevator dinged.

 

Doors opened. Random floor with ornate walls and red-velvet carpet and paintings and doors.

 

Roy and Abbot walked.

 

Abbot kinda squirmed and squinted but Roy didn’t relent.

 

Kept going.

 

Walked to a door with a number in gold that Abbot didn’t remember and saw Roy pull a key or a card or something and open and enter. And Abbot followed.

 

Suite with a view. Suite peppered gold and peppered white.

 

Roy led Abbot to the bedroom.

 

Silence.

 

Silence.

 

Silence.

 

Roy said “C’mon.”

 

And Abbot said “What?”

 

“You know.” Roy got closer and smiled and smiled harder and smiled harder. “You know.”

 

Wrapped his arms around Abbot’s hips.

 

Looked down to his dropped wrist. Red wrinkled double-bumps dotting up and down his hands, peering from behind his watch.

 

Staples.

 

Looked into his eyes.

 

Abbot didn’t smile.

 

Roy put his head on Abbot’s shoulder and said “This is it. I know it.”

 

And Abbot said something but he didn’t know what.

 

Roy backed off. Gentle-like. Took off his tie and took off his jacket and kept smiling as he unbuttoned his shirt.

 

Abbot said “No.”

 

Roy had the shirt unbuttoned and was still smiling and took the thing off and saw the gnarly white scar crossing through his abdomen. “What do you mean?”

 

“It’s not like that,” Abbot said.

 

Roy unzipped his pants, “Yes it is.”

 

“No.” Abbot kinda backed away, “No.”

 

Roy got closer with the fly unzipped and was still smiling and said “You don’t have to hide it from me.”

 

And Abbot said no.

 

And Roy got closer and said “I saw it in your eyes. You can’t hide it from me, babe.”

 

No.

 

Roy got closer and put the arms around and grabbed Abbot by the arms and pushed him onto the bed and said “Yes.”

 

Abbot didn’t speak.

 

Roy said, “I know it. I know it.”

 

And Abbot said no.

 

And Roy pulled his underwear down and Abbot saw it and looked at Roy who said “You’re me. Don’t do this.”

 

Abbot squirmed.

 

Roy held Abbot down harder.

 

Abbot started kicking.

 

Roy grabbed.

 

Abbot struggled and Roy grabbed harder and held Abbot’s arms down and Abbot kicked and Roy let go of the left arm and Abbot swung with an open palm and knocked Roy on the face and got him clean off and hit again and again and again and again and Roy shouted and held Abbot down with his foot and shouted again and shouted “You little f*cking fa**ot!”

 

Abbot squirmed and fell off the bed and crawled and heard again, “You little fa**ot f*cking fanook f*cking f*ck!” and Abbot pulled a shoe and threw it right at him and the shoe bounced off the wall and Roy shouted and Roy screamed, “You little f*cking f*ck! You testy little f*cking f*ck!”

 

Abbot got up a little and stumbled out of the sheer feeling and tried to pull himself up before being nagged by the shoulders - Roy grunted, Roy pulled up and Abbot felt the back crack and waved his arms through and felt Roy’s mitts pulling and yanking and scraping at his face and Abbot kicked and felt the bare skin with the foot and kicked again and knocked the knee down and both f*ckers sprawled.

 

Roy yelped, “I thought--”

 

Abbot didn’t speak and Abbot scrambled and realized the shoe was gone and nearly went back for it when he saw Roy just f*cking crumpled on the floor.

 

Abbot got up.

 

Abbot stood.

 

“You listened,” Roy said. “C’mon.”

 

And Abbot didn’t speak.

 

And Abbot left.

 

Abbot walked down that hallway and pressed that button and walked. 

 

One shoe less.

 

The Glossary

Liberty City Map

Edited March 6, 2023 by slimeball supreme

[slimeball supreme]

Ganymede

 

Train rattled.

 

Headed to Middle Park West.

 

Middle Park West?

 

Middle Park West.

 

DB had the train route down on a notepad even though the line weren’t much to think about. Walked to the station midday or later ‘cause he said “He’s asleep before 2 PM” and all Latrell could do was tut-tut at the prospect.

 

But staying punctual ain’t necessary.

 

Weren’t a lot of talk. Latrell asked what the haps was and DB just said “I told you” and Latrell didn’t push. Was chewing finger on the subway uptown when they’d crossed through the tunnel and saw nothing and felt nothing and felt like something was digging through his gut when he realized that ‘I told you’ wasn’t adequate.

 

But he held his horses anyway. Got the jumps. They’d passed near the train junction on Main Drag to get the station and Latrell got the jitters thinking of… you know.

 

That night.

 

Could’ve made a switch on Denver Avenue to the line on Exeter but DB said he got it down and Duplex said this was the fastest route.

 

Train stopped at the station near Ideology Circus. Had passed through midtown. A lot of ads screaming for department stores and the same-old same-old you get on the trains - pizza, plastic surgery, some sh*t. Train was getting crowded with Joe Schmoes of every color and creed and a dozen more tourists and Latrell was still thinking.

 

Should’ve switched.

 

Should’ve switched.

 

There was a guy next to Latrell with one hand wrapped around the subway pole and another grasping a half-eaten bagel about 70% gooey f*cking cream cheese that was drip-dropping on the train floor past a woman with her earbuds in on a call with someone.

 

Should’ve switched.

 

No.

 

God f*ck, this weren’t adequate.

 

Sick and f*cking tired.

 

Latrell leaned over and Latrell asked “What’s happening?”

 

DB sighed, “I told you.”

 

“You ain’t told me much.”

 

“We keep this--”

 

“No, no- listen. No, listen.”

 

“Latrell--”

 

“I don’t want no ride-along kinda’ slow mode sh*t.”

 

“f*ck you mean?”

 

“Spell this sh*t the f*ck out for a nigga.”

 

DB just squinted.

 

And DB sat back.

 

Okay, f*cking fine.

 

Train rolled on.

 

Train rolled on.

 

Latrell tried again, leaned over, “Hell these niggas doing down in Middle Park West? f*ckin’ bougie--”

 

“I said I got this.”

 

“f*ck your problem, Del?”

 

“My f*ckin’ grandmoms, son.”

 

“f*ck it matter?”

 

“She sayin’ she tryn’ visit at the f*ckin’ club or whatever the f*ck you said, the community center, she been up on me asking where the f*ck on Bow Lack.”

 

“Seriously, son, the f*ck it matter?”

 

“What the f*ck do I say?”

 

Latrell didn’t flinch, “Who cares?”

 

“Nigga, she does.”

 

“You ain’t gotta worry about it.”

 

“And she askin’ what your number is and what I’m doin’ and what I’m readin- says- I mean, she got these f*ckin’ MLK pictures--”

 

“I saw.”

 

“So, what the f*ck?”

 

“You seriously gonna f*ckin’ hide no sh*t from me ‘cause I tried to save your ass?”

 

“You ain’t save my ass. She called my f*ckin’ cousin--”

 

“DB--”

 

“Latrell, man. Come on.”

 

“We wouldn’t be on the train I told the truth.”

 

“She wouldn’t be calling my f*cking cousin?”

 

People were looking. Latrell played it cool, “Listen--”

 

“B, I’m f*cked if--”

 

“Son. Son. Hold it.” Put a hand on DB’s lap and looked him deep and repeated, “Hold it.”

 

DB held.

 

“I wouldn’t be f*ckin’ puttin’ you up on nothing I didn’t know it’d work. Right?”

 

DB nodded.

 

“Okay. What I done told you, b? What I said?”

 

DB looked.

 

“C’mon.”

 

“I’m matterin’.”

 

“You the only one that f*ckin’ matters. I paid a visit to Xavier at the cop shop,” Latrell kept lying, “He be out on some sh*t and the defenders is easy and it’s all f*ckin’ cool. What we both is focused on? You and me and him?”

 

DB didn’t answer.

 

“You,” Latrell said. “Easy! You. You gon’ be gone and we gotta set a nigga up. That ease’.”

 

DB looked. DB had the hair tied back and his hand up by the face lost in thought and kept thinking and thinking and thinking and thinking--

 

“Okay?”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Okay. So chill. Okay?”

 

“A’ight.”

 

“You the only one that matter. I get you in sh*t, I won’t. That easy.”

 

DB looked down.

 

Train rattled.

 

Latrell pat him on the back, “So what we on?”

 

DB mulled. “His name’s Omar.”

 

“Okay? A’ight.”

 

“He’s sayin’ he’s got this diversification sh*t and it’s all whatever and he want a million dealers with the ain’t-affiliateds on ‘em. And it’s good fent.”

 

“And what we doin’?”
 

“I ain’t thought out the street sh*t,” DB went. “Think maybe we can cut sh*t with it if we ain’t outright sellin’. Hook up easy. I mean- you know, this is just some peep sh*t, show off sh*t, you know.”

 

“And he good?”

 

“How you mean?”

 

“His sh*t good, his whatever’s-good, I mean you figured this sh*t the f*ck out kinda’ good?”

 

“Sure. Come in from Arizona or some sh*t. We buyin’ by the pound.”

 

Latrell held out a hand, “That f*ckin’ difficult?”

 

DB stared.

 

Hand stayed.

 

Hand got put back.

 

Okay.

 

They were getting off near the Quartz Street transverse. Stop was on Q6. Latrell foot-tapping as DB read out address and said they was headed up P9 between Burlesque and Rotterdam Avenue, Hartford Avenue, whatever avenue. Apartment block on 210 in new-coat limestone.

 

f*cking lettergrids. Goddamn Algonquin and the f*cking lettergrids.

 

P9. Q6.

 

Hm.

 

They could've got off at the stop on P6 and gotten there faster.

 

Goddamn it.

 

Latrell told DB.

 

DB just shrugged. “What difference does it make?”

 

Goddamn it.

 

Goddamn it, they walked. Walked out the steps into the light and down the avenues bleeding blue and beating cold. Past the yellow-cabs with their hands in their pockets and DB with his hands clasped deep, deep. Wordless few minutes of looking and staring and passing eyes and keeping cool.

 

Crossed Galveston Avenue. Daily Globe letterbox and a Benefactor parked on the curb and some numbskull prep-looker with boat shoes passing by and Latrell kept close.

 

Kept closer. “What’s in the hoodie?”

 

DB didn’t say.

 

“Come on, son.”

 

“Gs.”

 

“Gs?”

 

“Notes.”

 

“So you keepin’ superspy on a nigga, D?”

 

Coffee house. Some woman and a guy on their phone. Taxi cab, “I got this, L.”

 

“You know what the mobster guy motherf*ckers I done been seein’ do?”

 

“You still seein’ them?”

 

“Huh?”

 

“You said you was wrapping things up.”

 

He did. “Sure,” Latrell lied, “Loose ends and sh*t. So what I done seen then.”

 

Bus stop. DB went “Sure.”

 

“What they was doin’ for a while on that Roy Zito sh*t was they was walkin’-and-talkin’ on the street corners, b.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Nah, for real. Nah. Like, d’ah, you know, they ain’t got wiretaps on the corners. And the city noise pollutes no wiretaps or nothin’. But I ain’t got that sh*t.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“I ain’t.”

 

“Okay, L.”

 

“Jus’ makin’ sure.”

 

“That’s all it is, man, that’s what I’m doin’. Nobody know ‘bout this except them, you, me. That it.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“I got enough notes to see us through and then we done take the train home and it’s gravy like a motherf*cker.” End of the street. Garbage bag. Taxi-cab and cars goin’. “We cross the road.”

 

They crossed. Grain of Truth at the other side, “How much you got?”

 

“Enough,” DB said.

 

Street vendor in a metallic-clack box with the umbrella loose and another prep-looker walking past with paper grocery bags. “Ain’t you sneaky.”

 

“No.”

 

“International goddamn superspy motherf*ckin’ Delmar Belcourt.”

 

DB had eyes on a German Shepherd tied up on a tree near these payphones. “You seen Knot?”

 

Knot. Latrell said “Not recently.” Not at all.

 

“Been three months and sh*t and they sayin’ when the nigga got the vegetable brain they can’t keep the sh*t on no more. I don’t know.”

 

“They pullin’ the plug?”

 

“Not yet.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“They was floatin’ it. When I asked.” Sidewalk ahead was wide and empty. Bushes. Parking underground. Trees on the spare by the light posts. Stepped past a chalk mural and some kids and a guy in Hinterlands talking on his cell and DB sighed and went “You know.”

 

“No.”

 

“No?”

 

“Nah, b.”

 

DB sniffed, “I mean, they say this sh*t, and they say there ain’t much more they can do, and that kinda sh*t. And I mean- why you say that sh*t- why you say that sh*t if you ain’t gonna do it?”

 

“You considering.”

 

“Nah. Nah.”

 

“C’mon.”

 

“They was sayin’ it like, I’unno, prepare a nigga, f*ck it. God, f*ck it.”

 

Latrell sifted tongue through between-tooth and thought a minute, took his hand out of his pocket. Pointed. Pointed at the sky.

 

Pointed at nothing.

 

DB didn’t see. DB was watching his boots clap the pavement and hadn’t said a word.

 

“He’ll be fine,” Latrell said.

 

DB didn’t reply.

 

“They say that kinda sh*t because- look, you gotta stay easy on it, right? ‘Cause it ain’t about Knot.”

 

DB squinted.

 

“Yeah.”

 

DB said “What?”

 

“You know. He ain’t the one mattering out this motherf*cker.”

 

“What?”

 

“‘Cause it’s you. I’m keepin’ the food on your table, our table, ain’t his table.”

 

“What the f*ck is wrong with you?”

 

“What? Nigga, I support you.”

 

DB stopped a moment.

 

Latrell moved him on with hand and DB nearly stumbled and DB said “That’s cold, son.”

 

“Nah, it’s warm as a motherf*cker.”

 

“He was our boy.”

 

“And even if he ain’t- I- I mean you-the-f*ck know, what the f*ck we do in this sh*t is for you and you and that’s what I said on the train. At the basketball court.”

 

“No.”

 

“Yeah,” Latrell said.

 

“B, he matters.”

 

“He’s in them comas.”

 

“Latrell--”

 

“You ain’t invited him on for this thing for nothing. So you ain’t gonna call me cold.”

 

“He’s in the f*cking hospital. Son is brain dead.”

 

“Whatever.”

 

“Whatever?”

 

“He called you a fa**ot,” Latrell lied.

 

DB stopped again.

 

Latrell stopped.

 

DB looked at him. Cock-eyed.

 

Person passed. Latrell, “What now, son?”

 

“No he didn’t.”

 

“Yeah. Yeah.” L sniffed, “He just talk sh*t behind a nigga back.”

 

“He never did that. You woulda’ said.”

 

“I care for you, I protect you, I keep your eyes peeled.”

 

DB, “You keep your eyes peeled, you tell me.”

 

“No. He was gonna snitch, he was gonna tell everyone about everything, about us with Ramon and the port and he was gonna say we was easin’ on taxes- and- and- and you remember that f*ckin’ thing at the f*ckin’ house.”

 

DB didn’t say anything.

 

“Yeah,” Latrell said. “Come on, man, we look f*ckin’ weird, man.”

 

DB didn’t move.

 

DB thought.

 

Latrell grabbed arm and DB kinda thought but got pulled along and kept to walking again. Kept to walking and kept to thinking and said “What the f*ck you mean, the house?”

 

Latrell clenched fist and said “That guy.”

 

“That was him?”

 

“Yeah,” Latrell said. “That was him.”

 

“And what?”

 

“And he was cold about that sh*t, he didn’t even give a f*ck, son.”

 

DB didn’t say anything.

 

“So he my boy,” Latrell went. “But come on.”

 

DB didn’t say anything.

 

“We hustle, we hustle - we hustle for you. A’ight?”

 

DB looked Latrell up and just kinda nodded and pulled away and walked.

 

Walked.

 

***

 

The apartments were nice.

 

Nice. Nothing special. New-coat limestone. Modern glass and stainless steel walls and a worker bee cleaning it near the double NO SMOKING signs pasted on the brickwork.

 

DB pressed the elevator button.

 

Silence.

 

Air-speckled spots on bare skin and Latrell blinking it off and looking back to DB. DB’s look was stainless-steely; cold.

 

“Hey.”

 

DB looked down.

 

“We good?”

 

Kid made a ‘hmph’ and looked down and said “I miss him.”

 

“I know.”

 

Lip went side-face, “He really say that sh*t?”

 

Latrell swallowed, “Yeah.”

 

Another ‘hmph’. “I’m sorry,” DB said.

 

“It’s cool.”

 

“He was our boy.”

 

“He was.”

 

Elevator pinged.

 

Hallway.

 

“You always been straight with me, Latrell.”

 

Latrell smiled.

 

Hallway. Grey carpet and white walls.

 

DB led. Latrell followed. Latrell brushed hand on plaster-wall colored alabaster and watched the patterned floor’s swirls and stopped when Delmar did - stopped by a door and didn’t check the number in gold.

 

DB knocked.

 

Muffled, “Yeah?”

 

“It’s the Brown Streak, son, we talked on the phone.”

 

Latrell, “Doorways and hallways, nigga.”

 

“Huh?”

 

“Always a door with these motherf*ckers, man.”

 

“The f*ck you even sayin’?”

 

Scoffed. “Forget it.”

 

Lock unclacked.

 

Normal looking latino guy - normal as it gets, jeans and sweatshirt sleeves rolled up, no jewelry - peeped eye through the crack in the door and nodded and opened it wide. Did a quick circle with his index finger, meant get inside.

 

Followed.

 

Balcony-apartment two bedroom. Nice kitchen. That dull gray-nothing tone the whole building had spruced up with sh*tty posters and expensive furniture clashing with the barren apartment. Slick, expensive velvet-looking sofa occupied by two goons, goon-looking latinos: chubby mid-30’s looking guy with a mid-20’s in chains and snapbacks playing Exsorbeo.

 

Race car game.

 

Normal-man did the twirl of the fingers again and led the two past the sofa - Latrell got a look past the huge plasma TV and saw another latino in a hockey shirt by a bedroom door looking squinty - moved on into the kitchen still-barren and got a look from another guy on his phone.

 

Phone-man came over for a dap with DB. Phone-man was Omar, said something in Spanish to normal-man and sent him back. Omar was iced out in clean Hintlerlands with fat gold around the fingers and gaudy-styled hair doing patterns in the shave-fade. Half-sagged skinny jeans and the phone in his pocket and oof, dapped with Latrell.

 

Omar, “Homies.”

 

“Yeah,” said Latrell.

 

“Que pasa, f*ck you doin’ Del’, you ain’t done the introduces.”

 

“Latrell,” DB said. “My boy.”

 

“Thas-thas-thas-thas!” Wasn’t sure what the f*ck that meant, “Ay, easy on it, you the purple connect, you f*ck wit’ it.”

 

Latrell blinked. “Yeah.” Another one of these f*cking clowns.

 

Omar beckoned with his ring and his middle finger, led them out the kitchen and said “TV’s sixty inches. You niggas play RNC?”

 

Let that slide, “Yeah,” Latrell said. “I don’t know.”

 

“You don’t know how many f*cking cars I got. We kick it. Difference a f*ckin’ good ass TV makes, you know. How the f*ck you mean you don’t know?”

 

Mid-30’s guy stretched out on the sofa and said “These guys here for the--”

 

“Ch’yeah,” Omar. “The ice creams.”

 

Started talking in Spanish.

 

Didn’t understand a lick.

 

Said to DB, “How you met these guys?”

 

“Friend.”

 

“Okay?”

 

Omar turned around, snapped fingers, “C’mon, c’mon.”

 

Headed for the man in the hockey shirt. Man scratched his cock and wiped something off his lips and opened the door and went near the bed.

 

Latrell, “This it?”

 

“My pops got this mad connect,” Omar said, “comes in from the San Andreas border. That sh*t. Good sh*t.”

 

Noted: they’re Mex, not Caribbean. “Good sh*t?”

 

“On the highway, man, highway-to-high-babe. Cashvelope?”

 

DB pulled the cash out the hoodie. Latrell put eyes on hockey-shirt pulling a box out from under the bed and putting fat sack stacks looking like they were wrapped in tinfoil onto the bed.

 

Omar, “You guys wanna play Exsorbeo while we count this sh*t?”

 

Latrell, “How much is that?”

 

“20.”

 

“20?”

 

“Pounds, yeah. What, you want 20 pounds? You ain’t getting 20 pounds with f*ckin--”

 

DB, “Just the taste I told you at the thing.”

 

Omar opened his closet and Latrell saw a thousand goddamn 100 dollar notes stacked and saw Omar get on his tippy-toes to put it on top. The dumbest f*cking drug dealers on the goddamn planet. “Your dad know about this?”

 

“Yeah. What?”

 

“This your apartment?”

 

And hockey-shirt stopped counting a sec and Omar asked “What’s it matter?”

 

And Latrell realized the eyes were on him.

 

And he just said “Forget it.”

 

And that was that.

 

DB led him on.

 

Omar followed behind. Omar slid out and started talking more Spanish with the mid-30’s motherf*cker getting the 20’s kid peeved the game weren’t being played - slid down and did a floorplan check. Bathroom and kitchen, TV and balcony, two bedrooms behind plasma screen. Hm.

 

“How much dope they got on ‘em?”

 

DB put up a hand and checked the room for eyes and said “Shut the f*ck up.”

 

“What?”

 

“These cats jumpy.”

 

“These cats got 20 pounds of f*cking heroin under their f*cking--”

 

Louder still whispered, “Shut the f*ck up.”

 

“Are these guys serious?”

 

“As they come.”

 

“Where you meet them?”

 

“A thing.”

 

“Pick-a-lock-a-f*cking convention?”

 

“Why you keep saying that?”

 

“Saying what?”

 

“Saying I pick locks. I ain’t pick locks. I put the screw in the car or f*ck up a pad but that ain’t me being a f*cking lock picker, son.”

 

“Where this from?”

 

“And the driver and the designated ass shooter and the f*ckin- like this UD sh*t and there’s roles. Goddamn it, L.”

 

“I can’t do it. Pick-nose DB.”

 

“Shut the--”

 

“You don’t tell me to shut the f*ck up.”

 

And DB clenched his fist and said “Stop asking questions or they’ll think you a cop.”

 

Stopped a second.

 

He was probably right.

 

But Latrell wasn’t gonna give him that. “You an expert on that sh*t, super-spy?”

 

“You gonna keep saying that?”

 

“What, super-spy? That you a super-spy? I put my passions and sh*t in a nigga so he can get on his feet in Alabama and keep the--”

 

“Carolina.”

 

Snipped, “Wherever.”

 

“Like you give a f*ck.”

 

“I give a million f*cks, super-spy. I give so many f*cks about how you travelling but you don’t give one about me or my cares--”

 

“Latrell--”

 

“If you ain’t grateful for that, man, that’s on you, Xavier, but I’m just saying--”

 

“Xavier?”

 

“DB. DB, whatever, Delmar, DB-Delmar, Del’. You gonna f*ck this up for us?”

 

DB didn’t say anything. Frowned.

 

Put his hand in his hair and walked off to the couch.

 

Yeah. You run.

 

Stood there.

 

Bore holes in the back of DB’s head.

 

Little sh*t had the f*cking cheek. The f*cking gall.

 

Felt the foot tapping and the teeth gnashing and the face going red and put a flat palm on the wall and heard rapping and banging and smacking and banging and the ratta-tat-tat and his ears started ringing and snap.

 

Snapped into reality. That weren’t his head.

 

They’d stopped the game. The Mexicans were panicking.

 

DB was facing Latrell with wide eyes.

 

Snapped into reality.

 

“POLICE! POLICE! OPEN THE DOOR!”

 

The Mexicans were panicking. Mid-20’s and Mid-30’s near threw the controllers and had no idea what the f*ck they were doing: dashed a little left, dashed a little left, darted and moved for the bedroom where hockey shirt was packing fent and started shouting loud in Spanish.

 

Normal-man pulled a gat out his sweatshirt.

 

Where was Omar?

 

It’d been four or five seconds.

 

DB weren’t speaking.

 

Latrell didn’t know what.

 

Latrell moved and moved fast and moved to the left of the sofa and moved past the big flat screen and heard rustle-moving by the door and then a bang and then a bang.

 

Moved into the left bedroom. Hockey shirt and the rest were rightways.

 

Bedroom was empty aside from the namesake bed.

 

Bang.

 

Bang went in and you could hear shouting and shouting and shouting and a sound like a firecracker and f*ck. Cop noises, cop chanting, cop shouting and “move move move” and there weren’t no time to think.

 

Firecracker noise had stopped. Normal-guy must’ve pulled the trigger. Who knows.

 

It’d been four or five more seconds.

 

Closet. Bed. Closet. Bed.

 

f*ck. f*ck. f*ck. f*ck.

 

Boot-stomp and shouting. Heard the door to the right get kicked the f*ck in.

 

Latrell pointed to the bed.

 

DB looked to finger, looked to bed, looked to finger. Nodded.

 

Latrell dove back into closet.

 

SLAM.

 

Door got kicked the f*ck in and a motherf*cking special ops SWAT motherf*cker with hands around an SMG filtered in. Another cop - buzzcut dude in a blue windbreaker with LCPD on the back - followed suit cool-like with sports shades on inside. Speedwalked.

 

DB under bed. Looked piss-scared.

 

Latrell pulled the gat out his waistband, spare .38 he carried around, dropped it on the ground. Hoped for the best. Cops scattered and shouting and heard cursing in the other room and bang-banging, hand and flesh bang-banging, resisting arrest-type bang-banging.

 

“Hey!”

 

SWAT team-looking motherf*cker aimed the gun at the ground. Saw DB’s shoes.

 

Windbreaker backed up and Latrell saw him with the hand on the holster through the crack in the door.

 

Cop pulled him out.

 

“Hands! Hands! Hands on your f*ckin’ head!”

 

Space cadet got DB by the ankles and pulled him out and DB was wincing and muttering and whining under breath and the cop backed up further to the closet’s sliding door.

 

Latrell saw an opportunity.

 

Pushed it open.

 

Got windbreaker with an elbow to the back of the neck and pushed him to the ground while SWAT-man had the Vom Feuer on DB, shouted “Hey!” once again as Latrell dove right for the door.

 

DB shouted “Latrell!”

 

Latrell ignored him.

 

Left rightways.

 

Living room was swarming with f*cking pigs.

 

Omar had his face against the wall getting frisked by another windbreaker while the whole goddamn place was getting turned upside down. More armed-types, more pig-types, sofa cushions getting torn open and guns holstered and… guns holstered.

 

Two cops by the sofa.

 

Saw Latrell.

 

Latrell darted right.

 

Cops shouted. Pulled guns.

 

Latrell went for doorway.

 

More cops.

 

Turned for balcony.

 

Cop.

 

Cop tackled Latrell and Latrell went through the glass door.

 

Glass went.

 

Arms hurt. Legs hurt.

 

Head hit tile floor and cops kept shouting and this motherf*cker with dirty blond hair and a beard had Latrell’s shoulders pinned to the floor and Latrell squirmed and kicked and the cop punched.

 

“DON’T f*ckIN’--”

 

“Brutality, hey--”

 

“--YOU BITCH--”

 

“I got my rights--”

 

And cop put the hand around Latrell’s throat and palmed his cheek and pressed his face into the floor and got the handcuffs out and kept shouting and cursing going ballistic. Latrell went out of body. Went out of mind.

 

Saw himself with the cuffs around his wrists and eyes closed and hand around the collar.

 

Latrell blinked.

 

God f*cking motherf*cking piece of sh*t f*cking damn f*cking it.

 

DB.

 

Idiot dealers.

 

Ballas.

 

Cops.

 

Something.

 

Needed something to blame.

 

Eyes shut.

 

The Glossary

Liberty City Map

[slimeball supreme]

Mistakes, They Were Made

 

Kassian’s kitchen.

 

Microwave hummed.

 

He was upstairs.

 

Pot noodles.

 

Abbot chewed the skin on his thumb.

 

Number kept going.

 

Thought.

 

Thought.

 

Kaz left the key under a loose brick. Meant he could come in without knocking. Didn't even communicate it - just left it there uncovered for when Abbot came a week once and… Abbot thought.

 

Abbot thought.

 

He took his shoes off at the door.

 

Scattered thoughts spotted everywhere with time dilating and mind melting in a pure moment of abstract nothing. Sounds drifting and eyes glazing and colors going nowhere fast and everywhere anyways and the ears ringing although there weren’t nothing to ring ‘em and oh God, what the f*ck. Put his hands flat down on the kitchen counter while the shapes danced and expanded and drifted into a distance that didn’t exist; blinked and blinked while the retinas burned and blurred. Blurred into nothing, into nothing, into nothing, into nothing.

 

The bicker and moan of the brain-drill deep drilling deep deep down dead flesh, like you could and couldn’t breathe, like the horn wail hammer-hammering on the inside of the skull like the brain was clawing at the bone trying to get out, like the colors were bright and the colors were dull all at once. Dry throat while nothing came out but the wind and the palms on the counter and the hum.

 

Stopped.

 

The noodles were done.

 

Abbot had spit coming out the mouth. Palms flat. Knees buckled.

 

What the f*ck?

 

Spit drip.

 

Moment.

 

Got up.

 

Microwave numbers in red were blinking in the even light.

 

Squeezed eyelids and rubbed temple with palm and ignored the microwave and ignored the blinking numbers and ignored the bleating beep-beep-beep and leaned on the countertop. Eyed the stairs. Wiped the drool from his f*cking lip and got the head-beat going and thought and thought and thought and thought.

 

Thought.

 

Got off the counter.

 

Brushed hand on wall as he walked by.

 

Hand on the banister.

 

Headed up.

 

Stairs creaked.

 

Doors.

 

Clenched hand.

 

Thought.

 

Raised hand.

 

Thought.

 

Knocked.

 

Nothing.

 

“Kassian.”

 

Nothing.

 

“I know you’re in there.”

 

Nothing.

 

“We-... I know it, Kaz.”

 

Nothing.

 

Felt the hair rise up on his back and went to knock again and felt the eye-colors dashing and melting and mixing. “I don’t need to see your face. I just need to know you’re listening.”

 

Nothing.

 

“Please.”

 

Labored: “What?”

 

What was enough.

 

Abbot thought. “Are you okay?”

 

Nothing.

 

Didn’t know what to say.

 

Awkward on the throat. “I’m okay,” Abbot said.

 

Silence.

 

“I’m okay with it,” went again.

 

Silence.

 

Abbot cleared his throat. “I just hope you’re okay with it too.”

 

Could hear the fridge hum.

 

Nodded at nothing. “Just hope you’re okay with me.”

 

Heard foot pacing.

 

Felt something.

 

Felt person behind the door.

 

Door cracked.

 

Eyes.

 

Kaz’s eyes.

 

Kaz’s eyes for the first time in months.

 

Abbot looked deep.

 

Kaz’s eyes were going red. Going blue. Going soft. Opened the door wider.

 

Kaz hugged.

 

Hugged for a while.

 

Hugged for a long while.

 

***

 

Woke up that morning warm.

 

Warm in the cold front.

 

Warm body next to him.

 

Naked.

 

Abbot had the arms behind his head on the pillow staring up at the ceiling. Didn’t know what time it was. Didn’t care. Felt something out of him that was stuck for a while. Felt good.

 

Felt good.

 

Felt Kassian to his side.

 

Felt good.

 

Phone on the side-table lay face-up with the charger stuck. Looked at it. Black rectangle reflecting ceiling. Looked for too long.

 

It vibrated.

 

Kassian pulled the blanket a little ways.

 

Abbot watched it ring.

 

Benny.

 

Grabbed the phone.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Abbot. How are you?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“That’s good.”

 

“Yeah. I’m okay, Benny.”

 

“That’s good. That’s good. Good morning.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“Christmas-a come. Eh? The snow plows. You know-the-f*ck.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Excellent. Yes. Abbot.” Ended on Abbot like it was a question.

 

Abbot answered the question. “What’s up?”

 

“I have someone I want you to meet.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Important friend of mine. He interest in seeing you. Okay?”

 

“Sure.”

 

“You know the restaurant. Meet by you-know-when. You know?”

 

“I know.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Thank you, Ben.”

 

“I be seeing you.”

 

“Good talking.”

 

Benny hung up.

 

Abbot had the phone to his ear a little longer while the sound weren’t coming out. Just the glass to his skin.

 

Put it down on the bedside.

 

Stared at the ceiling.

 

The Glossary

Liberty City Map

Edited February 21, 2021 by slimeball supreme

[slimeball supreme]

There Was No Rain

 

Phil watched his father from the yard. Saw him with the grill on and the smoke going and thought it smelled good. Smelled good from the dirt and the worms and the flowers by the shed he was sitting down in and this itch on his ankles he was trying to rub out through his socks.

 

Wouldn’t go away.

 

Kid sighed. Dug his foot deeper into the dirt with the canvas sneaker sole getting muddy in the dry dirt and wanted to pull his freaking shoe off so damn bad. Dad told him no.

 

Sighed. Rubbed his forehead with his palm real rough and went screw it and started unlacing. Some cookout get-together thing and he was wearing the nice jeans but still butt-down in the soil. Didn’t want to talk to nobody. Just wanted to fix the itch and watch the bugs.

 

Rubbed the ankle through the ankle sock with the shoe off and the sock in the grass. Other hand digging through the filth and the weeds with a stick he’d found out on the street. Started rolling the sock down, down, down. Rubbing the foot.

 

“Hey.”

 

Kept rubbing.

 

“Hey, Phillip.”

 

Looked up.

 

The guy, Derrick.

 

Derrick was a friend of his father’s through another guy who was at the party, Derrick’s dad or something like that. This young guy with neck length hair and stubble and this little monobrow on the nose all sparse. Flight jacket.

 

Phil said “Hey, Derrick.”

 

“What’re you doin’, kid?”

 

“Looking for worms and stuff.”

 

“Yeah? You found anything neat?”

 

“Nah.”

 

“That’s a shame. Your pa wants to talk to you about somethin’. He gonna be okay with your feet all dirty?”

 

Phil looked at his shoes all sheepish. His shoe. One shoe less. “Probably not,” kid admitted.

 

And Derrick chuckled. “He’ll be fine. If he gives ya sh*t, I’ll defend you, okay?”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Yeah. But your pa’s a pussycat, he wouldn’t. Alright? Your pa gives you sh*t, you talk to me.”

 

“Okay.” Phil smiled. “Let me put my shoe on.”

 

“When I was a kid I’d be diggin’ through the grubs too sometimes. Found meself nothin’ but it was fun anyway. Big worms. I remember I found this one was as thick as my thumb.”

 

Phil, “Really?”

 

“I don’t lie to ya. Thick as my thumb and about half as long. I tried gettin’ that thing in a jar but my brother was too slow and the thing wiggled away. Good for him, though.”

 

The kid stood up, “Why is that good?”

 

“Y’know,” Derrick said. “I admire the spirit. Wish I was as smart as that worm sometimes.”

 

“You’re smarter than a worm.”

 

“I wonder myself, sometimes.” Derrick beckoned with a thumb pointing back at the porch, “It’s a joke. I’m probably smarter than a worm.”

 

Phil laughed.

 

Phil followed. Phil dusted his jeans and cuffed the ankles before moving on in Derrick’s stead past the relatives and the strangers he didn’t recognize and the strangers he did who had goofy names. And they’d ask what he was doing and Phil wouldn’t talk, or Derrick would speak on his behalf, or something.

 

Ankle still itched. Still itched up the stairs to the deck and the grill with the smells and the banner-flag-thingies he’d forgotten the name of lining from the deck barrier to the roof of the one-storey.

 

His dad was humming. His dad was talking to these two other guys around Derrick’s age: this one short, sturdy, buff-lookin’ guy in a denim jacket with a lot of curls and a mustache, this real deep olive complexion. The other one this lank guy a couple inches taller with a beard and this oily black hair and these deep cheeks and blue eyes.

 

Mark and Bucky, respectively. Bucky was a funny name. Like a cowboy or something like that. Or a TV character. Mark was rubbing hands together, seemed like he weren’t listening.

 

And his pop. With the red hair and the blue eyes and the thin lips and the sniff-sniff-sniffing kept turning at the meat with a striped sweater on and the slacks. Sniffed and turned to see Phil and said “Oh, champ, what--”

 

And Derrick said “What?”

 

“His sock’s all dirty. Were you playin’ in the mud, Philly?”

 

“No, pop.”

 

“Woah, he’s fine,” Derrick went. “He was just lookin’ and his foot was hurting, right?”

 

Phil said “Yeah.”

 

“Yeah. He woulda’ come up but it was aching. It’s still aching, right?”

 

Phil said “Yeah.”

 

And pop said “We gotta get the creme out from the bathroom for the itchin’? I told Nina that the kid’s got the eczema- Derrick, can you look at the kid’s ankle?”

 

The stout guy, Mark, he said “We’s ain’t your babysitter or f*ckin’ nothin’, Gill.”

 

“Watch the language.”

 

“Or whateva’. Youse was talkin’- I mean, what da’ f*ck anyhow, it ain’t our business. We was doin’--”

 

“Again. Watch it.”

 

“Harry said it’d be a works-a-lotta’ we’d be doin’ a’ whateva’, not be sittin’ around wit’ our hands up and the plateses full or whatever the f- hell. Hell.”

 

“Really?”

 

“I ain’t sweared.”

 

Bucky, “Nearly.”

 

Pop, “Don’t invoke the name a’ Hell or whatever, just say heck. For the kid’s ears. Did Derrick swear, Philly?”

 

“No,” Phil said.

 

“Okay. So do as Derrick does. Philly, you head inside, you watch the feet, I’ll be over in a minute. I gotta keep the meat going.”

 

And Mark muttered “Invoke?”

 

Didn’t like him. Talked like a jerk.

 

But Phil obeyed his father. Slid the door open while the festivities raged and the adults talked whatever they did and found himself on the corduroy sofa with the shoes thrown and the socks to his side and the fingers running down his ankles. The rash. The blisters going dry and flaking in that pale-red way. Itched.

 

If he scratched too hard, they’d bleed. He knew that. But he did it anyway. And it bled. Or not bleeding that bad, just raw, just weeping and it hurt all the same and the itching did nothing.

 

“Hey, champ. I fixed you a plate.”

 

Nearly covered it with the socks.

 

“Dad--”

 

“Oh, Philly! I told you--”

 

“I’m sorry--”

 

“--not to scratch the blisters. It don’t help. You don’t get the creme?”

 

“I don’t know where it is in the cabinet.”

 

“I told you. I get two--”

 

“Dad, I’m sorry.”

 

Pop put the paper plate on the kitchen island and got the feathery brows furrowing. “Let me get it.”

 

He walked off.

 

Heard bottles rattling from the bathroom. Muttering.

 

Couldn’t help but itch it.

 

When pop came back with the dermatitis creme he went and rubbed it in himself, massaged it and was almost cooing like he was putting him to sleep. “It’s okay, don’t worry, it’s okay-” on and on. “You good?”

 

“I’m okay, dad.”

 

“What the doc say about with the applications and that?”

 

Phil knew. He didn’t say.

 

His dad looked him in the eye.

 

“I got you some salad, too. It’s got the vinegars on it. I mean, you--”

 

“Okay, dad.”

 

“You okay?”

 

“I’m okay.”

 

His dad smiled.

 

“Okay.”

 

***

 

“Okay? Sup, Balla.”

 

Xavier was in the booth seat, “Okay, balla, how it do.”

 

“Ey, frog killin’ ‘til my casket drops, my sh*t in this good thing, you know how it be.” Latrell took a seat. Took the cap off and placed it down flat on the table and got Xavier sighing with the empty paper burger box and the book opened flat on the table.

 

“How you eatin’?”

 

“Some food I went and done and ate for the five, you know how motherf*ckers go. Got the nines down and he was juggin’ for nothin’ and then he went and called a nigga fa**ot.”

 

Sheesh, “Okay.”

 

“I tell you. He was shakin’ shakes, you get me.”

 

Translation: Latrell kicked the sh*t out some guy who wouldn’t kick up dues for licks he hit. Disrespected a general. sh*t don’t fly. Food was ate. “I get you.”

 

“What the book for?”

 

Oh. “Trade.”

 

“Trade?”

 

“I got my GED. You know that, balla.”

 

Latrell furrowed brow. “Okay?”

 

“Yeah. And I was thinkin’ vocational. My moms was saying she’d be all for it. I want apprenticeship or some sh*t, I was readin’ this thing--”

 

“Hell you readin’ for?”

 

“In case I go.”

 

“But you don’t need to go.”

 

“I--”

 

“We ballin’. We don’t need no sh*t like that, we get our own from the Five Star. Kwame was tellin’ me--”

 

“My mom says its a good idea.”

 

“Mom don’t know sh*t. My mom don’t know sh*t, Xav’. Get real.”

 

“Latrell.”

 

“What?”

 

“C’mon. She’s saying- I mean, I don’t--”

 

“Time we’re, sh*t, 25, who cares, time you woulda’ been become a carpenter or some gay sh*t- we’ll be top of the set. Houses’ll know the f*ckin’ names. OG. We YG but--”

 

“That ain’t guaranteed,” Xavier said.

 

“Nothin’ guaranteed. Ain’t there requirements for f*ckin’ trade school sh*t, son?”

 

“Sure.”

 

“Sure, sure. S’what, sure. Sure’s ain’t officiation. Ain’t no case neither or nothin’ neither, Xavier. Ain’t what matters. We got this sh*t goin’ here and then you break that and if you f*ck this up we ain’t got a chance at neither.”

 

“I ain’t gonna f*ck up, L.”

 

“Knot was sayin’ some sh*t like this, too. But what I told him was not to act retarded and do some sh*t would f*ck up our groove. You, me, him. Three of us - sh*t’s what matters, sh*t, I’m lookin’ out for you.”

 

Xavier frowned.

 

“For real," L repeated.

 

“Okay.”

 

“Nah, seriously. For real, my nigga, for real, I mean- your moms never liked this two-one-twelve-twelve-one sh*t, b. She ever give you enthusiasms on that sh*t? It’s this sh*t she got you buggin’ with is the problem. She tell you to read this sh*t?”

 

“No.”

 

“Even worse. She tryn’ f*ck with your head, my nigga, I’m serious. What she doin’? What she said about me and the dudes, man?”

 

Xavier said nothing.

 

Xavier said nothing.

 

“That silence sh*t means she’s talkin’ sh*t about us.”

 

“No,” Xavier said.

 

“Your sh*t speakin’ for the sh*t’s self. What she say then?”

 

“Nothin’.”

 

“She said it. She said it, my nigga. What she done say?”

 

Xavier closed the book. Power Metal - Deck Codes & Standards 2005. Shoved it to the side with the box and the shake and put a hand through his hair. Chopped cut. “Said I should be focusin’ my potentials in some sh*t like this. You know my shop grades.”

 

“Niggas shoppin’ for that good sh*t with us. What the f*ck she know?”

 

“Don’t talk about my moms that way.”

 

“You remember what she called me that one time, son? She said I was goin’ off. Said I ain’t got the maturities. She sayin’ worse now I bet because I’m fast trackin’ to get no good sh*t and get them upgrades. What was the nigga Slip talkin’ about with that sharin’ sh*t?”

 

“Leopards.”

 

“That socialism sh*t. That don’t work. That socialist sh*t do not work. We got this democracy sh*t and she tryn’ get you to share your skills with niggas that don’t deserve it but that market, my nigga, is good. That market we shoppin’. Knot’s got that hookup wit’ Namond on that dro dro sh*t and you here talkin’ power tools. You gotta earn it. You know there ain’t no earning, you gotta join some bullsh*t union gonna suck you dry.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“You want to buy some power tools? Sure. Go ahead, nigga. Problem is that when you start on this path you eventually gonna start runnin’ out of other people’s money. Unions gonna milk you. Milk you and milk you. Where your brain at, son?”

 

“Okay.”

 

“I’m doin’ this because I care about you. That’s human nature. What you doin’ with this sh*t ain’t human nature ‘cause it ain’t sh*t, my nigga, you know that. I care about you more than you cares about yourself. We producin’. We produce. You gonna start production for some bitches who ain’t- I mean, this is ballin’. This is brotherhood.”

 

Xavier was looking down at the table.

 

“You the only one that matters,” Latrell said. “For real. You and Knot and this Balla sh*t. And we’ll never stop f*ckin’ balling. I won’t f*ck you over, son, I never do. It’s all for you, baby.”

 

“You always straight with me, Latrell.”

 

“I’m always tryn’ to help, Xav’.”

 

***

 

Abbot had come later that week after talking with Roy at Stanzino. Remembered the car and remembered the license plate. Both were parked outside the double-decker portable office. Looked kinda’ like a shipping crate or some sh*t like that: green with that corrugated metal look.

 

And the car. Pale red Stanier with the 2000’s plates. GFK-3243. One of those bumper stickers with the little fish symbol with JESUS in it. Another one on the window with the Seamen’s Church logo. Guy self advertised.

 

Abbot jimmied the window open.

 

Smashed open the wires with his knee.

 

Nearly started the thing.

 

Stopped.

 

Got out a moment and left the door ajar and crouched a little before moving to the window to view inside. Squinted. Mostly empty. Computers, filing cabinets, books.

 

Fella.

 

Fella with wispy gray hair, clean shaven, kinda-filthy short sleeve dress shirt with some pens in the breast pocket. Face down in the table. Portable air heater.

 

Smiled.

 

Went back to the car.

 

Reversed it. Slow. Wheeled around until the rear faced the exit door and went back.

 

Went back.

 

Stopped.

 

Got out.

 

About two feet clearance.

 

Went back in.

 

Reversed.

 

Goddamn f*ckin’ f*ck.

 

Got back out.

 

Half a foot between the rear and the door.

 

Left the door ajar and sighed and went screw it. Would plug the gap by the time he was done.

 

Okay.

 

Got the tape he’d been keeping in his jacket and shoved it out from the inside-pocket to the outside-pocket and sniffed a little before climbing up the steps to the second floor. Eyed the height.

 

He could make it.

 

Got on his tip-toes and just about got a grip on the roof. Used the hand rails to get his feet up and heave himself the f*ck over. Was easy. Lying flat on the roof. God give him strength.

 

Combustion vent. Big pipe looking f*cking thing with the fumes hot on his skin. Smelled gas.

 

Good.

 

Got the tape and sealed the vents shut.

 

Climbed down.

 

Waited.

 

Was the sea air mixing with the gas smell building up and Abbot going back and forth. Back to the road to check up and down for traffic. Back to the window to see if the guy inside was still asleep. Had checked the window upstairs: nobody, just more desks. Knew there was only one car in the lot, and the f*cker had Christ sh*t on the thing.

 

Roy told him Seth Cvjeticanin was a preacher type or something like that. Lined up.

 

Waited God-knows-how-long for the fumes to build up. Didn’t want to f*cking climb up again.

 

Looked at the intake pipe.

 

Looked down at the door. Backed up enough the sh*t was plugged. No space between the rear and the exit. The only exit. Knew the pipe meant one of those modular heaters - used propane, some sh*t like that. Knew it’d build.

 

It’d build.

 

It’d build.

 

Could leave the guy to suffocate, maybe.

 

Knew he had to finish the job.

 

Could smell the gas from the street. Fall cold, knew it was hot in there, knew the f*cker had the heater going nuts. Smelled f*cking awful. Mixed with the mist and the ocean.

 

Checked the window.

 

The guy inside was still asleep.

 

Window weren’t locked. Didn’t have to jimmy it.

 

Pulled the lighter out his jacket. Would get another for the dope when he got home. Flicked.

 

Flicked.

 

The man was waking up.

 

Flicked.

 

Fire.

 

They didn’t lock eyes. But the fella saw him.

 

Abbot jumped away.

 

And the fireball spread. Like a goddamn explosion. All the heat might as well have blown him the f*ck away. White.

 

White.

 

Abbot scrambled up and f*cking ran.

 

The Glossary

Liberty City Map

Edited March 18, 2024 by slimeball supreme

[slimeball supreme]

Loyalties Remain

 

The lights didn’t flicker like they did in the movies.

 

Weren’t no one-sided mirror glass f*cking things neither. Just a table and a plastic chair and his wrist cuffed to the table leg. No f*cking bright goddamn lamp. Just waiting.

 

He’d gotten this thick gash cutting off half his forehead when the cop shoved him through the glass door. Cut up his legs a little but the shock receded while he was still on the floor and he realized a chunk of his skin was lying on the tile. So he got a bandage.

 

Thick like the one he used to have on his knee. From the top of his eyebrow up to his temple and beyond; maybe past the hairline. Good thing he shaved.

 

Lost track of what happened.

 

Didn’t know where he was. Got put in a separate car to DB. Didn’t get told nothing. Didn’t hear nothing. Offices and roads blended together in his head and the words melded and the motherf*cker might as well have been meditating. The words got melded together so hard they were nothing. The canvas erased itself.

 

Latrell was clean or dead or both. Stared at the wrist, then back at the door, then the wrist. The walls were gray. Two chairs in front of him were yellow. His was maroon. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

 

Heard talking behind the door.

 

It opened.

 

Two men made themselves immediately known. On the left: gray cargo pants, black polo, black unzipped hoodie, black tac boots. Same boots on the guy on the right, except jeans and a plain beige shirt. Both white. 

 

Lefty was light brown-bearded with the facial hair unkempt, paramilitary, deliberate. Had eyebrows that were darker than the rest of his hair and little thin lips. Righty was olive-skinned, tougher-looking, clean shaven. Birthmark on his neck and greasy hair. Behind them was another guy. He slunk. Sweatshirt and a Swingers baseball cap with the bent brim, spaced out eyes, sleeker. Sleek like an otter or a muskrat with hair that seemed to propel water. Reflective.

 

Six eyes.

 

The man at the back kept slinking, slunk back to the wall side. The two, beard and greaseball, they stood there.

 

Greaseball couldn’t help but smirk. Bore his teeth. Got beardo smiling a little before his teeth started showing when greasy let out a jackal-cackle. Something short and kinda quiet but cutting, like a knife wound.

 

He slapped the table. “I’m Shane DeCanio, and this is my partner Jake Van Der Werff. And you, pal pal pal, are Latrell Palmer. That’s so, yeah?”

 

Latrell clenched his teeth. “I’m gonna have to invoke my fifth amendm--”

 

“No you’re not,” beardo said. Beardo was Jake. Jake looked at him. Didn’t even sound serious, “That don’t mean sh*t.”

 

“Nah, plead the fifth. You cracked it.”

 

Latrell shrugged with his hands, “S’my legal right.”

 

“Nothin’s your legal f*ckin’ right,” Shane said. “What’s your legal f*ckin’ right? Dick’s your legal f*ckin’ right.”

 

“I--”

 

“We got no cameras in here,” Jake said. Pointed up, “You can check, they’re off. Nothin’. Nobody’s watchin’ through no glass windows. Nothin’. Youse a ghost in the system. Youse f*ckin’ pixie dust. Youse ain’t got no rights. That sh*t don’t matter.”

 

Latrell thought. “So what do you want to know?”

 

Shane cooed, “Just like that?”

 

Latrell nodded.

 

Two fellas laughed. “Didn’t even f*ckin’ have to f*ckin’ blink. Shoulda’ had Grant time you.”

 

Jake, “Grant, he’s outside.”

 

“We had him in case you wanted to roll retard. But you ain’t rolled retard. You rolled pussy. What’s up?”

 

Latrell didn’t flinch, “What do you want to know?”

 

A very pregnant pause.

 

Two cops at the fore looked crooked at each other. Looked back. Shane, “You believe this?”

 

Back to the guy in the sweatshirt. Didn’t smile. “You know where we found you?” guy said.

 

Jake, “Howeva’ many f*ckin’ many of them oxys and fentys and alla’ that kinda sh*t. All of that. Your buddy with the gold card. I mean--”

 

Latrell, “DB hooked me up on that sh*t but I ain't know nothin’ about them. I’ll tell you motherf*ckers any you want to know. Any. Any thing or any person or any any--”

 

“About those beaners?”

 

Nodded.

 

Jake looked back at Shane. Shane smiled. “We don’t care about some spic dealers.” Could barely keep the sh*t-eating grin down and he started jackal-cackling. Shane pointed so close to the head he was barely touching eyelash, “We care about you, motherf*cker, we tagged along for you! You, Latrell the motherf*cker Palmer!”

 

Latrell blinked.

 

“Ah see,” Jake said. “See, you done broke him now, you don’t think he ain’t got two neurons firin’ in there none about this, ha. Ain’t that so, Bumpy?”

 

Mocking, “Bumpyyy,” Shane was going. “Bumpy.”

 

Latrell blinked.

 

“The whole thing with that Omar kid, small fry, Omar Romo-Paz Romo-sh*t-stupid, who gives a f*ck.” Jake gave half a wink. “That’s a DOA thing.”

 

“We tagged,” said Shane. “Ride along. So youse ain’t even got youse fingerprints in the f*ckin’ file.”

 

“So,” Jake laughed, “Let’s go again. Round two. You know where we found you? We found one Latrell ‘Bumpy’ Palmer - and yessir that nickname is goin’ in any papers that publish - a member of the Ballas street gang talkin’ to two or three wiseguys on a tape about distribution. Cell phones and drugs goin’ through prison connects. No codenames, just about conspiracy, f*ckin’ RICO predicates, all of that sh*t open.”

 

Shane jumped, “On tape. On tape with no distortions or coughs or nothin’. Three bugs. One inna’ Ubermacht that went bump, one in a Jap sedan, one in the backroom of a tattoo parlor. And we got you. Bumpy. Associating with two motherf*ckers - Frankie Mazza and Reuben Procida - as well as tacit motherf*ckin’ connections to one Rodney Gravelli, one Titus Lupisella, one Phillip Donovan. So that’s half a f*ckin’ family.”

 

“Dez,” Jake barked. “Desmond, get it.”

 

Guy in the sweatshirt got it. Dug through the hood pockets and placed, delicate on the table, a tape recorder.

 

Shane, “And we done cut out all the pieces that ain’t juicy for the f*ckin’ presentation. So we got conspiracy to sell drugs and all of that sh*t. Weed connect--”

 

Latrell snapped, “What do you want to know?”

 

“We want you to know we got everything there is to get on you.”

 

Latrell was foot-tapping, “I’ll tell you everything there is to say, man, I will.”

 

“You don’t need to say sh*t.”

 

“You want me to talk sh*t on the Albanian, on the drugs, on the guns, on the whatever--”

 

Dez, “Guns?”

 

“Yeah,” Latrell said. “Yeah, and- and- and all of it, and the f*ckin’ place we went to too with the bus stop--”

 

“The f*ck are you talkin’ about?” said Shane.

 

“I was just playing along,” Latrell said. “Tryna’ get into they heads. With the whole thing with the drugs. I mean, we never even started pushin’ that sh*t anyway, they was tryna’ get the supply from this guy Mergim who had this--”

 

Jake, “Mergim?”

 

“The nigga who died at the restaurant, man, goddamn. You know this sh*t.”

 

This cold silence.

 

Cogs were turning in their heads. “You got…” Shane trailed off, frowned. “What?”

 

“When we killed that nigga after the other nigga, man.”

 

Jake, “What other nigga?”

 

Latrell didn’t even comment, “At the Burger Shot.”

 

Eyebrows went.

 

Jake f*cking beamed so wide he lost his cheeks. “You goddamn idiot.”

 

Shane, “You did that?”

 

Didn’t even hesitate, “Yeah, yeah,” Latrell said. “Because he said he was dissin’ that Mergim’s guys but we found out it was some beef over some sh*t that weren’t even that. So Frankie told us to run up on the nigga and blast.”

 

“You killed four f*ckin- you did that?” He was f*cking ecstatic, “Oh my f*ckin’- haha! Ha. You f*ckin’ did that? And that Frankie guy?”

 

Dez, “That weren’t retaliation?”

 

Latrell, “That was retaliation from us. I mean, I don’t know what the f*ck you guys was thinkin’. After that sh*t with the truck I went on I mean I was doin’ whatever they said but--”

 

“You’re giving us so much sh*t, just talk slow.”

 

Latrell, “That’s what y’all want?”

 

And Shane said “Nobody said sh*t. That Xavier guy who got busted on that thing, at the Burger Shot, we couldn’t get sh*t out of him. No names.”

 

“He was always a retard,” Latrell said.

 

“You got five bodies,” Jake said.

 

“Six or seven,” Latrell corrected.

 

Shane slapped his f*cking head and cackled again, “Oh my f*cking god!”

 

Jake, “Why are you doing this?”

 

“Doing what?” Latrell went.

 

“Who- who the f*ck- okay, who was the two other guys?”

 

And Latrell paused. “This guy in Tudor we was robbin’ for what we thought was gonna be drugs or somethin’ but it ended up bein’ some dish soap sh*t. This dude name Paulie’s brother. Hit him up for nothin’ and dumped that sh*t in the river. And Knot shot a nigga--”

 

“Knot?”

 

“My nigga Kavon, he shot a nigga named Cris or some sh*t in East Liberty.”

 

Silence again.

 

Jake couldn’t f*cking believe it.

 

Dez took over from the two at the head who were busy reeling, coughed, “So- like- what. Kavon who?”

 

“Kavon Nelson,” Latrell said. “Nigga got shot at the mechanic in Broker and f*cked the whole thing up for us.”

 

“So he was with you?”

 

“Yeah,” Latrell said. “What, you ain’t know that?”

 

“He’s in a coma.”

 

“I told him to collect on some sh*t and then he got popped. I don’t know what for. Me and the guys who got busted there was gonna hit some niggas at the docks for some good sh*t, son, I mean it was flash. I mean, you musta’ heard on the tapes I was talkin’ about that.”

 

“And your buddy killed the guy in East Liberty--”

 

“He knew some sh*t about it and I squeezed him for it. So I popped him. Or- or he popped him. You know. Cristobal, I think.”

 

“Cristobal Jeremy,” Dez said.

 

“I ain’t know the dude surname or nothin’. Thought he was a Mexican.”

 

Didn’t reply, “And you didn’t kill his mom?”

 

Latrell blinked. “Nah, I think that was the other guy. Not Ramon. The other dude. I forgot his name. Uh… yeah, he wore gloves and sh*t and acted weird.”

 

“Gerardo.”

 

“How you know that?”

 

Shane, “We had them suspects pegged in some sh*t for a Lupisella thing, we thought. I mean…” he stopped just to f*cking grin again. “God, you f*cking idiot.”

 

“I ain’t dumb, it’s these niggas is dumb. It’s DB and Xavier and Knot and these wop ass motherf*ckers who are dumb, man. Me, I’m just tryn’ keep them markets afloat and focused. Them, I mean, they just gettin’ moved around the checkerboard while the king stay clean.”

 

Jake, “Who’s the king?”

 

“I don’t know, man. Just know I ain’t ignorant and they is and you gotta play the dumb niggas to get the checkmake.”

 

Shane said “Mate.”

 

“Huh?”

 

Shane just chuckled. “This is too rich.”

 

“Cuff them niggas, then. I’ll testify. Them Frankie and Reuben and all them motherf*ckers. I done seen that nigga dad and I mean- after I got that guy in ‘Derney I found out buyin’ guns at this car dealership in Tudor. I could show you the directions. Just keep my name censored or whatever.”

 

Dez looked at the tape recorder on the table.

 

Went to grab it.

 

Jake stopped him. “Nah, a minute. This is good. We--”

 

Latrell, “What you got on them tapes, anyway?”

 

“Some mean sh*t,” Dez said. “He’s already talking--”

 

“What they say?”

 

“They called you a lot of names,” Jake said.

 

“Yeah? Them wop niggas can call my nuts names, man, they can lick that sh*t, f*ck ‘em.”

 

Shane looked to Jake. Dez looked to Jake. Jake looked straight a-f*cking-head. Little bit above Latrell’s eyes, at the bandage. Thought. “Okay,” he said. “Where’s the play button?”

 

Dez pointed.

 

Jake clicked.

 

“When I was - sh*t... I used to be the gig guy at the houses, right? That’s rookie sh*t. We get a pallet of soda cans. Right?”

 

“That’s you,” Jake said.

 

“Gotcha’.”

 

“Folks stockin’ vending machines or commissary or whatever. So we cut the plastic, knives n’ sh*t, you know. I hollowed out the bottom of the soda can, I take one soda out the case, because the case is wrapped in plastic, right... I stick sh*t in there. I stick it back in the case, the case looks like it's never been touched. Easy.”

 

Stopped the tape. “You see where it’s going?”

 

Latrell, “You got the whole thing?”

 

“No, we keep it all in here. Yes, we got the tapes. All the tapes. Hold on--”

 

Pressed, pressed, pressed.

 

 “These guys at the docks. They Italian too, I think.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yeah. They’re big boys. They movin’ weight outta one of the warehouses. No eyes on it. Real quick gig, in, out. Heroin, I think.”

 

Shane, “So what’s that?”

 

“What I was doin’ with Ramon,” Latrell said.

 

“You was what?”

 

“Homie told us about this thing these dudes was doing, these organized motherf*ckers, who was keepin’ smack and sh*t on ice for distribution with everything else and that kinda’ sh*t. And- and- and these guys wanted us to move weight into those jails, not Astors but the little holding ones in Broker and Algonquin and whatever. And I went along with it because I thought sh*t could net me some bread, get me off my feet, maybe they could help me with the rob-job, son.”

 

“You wanted the mobsters to help you, what? Rob some drug dealers?”

 

“Yeah, ‘cept they was kitted out at the docks at this dry dock thing. I can show you it, too.”

 

“They your friends?” Jake asked. “The gangsters.”

 

“I told you, they can suck me off. Ion’t give a f*ck.”

 

Jake smiled. Cruel little smile where the eyebrows didn’t move. “Press play.”

 

Dez did.

 

“You’re really startin’ to f*ckin’ piss me off with this sh*t, man.”

 

“That’s Reuben,” Shane said. “Talkin’ to Frankie.”

 

“With what?”

 

“With what, with what, Frank. We can’t keep lettin’ n*ggers in the social club. I’m bein’ serious.”

 

Latrell said “Oh.”

 

“Shut up, man.”

 

“I’m being serious.”

 

“Listen. You know, I was tellin’ you, if we did this with your cousin--”

 

“That’s different.”

 

“Moolies is moolies, I mean, I ain’t happy either. Just don’t be such a moody bitch about it.”

 

“What? What I say?”

 

“You been a bitch with Bumpy, when we went to the f*ckin’ Stop? This guy- I mean, you know how sensitive--”

 

“What you mean?”

 

“I mean, moolies get all f*cked up about that sh*t. You know them black lives f*ckin- when they get f*ckin’ all, when cops f*ckin’ kill some n*gger done robbed someone and they get all pissy.”

 

“What? So they don’t like cops.”

 

“They don’t trust whites and sh*t. I mean, you know, if he thinks we’re racist--”

 

“I ain’t racist.”

 

“I know. But if he thinks it, if you’re an ass about it Reuben, I mean- brother. Think about Dennis.”

 

“He’d be sh*ttin’.”

 

“He gets a cellphone, some blow, we do some good sh*t, Reu? I mean, f*ck the jig, you know. He kills that guy, we get the dope, we start spreading, Denzo gets the sh*t. We’re f*ckin’ Vercetti. Vicegrip. Then we can do some real sh*t--”

 

Dez stopped the tape. “It goes on,” he said.

 

“The mick,” Shane went. “We sh*t when you talked about those dealers in the tattoo parlor, he kept bringing that sh*t up--”

 

“Who?” Latrell went.

 

“Who. Who. These cugine scumbags just called you n*gger six times you’re asking about who.”

 

“What the f*ck is a Mick? I don’t understand that sh*t, man.”

 

“Donovan,” Jake said. “The Irish.”

 

Clicked for Latrell. “And he wanna roll on this thing?”

 

“Yeah,” said Shane. “He won’t, though, because youse testifying, right?”

 

“Well, he ain’t done sh*t.”

 

“He was there every step of the way.”

 

“Son, you know--”

 

“You think the mick’s your friend? You’re barkin’ up the wrong oyster, Bumpy. Come on.”

 

“I ain’t saying that.” Latrell nearly laughed. “No. But, you know. I mean--”

 

“We got him on the tapes, don’t we?”

 

“Yeah,” Shane said. “Some funny sh*t.”

 

“Funny sh*t,” Jake echoed. “Play it. Fast forward through this sh*t, we get it, just get to the juice.”

 

And Dez nodded. Dez was doing the jackal-grin now. All three were. All were taunting with their eyes. Cop picked up the recorder, thumbed around a little, clacked a button a moment and heard the sh*t fast forwarded before he stopped.

 

Shane looked Latrell in the eyes. “They was hangin’ out in the back of that tattoo sh*t with that guy Titus. And Rod was out the front. The guy with muscles, the boxer.”

 

“I remember,” Latrell said.

 

“Good. Play.”

 

Played.

 

“--and what was it?”

 

“I don’t know, some f*ckin’ sh*t with cigarettes or some bullsh*t.”

 

“First guy is Francesco. Second is Philly.”

 

“And they choked the f*ckin’ guy out over that?”

 

“He was actin’ f*ckin’ nonsensical.”

 

“Pigs don’t usually do the chokeholds for sh*t, though, right?”

 

“I mean, if the spook is acting like an animal then he’s not cooperating. It’s different. I ain’t breakin’ no sweats over a couple busted up black guys. I got robbed by some one’a time.”

 

“You likin’ that, Bumpy?” Jake was hyuck-hyuckin’, “You like that?”

 

Latrell didn’t reply.

 

“I mean, they should lock up the ones dealing drugs.”

 

“He was responding to a call. And all the n*ggers is always running that sh*t, anyways.”

 

“Yeah, heh. Yeah. You remember that thing in Firefly, Reuben?”

 

“With Dennis and the mulignans, yeah.”

 

“f*ckin’ dishwashing sh*t. Gave Angie a good laugh or whatever, f*ckin’ mamaluke f*ckin’ cocksucker. But you know. I mean, they always try stiff the f*ck out you.”

 

“When was this?” Latrell asked.

 

“While back,” Jake went.

 

“I mean--”

 

“We got one more. More recent. Dez?”

 

Dez obliged - pressed another button, let the tape run out a second or two before doing a real cinematic clack onto the stop symbol. Looked to Jake. Looked to Shane.

 

Shane smirked, “This was around May. We was gonna give you the backstory. But, you know. You told us. What happened.”

 

Latrell blinked.

 

Click.

 

“--so slow down, Frankie, what was it--”

 

“First guy is your buddy, the Irish. Him and Frank.”

 

“Ticky says they just went like lunatics up with the shotguns and ran up to ‘em. Didn’t even know how they got the f*ckin’ tip. You think Scott was--”

 

“Nah.”

 

“Nah?”

 

“Nah. Goddamn shines, man. Angie always let them do a leg on the truck joint gettin’ the sh*t from Florida, right?”

 

“Yeah. I told him, get Dennis’ cousin. Get my cousin. He was telling me about these power drills he got and they fell off this f*ckin’ shipment in f*ckin’ Green Bay. You know how long a drive it is to Green Bay?”

 

“And Angie gets the Florida drivers to swap, right?”

 

“They’re f*ckin’ lazy f*cking moolies or spics or both, man, that’s f*ckin’ why. And then they trade up with Scott near Lenapia and we give those guys their cut and he rides the truck out from there. But you know. My cousin Kevin went all the way to f*ckin’ Nagadawee for that switch. And then he rode all the way back. And that’s a long f*ckin’ drive.”

 

“Pshh’, yeah. And Kevin just sells those printers out his car trunk--”

 

“But he’s committed.”

 

“Of course.”

 

“And we got our eyes peeled on some moolies right now, you think they’d have the balls to do that sh*t? Ride the truck to the Midwest, I mean. Not the laser printers.”

 

“Nah.”

 

“Exactly, Philly. Eggy-f*ckin’-zack-a-tiv-ley.”

 

“Dress up like fags in the purple sh*t, yeah. They do that. They go to jail and assf*ck all day and night for trade. They can do that. And then the n*ggers go get outta’ bed and then they shoot buckshots- god. God, imagine how Paulie’s feeling. Poor f*cker.”

 

“You gotta--”

 

Tape stopped.

 

Jake, “I thought we had more? We had the whole f*ckin’ thing down.”

 

“Nah,” Dez said. “Musta’ cut it short, I don’t know.”

 

“Whatever. You got the message, Bumpy? Micky and the boys, they all called you fag and they all called you moolie and n*gger and lazy. And they made fun that guy got choked out in Lennox, right?”

 

Latrell wasn’t speaking.

 

“And now you decide to be quiet?”

 

Latrell sighed. “Whatever.”

 

“You’ll testify,” Shane went.

 

And Latrell said, without hesitation, “Yes.”

 

The two cops jackal-grinned. Crowded him. Nobody had taken the seats yet. Just palms flat on the table. Jake broke the silence: “No,” he said. “You won’t.”

 

Latrell blinked.

 

“You take the stand, it won’t be censored.” Ear to ear, Jake was smiling. “We got you callin’ sh*t on everybody and everything. This investigation you found yourself in. It’s bigger than you.”

 

“Big like the f*ckin’ Rotterdam Tower a’ somethin’.”

 

Jake laughed, “Good one.”

 

“Yeah, exactly. Or- or like your mom’s ass, maybe. Large. You f*cked up and tripped and fell in the deep end.”

 

“Gambetti, boom. Messina, boom. Pavano, boom. Lenapia, boom. Lupisella, boom. East Coast La Cosa Nostra, boom. We got you admitting to about six, seven murders. More. We put you on the stand, maybe we can give up every Baller guy in your housing projects too.”

 

Latrell didn’t blink.

 

Shane grinned, “And yeah. Every n*gger in that tower is gonna know you dropped the dime.”

 

“That’s door number one.”

 

Latrell scratched the back of his neck. Meekly, “And two?”

 

“Oh, two’s good.”

 

“Two,” Shane said. “This conversation never happened. You and the DB guy, you leave with no charges. Belcourt, he’s behind bars in another borough and the fellas is probably making that phone call real hard. So today never happened.”

 

“But.”

 

“But. But we keep in touch. You keep hanging out with them Lupisellas. You wear a recording device we can swap out at any and all times. You make sure every word is on record. And you get those guys to the docks to do that little robbery you wanted.”

 

Beat.

 

Latrell said “What?”

 

“Philly wants to do it. That Frankie and that Reuben and Titus was all on board, mostly. You get one or two more, you make it a real f*ckin’ Union Depository - then we got everyone dead to rights on armed robbery, right? And none of that leads to you. All through the bug in the parlor and the car, right? So like you never snitched at all.”

 

“I ain’t no snitch--”

 

“Sure.” Shrugged, “Of course. We strengthen the government’s case on behalf of the Bureau, everyone leaves happy. You leave without sh*t. Then maybe we can offer confidential testimony and we don’t get all those n*ggers in the towers in handcuffs over posession and illegal guns and sweet, sweet RICO predicates. You was working with Vyvyan--”

 

“Nah, man.”

 

“Nah?”

 

“Nah, I told you. I domed him over f*ckin’ marijuana or f*ckin’ poker machines, I told you.”

 

“No,” Jake said.

 

“I shot Messina. The Chick, Spadina, whatever. Lupisella niggas ain’t involved in whatever this port thing is. That’s different. Lupisellas straight up hate these Messina niggas. They ain’t workin’ together.”

 

“That’s not what we’re gonna say in the indictments.”

 

“What you mean?”

 

“He means,” Shane said. “We decided just now that ain’t the case.”

 

“But it is.”

 

“We know.”

 

Latrell squinted. “What?”

 

“Dumbass.”

 

“Look,” Jake went. “You choose option two, we finally get cause to go ahead with these charges. So you choose option two?”

 

And Latrell stared.

 

And Latrell said “Yeah.”

 

The cops grinned.

 

Latrell didn’t.

 

“Dez.”

 

Dez nodded. Fella pushed through the two at the forefront, the two detectives with their big wicked smiles, and he pulled a key out his sweatshirt. Click. Handcuffs went limp. Pat him on the back and walked out the room wordlessly.

 

Latrell sat in the chair frozen.

 

“You can go, Fido,” Jake said. “Bumpy.”

 

“We’ll be in touch. You don’t say a word to nobody in the station. You just get out the door and you go home. You make sure Frankie Mazza and his boys are gearing up for this little thing. You lose focus, we’ll make sure everything’s crystal-f*ckin’-hypered.”

 

Latrell just kept staring.

 

Shane barked “Go!”

 

And Latrell went.

 

Latrell scurried out the interrogation room and looked back and saw Grant. Saw the guy who tackled him through the damn window with the mustache and the windbreaker and the sh*tty blond mop. Didn’t smile as he left.

 

Walked through the valley of dead-eye cops making notes barely looking. Walked down the stairs. Right out the front door.

 

He was in Dukes.

 

Stood there in the street.

 

His foot was still tapping the pavement.

 

The Glossary

Liberty City Map

Edited February 21, 2021 by slimeball supreme

[slimeball supreme]

Son of Peter

 

Abbot shot up and met Benny at the restaurant. The high was coming down by then. Felt this sh*t in his skull when he got told drive me here and Benny didn’t say why. Just drive him there.

 

Take the Enus to 17 Outlook Park West. So Abbot did.

 

Benny didn’t give him directions this time. He sat in silence. Bit his knuckle. Kept watching out the window. Abbot did the math in his head: address was fancy. Cork Villa. Somewhere important. Important friend of mine.

 

Who?

 

Didn’t know.

 

Maybe that Revaz f*cking guy.

 

Something.

 

Parkside. Parkside brownstones and three-storey apartments and winding staircases. These Victorians or Gregorians or whatever the f*ck they’re f*cking called. Turned through 8th Avenue onto a Place onto Soldier’s Plaza. Benefactors and bicycles and the library and the greenery.

 

Outlook Park West.

 

“Listen.”

 

Abbot’s ears perked. “Okay.”

 

“You tired?”

 

No, he was f*cking coming down. “Kinda.”

 

“Long night?”

 

“Yeah,” Abbot said. “Long night.”

 

“This come off from the thing you did at the docks for Mr. Zito, yeah? You solved a many problem. Or we hope this much. This man, he whiny whine whine and talk to people. You remember Mr. Bananas? Anastas?”

 

Squinted. “Yeah.”

 

“Yes. Real problem. He was upset this preacher talk and talk to someone else and then Port Tudor light up because of some containers and this whole thing. A lot of people depend on the breakfast banana, a lot of people depend on what we get out the port.”

 

Abbot nodded.

 

“You behave,” Benny said. “You behave.”

 

“I’m behaved.”

 

“Fix you f*cking hair.”

 

“Okay.” Checked the rear mirror. “What?”

 

“Is all f*cked up. Clean it up. With the f*cking hair, is all everywhere. This guy my brother.”

 

“Your brother?”

 

“No. Not my brother. He’s good fruen’, he’s good fruen’, just be behaved.”

 

His brother. But not his brother. His friend. Or something.

 

Ran a hand through his hair. 17 Outlook Park West.

 

17 Outlook Park West was this limestone on the corner. Three floors. Balcony with f*ckin’ pillars you could see from the street. Garden prettied up with rich people flowers out the multicolor and this tree - this thin, spindly tree, blocking the windows. Windows had the curtains drawn.

 

“Can we park here?”

 

“Yeah,” Benny said. Could tell it weren’t his first time here.

 

Parked the Enus at the foot of the stairs. Bit his lip. Blew hard out the nose and asked again, “You sure we can park up here?”

 

“Is f*cking legal, Abbot.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Think, man, think.”

 

Abbot sighed.

 

Put it in park. Grit his teeth. Sucked the cheeks in. Got out.

 

Straightened himself out. Another hand through the hair - “Hold on,” Benny said, “Your hair.” Stepped up and tugged on his shirt a bunch to get the creases out and licked his palm, grunted, ran the f*cking thing through Abbot’s rug and pat-patted him on the cheek. “You got it?”

 

“I’m fine,” Abbot said.

 

“You keep your eyes open, yeah?”

 

“I’ll do it.”

 

“Good, boy, good boy.” Kissed his fingers, snorted. “Alright.”

 

Benny lead the way up the limestone stairs.

 

Abbot followed.

 

Managed to catch up to the doorstep to hear the ring-ring and see Benny waiting. Nearly leaned on the door before he realized what he was doing: stopped himself, flattened out the jacket, clicked his tongue.

 

Door opened outward. Benny moved out the way. “Kuvalda.”

 

Kuvalda was this big guy with a big, thick, ruddy face. Old. Grizzled. Had this chopped up hair and stubble and these beady eyes under deeply lined forehead - Rearwall puffer vest and a white button-up. “Privyet, Benya.”

 

“Я не видел тебя целую вечность, братан. Посмотри на себя, Naum, baby.”

 

“Как ваша жена?”

 

“Whore.” Benny kept a straight face and the lips broke into a smile, and the smile broke into a big ass f*cking grin, and he laughed. “She a f*cking whore.”

 

Kuvalda chuckled too.

 

Abbot nodded like he knew what was being said. Extended a hand, “Abbot,” he said. “Cohen.” Let it speak for himself.

 

Kuvalda’s lips went straight and he shook. Strong f*cking grip. “You’re the kid,” he said.

 

“Yeah,” Abbot went.

 

“That’s good. That’s good. Come on.”

 

They stepped foot into the ziggurat. Herringbone flooring. Entry was dusted up with the waxing scratched off past the doormat. Nearly took the shoes off outta’ habit. Big f*cking house. Nice rug into this lounge area with a fireplace and mahogany and columns and these rear windows out to the back garden that were stained. Stained yellow glass. Kuvalda was chewing something. They babbled in Russian.

 

Followed Kuvalda through the brown and white and beige and the yellow filtering in. The yellow windows and the yellow flowers. These paintings. This glorious mantel piece with a glass vase.

 

Into a kitchen. The kitchen. Whatever. Whites. Marble-looking whites. Kitchen island had a girl maybe late teens. Brown hair cut to the neck in a striped long-sleeve, purple-black stripes. At the countertop with a book open.

 

Looked to the three. Looked back.

 

At the sink. A woman. Forties, early fifties - blonde, stern. Charcoal pencil dress. Turned as well away from a counter full of nothing and an empty sink, Abbot’d thought there’d be maids or some bullsh*t, got her expression. Neutral? No. It melted into a scowl.

 

“Anshelochka, honey. Maybe you can do this in your room. I’ll come talk to you.”

 

The girl looked back. Nodded. “Okay, mom,” got her books and scurried off.

 

Benny said something in Russian to the woman. The woman didn’t stop scowling. Said something back to Benny, and Benny stopped smiling.

 

Benny talked to Kuvalda. Intermingled.

 

Abbot drifted off to the corner of the kitchen.

 

“Abbot,” Benny said. “You wait here. Me and Naum talk to our friend before he talk to you.”

 

“Sure, sure,” Abbot went. “Okay. Alright.”

 

Benny and Kuvalda exited.

 

Abbot stood in the corner of the kitchen.

 

At the sink. The woman kept scowling.

 

The woman sighed. “Are you going to just wait in here?”

 

“Your girl studying for what?”

 

And the woman scoffed. “None of your business.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“You like listening to that kind of thing?”

 

“I didn’t hear anything.”

 

“Don’t eavesdrop. It’s rude.”

 

“I know.”

 

Woman scoffed again. “Kuzma’s fools. All Mister Muscles. All come in they look dopey, dumb. Kuvalda, Mr. Sledgehammer, he couldn’t tell you anything. You come in and you have glasses and look like you got picked off the street. What’s he want with you?”

 

And Abbot didn’t break. “I’m Mr. Muscles.”

 

Chuckled, “Конечно же. Конечно же. Listening to little girls is what Kenny is hiring people--”

 

“I told you, I didn’t hear anything.”

 

“But you said something.”

 

“Yeah. I don’t know.” Scratched his temple, “Was gonna ask what she was doin’ or whatever. I don’t know. My mom used to help me with my sh*t. Reminds me of when I was a kid.”

 

“Reminds anyone of when they were a kid. It’s homework. You go to school, nothing special. Half the men who come in here have doctorates. Degrees. They all went to school.”

 

“Never said I was special. You were the one saying they’re all dopey.”

 

“Ha. Intelligence does not preclude stupidity. Your name is Abbot.”

 

“Mr. Muscles.”

 

“Sure. Mister Abbot Muscles. Let me tell you something. My husband has two degrees. And he’s as dumb as anyone else. I have a linguistics degree and I still screw up with my English. He’s got a degree in engineering and he doesn’t engineer sh*t. Education does not equal intelligence, Muscles.”

 

“Cohen,” Abbot said.

 

“Lucky. Mine was Rakovskaya. Now it’s Petrovich.”

 

Abbot squinted. “I see.”

 

“You see. Sure. You’re lucky because you get to keep your name. Now I’m Dasha Petrovich and I have the name of a man who f*cks every whore he f*cking sees and don’t come down for f*cking sh*t, mudak, idi v’banyu. But you have your fun.”

 

Looked at the floor. “Okay,” Abbot said.

 

“Have some f*cking bite, muscles. I bite at these idiots and they don’t bite back. Bite harder. Bite at me.”

 

“I don’t know what the f*ck you want from me.”

 

“Balls, maybe.”

 

Abbot couldn’t even laugh. Just the absurdity. Let out this strained little breath and put his hands up and said “Whatever.”

 

“What does Kenny want with you anyway?”

 

“I didn’t even know that’s his name.”

 

“Okay. So what did you do? What are you doing? You Benny’s friend?”

 

“I drive him.”

 

“Chauffeur, chauffeur, chauffeur. Abbot Cohen, the chauffeur.”

 

Abbot wanted to say something.

 

Something specific.

 

But he didn’t.

 

Bit his lip. Blew out through his teeth.

 

She smirked. Hands flat. “You want a water?”

 

Looked at her.

 

“Sure,” he said.

 

She got a glass. Abbot went to the island. Loose pen the girl forgot - he rolled it over and the sound got the woman, the wife, Dasha, listening. “Oh,” she said.

 

“The glass.”

 

Dasha looked at it: overfilling. “Oh.” Turned off the faucet, poured some off the top, placed it hard enough on the countertop to hear a clack but only just light enough for the thing not to f*cking shatter. Stared at him.

 

“You want me to drink this?”

 

“Go ahead.”

 

“You put f*cking ricin in this thing, you getting me--”

 

She laughed, a real laugh, “Yeah, yeah, cyanide. Go.”

 

No more scowling. Abbot grabbed the thing and stirred. “You wash your dishes?”

 

“Oh. Nice.”

 

“What?”

 

“Yeah. We have a maid and a dishwasher. The dishwasher washes the dishes. No, I’m not that f*cking pompous.”

 

“That’s good.”

 

“The bite is good. How--”

 

“Abbot.” That weren’t the woman. That was Benny.

 

Benny and Kuvalda made their way out from another doorway with a third guy: this slender bald guy with an aquiline nose and graying head stubble, this chunky sweater with these patterns on it, a little glint of a necklace underneath. Man beckoned.

 

Abbot left the water on the table.

 

Benny, “Rami Yalon, Abbot. Abbot, Rami Yalon.”

 

Abbot shook hands with Rami. A lot of f*ckers with strong goddamn grip here. Rami gave a side-eye and nodded and said “I’ll take you up. Benny, Naum.”

 

Two of them left without a word.

 

Abbot chewed on the silence. “You Arab?”

 

Rami let out a snicker. “A little Lebanese. But no. Russian.”

 

“Israeli, then.”

 

“Yeah. Something like that.” He walked on through the hallway past a couple rooms to a staircase. Place was like a maze. Abbot lagged along. “At the port,” he said. “With the thing.”

 

“Yeah,” Abbot said. “The preacher.”

 

“Kuzma is pleased, yeah. How long you have been in employ?”

 

Abbot tried to keep pace, “Depends.”

 

“Depends?”

 

“Yeah. I got back into this sh*t in May--”

 

Rami whistled. They were on the stairs now, “Seven, eight months.”

 

“But you know. I mean, I been familiar a little with everything going on since I was… whatever.”

 

“Yeah, a kid, yeah. You’re Hove Beach.”

 

“Yeah,” Abbot said. “Something like that.”

 

Rounded the staircase onto a second flight, onto the third floor. “Do you know Kenny Petrovich?” Rami asked.

 

“Not really,” Abbot said.

 

“Good.”

 

“He’s the boss?”

 

They were down another hallway headed along a long wall with a double-door in the middle. “No,” Rami said. “My boss, sure. Benny’s boss, sure. Your boss, no.” He stopped. “He wants to see you alone.”

 

Abbot had his hands in his pockets still feeling the head-pains from the come down. Hairs pricked up on the back of his neck. Sprung to f*cking life. “Yeah?”

 

“Private,” Rami nodded.

 

Let that linger. “Huh, sh*t.”

 

“That’a going to be problem?”

 

“No, no,” sniffed, “No. I’m good.”

 

“Good.” Rami gave him a pat on the back, clicked his tongue. Opened the door.

 

Abbot slid through.

 

The lights were dimmed. Felt small. Hunched over. The room expanded in all corners like a thousand miles of nothing, couldn’t make out any details. Light filtered in through the balcony. Daylight cut into prison bars from the columns.

 

A man stood there. Smoke. Tobacco.

 

The man had his back to Abbot with eyes on the street and the treetops of Outlook. Finger round a thick-as-hell cigar with the gold label glinting. He was in a smoking jacket.

 

He turned.

 

He was pretty much only in a smoking jacket.

 

The smoking jacket was red and gold, royalty sh*t, robe sewed pretty and quilted. Maybe velvet. Wasn’t wearing much else - legs were bare, could maybe make out boxers. Bare chested with a forest of chest hair dotting down into a sparser abdomen. He cut a mean figure. A strong jawed guy going gray as could get: stocky, heavy mustache shadowing a 5 o’clock going 6 or maybe 7.

 

These wet eyes. All seeing eyes not seeing. Put the two fingers he was holding the smoke with to his temple, wiped his nose with his thumb. They locked eyes. Locked eyes forever, maybe, for eons. Would’ve been a battle of minds if you didn’t think the man was utterly goddamn resigned.

 

Abbot broke the silence. “I’m schvitzin’ over here. You got no idea.” Wasn’t sure why he said that.

 

The man didn’t respond.

 

“Kenny Petrovich,” Abbot said. Like it meant something.

 

Petrovich cleared his throat. Not for speaking - like there was a massive hunk of phlegm in the trachea. Sounded painful. “Sit.”

 

Like they weren’t there before and the very words summoned them - Abbot saw these Louis chairs, deep red and deep black like everything else, near the light. Petrovich walked toward them, didn’t look back at Abbot. Abbot followed.

 

He was seated before him. “Seth Cvjeticanin,” Kenny said.

 

Abbot stood. Meek as could be, “Yep,” Abbot said.

 

Kenny chuckled, but he didn’t smile. “Abbot, and the Abbot. Have a drink.”

 

“I’m good, Mister--”

 

“That was not a request.” No irritation in his voice. “Sit down.”

 

Abbot craned his neck. Saw the end table by the chairs. Saw this triangle-cut whiskey decanter set by two stubby glasses. Whiskey stones already in ‘em. Looked back to Petrovich. Petrovich wasn’t looking at him. Petrovich was staring out at the trees. Fingers around the cigar. Eyes and head elsewhere.

 

Abbot poured from the decanter.

 

Brought it over.

 

“Hey.”

 

Petrovich blinked.

 

“The drinks, Kenny.”

 

Looked over to him but didn’t snap out the trance. Just took the glass carefully, balanced it on his knee, went back to staring.

 

Abbot watched a moment.

 

“Benny tells me you have been driving him for a few months now.”

 

Abbot sat, slow. “Yeah,” he said.

 

Placed his cigar gentle-like on the armrest with the ash drip-dropping onto the waxed floor and pressed the empty hand’s palm flat against his forehead. Laughed this dry chuckle at something Abbot didn’t know, ‘til the man said it: “What’s it they say? With the ships? This man, the abbot, he is a sea man. And he don’t know that the loose lips, they sink the ships.”

 

Looked at Abbot.

 

Abbot nodded.

 

“Sip,” Petrovich said.

 

Brought the drink to his lips slow while Kenny had his eyes, his bloodshot yellow eyes, trained on him. Abbot nodded.

 

“I don’t normally-” stopped himself to lick at something under his lip, “-you see, I don’’t normally- with this thing. Is good to not normally talk to everyone. Insulate. The abbot, Abbot, he no know my name. He know names though. Yeah?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Like, he know friends of mine. Like the Benny and the Zito- and Zito, he talk very nice about you- but this collage-di-scope of the names. And maybe the names know other names and know me. So you tie the shoes before you trip.”

 

“Heh.”

 

“That's funny. That's good. They might know Torpedo Imports. And Torpedo, is my company. I founded Torpedo and I still get my insurances and residuals from Torpedo. Right now, it’s Ivan who keeps the ship steady for me with Torpedo. You have met Ivan?”

 

“Maybe,” Abbot said.

 

“Sapozhnik.”

 

“Maybe,” Abbot said.

 

“Okay.” Sniffed, “You cannot trust the Italians as far as you can throw them. Take this from me. There’s always a risk, surveillance, when you are dealing with the Italians. Inevitability. So you have to tighten your belt. And now I has these three families of the five working nod-nod for me greasing wheels on the dockside. And that means names are names. You know. You don’t want to jeopardize the flow.”

 

Abbot clenched his teeth.

 

“You are helpful for keeping the flow flowing. No Abbot, abbot talk, he maybe get the Security Enforcement men down who scan the ships and- you get it.”

 

Abbot didn’t. “Sure.”

 

“Wetwork men come down a dime of the many many many many many…” trailed off. Sipped. “Yeah. The reliable ones. And you did this thing for Paul in Hove Beach, with the Broker yokels on the- with his duck. With the f*cking duck.”

 

Didn’t reply. Abbot let that speak for itself.

 

“Mr. Talk. Okay. Why did I want you here?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

“I have my eyes on you is why.”

 

“I knew your son.”

 

Beat.

 

Beat.

 

Beat.

 

Kenny blinked. “Okay,” he said.

 

“Lenny.”

 

“Yes.”

 

Abbot repeated. “I knew your son.”

 

“Benny’s dick don’t work, you know that? He once asked about adoption.”

 

“I knew your son.”

 

Completely deadpan, “Shut the f*ck up, I know. Lenny. Okay. That’s good.” You’d think that would sour the mood but the guy was smiling again and taking another long gulp before stretching. Stretching the arms, “Okayyy.”

 

“With Achban, my brother,” Abbot said.

 

“I know.”

 

“You know my brother?”

 

“From Florida. Yeah. Another guy. Another guy could have been f*cked over by the abbot--”

 

“Is that it?”

 

“What do you want?” Lolled his head to the side like he was drooling, like he was dead, “Okay. You know Lenny.”

 

“Did you know Achban?”

 

“What you want me to say you have not already heard? What you want me to say? You--”

 

“Anything.”

 

“Anything?”

 

“Anything.”

 

Quick, “You beat on a little Turkish man in Goatherd for Teddy the Blond, yeah?”

 

Abbot put the drink down. Stared a moment. “Yeah.”

 

“You hit a few more people. Hit hit, not a-” snap snap snap of the finger. “I tell Teddy that he don’t rough the guy up because he’s a friend and, you know. He piss me off. I go to him and this the first time I talk to him in ages and I say, buddy, you f*cking nuts? Yusuf Tiryaki, he’s an important man, to me. I met Yusuf when I was doing gas scams, buddy.”

 

“This is ancient.”

 

“How ancient?” Sniffed, “How ancient? My son is ancient. Shut your f*ck. But yeah. I didn’t know this was you until I talk to Benny and then Teddy again.” His voice never raised above monotone, never got angry. Maybe got rhythmic but never raised. Just hoarse and bespoke and throaty like he never spoke at all. “But no, I don’t care.”

 

“Why is Yusuf important?”

 

He put the cigar out on the armrest. “It’s okay.”

 

“Kenny--”

 

“It’s okay. I know this. Yeah?” Placed it flat back down and dusted off the mountain of ash and gave a cursory glance at the black bruise on the wood. Clacked his teeth a moment. Got the glass, looked over. “It’s okay.”

 

Abbot watched him drink. “I’m sorry.”

 

“I don’t care. Yusuf gave me sh*t but I air this out on the phone, f*cking degenerate, f*ckin’ play the high stakes games and then he borrow money and he ride out on my name. So whatever, he learned his lesson. Achban.”

 

“I don’t know sh*t about Achban,” Abbot said. “Won’t lie, I didn’t know Lenny that well. I know Achban knew Lenny--”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Feels like I didn’t know Achban that well either, neither, but you know. I mean. I mean. I remember- I don’t even remember where the name came from. I don’t- my dad- he had this thing where he was into Hebrew a time before he converted and he could even read that sh*t and he was just looking at these words and he didn’t understand none of it but he just liked the sound of it and I remember thinking when he told me he coulda’ called him the Hebrew word for f*ckin’ and or the or some sh*t and that was…” stopped. “A lot.”

 

You could taste the nothing.

 

Smell it.

 

Feel it.

 

“I don’t know Achban personal,” Kenny said. “Just knew Maksim. I don’t know. Talk to Benny or him, he was good people, he did good thing. You do good thing with abbot and quack-quack and what’s-a what’s-a. He did a good thing with this thing and now he here and okay. Okay?”

 

“Okay.”

 

“You happy?”

 

Abbot clenched his jaw. “I’m sorry about what happened to him,” he said.

 

Kenny didn’t reply.

 

“Your son, I mean.” Abbot was thinking, “I didn’t… I don’t know.”

 

Kenny stood. Didn’t look back at him. Picked the glass back and walked, “Okay.”

 

“He was- I mean, I can’t speak for him--”

 

“Just stop.” Kenny was soft. No haranguing, “Okay. I see.”

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

Kenny put the glass flat on the table and nodded.

 

Looked back at him.

 

“I’m going to go take a sh*t,” Petrovich said.

 

He walked away.

 

Huh.

 

Abbot looked in his glass.

 

Swirled the whiskey through the stones.

 

Downed the rest. Clenched his jaw again, shut his eyes. Looked back.

 

Kenny left through the door.

 

Abbot sighed.

 

Looked over at the trees for a moment.

 

The Glossary

Liberty City Map

Edited February 21, 2021 by slimeball supreme

[slimeball supreme]

Where Do We Go From Here?

 

“I had this dream,” Kassian said, “that I was dying.”

 

Boots crunched snow-sludge on the beaten park path. Abbot rubbed hands together, ungloved, adjusted his glasses and sniffled kept his eyes ahead. “Yeah?”

 

“And not, like, I was in the process of dying. I kept dying. I kept f*cking dying and dying and dying and it- I don’t even remember how, actually. I just remember dying. But I’d die, and I’d get reincarnated as someone else. I was black once. And I was a woman. And an Indian and sh*t like that. And I’d die and I’d be in this emptiness for a long time and then I’d just be someone else somewhere else.”

 

They were still walking. “Okay.”

 

“It’s weird, right?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Yeah. Yeah. But there was this moment I’d be in that emptiness. And it was white nothing. You know those Fruit commercials? Like, uh, Cav vs. PC or whatever, you get it, I’d- I’d just be in that void. And it was the best f*cking feeling I’d ever had. Like I was just being- like there was no smelling or hearing or seeing. Just complete nothingness. And I was in f*cking heaven. I wasn’t thinking. I was just being. But then I’d be back as just somebody I didn’t even know. I’d suddenly be some chick doing the f*cking dishes. Or- or I’d be walking this dog. Or whatever. And then after that, I’d die, and I’d be back. And I’d be calm and I’d not be anymore. I don’t know.”

 

Abbot blinked. “Okay.”

 

“Just okay?”

 

“I don’t know. Yeah. You were a lot of people.”

 

“Yeah. And I’d die, and I’d go to heaven. Or- not heaven. Like, nothing.”

 

“I don’t remember the dreams I have. Usually. I don’t. Usually I don’t.”

 

“You remember the last one you had?”

 

“No.”

 

“Okay- let me rephrase. What’s the last dream you remember?”

 

And Abbot paused. Abbot frowned. Bit his lip. And said “Wasps.”

 

Chuckled, “What about wasps?”

 

“I was remembering the house we moved into after Hove Beach. In District Park. And I don’t remember when this was. I was in my house and my dad was Hasid--”

 

“Ha. Yeah?”

 

“Yeah. Like, with the black get-up and f*cking everything. You remember when he converted after- yeah. But… my dad was reading a book at the dinner table and he told me to get the Tree. Because they’d delivered. And so I got up and a bunch of coins fell out my pockets and I picked them up and put them on the table and told him to just watch the coins so I don’t lose them. And I walked outside and my driveway was covered in wasps.”

 

“Just sitting there?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Laughed, “Okay. Yeah.”

 

“But there were like these rocks in the middle of the driveway I’d have to hop across. So I unlaced my shoes and I laced them back up and I started to jump across the--”

 

“What shoes?”

 

“I don’t remember. But I jumped across the rocks. And the wasps were all buzzing and sh*t but they weren’t budging and I didn’t lose balance and then I saw the entire street was filled with wasps. The sidewalk. Like after Shiloh and the water was all up to your ankles or worse in some streets- it was like that but with wasps.”

 

“A wasp hurricane.”

 

“Yeah, like that. And I look down and I see the newspaper and it’s covered in wasps. And I know I have to touch the wasps, and they’re all f*cking rabid pissed f*cking wasps, but I have to do that to get the newspaper. So I grit my teeth and bend down and suddenly they’re crawling up my hands and onto the stone and I wake up and I think there’s actually wasps and I spaz out on the bed.”

 

“Hahaha. It bled through.”

 

“Yeah. It bled through.”

 

Stuck his tongue under his lip and thought a moment but Kaz shrugged. Fidgeted with his beanie and went “I was trying to think of a dream like that with me but I don’t remember any.”

 

Driven Kassian’s Fathom to Thalassus Meadow. This mist of snow, this white mist of nothing filtering right through the pinky-finger twig branches. Snow-slick with the beige grass sticking up pointing at the sky. Pathways weren’t cleared. Just a sea of snow with the buoys: park benches, exercise equipment. Felt abandoned. 

 

“That’s okay,” Abbot said.

 

“Why do people forget dreams? I don’t know. Seem weird enough you should, right?”

 

“Yeah, heh.”

 

“Never got that.”

 

Were they nearly locking arms? Something like that.

 

Weren’t nobody around. They could do it.

 

Abbot looked at Kaz. Abbot smiled.

 

Kaz smiled back.

 

“You wanna know who I met the other day?” Abbot went.

 

“Who?”

 

“Lenny’s dad.”

 

“For real?”

 

“Yeah. Big brownstone place, Benny called me up, he had like two, three goons just chilling out. His mom. Yeah.”

 

“What’s he been up to?”

 

“I don’t know. Talked about all this stuff. Made out like he was- I mean, with Benny, how he was working with him on stuff and had this in on things. I did this favor for a guy--”

 

“Who?”

 

Abbot paused. “Nobody. One of Benny’s pals.”

 

“Revaz? That big Georgian f*cker who works for him, the boxer? Or Kimmy, maybe.”

 

“Yeah. Something like that, but- you know, he was thankful. And Lenny’s pop was too. Y’know, he was all f*cked up looking, like tired as sh*t. We had a drink. He was in this f*cking bathrobe or some sh*t--”

 

“Haha.”

 

“Yeah. I asked him about Lenny and the guy was real dismissive, I don’t know.”

 

“It’s been a while,” Kaz said.

 

“My dad’s still tore up about ma, Kaz. I don’t know. I’d be f*cked up my son died, you know.”

 

“You put in a good word for me with Benny?”

 

“Yeah, all the time.”

 

“Cool.”

 

“He’s got this big fat bitch who does sh*t and a bunch of these guys who hang around this dinner club- this guy Felix. This guy thinks he’s a hotshot, gives me sh*t. It’s hard to get a word in. But I do try, man, I do.”

 

“Was stocking the shelves at the newsstand and pa and I didn’t even speak. You know that? And then Vadim came in and he was all how-do-you-do with the guy. I don’t know. Tsezar, I saw him and pa talking at the cafe and I went over to talk and pa brought me up and he was basically holding me by the collar and he told me,” snorted and tried putting on that throaty Russian accent, “why you do this talk to me? Yes yes. Oh the f*ck are you with the sh*t? Oy, ay, da, da… f*ckin’ jerkoff.”

 

“I ain’t spoken to him in ages, man.”

 

“Still a cocksucker.”

 

“He’s your dad.”

 

“My dad’s still a cocksucker. Whatever.”

 

“You spoken to your mom in a while?”

 

Kaz didn’t reply.

 

“Babe?”

 

“Yeah. Sure. I mean, I do sometimes. She’s in Florida.”

 

“I didn’t know that.”

 

“You thought she was up in Dukes or some sh*t?”

 

“Or around. I’unno. You said that one thing about sending her something for Mother’s Day way back--”

 

“Well, yeah. I sent it.”

 

“What’d you send?”

 

Chuckled. “Coffee machine.”

 

“For real?”

 

“I got it for free because- you remember Eddie? Eddie knew this guy who was busting out some guy in Steinway. So I just ordered a bunch of these Schmidt & Priss ones, these real classy ones, I just bought ‘em all on the store credit and sent her one with some cash and a pretty card. Had a cat on it.”

 

“When’s Father’s Day?”

 

“Was in September, man.”

 

Oh. “Huh.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Didn’t have nothing else to say. Let it simmer.

 

There was a big tree near a little isolated bathroom where the snow had stopped gathering. This oasis of wet grass among the ice and the salt marshes. Was in this mess off the nature trail, this canopy among the dead trees where the branches linking arms and crossing together turned themselves into a ceiling. Almost a kaleidoscope of the twigs criss-crossing with the sky view of the gray clouds.

 

They’d found themselves resting there. Or maybe it wasn’t a rest, just a stop. Sitting down with backs up against the bathroom brickwork half-crouching and half-sitting to remain some degree of dry.

 

Kaz was talking. “But I mean, down in Florida- Vadim was telling me about this guy and he was in on greyhounds. In Vice City. Racing dogs. And I don’t know about the laws for the dog track or nothing but there’s gotta be a pretty penny in that, right?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“But that’s nothing. That’s later. What I’m in on right now, and f*ck Eddie and Vadim and them, but what we’re gonna be in on is fent.”

 

“Fent?”

 

“Fentanyl.”

 

“I heard that sh*t’s hard, Kaz.”

 

“Sure, yeah, but- listen, right. I need you on this because we do this together and we make bank together and we- I mean, you get it. That cash we got from the noodles. You remember that, in August or September?”

 

“Yeah. With Vadim.”

 

“It’s good money. And the guy who tipped me off on that tipped me off on these other Chinese guys who supply that sh*t. Got me an in, this f*cking swag sh*t. And what I’m thinking is we make good either way. We sell the fent straight or we cut it with some other product. But we sell that--”

 

“A lot of math.”

 

“You gotta do the math- the uh, the accounting. You gotta do that you wanna get by.”

 

“How much we buy?”

 

“I don’t know. Depends on the price tag. I mean, I gotta talk to the guy to get the details on these guys first, right? If it’s too expensive we go down the chain and try buy from one of the dealers they’re supplying. I mean- it’s key. We buy the fentanyl. Sell it and cut it up. We use the proceeds- I think, we can do it on the dogs maybe. And Vadim and Eddie have this thing--”

 

“You wanna work with him?”

 

“Eddie’s f*cking stupid, yeah, but- I mean, cash is cash. But it’s a good thing I ironed out, they know this guy- we’re gonna do it in a few days, I don’t know. But it’s credit card numbers. Tourist sh*t. And we buy the numbers and then resell them. They do it for cheap.”

 

“They? Eddie?”

 

“No- he- I mean, I can explain this properly. But he buys from stores with the receipts. Guys who we know, the owners. Midtown pizza parlor guys. Stuff like that.”

 

“I mean. sh*t. That’s a good gig.”

 

“I told you.”

 

“And they give it for cheap?”

 

“Yeah. And then we split and give to clients we know from the same- I mean, Pasha’s club. We sell to guys there. I’m thinking we give some of them to the fentanyl guys.”

 

“And we’re buying greyhounds with this cash?”

 

“No! No. Maybe. I mean, we’ll see. It’s more about making sure you win.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“You get it?”

 

“It’s all work. It’s all work. I don’t want to talk about that.”

 

“With you, it’s easy. You got a steady thing going with Benny--”

 

“Not that easy, Kazy.”

 

“It’s okay. But I mean, with me, it’s like sometimes to keep your head straight you gotta do a million- I don’t know.”

 

“Relax.”

 

“Okay.”

 

Abbot got closer. Touched. “Relax.”

 

“Alright.”

 

“You sold those coffee machines, babe? It’s profit. Right?”

 

“Right.”

 

Felt his thigh. “Relax.”

 

Abbot’s head on his shoulder. Kaz staring out. Kaz smiling that dopey syrup smile like he weren’t thinking no more and just feeling. Looking back to Abbot. Feeling the touch. Feeling the contact.

 

Abbot got closer. And then Abbot kissed.

 

Only for a moment. Maybe that moment lasted forever. But enough time with lips locked and eyes closed for it to matter. For Abbot to open and smile and say “You wanna shoot up?”

 

And Kassian said “Yes.”

 

“In the car.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Alright.” They were at peace. “We’ll head in a minute.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

It was cold.

 

***

 

“Shut the f*ck up, what? What?!”

 

“I tell you what.”

 

Kaz took a deep breath and put elbows on the glass countertop and palmed his temples. “Listen.”

 

Star Junction. A gift shop off Exeter Avenue near Lorimar Street named Viceroy Gift and Luggage; snow washed by rain had turned to a frost spritzer sheen on cabs and the curb. Sprinkled. Packed crowds and yellow taxis and the blinking lights and the gawkers and the maniacs. Building next door northward had been bought by some bank and the whole thing got demolished and fenced up with builder-board. Keep going south down Exeter and it’s gift shops, gift shops, gift shops. Tour group of wide-eyers moving down the road in a pack looking up at the LCPD watchtower fenced off by a patrol car. Snapped pictures and mosied on.

 

Billboard above the Viceroy was advocating for Armenian genocide denial. Right next to it was an ad for ginger ale. Above the ginger ale ad was one for progressive Islam. Below the ginger ale place was a cheapo stand-up comedy club.

 

Sensory overload.

 

Sensory overload was top of the docket in the Viceroy as the LEDs screamed at your eyes and blink-blink-blinked and the knockoff Swingers hats sat side by side with LCPD, with FDLC, FIB, I Heart LC. Big luggage bags like the name said and t-shirts with sizes starting at L. Cheap phones and mp3 players and mugs and as many trademark violations you could think of.

 

“You listen to me--”

 

“We agreed on the f*cking phone to what I was gonna pay. I don’t got no more.”

 

“How many days ago is this?”

 

“I don’t know, what the f*ck it matter?”

 

Vadim and Kaz stood up at the counter. Abbot and Eddie took point near the ends of the store so nobody got wise, no cops or nobody who’d wanna eavesdrop. Little asian tourist was with her husband with a paper bag picking out from three kinds of mugs that all looked the same. Talking back and forth in Vietnamese. Eddie was in those frames identical to Abbot’s in the Gnocchi bomber under a windbreaker. Abbot wild-haired in three layers of sweater, hoodie, jacket.

 

“So listen to me, Kass--”

 

“Why are you trying to f*ck me?”

 

“I’m not.”

 

“Why didn’t you call and tell me--”

 

“I mean you on the way but--”

 

Vadim cut in, “This kind of sh*t doesn’t fly, man, it doesn’t fly. It does not funky fly.”

 

“Okay.” Owner and register-man was a guy named Soroush: older balding guy with a goatee and cardigan who had sunglasses clipped to the collar. It weren’t sunny. “What?”

 

“What. What. Okay what, buddy, buddy you know what they do to Arabs in Poland?”

 

“I’m Persian.”

 

“The migrants get turned back at the wire fences, buddy. Just saying.”

 

“Kassian, why the f*ck you invite this guy here?”

 

Kaz, “Shut the f*ck up, Vadim.”

 

“He won’t listen, Kassian, he won’t listen--”

 

“Please!”

 

“It’s not even Persians who are doing the migrating,” Soroush went. “I mean--”

 

“I’ll make you f*cking migrate--”

 

“Vadim!” Sharp turn to face him from Kassian, “Shut the f*ck up you f*cking moron.”

 

Hands up, “Alright, alright! He f*ck you over, put the fears of god in him, buddy.”

 

“I’m not in the mood for this sh*t.” He wasn’t. Kassian was having a bad comedown after shooting up hours earlier. Abbot too, but he was better and putting on a straight face and being tired weren’t nothing new. Hadn’t been using for long, anyway. Kaz kept going, “We agreed upon--”

 

“I really want to be f*cking fair,” Soroush said. “I do. And this is fair. All of these credit cards- their last f*ckin’a purchases are here. And it doesn’t matter if they’re in the Midwest or Australia or what-the-f*ck, every number is going to come back here when they notice any irregularities--”
 

“And I told you it was risk free. Did my pa talk to you?”

 

“No.”

 

“No. No. Fine. No, but whatever. It’s not a big risk. The auditors for these big companies don’t give that much of a f*ck for where they trace, only when they’re like--”

 

“When they’re what?”

 

“Let me f*cking finish. When they’re all purchasing at the same place after the fact. That’s when they’re traced. They don’t trace to you. If they do--”

 

“But you say they do, now you say they won’t--”

 

“Listen f*cking to me. Listen, they won’t. But in the f*cking ifintesimal goddamn chance they do, you can play stupid and pretend it was some other sh*t.”

 

“And if they bar usage of the Shark cards and the High Life cards--”

 

“They won’t. They do that at f*cking ProLaps when the bozos buy everything at the same store--”

 

“So what then?”

 

“They won’t. I know they won’t, I’m reaching out to people who don’t go in the same circles--”

 

“Like who?”

 

“Soroush--”

 

“Please, you tell me. I’m not trying to be difficult--”

 

“You are.”

 

“I am not trying.”

 

“I have the envelope right here,” slapped it flat on the table. “That’s what we agreed on. Anything more comes outta’ my wallet.”

 

“Where’d you get the money? You get the money from the envelope out your wallet too--”

 

Vadim, “You want me f*cking kill this guy?”

 

“Abbot!”

 

Called to attention. Abbot perked. Checked out the Vietnamese couple still bickering over the same mugs and marched on over near Vadim - “What?”

 

“Vadim, you take point.”

 

“What? What I say?”

 

“Just shut the f*ck up and make sure no beat cops walk, you f*cking mope.”

 

“Oy. Whatever.” Vadim put up a hand. Gravitated toward Eddie. Started talking.

 

Abbot and Kassian with Soroush.

 

Soroush said “Give me extra 10 bills and we’re square.”

 

“I told you. You’re outta your f*cking mind.”

 

Abbot, “Woah, I thought we agreed on 1-point-3.”

 

“I tell him,” Soroush said, “they do any audits and they find all of the card numbers were used here. They come back to me. I go to prison. This worth it more for me if you give me one thousand dollars.”

 

“How about 1.9k?”

 

“Abbot,” Kaz snapped, “we ain’t f*cking haggling.”

 

“What else do we do?”

 

“He takes the f*cking envelope.”

 

“I telling you,” Soroush was yammering, “I telling you this is already below my usual price. I go up a little because these lot of cards.”

 

“They’re not even on f*cking plastic.”

 

“You say you only want to do this on internet anyway!”

 

“But this is f*cking plastic f*cking card money--”

 

“And if IRS f*ck me over--”

 

“Shut the f*ck up!” Kaz facepalmed, rubbed the bridge of his nose, groaned. “Fifteen hundred.”

 

“Nineteen like your friend say.”

 

“Seventeen or I f*cking smash up your store, Soroush.”

 

Abbot was pitter-pattering the glass counter. Heard the warbling behind him and the Vietnamese couple with their paper bag and their scarf wearing these LCPD hats with the tags still on. And Soroush bit lip, and looked over at the customers, and said “Fine.”

 

“Alright--”

 

“Move.”

 

Kaz and Abbot moved. Chirpers moved up and whipped out their credit cards and exchanged glances with Soroush who scanned and scanned.

 

“Abbot--”

 

“I heard the whole thing, he was tryna’, I mean--”

 

“I thank you for helping and everything but I was doing the talking, babe.”

 

“It’s nothing. I mean, you know how much these things go for, anyway?”

 

“No.”

 

“Then who cares?”

 

“I said 1.3 on the phone and I expect a f*cking guy to honor his f*cking word,” was pulling out his wallet and thumbing through the loose hundreds and muttering now, “cheap prick. Cheap prick.”

 

“Are we cheap or is he cheap?”

 

“Who cares, Abbot?”

 

“It’s good money on the selling them anyway, yeah?”

 

“It’s whatever.”

 

Vietnamese couple walked off and Soroush muttered and kept eyes on ‘em as they waddled - beckoned with two fingers to Kassian. And Kassian groaned and Kassian obliged, stepped on a little and slapped the envelope flat on the counter with the loose Benjamins.

 

Stared at him.

 

Soroush snatched it and slipped them under the counter. Pulled a little black box out.

 

Kassian pocketed it and stormed off for the exit.

 

Abbot said “Thank you.”

 

“Abbot, hurry the f*ck on--”

 

Waved a little and moved on out into the street.

 

“--aye, son, for real, this sh*t gonna blow your mind--” some guy was leafleting outside the comedy club and handing out flyers. Was headed southward to Lorimar and breezed past the guy and Abbot slapped his head and nearly got pulled with Kassian.

 

The four stopped in the middle of the sidewalk.

 

“Watch the f*ck--”

 

“--your problem? Motherf*cker--”

 

They sidestepped when the insults multiplied. Common courtesy is not to get in a Libertonian’s f*cking way. Kaz feeling the inside of his jacket and nodding and grinning. “This is it.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“I got it open.”

 

“Show us--”

 

Nodded up at the LCPD watchtower. Nodded ahead at the beat cops across the street talking into talkies-sans-walking. “There’s a couple plastic f*cking chip doohickeys and a sweet baby list, baby, oh yeah.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

Eddie, “Tight, man.”

 

“USB, right?” Vadim said.

 

Kaz looked around.

 

Kaz pulled the box out.

 

Not USBs. SD cards. Little chips and a paper sheet with the numbers carefully scrawled on fine print. Kaz shoved it back in as quick as he showed it.

 

“Not USB,” Eddie said. “SD cards.”

 

“I said that.”

 

“No you didn’t, Abbot.”

 

Vadim squinting, “Yeah, buddy.”

 

And Abbot blinked. “Sorry.”

 

Abbot was looking. Blinking, looking, blinking, looking. Head feeling fuzzy and watching the shoes march on and on up and down Exeter. They were walking but it felt like they were standing still, like they was being transported within the crowd shoulder-to-shoulder on a conveyer belt.

 

Stopped on the corner of Lorimar and Exeter. The big red staircase and the plaza at Star Junction they’d put up. The Al Dentes, their backs to a Well Stacked parlor. The guys in mascot costumes and fanny packs: dressed up like Impotent Rage, like Brown Streak, like Republican Space Rangers. Or the caricature artists or the women near-topless taking tourist photos. Or the 5 Percent Nation guy talking with his hands on a milk crate.

 

A bus passed by with an ad for that Bruce Spade movie set on Mars or whatever the f*ck. Saw two guys.

 

Bag full of swag.

 

Abbot faked brushing his nose to point and said “Marks.”

 

“What?” went Kaz.

 

“Marks.”

 

“Abbot, we f*cking can’t.”

 

“They’re headed down Lorimar, guys, the car’s near there anyway, guys, look at them.”

 

Gay couple. Young guys. One in a black t-shirt despite the cold weather and the water and the snow. Another guy in a red hoodie with a big 8 on it. Bag of swag. Crossed the street.

 

The four watched them.

 

The couple passed.

 

The four stalked them.

 

Got closer.

 

Accents. One was Australian, maybe. Australian was talking some sh*t, sh*t about drinking and sh*t about how the other guy got f*cked up when he was drunk. Same f*cked up ugly accent on his friend, nasal whine thousand year vowels. Tourists. Red hoodie was adamant it weren’t the case.

 

Alley coming up.

 

Kaz, “The car’s up here.”

 

It was. Abbot kept walking. Kept tailing. Saw a little plaza, a little apartment entryway that was empty, a little alley. Kept going.

 

Felt alone.

 

He was.

 

“Abbot.”

 

Distant.

 

“Abbot!”

 

Abbot stopped. Gay couple sort of turned, sort of slowed - kept walking. Saw the swag bag dangling and saw them go vanish. Abbot stopped.

 

Turned back.

 

Three were standing. Kaz a little closer. Pointed down, subtle, “Car’s down Denver, Abbot!”

 

Abbot looked forward.

 

The couple was gone.

 

Grit his teeth, and clenched his fist. And went back to Kassian.

 

The Glossary

Liberty City Map

Edited October 9, 2023 by slimeball supreme

[slimeball supreme]

Shadow of Death

 

Did everyone know what happened?

 

He didn’t know.

 

Halfway in the hood with the snow drip-dripping into watermelt and the Hinterland boots crushing the frost into sludge. Was looking down at the feet, head to the ground, shoulders curled up with his hands in his jacket pockets.

 

Looked like an idiot. Had been walking a solid 50 minutes through middle-Dukes with no idea where he was headed. Thought the station he’d ended up at was maybe Meadow Hills, maybe Shalimar Park. Didn’t know Dukes so good.

 

Found himself on Cosmopolitan Avenue. Asked for directions twice: a woman texting outside a Save-a-Cent on the corner of 78th who said “I don’t know” when he asked for the nearest subway station, and then a black lady with a walking frame and two big bags of foodstuffs near the post office.

 

Old lady said “Just keep heading down ‘til you see the mall, young brother, s’near the graveyard.”

 

He’d already walked through one to get here.

 

Another.

 

And here he was. Tall green painted bars, headstones. Stopped.

 

All Faiths, the cemetery was. Didn’t discriminate. Leaned on the wall behind him, a headstone maker (closed), slumped closer and closer and closer. ‘Til he was sitting on the wet ground. Watching the cars go by. Looked to his right - one guy outside a brick building that looked like it was the subway station. Next to a pizza joint. Guy was in a blue LCPD shirt, checking the trash cans reasons unknown.

 

Enough Italians and enough f*cking cops.

 

Phone said he’d switch trains at the Carson station and then switch again at the Settlecot junction. More thinking he didn’t need. Without thought he was already on his feet, already at the entry of the station, already getting side-eyes from the subway cop who stood attentive but kept watching the street.

 

Already had his UnderPass. Stood at the dispenser machine anyway. Disassociated from the act just watching the blinking blue letters on the black LED screen. On the printed words: coin slot, bill slot, ATM keys.

 

Jumped the turnstile anyway.

 

***

 

Sneakers planted the station floor and the guys laughed. And Latrell moved for the emergency exit door, kept f*cking laughing, and opened the thing with his elbows.

 

Knot and Xavier followed him.

 

“Suwoop! All day, all day, B gang--”

 

Latrell in the purple durag, quilted black jacket with the gang beads over the top. Xavier in a purple Boars sweatshirt with the hood over the head and the rows peeking through the top, stressed jeans. Knot in purple-lined Heat sweatpants, camo puffer-vest.

 

“Merry Christmas, son, Merry Christmas!”

 

Making a show of it - a war party in enemy land. They were settling a dispute.

 

“Yo, L my dog, L--”

 

“Hold down the fort, b, hold down the fort!”

 

They were in Beechwood City. For the big homies, for Kwame, for the Five Star biding his time in Astors for the Brotherhood. For Bobby P and the OGs. One these ‘Feechwood’ Family f*ckheads bugged out on a homie named Maniak and got him thrown in the hospital. Shot him a couple times dotting up the torso, ruined his designer sh*t, probably scarred him for life.

 

And payback is a f*cking bitch. And their set, Gangster Mafia Families, they were scumbags anyway. One of the Ballas said one their members was doing time upstate for a gang rape with a couple YGs or some sh*t. And maybe that had happened, and maybe it didn’t, but they wore green all the same and were scum for that alone. You don’t question a superior officer.

 

Latrell weren’t one to break no rules, that’s for goddamn sure.

 

And the rules behooved him to get the first frog he saw and give the dude a buck f*cking fifty.

 

Because when they make food outta you, you gotta eat ‘em.

 

And the war party went on. They had their 555’s - razor blades - hidden in the sleeves or wherever they could. Storming out the Reform Avenue station chanting up a storm for the amassed populace in the snow. For the old Caribbean men and the street fools who didn’t know or maybe didn’t care. They can gobble these f*cking nuts.

 

“What he said, he said the Pop’s Pills, son, he said the Pop’s Pills. Near ‘round the Pop’s Pills.”

 

“Suwoop!”

 

And they got bored of the chanting after a block or two. Because there weren’t enough reaction, ‘cause they had to save their strength for when they ate the motherf*ckers they saw. Had to brace themselves.

 

Knot said “You sure they gonna be there?”

 

“We f*ck up any one them niggas,” Latrell said, “then the frog done been violated all the same. The message is the message.”

 

“What about the pussies who did it?”

 

“Maniak don’t care. They hold the same flag ‘cause they all is supportin’ them same actions.”

 

Xavier said “Yeah.” He didn’t know what that meant.

 

“So it don’t matter if we don’t get the nigga who actually did it?” Knot went.

 

Latrell spat “The f*ck you sayin’?”

 

“I want to f*ck that nigga up who did it, son.”

 

“How you gonna find him? How you gonna know the dude name? Ain’t about that. What I tell you; brace yourself motherf*cker.”

 

“We like Evacuator,” Xav’ was grinning. “We got it on like Saigon, f*ck all that sh*t. We hit them niggas up.”

 

“No homo?”

 

They laughed.

 

It was late. Street lights were on. Dusk. Cars kept going and the people too, but it was the best time. Only good time. When people was out but they didn’t expect.

 

Frogs were at the Pop’s Pills. Four of them.

 

Fenced off parking lot where these guys around their age, teenagers, passing around malt liquor in gray t-shirts. Liberty Families? They wore gray. Gray t-shirts and the green-and-black beads on one guy and this kid who was waving his hands around trying to tell a story. Looked like Families.

 

Were probably Families.

 

Yeah.

 

Yeah. Was getting hyped up on the corner by himself after pointing out the quartet shooting sh*t - got Knot sort of doubtful, sure, but that was the guy. Guy was anxious. Knot always showed up. Knot was rubbing gloved hands and adjusting the longsleeve over the wrists and back under and breathing mist.

 

And Knot said “You sure?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Yeah. You think they know who did it, you think?”

 

“Nah,” said Xavier.

 

“Don’t be stupid,” said Latrell. “Don’t be a dumbass.”

 

“I just wanna f*ck up the right niggas,” Knot went.

 

“And they’re Frog, so they do be like that.”

 

“Yeah,” said Knot. “Yeah.”

 

“We put the fear of God in a nigga, Knotty. That’s it. Deadass get them pissin’.”

 

“A’ight.”

 

“That’s it.”

 

“I got you, L.”

 

They stood on the corner breathing heavy. Loitering. Because you don’t hit one of these groups, and you always roll deeper than the food you’re eating.

 

But they didn’t break off.

 

Don’t want to get too close. Because you don’t wanna tip off nobody and get them running or getting suspicious. You wanna surprise them. Because eating food, unless it’s a brawl, always has to work. You go back to the neighborhood after going out to eat, saying you were hungry - and you leave without having ate? What kind of pussy sh*t is that?

 

They were listening to something, and Latrell couldn’t make out what. And he didn’t want to - because he wanted to make sure he was focused on the people, not the surrounds. And Xavier kept babbling and going on about Jasmine and- f*ck. And then one started moving.

 

One of the guys, the kid who went waving his arms, he broke off. Kid with a backwards fitted cap and baggy blue jeans, in a baggier gray t-shirt under a loose-ass orange hoodie. And orange? Orange was a Families war color, so f*ck me, did you need any more proof the kid was rolling with Frogs?

 

And Latrell pointed that out, said “He’s got on them oranges, them Families war colors, b.”

 

Knot said “I don’t see no green.”

 

“You know nigga don’t flag all the times, or- or they flag in them subliminals.”

 

“You sure he Fam?”

 

“I’m sure. And if he ain’t, he got f*cked up and ate in Frog hood so- think a’ they reputation, son. Think of that.”

 

And Knot thought about that. And Knot said “Okay.”

 

So they followed the little guy down the street after he headed out the parking lot and circled the fence. Ballas posse of three were across the street as the guy headed right - south. So Latrell turned the corner and stuck his tongue into his cheek and made out like he was a civilian.

 

Did the Frog f*cker look behind himself? No. Idiot.

 

It was no effort to gain on him.

 

Saw the kid nodding his head. Maybe saw headphones, couldn’t tell. Did it matter? No. Goddamn idiot. You never let your goddamn guard down, but Frogs is all fake f*cking gangsters anyway.

 

Latrell slipped the razor blade out his jacket sleeve. Did the sign with his hands: press the thumb and middle finger together, rest go up. Meant prepare. Looked behind at the other two and saw them putting on war face.

 

And eventually, eventually. They were close enough.

 

Latrell said “Yo.”

 

Kid stopped a moment and put the headphones around his neck and said “Yo?”

 

“What’s popping?” Latrell asked.

 

“Huh? Oh--”

 

Latrell had the razor in between his index and thumb and slashed. And then slashed at his face again, and again, and kicked him with his Pump-Ups, and then slashed at him down at the ground. Xavier joined in. Knot too. Kept swiping, kept swiping, credit card swiping at the kid’s face ‘til Latrell said “Go, dogs, go!” Because they’d sliced the kid’s cheek right open, because it was hardly like he was bleeding at all. Just pink.

 

They put the blades back in their sleeves and sprinted back.

 

***

 

Felt like he hadn’t been there in years.

 

It had been a day.

 

Skulked off the train like a rodent. Off at the end of the line, the last stop. On Bow Lack Avenue. Stepped off the elevated line and looked around wary even though he knew nobody was looking. Onto the busy street where the storefronts went by the dozen and the dozens went walking right by - made himself out to be looking at a sign before stepping aside for a man in a high-vis jacket. Looked behind at the guy begging on one of the city benches, one of those benches with no back and the rail in the middle so nobody could sleep on them.

 

This massive, beautiful mural with all these patterns by the deli and the shirt store that was selling dashikis in the open air; West African guy with a kufi saying some sh*t to some guy in a faux-tie dye shirt.

 

And the garbage, and the people. And the garbage and the people. Walked by a church with a flagstone front sitting next to an abandoned lot and two kids on the corner. Kid in a letterman was talking to his buddy - looked over.

 

Latrell eyed him walking past.

 

Bow Lack was DB street.

 

In his head the community center he’d lied about would’ve been the opposite way. By the church and the graveyard and the playground where baseheads would cop. But he was headed the opposite way. Cold cutting at the fingertips as he cowered down one of the nameless streets past all the nameless houses with barred up windows.

 

Until he hit Milden Boulevard.

 

A cement mixer truck honked their horn loud-like and got the wind whipping. Expect deliveries on this block. Graffitied up box trucks and the shuttered up liquor store. A smokeless man who needed a goddamn smoke. The f*cking mural of Malik Evander with the big gloves and the quote.

 

Crossed the street.

 

Past the front of this bus, this waiting waiting bus. With the dirty snow in the gutter.

 

Into the towers.

 

Towers were empty. Not empty empty: civilian empty. No Ballas out, nobody posted up, nothing. Just people with groceries and the kids and the groundskeepers and the crunch of the snow. Zig-zagged with his head down looking left and right and down and down and down.

 

Checked his phone. Zilch. No messages.

 

Blinked hard.

 

Knew where he was going.

 

Didn’t take long, because he’d been there before.

 

Dialed.

 

Phone rang.

 

“L?”

 

“Delly. Son.”

 

“Yo,” DB was breathy and weak-worded, “I’m on the train, b.”

 

“Quit buggin’, dog, I know.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“What happened?”

 

“I- son, I ain’t sure--”

 

“How close?”

 

“...sh*t. Dog, f*ckin’...”

 

“I’m headed to ya’ tower, son, but I ain’t wanna head up ‘case I get jumped by your grandmoms or nothin’.”

 

And DB sighed. And said “Probably best.”

 

“You good?”

 

“This dumb weird. This whole sh*t. Sus as f*ck.”

 

Latrell repeated, “What happened?”

 

“Not for nothin’, dog, you sure I should say this sh*t?”

 

“Deadass, f*ck it. Nobody listening, b, say it.”

 

Went dead on the other line for a moment.

 

Latrell was still stepping, still stepping with his hands in his sweatshirt pockets, “Hello?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Speak the f*ck up.”

 

“Sus,” DB went. “Homie just f*ckin’... I mean, they was mad quiet. You already know, I mean, f*ck. You know?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Yeah. And then they came in and told me to get the f*ck out. And I was asking, you know this sh*t with- with the uh… them rights and sh*t. And they just kept saying, you know, ‘get the f*ck out’, and they was all pissed off and that kinda sh*t. And I just got. I was in East Holland. Ain’t even the right precinct.”

 

“You know precincts?”

 

“I know they got a station near-the-f*ck-by, I know that.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, okay. I heard, okay. No. They told me they got no charges for us.”

 

DB paused.

 

Latrell said again, “Yeah.”

 

“The f*ck?”

 

“Yeah, DB.”

 

“They ain’t gave me my bands back, son, they still got my bands--”

 

“Be lucky we still got sh*t. And I’ll reimburse you, dude. You don’t worry.”

 

“You’ll what?”

 

“I’ll pay you back,” Latrell spat. “You heard me?”

 

“Son, the f*ck we gonna do?”

 

“We fine.”

 

“I lost--”

 

Latrell stern, “We fine. Okay?”

 

DB quiet again.

 

“Delmar?”

 

“Word, L.”

 

“Okay. I’d say we link up, but nah, dog, nah. Okay? I’ll find you out, my nigga, just tell your gramma she asks that you was out… she still believe that community center sh*t?”

 

“No.”

 

“No?”

 

“I told you, b, she just f*ckin’... she checked out the joint. She looked you up and drew sh*t.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Yeah. And she pissed at me. So that’s the f*ck why I said probably best, you already know, she think you my dealer or jerkin’ me off or some sh*t f*cked up. Threatened to bring the date forward with Carolina.”

 

“No. For real?”

 

“Yeah, L, for real.”

 

“Damn.”

 

“Don’t damn me. I’m all f*cked up, man, she found or find out I got arrested I’m done, son, I’m straight violated. I’m packin’ tomorrow.”

 

“She won’t.”

 

“Man, how you know?”

 

“Because I seen all the Ballas,” Latrell lied. “And they didn’t say sh*t, they was asking where I was but that was it. So just lie. Lie ‘bout where you was. Cops won’t call ‘cause they got nothin’ to say, sh*t was a mistake. Maybe they thought that your ass was bribing them.”

 

And DB said “Huh.”

 

“Yeah, see? So don’t bug, my nigga, you bug out you lose your head. Brace yourself, motherf*cker. Keep them eyes on a swivel. And you do that, you safe for life. You safe forever. We on that everything. You know what I said.”

 

“That I matter.”

 

And Latrell stuttered, stopped, started. “Yeah. Yeah, for sure, but not that. I said you gotta lie. So just lie to when your moms asks. Say you stayed at Xavier’s crib, do she even know that nigga?”

 

“I think.”

 

“Then, I don’t know.”

 

“So what I say, Latrell?”

 

“Say whatever. Just keep quiet. I gotta get inside, man, f*ck, it’s f*cking brick out, dog. Dead freezing my ass off.”

 

“Ha, I heard that.” DB was squeaky. Weren’t a real laugh, coughed it off and stammered out “But, uh, yeah. Yeah. So nobody knows about anything?”

 

“Yeah. I said.”

 

“A’ight.”

 

“So don’t worry your dumb ass. Hit the crib, just wait a day, I’ll check with you soon. Give you however much the jakes shook outta you. Be easy, a’ight? We got this.”

 

“We got this.”

 

“You good, Del’?”

 

“Yeah,” DB said. “I’m good.”

 

“Good. A’ight. I’ll holla, okay? Be easy.”

 

“I’ll see you, L.”

 

“Be easy.”

 

“Bye.”

 

Latrell hung up.

 

And stopped.

 

And breathed.

 

This long, much needed f*cking exhale with his hand on his chest, legs buckled, leaning against a f*cking garden fence. Was f*cking cold. Rubbed his hands together, head in elbow, squinting. God. Chump.

 

Kid was a chump.

 

Sighed.

 

Needed to make another call. Text. Something.

 

Knew what he had to do.

 

Found Frankie in his contacts.

 

The Glossary

Liberty City Map

Edited February 21, 2021 by slimeball supreme

[slimeball supreme]

Sound Investment

 

Kevin lived in Lennox.

 

What’s f*cking new.

 

Kevin being Frankie’s cousin. Who sold the printers. Which Latrell wasn’t supposed to know until Frankie told him, in the car, “My cousin, he sells these f*ckin’ printers. These off-the-truck f*ckin’ things, these Kakagawas and the sh*t like that. Just out his trunk.”

 

But Latrell knew.

 

And all the same, he said “Yup,” and nodded his head. And sang “Good hustle, son, good hustle.” Grit his f*cking teeth because the greater powers had prevailed and enlightened him to Kevin f*cking Cafora who sold f*cking printers and he did it better than any moolie f*cking could.

 

Played it back in his head. Rewound. Played back. Rewound. Played back. On and on in the back of the Fathom while his fingers piano-keyed the armrest and his glaze gaze flew by house after house.

 

And then they arrived at one of those house-after-houses in a little burb called Cairndow with a Bravado van in the driveway and fresh-mow gravel and red-brick path off the sidewalk. And after a lot of sh*t-shooting that Latrell paid no mind to, and a lot of stops and starts, they’d arrived at the Cafora residence.

 

“You good?”

 

Latrell went “Huh?”

 

Phil said “Youse been quiet, huh?”

 

“Oh. Yeah. Yeah, Jelly, I’m fine.”

 

The other two were already out still sh*t-shooting when Philly laughed and said “I love that f*ckin’ nickname, you got no idea.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“It’s--”

 

“Hey!” Reuben. “What’s taking you goddamn--”

 

“Hold yourself on, huh--”

 

Latrell unbuckled and followed. Phil kept barking hoarse at the guy and the procession stalked up the path. Doorbell. Rang. Waited. Tapped foot.

 

Muffled, “Yeah?”

 

“Yo, Kevvy!”

 

“sh*t, cuz’, yo, sh*t--” some door unlatch clack-clacking, “--the f*ck is this?”

 

“That thing,” Reuben said.

 

“With the thing?”

 

“Yeah, Kev,” Frank went. Door was open by now, “The thing.”

 

Kevin was in basketball shorts and a baggy black tee with the St. Michael pendant peeking through the taut fabric on the mantits. Chest read MUAY THAI and had two little fellas with boxing gloves below orange scrawl. Very cool! Receding hairline he’d shaved, stubble, caveman brow. Another chubby f*cking wiseguy. “And the guy?”

 

The guy was Latrell. “Latrell,” said Latrell. “I’m Latrell.”

 

“Latrell. Oh. Yeah. A’ight. Come on.”

 

And his house was a f*cking sh*thole.

 

No decor. None. Place was bare f*cking empty ‘side from double-seat leather recliner and a TV and an Exorbeo hooked up in the middle of the carpet. Chair styled out you were at the movies with the f*cking cupholders and the middle armrest. Sink full of dishes, filthy f*cking dishes, less a mess on the counter as much as there were just plastic f*cking bags. A million plastic bags stuffed into the corners. Kevin said “You want some drills?”

 

And Reuben said “What?”

 

“Friend of mine. He’s got this whole thing. With drills, power drills. This whole load of Power Metals. You need a deck or nothin’?”

 

“No.”

 

“Well. I got ‘em. They’re in my room--”

 

Frank said “We don’t need no drills, huh?”

 

“Yeah, I know. This is about the pot.”

 

“Yeah,” said Frank.

 

“It ain’t about my power tools or nothin’, it’s about the--”

 

“--the pot--”

 

“--power tools, yeah. No. The pot, yeah. It’s about the guy.”

 

Reuben said “You know the f*ck what’s been happening?”

 

Fellas had dispersed. Kevin found himself on the sofa with legs crossed and arms spread on the backrest. Phil finding his way into the kitchen; Reu and Frank circling sofa boy. And Latrell just lingering. Gravitating toward the kitchen, but by and large just… alone. Kevin said “Yea’. Obviously.”

 

“With what happened with the Albo.”

 

“Mergim, yeah. That’s old news. Is Mark still loopy on that sh*t?”

 

Reuben, “Don’t call him that.”

 

“I didn’t. I said if he was loopy, not that he is loopy or nothin’.”

 

Frank, “But you understand the f*cking association.”

 

“Yeah,” said Kevin. “But it weren’t intentional.”

 

“Well he sent his f*cking boy Titus to crawl up my f*cking ass over it. And we’s lucky, he said. And all of that. And Mergim- you put me on--”

 

“And I said Albanians is that. Albanian.”

 

“So?”

 

“So what, Frankie? So they’re f*cking nuts, they’re f*cking Albos, f*cking psychos. When they blew up that gas depot with Tony Black--”

 

“Different Albos,” Phil said.

 

“Who gives a f*ck? Whaddi’ youse expected?”

 

Frank was sputtering “I- with Mark, I mean, I don’t f*cking know--”

 

“You said the guy took care of it.” Kevin looked over at Latrell - Latrell finding his way into the kitchen, acting nonchalant, “Youse wanna play LOB?”

 

Reuben said “Sure.”

 

Frank, “We ain’t--”

 

“I got the new one,” Kevin said. “And it’s dope as f*ck. And the graphics, and with the TV- you like my TV?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Yeah. And it’s HD as f*ck. It looks great on it. And the graphics are f*cking wicked, man, they are. They’re wicked. And it’s got this career sh*t--”

 

“I just wanna play--” Reuben was saying.

 

“I mean, we ain’t gonna. I mean it’s singleplayer. So we ain’t gonna, but it’s f*cking dope, this career sh*t is like a movie and everything. It’s realistic as f*ck. And it’s got a story and everything.”

 

“That’s cool,” said Latrell.

 

“Yo, can you get- I got a six pack in the fridge.”

 

Latrell blinked. “Me?”

 

“Yeah. Yeah, can you?”

 

Blinked again. “Uh. Yeah. Okay, sure.”

 

Any tension went gone like f*cking that. Like they forgot why they were there. Cheap ass f*cking Pisswasser Ice getting spread out, basketball game on the f*cking TV, Kevin going on about the f*cking flat screen. Telling stories. Talking sh*t.

 

Latrell with his palms flat, elbows out, watching.

 

Frankie kept bitching when the point-deficit grew. Guy f*cking sucked.

 

“You- come the f*ck on, I didn’t even mean to--”

 

“What?”

 

“I just, it pressed the wrong f*cking button--”

 

Latrell did not take a beer.

 

Latrell stood. With his palms flat, elbows out, watching.

 

Frankie’d chosen Penetrators for the sake of hometown pride. Kevin had chosen Henderson because Kevin knew basketball. Buckets like nothing else and Frank was getting rained on. And he kept getting screwy and went nearly throwing the controllers - and probably woulda’ if they were his.

 

Latrell stood. With his palms flat, elbows out, thinking.

 

Thinking.

 

Felt a presence.

 

Didn’t acknowledge.

 

The presence said “Yo.”

 

“Yeah, Philly?”

 

“You good, kid?”

 

Latrell didn’t look at him. Sucked his lip.

 

Phil went again, “Latrell?”

 

“I’m okay.”

 

“All distant on me. All distant on me. You see the snow? I had to f*cking shovel up- I mean, my driveway was all f*cked up and my dog was f*cking freezed the f*ck out, right? Yeah. And they say this global warming sh*t. You know how long they been saying that? About global warming?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“See, you ain’t okay. You ain’t good. And I know why.”

 

He didn’t. “Why, then?”

 

Philly had his palms on the counter now too, “What happened.”

 

Latrell didn’t reply.

 

“Yeah? That why?”

 

“I finish what I start, son.”

 

“Sure. These bozos. I mean. You know they been raped f*ckin’ raw after all that sh*t.”

 

“You say this sh*t like it was years back. We still in it. We still scrappin’.”

 

“Sure,” went Phil. “They’re scrambling. I don’t know. You ain’t been around much but it’s all sorts a’ f*cked up. With Loopy. With everyone. Nobody been shot like that in ages.”

 

“Like what?”

 

“Like The Denouement. Like you run into the place and spray and then run youse f*ck out. You know what I mean? With the Albo. That’s some flashback sh*t. And then all the capos is pissed off and- I don’t know. I’m just lucky.”

 

“You’re lucky, yeah.”

 

“I am. I ain’t got myself on the list, Latrell. I just babysit. These retards act retarded.”

 

“Sure.”

 

“They still ain’t told nobody about you and your boys. Wanted sh*t squared. Now Frankie’s gonna start running over, knockin’ over sh*t, bangin’ on every door askin’ for a supplier. More Albos. These spicks. This whole f*ckin--”

 

Latrell said “More Albos?”

 

“Yeah. They weren’t the only Albanians in the world.”

 

“But they f*cked us?”

 

“I said that.”

 

Blinked. “Bad idea.”

 

“Yeah? Yuz’ preachin’ to the f*ckin’ choir. I mean, they know this guy who’s a cousin of this other guy, since I mean- sh*t, Kev knows a lot of f*ckin’ Albanians. Some of them speak Italian so it’s kosher. But you know. This guy, uh… Moreno. Or somethin’. He’s got this busted f*cking nose, was one of them. And he didn’t even know Mergim, he said.”

 

“Moreno?”

 

“Or Morena or Morello or something.”

 

“I don’t know.” Felt his fists tighten. “Just don’t trust them niggas none, man.” Yeah. Sure. That’d do it.

 

Got a nod back. Phil said “Is that why you’re pissed?”

 

“No.”

 

“You ain’t? That you ain’t gonna get your appreciations? Kevin treats you like a f*ckin’ waiter? Listen to ‘em.”

 

Latrell listened.

 

Listened.

 

“My grandpa,” Kevin was going. “He got in this mad fight once kinda like that,” context Latrell didn’t know.

 

Frankie said “Yeah?”

 

“Yeah. This little sh*t f*cking guy, he was in Venturas, my grandpa Gomberto. And it was crazy style sh*t, cuz. It was f*ckin’ mad. He got his f*ckin’ cheek ripped the f*ck open and it was all blood spraying everywhere and this guy- I mean, he was a real sonofabitch. But you already know.”

 

“No, Kevin, I don’t f*ckin’ know.”

 

“No, I’m saying the genes. We don’t give- oh. Oh, what the f*ck is that?!” Some sh*t on the TV, their f*cking game. “Whatever, whatever, my grandpa f*ckin’ got that little bitch back though, he f*ckin’ broke his spine, this kid. My grandpa Gogo strung that little pipsqueak up by his bawls this guy, and he weren’t never f*ckin’ with us again.”

 

Frank missed another shot. “Are you f*cking kidding me?”

 

“You suck.”

 

“f*ck you. f*ck you.”

 

“You do.”

 

“f*ck you.”

 

Latrell tuned out because the sh*t was gonna make his head pop.

 

Blinked.

 

“It’s the dock thing.”

 

Phil said “Yeah.”

 

“It’s now or never. This big f*cking shipment,” Latrell lied. “Everything.”

 

Stopped Jelly a moment to think. “What?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Yeah, son, really. This big ass boat. And sh*t, you think on it, you won’t even need no supplier. We boost this sh*t, son, we are the supplier, son. So that’s it. I mean, sh*t. I don’t know. Frank and ‘em never took this sh*t seriously but here we f*cking are. Last call. Last call, son.”

 

Phil’s eyes danced. Followed the game on the TV even though you knew he weren’t watching.

 

Latrell watched him play it back in his head, over and over. Heard him salivate.

 

Said it again for emphasis. Made it shiver on his tongue. “Last call.”

 

“Y’know-” there were these words on Philly’s tongue he couldn’t say. Tickling his gums. Sniffed. “We corner ‘em.”

 

“Hm?”

 

“We get Frankie and Reuben, we get ‘em in a corner where they ain’t gonna move. Maybe on the way back, maybe. We tell ‘em straight this stuff. Maybe we tell ‘em about how, uh… you know I want in on this bad, kid. You know that.”

 

Latrell didn’t reply.

 

“I’m just saying. We stop for donuts. Or something. We get ‘em cornered. We start saying names, how if we pull- we get some good dough we can, uh, we can get ourselves some favor and win us back some praises. And then they’ll go for it in a heart. Y’know?”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Not with Kevin.”

 

Latrell squinted. “Maybe.”

 

“Maybe?”

 

“More heads is good sh*t is all.”

 

“You think this cugine f*cking moron is anything for this sh*t? We’ll figure it out. Not him. He’s an idiot.”

 

Let those words bump around inside his skull. “Sure,” said Latrell. “Whatever works.”

 

Phil nodded.

 

Stooge f*ck, Latrell was thinking. We’re getting him in too.

 

Cast the net wide.

 

And then Kevin stood up. And Kevin said he had something in the garage. And Kevin tried to sell them all some power drills.

 

Frankie said no.

 

***

 

On the line at the donut joint.

 

Phil kept looking back at them from the back of the line while this look on his face and this look in his eyes kept creeping, creeping, creeping.

 

Latrell looked at him.

 

Looked him in those eyes.

 

And saw a hungry dog. A barely suppressed whine. Those yellow-red eyes nearly ice f*cking white, alert. Could see him rehearsing the lines in his head. Could see him think. The donut place smelt like stale dough and salt, the latter of which it shouldn't have; it was a donut store. Donut store in beiges hawking pinks and creams and sprinkles, donut store a nothing. Because Phil didn’t care. Phil was living in a time warp, Phil was repeating the same f*cking day over and over, but Phil didn’t care.

 

Because he was going to break the cycle.

 

“Next please.”

 

They waited for their order.

 

Phil muttered to Latrell.

 

Latrell said “Yeah?”

 

Rusty Phil blinked. And repeated: “They only want for themselves.”

 

Those words meant a lot more now than they did before.

 

Latrell nodded and got their donuts.

 

Reuben and Frank, the well-fed f*cks they were, sprawled out in the booth leaving space for nobody. The box, and the coffee, were placed on the table. They did not say thank you. Phil sat down.

 

Latrell did not.

 

There was no other chair.

 

He knew the drill. The Rusty Brown’s was half empty. He grabbed one from another table, dragged it over the spotty f*cking tiles. And sat. And, unblinkingly, looked to Phil. A wordless transaction.

 

Frank and Reuben looked at each other like whatthef*ckishappening.

 

Phil cleared his throat.

 

Playful, “What’s goin’ on?” Frank nearly chirped that. “Gettin’ f*cking cute, gettin’ f*cking quiet, Phil.” He was not paying mind to the black man.

 

“Me and the kid,” Phil said, “got to thinking. Or talking, you know. Thinking and talking.”

 

“You do that?”

 

“You bust my f*cking balls-” Phil held up a fist and did his best ‘why-I-oughta’. It weren’t genuine. “Goddamn f*ckin’ bastid’. Look. But what we was doing, me and the kid--”

 

Reuben asked “Bumpy?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Yeah. Me and Bumpy was talking next step. With the thing with what we was gonna do in the joint.”

 

Frank squinted. It clicked. “Oh yeah.”

 

Latrell blinked.

 

Had he f*cking forgot?

 

The f*cking reason Latrell was even there? Had this dumb f*cking wop f*cking forgot?

 

Reuben said “Yeah.”

 

“We got this, we was thinking some stuff with Kevin about selling weed. I mean, we got Denny in there- I was tawkin’, I mean it was all- these other Albanians, I told you. This other guy, Bledar.” Said it like bleeder. Frank sniffed, “But that’s that. What, Bumpy finally talk to his boss about that? You talk to your boss about that? Wheels?”

 

Latrell took that on the chin. “He’s still waiting for some actual, real kind of f*cking product to use,” he lied. If anyone had forgotten about this f*cking plan it was Slip.

 

“Okay. So we get it from them. Right? Or these guys I met in South Slopes.”

 

“We was talking,” Phil went, “about that thing. With the docks.”

 

Frank squinted.

 

He’d forgot.

 

“What I said at the parlor,” Latrell went. “Seed capital and that sort of sh*t. You--”

 

“Ha. I taught you that.”

 

Latrell said “What?”

 

Frank was chewing, “At the first meeting with Merlin, remember?”

 

Blinked. “Yeah. But this thing I was running with these guys to boost some sh*t at the docks from some niggas who was boosting sh*t from other niggas. Got smack. In a warehouse, in East Hook. Or whatever.”

 

“Oh, yeah. I remember.” That was a lie. Frank did not remember.

 

“But you said you’d think about it.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“What the kid’s saying,” Phil went, “is that we got this dime dropped on us that they had this big load of this sh*t coming in. Large sh*t. Right? And the dime said that if we don’t do it now, we might as well do it never. But the haul, Frankie, is f*cking astonishing. It’s f*cking holy grail sh*t. Latrell said that.”

 

Frank nodded. “Okay.”

 

“And what Latrell said is that with all the sh*t going on right now with the brass and the skipper and that sh*t is that a big boost, some f*cking seed capital, some big money. That would put us in Mark Lupisella’s good books. And not the you’re fine books that we ain’t in no more, I mean the golden goose books. Right?”

 

You could tell from the face that Frank had been attentive at ‘astonishing’, and convinced at ‘Mark’. That was it. But a businessman don’t just say yes, he was thinking. Latrell knew that because it was written over his mug as he kept chewing. Frankie swallowed, and said “Right.”

 

“They’re with one of the other families. Some Messina, some guys who dicked us over. And we don’t kill nobody but we go in good style and we come out with some good smack. Right? And we sell a chunk and we put it in the joint with the fellas and we get Denny his fix and, you know, we tell Mark what we’re doing and also what we robbed to get it. And he’ll be over the f*ckin’ moon, right?”

 

Reuben said “And this was Bumpy what told you this?”

 

“I told you this in September,” Latrell replied.

 

“I know,” Reuben lied. “But you know. After all this stuff and all.”

 

“And we can just plan this out from the tattoo place,” Latrell said. “Titus’ joint. We get him, we get one of my boys. sh*t, we can bring along Kevin, I mean--”

 

Phil, “We--”

 

“--that’s gold,” Latrell said that louder. “That’s that cash money sh*t, b, you know how it is.”

 

Let the silence stew.

 

Phil didn’t even comment, just watched them think.

 

Reuben wasn’t thinking. He was chewing like a f*cking cow, no, he weren’t the type for thinking. But Frank did this dumb f*cking wannabe wiseguy face where he pouted his lips and squinted his eyes and went “M’okay, m’okay. M’yeah,” he was putting on the M’s for some f*cking reason, “you know. Yeah.”

 

“Yeah?” Phil asked.

 

“Yeah. I mean, it sounds okay. I’d maybe clear it up with my pop…” he had no intention of f*cking doing that, “but I mean. It sounds solid. But youse pitching it. So I don’t know.” Started stroking his chin like it would sell the ‘reluctance’. “And this is solid?”

 

“Like my cock,” Phil said.

 

And Frankie and Reuben laughed. “Like your cock, yeah,” f*cking echo Reuben was.

 

“And Mark would be keen?”

 

“I think so, Frank.”

 

Frank was nodding now with his arms crossed on the table, high pitched “Hmm, hm.” Wiped his mouth. “We set this up and we’re gravy. Yeah. Sure. We’ll still, I mean, we set up avenues. But yeah.”

 

Phil’s eyes lit up like f*cking fireworks.

 

So it began.

 

The Glossary

Liberty City Map

Edited February 21, 2021 by slimeball supreme

[slimeball supreme]

Watch the Wink

 

Beechwood. St. Basil Palace restaurant.

 

Nothing. Boring. Nothing.

 

Revaz had showed up with his main guy, Tamaz, the boxer. Revaz with these clear-frame glasses, exceedingly normal looking, gloved hands and knit cardigan under a white polyester track jacket. Guy was taciturn, friendly. His muscle Tamaz in this ratty flat cap with Rimmers on hugging Yulya the woman and talking about how her thing was in Wassador.

 

Because Yulya, on the side - weekends, fortnights, so on - worked as a health aide for a little elderly Jewish couple upstate. Nice arrangement, nice people, thought she was a nice woman. Got to put their names down for Medicaid fraud. Stole some of their meds, used prescriptions in the city and sold them on the street.

 

She said they were nice people and they’d been working on a new puzzle. Five hundred pieces, this one. Nighttime cottage. Joked if she wanted she could get some Mollis for him and Tamaz did this playful little punch on the forearm.

 

Abbot asked Revaz how his son was.

 

“Fine. He’s fine.”

 

Abbot didn’t remember his name and that didn’t jog his f*cking memory.

 

Benny had come with them.

 

Benny in a beige flannel suit with a green shirt and brocade tie, Gutter & Blood shades stuffed in the breast pocket, shaking hands and saying hello on the bee-line for Abbot with the crows feet meshing up on the eye corners. Wide f*cking grin. Abbot turned.

 

Benny said “Abboty, Abboty, как дела́, как жизнь?” Grabbed him by the shoulder and shook hard.

 

Abbot said “Good.”

 

“Good. Huh. Good. You are enjoying?”

 

Abbot hadn’t been doing anything to enjoy. Before Revaz he was on his phone at one of the unoccupied tables moving on the occasional for the cleaning staff spritzing disinfectant. Out of courtesy. Chewed over that statement a moment and just said “Sure.”

 

“Excellent. Revaz, huh? He’s a motherf*cker, he is.”

 

Nodded.

 

“You talk to Tamaz?”

 

“No.”

 

“I tell you about Tamaz, huh?”

 

“The boxer, yeah.”

 

“Yeah. Yeah, yeah.” The dancing eyes of a man who had a lot he wouldn’t say. “How you are?” Realized the question had been asked and answered, “Good, good. Hey, hey. You come wiz’ me. You come, hey, come on.”

 

Abbot sat there.

 

Benny said “Come on.” Impatient.

 

Dancing eyes.

 

Abbot blinked. “Okay.”

 

Practically rubbing his hands, “Excellent, excellent. I want to show you something, come on. I show you something.”

 

He went off.

 

They talked - the gangsters. They rambled. All Russian. A few eyes wandered and watched Abbot head for the door but they turned back to the bar and the tables and started going to the back. Not their business. Abbot knew he weren’t getting killed on the street. No reason to get killed. Why?

 

Onto the street. Saw the Enus parked curbside near a row of trash cans. Saw Benny, impatient. Grinning.

 

“Follow me, huh?”

 

He crossed the road.

 

Abbot stood with his hands in his pockets, eyed him jaywalking down to the dentist across the street.

 

Chewed the air.

 

Followed.

 

Was an alleyway between said dentist and a public library occupied by a black Cavalcade and some more trash cans. That’s where Benny stopped. Beamed wider than wide and said “Tada.”

 

“Tada?”

 

“You like?”

 

“Like what?”

 

“Is yours. The car, huh?”

 

Abbot blinked. “What?”

 

“You say you don’t have you own car, and I hear this all the time, you get rides from Teddy’s bum kid--”

 

“Kaz isn’t a bum.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, right, but you know. You take the 8 train or you take his car. You get you own car. So here you own car. You like?”

 

Blinked.

 

Wow.

 

Okay.

 

“So--”

 

“What?”

 

“The car’s mine?”

 

“Yes. You like?”

 

“Why?”

 

“You like the Cavalcade?”

 

“Yeah, yeah, it’s nice. Where’d it come from?”

 

“It’s nice, Abbot.”

 

“I know.”

 

“You like?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“That’s good. You want come inside?”

 

“Is it legal?”

 

“All legal, baby, all legal. You come inside the car wiz’ me?” That wasn’t a question, though it was posed like one. It was an order. “I have the key.”

 

Abbot nodded.

 

Benny tossed it.

 

Abbot grabbed at it.

 

Slipped out his fingers.

 

Clinked on the ground.

 

Had to bend down to get it.

 

Benny watched the display, glanced down to the pavement, and just moved on. His eyes narrowed. Whatever he was thinking, he didn’t say it. Car was speaking enough. The sorta-dusty 2000’s model Cavalcade in the black paint and the tinted passenger windows spoke for itself. Wasn't a new car.

 

Still had that New Car Smell air freshener dangling from the mirror. And Benny with his hand on the dash grinning at Abbot ear-to-ear. “You like the car, yeah?”

 

Kind of just in awe. “Sure.”

 

“Sure. Sure. That’s not meaning it, say this like you are mean it, like you mean it. Huh?”

 

“I do like it.”

 

“Excellent!”

 

“It’s a- I mean, it’s an Albany. Hell of a whip, man- where’d you get it?”

 

“It’s nothing.”

 

“Used, right?”

 

“Everything is used, huh? Everything is used. Maybe this is used, yeah, maybe. And maybe the owner don’t need this so good no more so you no worry about it. Okay?”

 

Huh. “Okay.”

 

“You say it like you mean it. You say thank you, yes?”

 

“I do thank you. Really. Really. It’s a nice car.”

 

“Yes. And you can go to Evgeniy in Hove Beach - you remember, you seen Evgeniy? You haven’t. But you can see him and he can give you the servicing for two thirds of original price you get usually. Free lubricants, too. So that’s bargain and two halves of a bargain, yeah?”

 

Just blinking it off. “Thanks.”

 

“And you tell Kassian thanks no more so he don’t have to give you his car, huh?”

 

“Y- heh, yeah.”

 

“You come to me. You work for me. I pay you, but you know I am appreciate the works you do for me. Okay? Here’s my token.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

And Benny outstretched his arms, and Benny said “Give me a hug, huh?”

 

Abbot blinked.

 

Well, f*ck.

 

Okay.

 

Blinked again.

 

“C’mon.”

 

Goddamn, f*ck it.

 

Abbot hugged. Leaned over the console. Got a pat on the back and this sick f*cking smell of cologne.

 

Benny pat. Put his hand on his neck.

 

His grip tightened.

 

His grip tightened.

 

Abbot said “Hey--”

 

Benny whispered “Shut up.”

 

“Wh--”

 

“Shut the f*ck up. And listen. Okay?”

 

If Benny pressed any harder he’d be strangling. Just choking. Just couldn’t breathe. Just palming as Benny backed off but kept his hands around Abbot’s throat. Abbot coughed, wheezed, felt his face go red.

 

“You understand this is a gift for you?”

 

Abbot didn’t reply.

 

“That’s good. Now I give you something. You give me something.”

 

“Oka- okay--” coughed.

 

“That night. At the bar in Suffolk.”

 

Abbot’s eyes were watering.

 

Benny said “You know who is your boss. So - here is what you do. Nobody will ever hear anything about anything that is happening on that night. Okay?”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Not Seva. Not nothing I say to you in the car. And nothing about my wife or my father or my privacies. Not to anybody. Not to anyone, not to Kenny, not to Kassian or Pavel or nobody. Do you understand me?”

 

“Okay.”

 

“This car is owned by you. I own you. Okay?”

 

“Okay, okay- okay!”

 

Benny let go.

 

He was smiling again.

 

Abbot wheezed and Benny let him. Let him catch his breath and put a hand to his chest and cough it off a little more. Pat his back again. “Easy, huh?”

 

Abbot just coughed.

 

“Okay. Is a nice car, alright?”

 

“Christ.”

 

“Yeah, right?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“That’s good. Okay. You get to test her up for me today, okay? We leave the Enus here, my baby, we use the car. Because I have importance thing and I need you there, okay?”

 

“Okay.”

 

“You’re good.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“This didn’t happen.” And he pointed and smiled this smile, this genuine smile reading psychotic more than insincere, “But it didn’t happen.”

 

Abbot just nodded.

 

Slapped the dash, “Give her a whirl.”

 

***

 

Abbot had his license but probably hadn’t driven a car regularly since he got out of prison. But it weren’t nothing new. The Cavalcade was a big f*cker, luxurious f*cker, but Abbot had driven a big luxurious f*cker a dozen times before.

 

Felt good.

 

Felt like his.

 

Felt like the gas mileage was probably an assf*ck and the car weren’t his style but hell, it was his. And if parking was what it was in this trash heap town, so what? It was his.

 

Benny watched with this wicked smile the whole time and kept giving directions and tips and told Abbot hey, don’t worry, is nice. Expected him enrapt like a kid with a new toy, like a reward. And it was. Abbot knew the car was a f*cking dog collar. But that was job security, weren’t it? Never really had it before.

 

Drove around the block slow-like a few times and tested the gears and Benny told him they were headed to a meeting in the city. Cavalcade had a GPS, said the address out loud for effect but Benny tapped it in anyhow: 88 Feldspar Street. The Exchange. And even though Benny didn’t trust tunnels because “the cell phones and the things like this” they weren’t taking the bridge for the traffic jams and it’d take forty minutes staying above ground. You shave off ten-to-twenty in the Broker-Garden Tunnel.

 

Was this while of silence, this grinning silence, this uncharacteristic silence, before they hit East Hook and the East Hook entry of the Brooklyn-Garden. The words M. Weald Hodge Tunnel in serif font above the maw as the car headed into the underground.

 

Into the tunnel. 

 

More claustrophobic than you expect, tiles and yellow-blue darkness on a two-lane fit for one, lanes separated by flimsy rubber poles and ink. And Benny getting uncomfortable, and the radio tuned to PLR at 5 volume going 10 in static on its own. Rap-rapping on the dash. And Abbot looking uncomfortable and wondering if the man was gonna grab him again or was just gonna stare at him. But he weren’t staring at him. He was staring at the empty pedestrian walkway and the tile-blur on the walls.

 

Abbot asked “Where’re we goin’?”

 

Benny smiled again, uneasy, and said “Is a little surprise for you. And you’ll like it.”

 

“For work?”

 

“Naturally. But just for relaxation as well.” That broken f*cking syntax, “Just for relaxation, Abbie. Abushka.”

 

Abbot nodded and kept his eyes on the road.

 

“You won’t forget what I told you, okay?” Benny asked.

 

Abbot nodded.

 

Benny said “But you will forget, right?”

 

And Abbot knew what that meant. That meant shut the f*ck up. So Abbot said “Yes sir.”

 

“Sir. Sir. Call me Benny, not sir. Goddamn sir. No sir. Benny, okay?”

 

“Yes, Benny.”

 

“Yes. Yeah.” His eyes drifted to the window.

 

And Abbot drove.

 

Weren’t too long until Union Drive East and Benny was back to whining about f*cking Revaz. f*cking Revaz and f*cking Tamaz and f*cking Georgian f*cking f*cks they f*cking were and he rolled down the window and spat. And then onto Amethyst. After the river-view and the car honk and the skyscraper stare from above.

 

After that they were onto Feldspar.

 

88 Feldspar was a blue entryway reading Barium Baths.

 

Russian Baths.

 

Abbot turned to Benny and Benny was grinning.

 

They’d shut half the street down for some reason or other with construction barriers - not for construction, for parking. And Abbot saw a row of gleaming black Benefactors and a valet-looking man in a red jacket who shepherded the Cavalcade a little down the block.

 

“I don’t need to dress up for this?” Abbot asked.

 

Benny laughed.

 

Stupid question.

 

The sign on the entrance said Barium. Probably for association, since the baths were on Feldspar and not Barium Street. That association of class. And yeah, the baths were classy. They were palatial. Up stairs and it was like they weren’t in Liberty.

 

The Barium Baths were like a castle. Not so much tiles - bricks, stone. Walking into the reception area and seeing warm light and water reflecting on the ceiling: granite, curtains, hanging lights. And Abbot craned his neck, and saw men, and saw the inside largely empty of them.

 

A man in stonewashed jeans and a gaudy tucked-in dress shirt stared at him from the entrance. Benny didn’t talk to the receptionist, he just moved on after talking to another goon.

 

Locker room. More conventional. Abbot turned his neck and saw writing on a wall, about a convention or a renting-out or something, and looked forward into the brown lockers of the much-conventional dressing room of an unconventional bathhouse. A dozen men, all goons, all European, all dressed down. Undershirts, boxers, towels around waists.

 

They watched Abbot enter.

 

Benny said “Undress.” He was smiling.

 

Abbot moved his glasses and rubbed his eyes and squinted and nodded. Benny directed him to a locker. He did what he did.

 

Sauna stream drifting through door curtains into the bathhouse proper. The men watching.

 

Watching.

 

The scowls of judging men not judging bodies but intentions. Benny was talking to one of them. He laughed. Laughed with him more, joked in Russian, laughed again. Abbot stood near one: shirtless, towel, olive skinned and curly-haired and a snout like an anteater. And anteater just f*cking scowled.

 

Watching.

 

Took off his pants and the f*cker kept watching.

 

He was walking out the locker room with the towel around bony waist cleaning the steam off his glasses and he put ‘em back on and the anteater was still watching from the back of the room. And then he was wandering a maze of bathroom tiles and steam, and Benny was ahead of him.

 

Benny had tattoos. Less than you’d expect, but he had them. Had these blue-ink epaulets etched onto his shoulders, grinning devils on the shoulder blades. A skull and crossbones and a knife through the neck. Benny’d had mostly untouched hands except a ring and Russian letters Abbot didn’t understand. Text in Cyrillic and Hebrew dotting the arms and the abdomen. On his back, between the shoulder blades: Тот кто не со мной против меня. And that was all she wrote.

 

Benny caught Abbot watching from behind, threw this wicked grin.

 

Abbot just nodded.

 

Benny said “It’s art.”

 

Abbot said “It is.”

 

“But it means nothing. I got most of these in America. And in America, these mean nothing. You will see this.”

 

There were men in the hallways of the bath house. Goons - the same as before, except undressed - all scowling, tattooed, pink or olive-skinned.

 

There was a room. At the end of the maze, a room with a door and two men guarding it with hands clasped around their nuts. Didn’t look at Benny, but looked square at Abbot, who looked square back and rubbed his glasses with his thumb.

 

They opened the door for him. Talking was muffled behind it and upon entry grew clear. Above the door, in wood:

 

ХОРОШО ТАМ, ГДЕ МЫ ЕСТЬ!

 

There were six men in a sauna. Overlarge, had a bath. Abbot recognized two.

 

Two Italians, you immediately knew. Who they were or represented coulda’ beat the f*ck outta anyone - these fat wobbly old f*ckers, somewhere between swarthy and pasty, scrunched up pug-faces. Abbot realized he recognized one, and that was Gordy Blinks; one of the guys from his visit to East Hook. Other one was foreign-faced, older, grayer.

 

One was Latino. He was built stronger, maybe angrier: strong shoulders and shrouded eyes, thick hair tied back, Spanish inked on the chest and around a potbelly. A black mustache, little tufts of facial hair peeking between the eyebrows and below the rotting fish-lip.

 

One was white. Slender-to-average with that sort of droopy middle-age flesh-body, brown hair, neutral face. Neutral everything. What his deal was, you couldn’t be sure. He wasn’t speaking.

 

And then the two. Kenny Petrovich and Roy Zito.

 

Roy Zito was Roy Zito. Still greased out, still had slicked hair, just sans the fruity suits and the watch and the smile. The smile was gone, that smirk or that grin - just straight-lipped. Kenny Petrovich was Kenny Petrovich. He still looked tired and he still looked attentive, moreso. Important to note was his body. His tattoos. He did not have any tattoos, anywhere, on any part of his body. And seeing every man he’d seen in this place? He saw what Benny told him he’d see.

 

“--but my son is a, he does things, yeah?”

 

“Okay,” Gordy said.

 

“Si, si. But they all do this. All I try to do is guide him, si? Alfonso has- he has six kids. January, Junior, Juanca, Kikín, su pequeño Theophile. Si? And they all get this rowdy, er- el gallito. And we both go through divorce. But I try make America, with Omar, I try make--”

 

“Oh!” That was Kenny. “Rami said you were coming, Benny.”

 

“Shalom, shalom.” Abbot had only heard Benny say shalom one other time - maybe that was a power move. “How the f*ck you are all?”

 

Roy saw Abbot.

 

Abbot saw Roy.

 

Roy glared. Said nothing.

 

Kenny, “My esteemed associates: this is Venya Saravaisky, and this is Abbot Cohen.”

 

Abbot’s eyes raised like f*ck. Eyes darted, on the spot, just peeped out “Hi.”

 

“Me and him, we have history of schvitzing. Isn’t this right, Abbot?”

 

“Y- yeah, yeah.”

 

“Abbot drives Venya. Venya, you know Venya. You have met Salvador, Venya?”

 

And the Latino man, still sitting, extended an arm for Benny to shake, which he did. “Salvador Romo,” guy said.

 

Kenny said to Abbot “He’s a friend of ours from Mexico, a very good friend of Alfonso Vasquez.”

 

Which was a name Abbot knew. “Oh.”

 

“At his wedding, I was his groomsman,” Salvador said. “And this turn out sh*t, but it all do.”

 

And then Kenny said “You’ve met Roy - Abbot a good friend of Roy, does favor for Roy and for all of us - and then there is Gordon, there is Liborio, and there is Clive.” Gordon and Liborio were the Italians. Clive was Mr. Neutral.

 

Liborio said “No offense, but uh, is he okay?”

 

Roy said “He did work for me.”

 

“I know that.”

 

“That thing, we all discuss this, the preacher. Yeah?" Kenny popped his cheek. "Abbot handle this.”

 

And then the eyes went to Abbot, and that tension wore right through. No more.

 

Gordon pointed, Gordon grinned, and Gordy said “You shoulda’ told me when we met- I saw the kid at the docks. Motherf*cker. Thank you.”

 

Benny said “Kenny wanted introduction, he got introduction.”

 

“Golden boy,” someone said, and Abbot weren’t sure who.

 

Which got Kenny chuckling, and Kenny saying “This bastard, he comes and finds everything, he little f*cking see everything. Yusuf, you remember Yusuf? Good friend of mine, Yusuf, and good friend of Clive, and Abbot give Yusuf a little black eye. Ah, but this is how it is. And then this preacher, and this fellows here and this fellows there - he is a good boy.”

 

Abbot just uttered out a “Thank you.”

 

“And a good friend of Roy, too.”

 

Roy said “The best,” with a grin Abbot knew weren’t real.

 

“But we all come today,” Kenny said, “to discuss Mr. Preacher. And we do thank you for this, for getting this done for us, yes?”

 

Abbot nodded.

 

Six pairs of eyes on him.

 

“But,” Clive said, and that were the first words he heard, “we have problems.”

 

“Which is unfortunate,” Kenny said. “But this, what can you do?”

 

“I’m sorry,” Abbot said.

 

“Sorry. Sorry - don’t be sorry. You do good thing. This is best way to do this, because if you shoot a man with a gun there is always question of who shoot him. Police were going through course of saying this was just simple mistake, with what you did, that the temperature off in the building and whomph.”

 

Roy said “But they found what you did to the chimney.”

 

“They found what you did to the chimney,” Kenny repeated. “Unfortunate. So now, this investigation. I respect police. Police respect me. And normally, they are okay with leaving this alone. But now the police are tie this into another organized crime and then, oy. I think to myself, Abbot, I don’t take a penny. The Torpedo Import company, my company, we have a friendly relationship with the Port Authority, and we donate to them, and we believe in a strong effort to stabilize private interests in the harbor. And this, everyone here agrees on?”

 

And all of them chirped along to it.

 

“Si, and my son,” Salvador said.

 

“His son, poor kid. His boy Omar, he get caught up with these awful people, these people who hang out at his apartment in Middle Park West, and then DOA come in and they do what they do, and that’s try pin a lot of things on one thing. Omar, he’s out on bail--”

 

“Thank god,” said Salvador. “No te hagas el gallito, I say, he no listen, pero alabado sea dios,” kept rambling in Spanish.

 

“But the police are pressing him and some good friends on product they may or may not have acquired from good friends of ours. Right? And they go out, and they party. Most unfortunate.”

 

Clive said “And everyone here, we’re all friends of the government. So we don’t dare to slander those employed in the public sector.”

 

“Of course not,” went Liborio.

 

“But,” Kenny said. “Then they are tying this thing back to Mr. Cvjeticanin, the preacher. Do you see where I am going with this?”

 

And Abbot realized, slowly, that this wasn’t for the benefit of him. It was for Benny, who was standing mum-lipped and wide-eyed as new information was running through his head. All so the guy didn’t get embarrassed. “I do,” Abbot said.

 

“And this isn’t helped,” Kenny went on, “that some friends of Yusuf. The people we source some of the product we receive, which we acquire from friends in Afghanistan, and then move into Italy, and then ship between the Caribbean and Florida and here. Well, in this instance, the friends of Yusuf and friends of Clive, they kill around twenty people in Bangkok with a bomb. For deporting some Uighurs to China.”

 

Clive said “So this becomes a bigger problem than you burning down a portable in Alderney. Bigger than police.”

 

Abbot looked to Clive, and saw Clive weren’t denying it. Which raised the question of who he was - and one he weren’t gonna get an answer to. “How well does Yusuf know them?”

 

“Yusuf has family in the leadership of the Grey Wolves, lets say--”

 

“Slow down,” said Clive, and he said it harsh.

 

And Kenny stopped, and paused, and rethought. “He is very well acquainted with them.”

 

Liborio went “What we’re saying is you gotta be ready for some sh*t.”

 

“That’s right,” Kenny said.

 

“That’s right,” Roy concurred.

 

Benny chewed the conversational dick measuring contest and said “Correctomundo.”

 

“We,” Kenny announced, “are cutting some wheat from chaff. And we want you to help us in trimming the grass, is this understood?”

 

Abbot nodded.

 

“And you are okay with this, Benny?”

 

“Absolutely,” he said. “My boy is your boy, sir.”

 

And Kenny smiled.

 

So everyone smiled.

 

“You will be doing a great service for me, for Zito and his associates, and for our good friend Alfonso Vasquez while he is currently in hiding from unjust prosecution and imprisonment by the Mexican authorities.”

 

Abbot blinked. And was barely able to understand what he was hearing.

 

And just nodded.

 

“I feel we have imparted enough information; much of which is significantly above your pay-grade. Guard it with your life, Abbot Cohen, and be grateful you have been given the opportunity to do so.”

 

Abbot blinked. And was barely able to understand what he was hearing.

 

And just nodded.

 

Kenny put a hand on his chest. “Keep in touch. Wait outside.”

 

And Abbot looked to all the faces surrounding him. And Abbot said “Thank you,” and blinked, and nodded, and walked away.

 

Heard conversation.

 

“Is he okay?”

 

“He’s okay.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“You fellas excuse me--”

 

Abbot was halfway across the room with the conversation melding into the background as he heard wet feet plod on the floor-tile. And he slowed himself down and flinched a moment as he felt an arm go around his back.

 

“Long time no see.”

 

“Same to you, Roy.”

 

“They scare you good, buddy?”

 

Abbot looked to Roy and saw he was wide-beam smiling. But it wasn’t a real smile. Fakest smile he ever saw: dead eyed and toothy. Abbot said “A little.”

 

“Oh, me too. But we’re all friends. And I won’t lie to you that the Accents are placing a lot of trust in you, and I don’t blame them. Because,” his smile got wider, “you know how to keep a secret, right?”

 

Abbot felt his stomach hit the floor and said “Yeah.”

 

“That’s good. We got a group of motherf*ckers who like a good secret, okay? And I’m glad you’re apart of it. Because I don’t gossip. And I hope you don’t gossip neither, right?”

 

Which, this time, Abbot understood crystal clear. “Yes.”

 

“I’m glad we’re on the same page. About secrets. Because believe you me, I don’t forget when people do bad by me. Neither do the Accents, and neither does El Calcetín,” Alfonso Vasquez’s nickname, “but especially not me. You wanna know what happens to people who do bad by me?”

 

Abbot blinked. “No.”

 

“Ha. That’s why I like you, it’s ‘cause you’re funny, but nobody wants to know what happens to them. And that’s fair. You remember Gay Tony?”

 

Abbot blinked.

 

“You do. Well, like I said, I always remember when people do wrong by me, and he did wrong by me. And look at him now. So keep that in mind, okay?”

 

Abbot blinked. Gay Tony had been missing for around seven years.

 

“You still shaking from what the big man told you?”

 

Abbot wasn’t sure which big man he was referring to. “A bit.”

 

“That’s okay. Just keep them secrets close to your chest.” And he stopped smiling and Abbot got dead eyes and a dead mouth. “Okay?”

 

Abbot said “Okay.”

 

Roy pat him on the shoulder, summoned the smile, and half-pushed him away spinning back around.

 

Abbot walked for the door.

 

“Sorry, guys, me and Abbot- we go back, we talk, we’re good pals. Now--”

 

Abbot shut the door and didn’t stop walking until the changing room.

 

Didn’t breathe the whole way there.

 

The Glossary

Liberty City Map

Edited February 22, 2021 by slimeball supreme

[slimeball supreme]

Swimming with Barracudas

 

Abbot got a call.

 

“Hey, baby.”

 

“Abbie. Hey. Look--”

 

“How’s things?”

 

“They’re good, man, they’re good. Listen, hey. Drop by. That thing I was talking to you about a while back, the, uh… what we said at the park.”

 

“The dogs?”

 

“No, the other thing.”

 

“Oh. Yeah, what’s up?”

 

“Me and Vadim was gonna go over there. You come too. We wanna make sure everything’s kosher, we lined everything up, we just need to, you know… yeah.”

 

“Make the transaction.”

 

“Yeah, easy. So come on down- where are you? You doing anything tonight?”

 

“Nah.”

 

“Excellent. Excellent, yeah. Okay. Come on down whenever. We go in the city- what, around 12? Some sh*t like that. Take my car downtown, we hash it out, we go. It’s at a club.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Yeah. You up for it?”

 

“Totally. And, you know, we can do some stuff after, right?”

 

“Yeah. I got some sh*t at home, yeah. My, uh- I won’t talk about it on the phone, but yeah. We can- yeah. Yeah.”

 

“Good. Maybe--”

 

“We can give the stuff we’re getting a test drive too. See the kick and if we need to cut it. But you know. You got it?”

 

“I got it.”

 

“Be easy, then. Stay safe.”

 

“You too.”

 

“Love you.”

 

Hung up.

 

***

 

Zoom Zoom was the club. It was downtown in a commercial development - Dragon Heart Plaza - not too far away from the Algonquin Bridge amongst the neons and Cantonese on Diamond Street.

 

Was in the car they schemed.

 

Vadim had brought coke and stuffed it in the bag with around three thousand dollars and the credit card SDs they’d bought from Soroush. Vadim mostly hogged it, passed it to Kaz - who took, went onto Abbot - who passed. Vadim had the game plan: they needed aliases.

 

Abbot, “Why are we lying to these guys?”

 

“They Chinesie, aren’t they?”

 

“Yeah, Vadim, so what?”

 

“You remember in the September, huh? What happen, buddy? Grocery store?”

 

“Yeah. Not every f*cking Chinese guy is related. Don’t matter.”

 

“Their boss man is- uh, who was it. What was the name?”

 

Kaz, “Crooked nose or something.”

 

“Yes, yes, yeah. And this club and most of these Chineses, they know him. So if they get a little suspicious or whatever, I mean- ah, you know. Just to be safe. We won’t do the business with these guys again.”

 

“We were gonna,” said Kaz.

 

“So we keep pretending these our names.”

 

Abbot snapped “That ain’t f*cking sustainable.”

 

“So we move onto new buyer. Buddy, huh, lighten up. Or we just say real names when we know everything is okay with these people.” Vadim did a bump, grunted, “Be fine. Be okay.”

 

“Kaz--”

 

“It was my idea.”

 

Whip sharp, “Kaz.”

 

“Listen--”

 

“Kaz, this is f*cking stupid.”

 

“Listen. Vadim, that’s a fine name anyway. We’re gonna pretend he isn’t even with us. But you and me, I mean come on. Abbot and Kassian. Those are f*cking identifiable names. If our names were f*cking John and Jason it would be fine, I mean, that you can’t fake or nothin’, but you know. Think on it.”

 

“We don’t need to!”

 

“Vadim, pass it. We do. Look, just for now. And we say otherwise our next buy or not, whatever. But if those guys at that f*cking convenience store tell on us or they tell that guy whoever whatever, then you know. We’re f*cked. They just look up our names and addresses.”

 

“I don’t see the f*cking point, man.”

 

Snort. “Just this once.”

 

“What if we buy from them again?”

 

“We say this was a f*cking business thing, we don’t trust nobody- do you think we’re the first guys to do this?”

 

“I’m sure the other ones are f*cking dead, Kaz, I’m sure of that.”

 

“Two against one!”

 

“Are you f--”

 

“Two against one. Two against one, huh?”

 

Laughed, “You f*cking idiot.”

 

“Give it a shot for me, Abbot, come on.”

 

“Fine. Fine. Once. I end up f*cking dead over this it’s your ass, okay?”

 

“I’ll f*cking take it. You want blow?”

 

“No.”

 

“You and f*ckin’ spoil- uh, spoil f*ckin’ sport. You f*ckin’ spoilsport.”

 

“What?”

 

“No coke, no names, no fun. No f*ckin’ drinks when we get there neither, I bet.”

 

“You’re already doped the f*ck up, huh?”

 

Vadim, “Can you pass me the f*cking sh*t, buddy?”’

 

Kassian liked Vovochka. Said Abbot was a Vovochka, would’ve been a Vovochka, should’ve been a Vovochka. And Abbot said fine. So in turn, he was Vladimir: Vlad, Vova, Vovochka. Kassian was John. Vadim didn’t get a nickname, since he weren’t getting an introduction. Just making sure things looked good from afar.

 

So, it was John and Vlad.

 

“You think Kaz would be short fo Kazimir.”

 

“My cousin’s named Kazimir, Abbot.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yeah. And I get f*cking Kassian. What the f*ck is that? I’m the only f*cking Kassian I know. You’re the only Abbot I know. Your dickhead brother, he’s the only f*cking Achban I know. What is that?”

 

“It is what it is.”

 

“It’s f*cking stupid. I don’t even know what Kassian means. Abbot is, like, that’s another word for a priest or somesh*t. But Kassian- Cassius? I hate my f*cking dad. My mom just wanted to call me- I don’t even remember. Kassian Fyodorovich Feygin. She wanted to name me Valery. That was my zayde’s name. Valery, like Valentine. Right?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“And- and ma tries to compromise. And says Konstantin. How about Konstantin? And my pa is f*cking adamant, it’s f*cking Kassian, that’s it. And if she knew he was f*cking someone else I bet she wouldn’t have taken that sh*t.”

 

Vadim, “You sure you you momma’s kid and not the maid or who-the-f*ck?”

 

“No. I got my mom’s eyes.”

 

“You sure?”

 

“I’m f*cking sure, Vadim, I’m f*cking sure.”

 

Vadim left it there.

 

Zoom Zoom was the club. On the fourth floor of Dragon Heart Plaza with the Chinese-kitsch and the curved roof and the big neon lights dancing all over the facade. Meant walking through the cramped little Chinatown mall with the Cantonese ads and the shuttered storefronts for the night, up a cramped staircase, up to the door. Up to standing on line in a space that would probably account for an OSHA violation with more f*cking rambling in a language Abbot didn’t understand while Kaz and Vadim spoke Russian - another language Abbot didn’t understand.

 

The bouncer was a Puerto Rican guy with a ponytail and a balbo and a neck tattoo of a cherub. All Kaz had to say was “We’re here on with your boy Noh” and the bouncer talked some sh*t into his earpiece.

 

Bouncer nodded.

 

“Come on in.”

 

Came on in.

 

Hotline Bling.

 

Hotline Bling blaring out in these loudspeakers with the room filling with smoke and flashing colors. Stairs up to a VIP area underneath a bar dripping onto the dance floor - more chairs and tables, DJ booth. Was some f*cker named DJ Easel Mack or some sh*t holding sway over a cramped room where the bodies mashed and the sweat glistened and the lights danced with the dancers. A lot of diamond plate metal. Might as well have been the theme. Diamond plate metal on the staircase and by the bar and in dashes by the wall.

 

Kaz was shouting, “Vadim, huh?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Listen - keep watch by the--” was pointing to make sure, “other end of the room! Noh’s by the bar. Noh’s my guy, with the fent, okay?”

 

“Yes, alright.”

 

“Okay! You make sure we’re good.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Atta’ boy!” Pat Vadim on the shoulder and let him totter off, grabbed Abbot to say “Let’s f*cking rock.”

 

Used to call me on my cell phone

Late night when you need my love

 

Hated that f*cking song.

 

Stairs leading up while the neons were flashing pink and blue and pink and blue: diamond plate stairs, Chinese bouncer at 6’6 in a suit that weren’t tailored. Could see the black socks. Could see the eyes scanning the room and landing on Kaz - and Kaz threw up a hang ten and said something Abbot didn’t hear through the music. And they were headed up.

 

Upstairs was narrow, VIP lounge a series of tables and chairs like diner booths where more Chinese guys were checking their phones and talking and laying their phones down on the glass tables to snort ket off. And Kaz walking through rubbing the back of his hand searching faces.

 

Four faces.

 

Kaz, “Hey, motherf*cker. Noh, huh?”

 

A guy stood up.

 

Noh was this stern-faced motherf*cker who didn’t break into smiles. Thick brows, flat nose, dapped Kassian and said something in his ears and over the music could hear him say “You guys got it, you guys got it?”

 

“We got it yeah. Noh, buddy, this my man Vova. Vova, this is Noh.”

 

Noh put a hand out. Blue Lézard polo, gray slacks, flushed cheeks. Abbot shook. “Sup.”

 

Three faces. 

 

Face one, left side. Grinning kid, late twenties or early thirties, designer shades. Blue flight jacket and Gnocchi slippers. Lost to it. Not paying attention with his eyes on the ceiling tap-tapping his fingers on the sofa and rubbing at his nose.

 

Face two, right side. Bald guy, almond skin, maybe forties or maybe older. Pink button-up under a moto-jacket and black leather gloves. Scruffy looking, slim, stoic. Watching.

 

Face three stood up. Black t-shirt. This glorious cream jacket with black fur lapels. Mid-forties, slick hair, smile. Broken nose.

 

Broken nose.

 

Noh said “This is, I got to introduce you to--”

 

“Please.” That was the nose. “Zhou Ming.”

 

Abbot watched Kaz and saw him trying to hold back a gag. Kaz pat Abbot on the shoulder, shook the man’s hand, and said “I think I’ve heard the name!” Choked that out.

 

Noh, “Johnny. Hey, and--”

 

Zhou pointed to baldy, “Qiang.” Then pointed to the kid with the shades, “This is Tao. Me and his father, his father Wei- good man, his father.”

 

“Mr. Ming is the, uh, the proprietor--”

Smiling, “I own the club.”

 

“Owns the club. Sit down, sit down, John- come on--”

 

Kaz had one hand grabbing his bag and the other around Abbot’s forearm. Said “Nice coat.”

 

“Much obliged,” went Zhou.

 

“Excellent. I mean--”

 

“Noh has told me-” let the two sit down, “that you two had a business proposal.”

 

“Yeah! Yeah. Yeah.”

 

Beat.

 

Zhou smiled, motioned around, “Are you a fan?”

 

“Like what?”

 

“My establishment. I saw disbelief, and quite frankly, I can’t much believe my luck either. It’s a nice place, isn’t it?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“A lot of knowledge you have to obtain. Right? I mean, I am a f*cking idiot,” Zhou chuckled, “I am. I’m known to forget more than I learn on a somewhat regular basis, and you’ve got to keep yourself learning to keep up. Right? Tao knows, right? Tao.”

 

Tao at attention. “什么?”

 

Zhou, “还记得那个关于雨伞的玩笑吗?”

 

Tao laughed, “是的, 白人和遮阳伞。我告诉过你，他们他妈的讨厌遮阳伞。我不明白!”

 

“你还记得那个玩笑吗?”

 

And Tao coughed and said “我的老二现在真的很疼。No. No.” Looked Abbot dead in the eye and said “Umbrellas.”

 

Zhou, “Stupid f*cking joke he told me. He’s a f*cking kidder, man. Johnny. John, right?”

 

Kaz said “Yeah.”

 

“You want-” slammed the table, “fentanyl! Right. Noh told me.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Was smiling, rat-a-tat, “How- much- are- we- talking!” Rubbed his crooked nose, “The bag, you got it--”

 

“Yeah. Me and Vova--”

 

“Vova. That is a name, my friend.”

 

“It’s Russian.”

 

This permanent smile on Zhou’s face, turned to Abbot, “Are you Russian?”

 

Abbot said “Yeah, I guess.”

 

“You- I am not sure if it’s the music, but I do not hear a dialect.”

 

“No. No, I was born here.”

 

“Noh tells me you two are from Broker.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“It was, for me and for my business partners, a significant hassle to set everything up. And maybe this is the result of my record, or maybe it’s my affiliation with traditionalist organizations associated with working people. This country has it in for working people. Or maybe, and I told Noh this, it’s ethnicity. I’ve worked with a lot of individuals and organizations that disrespect on a matter of ethnic background.”

 

Abbot just nodded.

 

“Am I wrong?”

 

“Nah. Definitely not.”

 

“And I am sure your parents or even yourself can understand the difficulties of the immigrant experience. My family, we came here. And the merchants - I think this is appalling - the merchants on Diamond Street get spit on. They get spit on by white men and rich men and dishonest people. I got my nose f*cked by white man and his lackey over the liquor license for this place. Had my arm twisted by more people than you could imagine. Dishonest people and lying people. The little people in this country get swindled tax-free. Are you from a, uhm, similar ethnic background as Vova, John?”

 

Abbot added “Vova’s short for Vlad.”

 

“Interesting.”

 

“Yeah. We’re both Jewish. So, yeah. That angles into it too.”

 

Kaz said “Goldstein.” Abbot wasn’t sure if that was supposed to be his name or Kassian’s.

 

Zhou had this way about him where every word was over-enunciated. This front, this self deprecation you could tell wasn’t genuine. Man was flexing, “I’m not too well-versed in this sort of thing, we may all be fools but I am a fool unlike anyone else,” like that. “But I am of the belief that discrimination is at the crux of this country. No? That rich men, powerful men, they can deride you based on beliefs or lifestyle or ethnicity or anything else, believing you stupid, believing you worthy of trickery- I am not sure, I wander off, don’t I? I like to converse.”

 

Kaz just muttered out “Yeah.”

 

Tao shouted “What you say?!”

 

“Yeah, I said. Sure. That’s the- uh, the right way to do a transaction is to converse. You wanna see the merchandise, Mr. Ming?”

 

Zhou nodded.

 

Kassian opened the bag and spilled out the contents. A stack of bills, one of a few. That, of course, and the SD cards.

 

And the man with the crooked nose rubbed his hands together and said “I was informed you would be bringing credit- card- numbers,” that same rat-a-tat. “They’re on those, right?”

 

“SD cards, yeah. We get them from local stores and they’re all out-of-towners. You just gotta make sure when you’re buying with these things you don’t spend it all in one place. If you do that then you bring the IRS into it, or the credit card company.”

 

And Zhou nodded and said “We are serious people” with this kind of unearned venom. “I make sure the people who acquire these use them in a fashion that doesn’t bring any undue attention.”

 

“I can’t tell you where I got ‘em because there needs to be insulation, right?”

 

“But they are legitimate?”

 

“I’ll just say that we get legit stuff in a steady flow from a reliable source. Local business owners, I mean- you were saying about the immigrant experience and dishonesty and that--”

 

“Of course.”

 

“Credit card companies and the banks are as crooked as they come.” Kaz was looking at his nose when he said that.

 

Zhou had this knowing smirk on and said “Undoubtedly.”

 

Was looking at the SDs.

 

The bald man, Qiang, he leaned over.

 

Zhou said “你想要什么?”

 

Qiang said “这些人是俄罗斯人，对吗?”

 

“这就是他们告诉我的.”

 

“巨大的他妈的巧合，不是吗?”

 

“我在想和你一样的事情.”

 

Kaz, “You--”

 

Zhou, “I do apologize. My friend here, his English isn’t exceptional, and I am just assuaging him of any worries related to the fact these numbers do not come on plastics. Is this understood?”

 

And Kaz nodded.

 

Qiang said “金发碧眼的家伙。我认出了他的声音.”

 

“你确定吗?”

 

“他是在杂货店抢劫我们的人。音乐太大声。你能再让他说话吗?”

 

Zhou paused. Thought. “My friend raises an interesting query - are these debit or credit?”

 

“Easy. I wouldn’t get no debit because that draws directly from the account. Credit’s easier with the deniabilities. Can you tell him that?”

 

“Certainly. 你又听到他的声音了吗?”

 

“绝对是自鸣得意的鬼佬，和以前一样。他肯定抢劫了我们。如果不是，他知道是谁做的。我不确定戴着眼镜的那个，但是金发碧眼的那个肯定抢了我们。”

 

And Zhou did this laugh - almost fake, “He says either way, the plastic game is a racket.”

 

“That it is, man, that it is.”

 

Qiang spat “他们必须认为我们他妈的智障。我会撕掉他他妈的公鸡。”

 

“Easy,” said Zhou.

 

Abbot asked if “Everything cool with the guy?”

 

“Definitely.” Ming seared eyes into Abbot. “He just gets emotional about this sort of thing. Qiang’s from Fujian, a lot of his family back home are involved in labor negotiations. We used to - and we do - work for a lot of individuals with leanings toward the Kuomintang, you know what that is?”

 

Abbot said “No.”

 

“The capitalists in Taiwan, essentially. Bigots. A fellow who considered himself my superior, his name was… he’s dead now, but he had his sympathies. And I remember him being such a callous, lying little f*cking pig. Just a lot of reminders. The people you have to do business with to get ahead, right?”

 

Kaz laughed, nodded crazy. Wasn’t sure what he was even saying, you could tell, but agreed all the same. “Just make sure your guy here is okay and understands everything,” turned to baldy, “we good?” Did a thumbs up.

 

Baldy stared. Baldy turned to Zhou. And said “我想砸他的脸.”

 

“不用担心，您会的。He says we are indeed, good.”

 

“Excellent. And with all this sh*t, and the cash runs us a good couple thousand, you can count it. Do you keep the stuff on hand?”

 

“In my office,” Zhou said.

 

“So, easy, we go in, we exchange. I mean, we can do more business.”

 

“Absolutely, John. Absolutely. Hold on- Noh.”

 

The Noh guy was looking awkward, withdrawn, eyes on Tao and trying to avoid the conversation. “Yeah?”

 

“You look after Tao. 当我们完成这些愚蠢的操蛋后，您和我将要谈谈。你这个白痴。 Understood?”

 

“我真的很抱歉。我不知道他们是谁.”

 

“您下次应该进行背景检查。我敢打赌这些甚至都不是他们的真实姓名.” Turned to Kaz, “Doesn’t like Tao.”

 

“Hey, I know a guy just like that.”

 

“Don’t we all. Follow me.”

 

Tao was blinking like he’d never done it before with that stupid face gone even more stupid, gone showing off his phone case to nobody while drool was drip-dripping out the corners of his mouth. Phone case had glitter on it. Had the guy Noh push him to the side while Zhou and Qiang side-stepped out the booth and started their strut to the door.

 

And Kaz grabbed Abbot, again by the forearm, and lead him on.

 

Abbot said “Are you f*cking kidding me?!” Might as well have been a whisper under the beat.

 

“Lucky we had those fake names, huh?”

 

“We buy from the same f*cking- did you do the f*cking background on this?”

 

Kaz had this brilliant f*cking smirk on his face. “Maybe I knew.”

 

Dumbfounded. “Are you kidding me?”

 

“We can argue in the car. It’s going fine. Just shut the f*ck up.” Scanned over the balcony onto the dancefloor and peeped out Vadim keeping eyes on the procession. DJ switched the track.

 

How Many Times, DJ Khaled. Abbot looked ahead and saw the two Chinese leaning in and talking into the ears. Kassian gripped the bag tight.

 

Walked with them.

 

Door at the end of the VIP area guarded by another Asian guy who definitely wasn’t a bouncer type - Heat Classic shirt, shutter shades, puffer vest. Contrast on the diamond plate gray; door was white, circle window. Zhou talked.

 

Guard guy looked on and nodded. Zhou opened.

 

Stepped in.

 

The music got muffled. Short hallway leading two ways: managers to the right, closer to the dance floor. Hallway went up ahead to another door. And Zhou kept walking, and he was walking right ahead.

 

Kaz went “Not the manager’s?”

 

“No,” Zhou said. “We’re keeping it up here.”

 

Pushed the doors open into a storage space turned into a makeshift hangout. Foosball table in the corner, unused. Concrete floor. Little table in the center going right with two other Chinese guys with mahjong tiles. “Yo, Adlai.”

 

One of the guys at the table, styled hair and freckles, perked up.

 

“获取手电筒。我们要杀死这些白鬼。He’s getting the stuff.”

 

Adlai nodded, stood up.

 

Pain.

 

Pain shot up Abbot’s shin and he collapsed to the ground and bang, pain again. Stomped on his f*cking leg. Abbot yelped, shouted, tried clawing at the ground when Qiang - the bald guy - picked him up by the abdomen and tossed him into a wall.

 

Crashed into some sh*t leaning on it and thumped his head on an armchair. Motherf*cker.

 

Looked up and saw a scene of two: Kassian’s bag thrown onto the table, Kassian face-slammed onto the foosball table. Shouting.

 

Zhou stood over.

 

Zhou looked at Kaz.

 

Zhou said “Either you think we are f*cking idiots, or you are f*cking idiots.”

 

Kaz yelped “Maybe both!”

 

And Zhou scoffed, tutted, and smashed his fingers with a metal flashlight.

 

Kassian collapsed.

 

“Probably right. Johnny, huh? Johnny? Vova and f*cking Johnny? Qiang tells me at the table, what are the chances. You were at the counterfeiters?”

 

“Counterfeiters?!”

 

“The f*cking grocery. My f*cking grocery. We print f*cking fake cash out that f*cking grocery. And you’re here bringing our f*cking cash back to us for- to buy fentanyl. Idiot.”

 

And Kaz was on the floor and muttered “We just thought it was some card game.”

 

“How’d you even find out? Contemptuous little f*ck you are. Who told you?”

 

Qiang, “询问他们的真实姓名!”

 

Got a chuckle out of Zhou, crouched on over. “What’s your real name, Johnny? Is it Ivan?”

 

Kaz just wheezed.

 

“Who’d you rob the grocery with? Did you do it? Did glasses do it?”

 

Attention turned to Abbot - he’d dropped his glasses somewhere. Was scrambling around on the blurry f*cking floor when wham, a kick to the abdomen. Yelped again. Looked like that Adlai f*cking guy through the eye-fog. Kaz said “I don’t know what you’re even saying, I don’t speak English.”

 

Could make out Zhou pulling something out his jacket. Whopped the f*cking thing on Kaz’s back, sent him reeling to the ground. Picked what looked like the flashlight off the foosball table and nodded to Adlai - “Search the club. Ask Jomar if they came in with anyone else, eyes on anyone looking f*cking suspicious.” Turned to Kassian. Sighed.

 

Crouched on over again while Kassian was down. Pulled on his arm, held down his hand.

 

Looked up to Qiang. “你能行的,” handed him the flashlight.

 

Qiang took it and brought it down on Kassian’s wrist.

 

Kaz animal-screamed. Could see him spaz the f*ck out, gesticulate, grab his hand in agony.

 

Zhou stood up. “That’s f*cking broken, I bet.”

 

Qiang turned to Abbot and spat on his face. “他们在取笑你。我什么时候可以割开他们的喉咙?”

 

Wiped the sh*t out his f*cking eye but just stayed laying on the floor.

 

“I tolerate derision,” Zhou said. “Useless f*cking idiots. I’m so f*cking stupid to have f*cking let these f*cking people into- f*ck. 我们将它们保留在这里, 直到俱乐部关闭。You getting this?”

 

Zhou was talking to the other unnamed guy who was playing mahjong and mostly keeping out of it. Handed him the blurry thing, could feel the glare through the eye-nothing. No-name just said “Yes.”

 

“Stay humble in the face of ineptitude, don’t let the sun set on wrath. Understand?” To Qiang, “I’m f*cking going. Come with me, get Ephesus, tell him in. I need to keep my eyes on Cheng, okay?”

 

Qiang nodded. Apparently understood, but didn’t speak.

 

Led him out as the door swung open and slammed shut.

 

Couldn’t see sh*t. Man shaped blur weighing whatever he got given and looking around and stutter-mumbling nothings. Didn’t know what to say, didn’t know what to do. Was this moment of Abbot scraping around on the floor searching for his glasses, this moment where the man shaped blur said “Hold it!”

 

Abbot froze.

 

And the blur came closer. Had whatever was given to him in both hands.

 

Stretched out his leg and started pushing something toward him.

 

Blur said “Okay. See. See?”

 

Abbot couldn’t see. Squinted. Still couldn’t see.

 

Which got the blur groaning. And got the blur crouching. Blur had the blurry thing in one hand loose-like and reached for the thing he kicked.

 

Kassian kicked him in the hand.

 

Whatever it was he was holding flew and hit the wall with a metallic clunk and got the blur gripping wherever Kaz kicked him. And Kaz did it again, on his back like an upturned turtle, pulled himself up to start swinging with his bad hand wild.

 

Abbot felt for what the blur had given to him and found his glasses. Ah. Made sense. Pushed himself back and threw it on.

 

Kassian was beating the guy’s neck in with the butt of a pistol.

 

“Kaz!”

 

Kaz stopped and the guy slumped over. Kaz kicked him.

 

“He didn’t do sh*t, did he?”

 

“They all f*cking did f*cking sh*t, f*cking didn’t they? f*cking f*cking f*ckers. f*ck. O bozhe, f*ck!”

 

“Easy, sh*t!”

 

“My f*cking hand’s on f*cking fire, Christ.” Was limp, “Goddamn it. Your glasses okay?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“You okay?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Offered Abbot the gun.

 

Abbot took it.

 

“We need our sh*t,” Kaz said. Scanned the room, “Might be on the floor- yo, f*cker. Cocksucker!”

 

Was shouting at the guy on the floor.

 

Guy, the blur, he didn’t reply.

 

“My bag. Check the door. It’s near the table,” was circling it, searching.

 

Abbot gripped the gat and aimed it at the door.

 

“Found it. Found it! We’re okay.”

 

“Good?”

 

“Some of the SDs are on the floor but--”

 

Door opened. Music came flooding through a little more. It was the guy from the door in the puffer vest.

 

He said “Yo, Howard- wh--”

 

Abbot shot him twice.

 

Shots rang out through the sound-proofed space and these blinding flashes hit the eyes. Adjusted to the guy slumping over with two holes bored through the stomach and the right side of the shoulder near the chest, clutching at the wounds and crimson coming out his mouth strung out agape. Trying to say something, couldn’t say anything. Could just moan.

 

Abbot looked to Kaz, and Kaz looked at the body. Abbot said “Check the guy, see if he’s got another mag on him, f*cking anything.”

 

Which got Kaz over the table with the bag and the mahjong pieces on the floor and rifling through the blur’s jacket. Pulled out another mag. Another - Kaz checked - “Seventeen.”

 

“Seventeen?”

 

“And it’s the same gat there, I think, so f*ckin’... 32. Keep that in your head.”

 

“They hear it?”

 

“If they heard it, they’d be here. Lucky spot.”

 

“We check the office?”

 

Kassian thought.

 

“We get the f*ck out of here,” he replied.

 

Abbot thought.

 

“Good.”

 

Kaz stuffed the blurry man’s wallet into the bag. Nodded. Moved.

 

Into the hallway they’d walked. Two huddled close. Kassian clutched at his wrist and held it tight to his chest and winced as they went while Abbot trained the sights on the exit. Kept moving. Moved slow. Eyed the manager’s office with a brass plate labeled ZHOU MING screwed onto the rouge red door and darted back to the exit.

 

The dancing colors and the song he didn’t know and the hair of the guy with the freckles - Adlai. Leaned over. Did the calculations in his head, saw he was in the way of the door that opened outward. Tongued under his gums.

 

Kassian said “Are we dead?”

 

Abbot said “Yeah.” Kept eyeing, “Motherf*ck.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“I kick the door open. You stay behind me. Okay? I try shooting- hit where those guys were sitting. You remember? Noh and the E-head?”

 

“Tao.”

 

“Yeah. I kick the door and get that guy with the freckles. I shoot. Whatever happens happens. You stay behind. Okay?”

 

“Vadim’s got--”

 

“If Vadim sees, he’ll see. We get out. Alright?”

 

“Alright.”

 

“You ready?”

 

“I’m ready. You ready?”

 

“Motherf*cker.”

 

Motherf*cker.

 

Motherf*cker.

 

Abbot kicked the door open.

 

Bang.

 

Bang was the music pumping and the door hitting the bozo on the shoulder and knocking him down and then the gun firing. And the gun firing again, and the gun firing again, and wild shooting while Abbot hit the floor near the luxury sofa and the screaming started.

 

Freckles got up a second and reached into his jeans and then Abbot shot him in the f*cking stomach and he screamed. And there was more screaming, the music still going but the lights stopping. Turned normal, no more rave lighting, no more nothing.

 

Music stopped but the gunshots were still ringing and Abbot peeked over to fire again.

 

Shot three times and one of those shots hit that Tao kid, Tao Cheng with the Gnocchi slippers, right in the leg. And he fired again and hit the kid around the waist and then fired again and shot the Noh guy. The Noh motherf*cker had pulled an automatic out and when the shot hit him he yelped and gripped the trigger out of pure goddamn shock and just fired half the magazine into the ceiling. Abbot looked behind himself and saw Kaz ducking and tried looking over the railing of the VIP area to look for Vadim while the rat-a-tat yelled in his ear.

 

And then more shouting and the music stopped and Abbot heard firing downstairs. That was Vadim. And the sparks started flying and a shot whizzed out by the door and poked a hole in the circle window and Abbot was thinking f*ck f*ck f*ck.

 

Shouted “Go!” and hopped over the railing.

 

Kaz followed.

 

Abbot dropped down onto a stool and tumbled and felt his f*cking soul hurt but he scrambled on the floor near the sweat and spilled drinks and saw the fire concentrated at the VIP, and then the guys running ragged on the stairs.

 

So he pulled himself up and saw Kaz had made a more dignified drop, landed on his feet on the counter of the bar and jumped down and picked Abbot up by the collar and they started running. Vadim was by the door already firing out his .38 and a second flew by and they were out in the entrance hall to the club where more people were crowding and congregating and getting to the exits. They forced themselves through, pushed through the clubbing crowd, shots hitting the doorway and the lights flashing again as they rounded the stairway into the fire escape where a couple stragglers were hiding.

 

Kept running.

 

Didn’t know how they left the inferno but they kicked themselves out on the ground floor into one of them Chinese indoor mini-mall places where the ads are all in Cantonese and the halls are all cluttered. Ran through the storefronts with shuttered entrances and got to the barred entrance. The barred entrance with the f*cking chained door and Abbot started hitting it with the handle of his gat and hitting and hitting and then Vadim, the motherf*cker, he punched through the f*cking glass and he pulled the chain with his bloody fist and ripped it off whatever flimsy sh*t was holding it shut.

 

Burst through the door. Heard sirens, saw the clubbers on the street.

 

Sprinted down the block.

 

Kaz was laughing. Laughing as they went.

 

When they got to the car they were breathless and mindless and just hit the gas and went. Drove around the block a moment to lose the scent and hit the bridge silent. No more laughing. Dead air.

 

Was Vadim who rolled the window down and checked his fist and saw the cuts lining down the fingers.

 

Slapped himself on the f*cking forehead.

 

About right.

 

The Glossary

Liberty City Map

Edited October 7, 2021 by slimeball supreme

[slimeball supreme]

Latrell Palmer and the Depths

 

Slip was out on the street. He was wearing a bowler hat. Very cute.

 

Latrell was out in the yard smoking in the snow on his lonesome. Out by the basketball court by the street, abandoned, rubbing gloved hands together keeping the tobacco in and feeling the heat from the lighter. And he saw Slip with the bowler hat and the triple-layer jacket and the Hinterlands, and he saw it was Teflon pushing him instead of one of the boys.

 

Slip said his hellos to one of the Ballas. Said it to some of the others. But he wasn’t straying.

 

He was coming for Latrell.

 

Latrell adjusted his beanie and took another puff of the smoke and looked again to see if his eyes were deceiving him and no, balla, they weren’t. And Latrell took one last smoke and tossed the thing to the ground while it was still good for smoking.

 

Teflon said “Yo!” when he saw Latrell leaving.

 

Goddamn motherf*cking f*cking f*ck this f*cking sh*t.

 

Slip had his dreads pulled back and threw up some signs as Teflon pushed. Smiled.

 

Latrell said “What’s up, man.”

 

“What’s poppin, balla?”

 

“I’m eatin’, son, I’m eatin’.”

 

“Is you?” Slip’s smile flickered and he repeated, “Is you?”

 

Latrell reached for the Debonaires in his jacket pocket.

 

“Don’t smoke,” Slip said. “I’m out.”

 

Looked back, nodded a little, stuffed the box back in his jacket.

 

So Slip chuckled. “Aw’right.”

 

“Is this about the game?”

 

“Aw’right.”

 

“‘Cause I told the balla Xavier to tell the homies what was what, son, and it’s been a good month son, and uh- we ain’t never even really had that talk, son, so I’m just sayin’--”

 

Teflon said “Ease up, balla.”

 

“I’m eased.”

 

Slip said “You gotta ease up.”

 

“I’m tryna’ stay eased,” Latrell went. “I’m eased up like a motherf*cker, b, I- I I’m just- I’m just hoping y’all eased up with me.”

 

Slip nodded and said “Aw’right.”

 

“You talked to Cato? I ain’t had the opportunity to ask you,” Latrell had been avoiding him for as long as possible, “but I been ‘round the houses and you ain’t been nothin’ with me, b, so I ain’t--”

 

“Ease up, lil’ nigga.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Keep your hat on, b.”

 

Teflon repeated it, “Keep your hat on.”

 

“It’s on,” Latrell said.

 

“That’s good,” Slip replied. “So keep easy.”

 

Latrell nodded. Looked down. Was tapping his foot. Couldn’t stop.

 

Looked back up. Teflon weren’t smiling. Slip was. But it was a cruel little smile.

 

Sniffed, “But yeah,” Latrell said. “That game. I ain’t caught up with you, son, so was wondering.”

 

Slip said “Aw’right.”

 

“You gonna keep sayin’ that?” Meant it like a joke but it came out sorta scared.

 

Teflon said “You ain’t gotta concern yourself with it.”

 

“I was on that thing,” Latrell said.

 

“You’re on a lot of things, ain’cha, boy?”

 

“Hey, son, I suppose.”

 

Slip hissed out “Like them menthols, you is.”

 

“Sure.”

 

“You like ‘em?”

 

“Okay.”

 

“That ain’t an answer to my question, balla.”

 

“Sure, son, I suppose.”

 

“Quit supposin’. Do you or don’t you?”

 

“I’m smokin’ the Debonaires, that’s it, so yeah, son, yeah, son.”

 

“Debonaires.” Slip smiled, “Debbies. D-Bs. Hey, yo. DB. How’s the kid? How’s DB?”

 

“That’s good rhymin’,” Latrell said.

 

“I’m askin’ how the kid is.”

 

“He’s good.”

 

“I’m sorry for your friends,” Slip said. “Shoulda’ seen. You said Xavier? Some US Marshals came out the motherf*cker the other day, we locked down the fort, they searched his apartment. Scared the sh*t out his girl. You talked to his girl?”

 

“Yeah,” Latrell lied.

 

“That’s odd, she don’t remember. She don’t remember you talkin’ to her. Last time she remembers is when you and the little one, Reggie, when you and him and Xaviers was at the playground and you was talkin’ about sh*t with her.”

 

Latrell said “Why you talkin’ to Jasmine?” Came out too shaky for his liking.

 

“Ballettes. Ballas. Brotherhood. That’s what we is. Brothers allied lovin’ life and spirituality. B-A-L-L-A-S, Brothers allied, lovin’ life and--”

 

“I know, I know.”

 

“Hit me again, son. What’s poppin’?”

 

Latrell paused a moment and sighed and let it out strained, “5 poppin, 6 droppin, hand on my right--”

 

Slip said “Shut up you dumbass little stupid bitch motherf*ckin’ nigga.”

 

Latrell stopped.

 

“You f*ckin’ with them Italians still?”

 

Latrell stopped.

 

“B, ‘cause I straight up thought they forgot, was my thinkin’. And I ain’t heard from you on the set none, and I heard Xavier shoot some Italian in the drive-thru and he ain’t talkin’ to nobody. Ain’t even talking to his public defender. And ‘ain’t that something’ is all I’m thinking.”

 

“None of my business,” Latrell said.

 

“He’s your boy?”

 

“My boy got his sh*t. I don’t know what he was on.”

 

Slip looked at Latrell way too long with eyes that said he didn’t believe him. But it didn’t mean nothing to Latrell anyway.

 

And it was a while, and Slip just said “Aw’right.”

 

“Mafia ain’t even real,” Latrell said.

 

“Maybe.”

 

“And you know that. Whole towers get scared ‘cause a- a black car or some ‘cause some niggas want flapjacks. You think this is Russian mafia like this is a movie, like that sh*t happens, like we gang war bullsh*t. Like we on that Richards Majestic sh*t and this is Denouement--”

 

Teflon went “I mean--”

 

“Because we rob some dick pill doctor--”

 

Slip said “Enough.”

 

“I’m just saying ballas keep they eyes on the wrong ballas. You shoulda’ talked to Xavier instead of me, is all the f*ck I’m saying. Maybe he did some sh*t. I ain’t appreciating the sweating I’m getting. That’s all I’m saying.”

 

Slip nodded. “Aw’right.”

 

“Yeah, aw’right you too.”

 

And there was that pause again. Slip staring. Slip said “Don’t worry about nothin’.”

 

“I ain’t.”

 

“Not that game, neither. ‘Cause Kenton ain’t talking to me and he ain’t talking to Cato. So if he ain’t talking to Cato I’on even give a f*ck. So step off me.”

 

“I’m not doin’ sh*t.”

 

Slip nodded again. Blinked. “Stay eased.”

 

“I am.” Said that too quickly.

 

Teflon kept his eyes on him wheeling the chair around headed back to the towers.

 

Watched them enter.

 

Nearly keeled over ‘cause his heart was beating so fast. And it was beating like f*ck as he scrambled for the Debonaires and pulled out the stick and shaky-handed flick-flicked the lighter and stumbled on out the projects. Didn’t want to be here anymore. Didn’t want to be anywhere. Stumbled out the projects like he wasn’t walking - blinking with every blink sending him 10 feet forward.

 

Where was he now? Alderney Avenue. Where was he now? Foxarbor Avenue. He was staring at the dry cleaner his moms worked at and contemplated heading in. He was staring at the Chinese place he’d stolen the delivery van from for Ramon and contemplated going in. And he was wandering, through treacle, and then he was drifting.

 

All he was hearing was cars. All he was hearing was folk.

 

Blinked.

 

Where was he now? Didn’t know. He felt at his lips. His cigarette was running ash. Hadn’t inhaled.

 

Muttered.

 

Leaned against the wall.

 

Kept flicking at his lighter and spat the Debonaire out onto the floor.

 

Blinked.

 

“Yo.”

 

Did he say that?

 

No.

 

“Was looking for you, cueball. What’s up?”

 

“Yeah, what’s up, fa**ot?”

 

He knew those voices.

 

“Turn around.”

 

He was facing the street. He was blinking. And then one of the two guys put their hand on Latrell’s shoulder and shoved him to face the wall.

 

“Palms on the f*cking wall. C’mon, cuey. Palms on the wall.”

 

Latrell’s lighter was on the ground. He put his palms against the brick, above his head, wide.

 

“Spread ‘em.”

 

Latrell was gonna but a leg broke between his and mashed his feet apart spread eagle-like. One of the two spat. “Grant, you got this?”

 

And Grant laughed and said “f*ckin’ A.”

 

Jake Van Der Werff circled around with this wide-ass smile watching Grant frisk him.

 

And Grant frisked him.

 

Grant shoved him against the wall and pat down his hoodie, felt into the pockets, pulled out the Debonaire packet. Laughed, tossed it on the ground, kept going. Hands in the jean pockets, hands up the sleeves, hands down the back pockets, hands into his underwear. Grabbed Latrell by the dick hard-like and chuckled to himself and pushed him further against the wall.

 

“Easy,” went Jake.

 

“Found the piece.” Pulled the pistol out from his elastic and dangled it with two fingers, “This registered, fa**ot?”

 

Latrell didn’t reply.

 

Jake asked “You wanna add that to the file?”

 

“Yeah, f*ck it.” Grant felt at the bare-skin of Latrell’s hips and gripped tight and shoved him against the wall again. Felt up his arms again, and again, and pulled down his sleeve looking for a watch to pocket. Didn’t find anything so he crouched down for the socks, the Hinterlands.

 

“You been going along smooth?” Jake smirked.

 

Latrell uttered “Sure.”

 

“I’d ask for more. I don’t need to, though. You got any f*ckin’ razor blades, a little cutter up your ass, some sh*t like that?”

 

Grant had pulled Latrell’s jean-legs up and didn’t bother to pull them down. “No,” Latrell said.

 

“I hope you’re not lying, cueball.”

 

“I ain’t lying none to you.”

 

“I hope not. Grant, we good?”

 

“Yeah, fa**ot’s clean.”

 

“Let him go.”

 

Grant backed away. Chuckled again, kicked the packet of smokes away from the pavement. “Get in the f*cking car.”

 

“You always that rough?” Latrell asked.

 

Jake said “I imagine it ain’t nothin’ new to you.”

 

It wasn’t. “You pigs all gay, man, it ain’t my fault.”

 

Grant spat “Shut your f*cking mouth, fa**ot.” Pointed at him now, “Get in the f*cking car.”

 

“Can I get my smokes?”

 

“Get in the car,” Jake said.

 

“You want me to f*ckin’ hit you?” Grant asked that like he was begging for it. “You want it?”

 

Jake repeated “Get in the car, Latrell.”

 

And Latrell nodded, and looked back to the smokes, and got in the car.

 

***

 

They didn’t talk the whole drive.

 

Well, they talked. Just not to Latrell. Latrell kept quiet.

 

Grant was talking about something he saw on LifeInvader. And his wife, and then his sister-in-law, and then her kids getting into Pre-K; Jake saying something similar on his niece getting through college and how she was doing STEM, none of that liberal arts bullsh*t. How his kid was, how he wanted another, how life changes when you get a kid. And Grant said he wasn’t sure if he was ready for that, how settling down always scared the sh*t out of him. And Jake said he didn’t know he was ready because it hadn’t happened yet. Asked how Shane’s fiancee was and Jake said fine. Sounded good.

 

Latrell thumbed at his jacket as the rain started coming down and pelting on the windows. Gray sky, snow getting pissed away off the gutters and the car roofs and the house roofs and cleared driveways. Where was he? Wasn’t sure. Driven up through Dukes a while so knew they were still up East Island. Lippe County suburbia. Out of Liberty proper. Out into grid-town nowhere through the midst of two-stories and SUVs. Gray sky nothing. Gray sky nowhere.

 

Car went straight a while. Turned. Guys were talking football or something-else, some sports. About how sh*t the Wrath were and how sh*t every f*ckin’ LC team was. And how you’d think with the media market and the cash you get from being in Liberty f*cking City you’d do a little better. How the Swingers used to kick Botolph’s ass and now the Johnnies made decent every other game - how it must’ve felt to be from Botolph and see your loser team finally start winning. How you might’ve had to start going to therapy to deal with the fact you weren’t terminal f*cking losers no more.

 

Car pulled up.

 

Where were they?

 

Jake laughed. Latrell realized he’d said it out loud.

 

Two story house that didn’t stand out. Gray slat-panelled walls. One of a million identical East Island homes. One car already out front, another parked curbside by the gray lawn. Gray picket fence working boundaries as the house copied itself down the road on an infinite basis. Neighbors had Christmas decorations up. This house didn’t.

 

Jake opened Latrell’s door. “Out you come.” Grabbed him by the arm to hurry him up and started walking while Grant watched. Had Hawaiian Snow sunglasses clipped to his t-shirt, watching wordless. Wouldn’t move until Latrell did.

 

Latrell walked. Walked a moment, looked behind himself, and Grant was finally following.

 

Inside. Dado walls. Shane. Shane by the stairs talking with that other guy, Desmond. Nodded acknowledgement and said to the cops, “You guys called Pezeshkifar?”

 

Grant said “A couple times.”

 

“And?”

 

“He’s coming.”

 

“Okay.”

 

Grant said “There was congestion all up the freeway, constipated like f*ck, like me and Burger Shot,” chuckled a little.

 

Nodded, “Dez. Watch L. C’mon you two.”

 

Split.

 

Three of them headed upstairs. Desmond led Latrell into the kitchen. Hallway, kitchen island, coffee machine.

 

A moment of nothing. Latrell found a seat. Looked to his left to see a living room with a couple desks, some computers, some pinboards pinning papers to chipping wallpaper.

 

Chewing silence.

 

Desmond said “You want a coffee?”

 

Latrell looked to him and said “Sure.” Took his beanie off and put it down on the counter between his hands. Looked around and nibbled at his lips.

 

Silence.

 

Latrell said “Where are we?”

 

Desmond didn’t reply.

 

“You hear me?”

 

Dez got another mug from the cabinet and said “The precinct.” Casual.

 

Latrell paused. “Ain’t no precinct.”

 

“Yeah. It is.”

 

“No cop cars or nothin’. Precinct nearby?”

 

Dez turned, “I got some advice for you, okay?”

 

Latrell nodded.

 

Sniffed, “I think we all really appreciate the cooperation we’ve been getting. I think you’re smart. A lotta’ people in your position, they wouldn’t be so keen. But you’ve been nothin’ but, right?”

 

“I try,” Latrell said. “It’s in everyone’s best interests for some friendlyship and sh*t, right? Yeah.”

 

“Sure. But I think the best thing for you to do is speak when you’re spoken to.”

 

“Look, all I’m trying to be,” Latrell said, “is as cooperative as possible. You get me? And I think I ain’t gonna be unless we get some dialogues going, we don’t get these hostilities, we keep this sh*t good. Because I wanna help you guys, we both wanna be helped, we wanna do what we do. Right?”

 

Desmond thought a moment. Then said “I guess.”

 

“So work with me, that’s all. That’s what matters.”

 

“Okay,” sniffed. “I’m gonna say this once. I offer you a suggestion, you take it to heart. You do as we say. Okay?”

 

Latrell said “You’re not listening to me--”

 

“The guys were saying if you stepped outta’ line they’re gonna take your mom to the station and beat the f*ck out of her while the cameras are off, maybe stick a flashlight up her c*nt. You act all cute and I won’t step in their way.” Turned back for the machine, “So you do as we say.”

 

There was no reply.

 

Latrell sat silent.

 

“We work here. This is our precinct.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Not officially. This is where we take guys, and we don’t tell anyone we took them, and we don’t fingerprint them, we don’t officially arrest them, we don’t do anything. We just take them downstairs, and we disrupt their activities.”

 

Blinked.

 

Was pouring the coffee, “We disrupt their breathing. We disrupt their heart rate. And we disrupt their bones. That’s our job. No paperwork. That’s our unit.” Grabbed some potato chips, salt and vinegars, pulled ‘em from the cupboard and split open the bag.

 

Latrell watched.

 

Desmond dusted the chip dust on his hands off on his jeans, took a sip from the mug. “So we’re the Disruption Team. And we disrupt.”

 

“Understood.”

 

Eyes smashed his ribcage apart like a sledgehammer, no eye contact. “Good.”

 

Silence.

 

Silence for long, so long Latrell lost track.

 

“Cuey,” voice behind him. Turned to Shane. “Follow.”

 

Didn’t touch a mug, because Desmond only poured one.

 

Where was Latrell now? Upstairs, eyes blinking through open doors. A few bedrooms but only one with beds - and beds multiple - the rest darkened or illuminated solely by little screens. Keyboard clacking of a man Latrell didn’t recognize, who turned to look and stare him down before turning back to a computer screen.

 

“We were setting up,” Shane said. Led him into a new room, smirked, “You’ve been too.”

 

Another bedroom, no bed. A table, some notes. A Facade Laptop opened on a file with a ton of MP3s, a bunch of gray equipment for activities Latrell didn’t know. Jake. Jake pointed to a chair away from the table and Latrell took it, walked past old surveillance photos of the AnarKiss and new ones of the Maritime Navigation Appreciation Society. Latrell’d said the address.

 

Seated.

 

Jake stood. Shane got the laptop. Said “Atta’ boy.”

 

Pressed play.

 

There was a whirring sound in the background that sounded like vinyl-pop.

 

Latrell was already mid-sentence - “So it’s easy, is all I’m saying.”

 

Phil, “I mean, listen. We--”

 

“We need an army for it, yeah, but I mean--”

 

“It’s a good haul.”

 

And it was Frank who kind of cleared the air with “So we know for certain what they got?”

 

“Yeah,” Latrell said. “I mean, you can check the paperworks. And all that sh*t. They got the dockplace rented out by some companies and they all got shipping sh*t and they got paperworks upstairs in them rafters. We get a car inside, we get the car waiting outside, we send some boys strapped up in the bitch and acquire what we gotta acquire.”

 

Phil said “Yeah.”

 

“Which is why we need to roll deep,” Latrell went. “So we get a car can carry, like, eight niggas maybe. As many as possible. Maybe two. We get through the gates up at night--”

 

Rodney Gravelli said “Maybe two cars?”

 

Titus Lupisella said “Yeah. How’sa we, uh… so how many--”

 

Phil said “Four guys enter with four bags at least. Everyone else brings some backs. Maybe, uh… we get the van to have some attached sh*t to it. Like one’a them trailers, we empty the bags in that. And hopefully we won’t see no resistance.”

 

Latrell, “We need some guys in the whip. We need the four niggas on bags filling and dropping. And we need some guys on controls rockin’ heavy in case they got niggas inside, son.”

 

Reuben, “That’s bad.” Meant ‘bad’ as in ‘good’, had this awe. “Union Depository sh*t.”

 

Kevin said “Like that movie, uh--”

 

“The Bruce Spade one?”

 

“No, with the casino--”

 

Stop.

 

“Looking f*cking good.”

 

“I try,” Latrell went.

 

Jake said “Any vibes? Anything off? You think nobody--”

 

“Nobody’s wise.”

 

Scratched at his cheek, “Good. Good. So we got… Frank, Reuben, Donovan. The two wops at the parlor and the Kevin guy. Good call, on him. Anyone else wise? Any sanction?”

 

“Might ask Mr. Mazza. Frankie was saying could go up to, uh, Steve, whoever the f*ck up above his pops or whatever.”

 

Shane corrected “Dave. Caro.”

 

Latrell shrugged.

 

Shane clicked some keys. Leaned over past the monitor, “Any possibility of making that happen? You in the room?”

 

“I could get--”

 

Jake said “No. They ain’t lettin’ a n*gger into the room for something like that.”

 

“sh*t, sir,” Latrell went. “Guess not.”

 

Blinked. “Sir.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Face didn’t move. “Okay.”

 

“We ain’t, uh,” L just moved on from that, “properly scoped the joint out. I been working on my past sh*ts from when I went in with the Lozanos.”

 

Shane, “You told them about them?”

 

“No.”

 

“Don’t. Anyone asks, keep vague. Anything you’re doing, it’s either your idea or their idea. And if it ain’t, you make ‘em think it is.”

 

“I said--”

 

“I already know what you said.”

 

Jake laughed, “Cuey’s got f*ckin’ roulettes, his little f*ckin’ self justifications, they’re like f*ckin’ diahrrea.”

 

Latrell asked “Tourettes?”

 

“Didn’t ask.”

 

“Hey, just think a nigga should be right.”

 

“I think a nigga should do a lot of things. So it’s, what, the tattoo guys, Mazza and Procida, the Irish, Mazza’s pa. You got the names down?”

 

Shane said “Yep.”

 

“It’s good so far.”

 

“You need any more names,” Latrell said, “I can bring that sh*ts up on the tape, son can put that in court or whatever the f*ck and establish some connections.”

 

“You aren’t doing that anyway?” Jake scowled.

 

“We want voices,” Shane said. “Present. And you - I mean in court they’ll say you’re just running your mouth or they don’t even know you. And that’s if you want your name confidential, you don’t want these guys to know you flipped.”

 

Got Latrell rubbing behind his ears, “I just want to do this thing and make it make sense.”

 

“And we want a wide net.”

 

Didn’t reply. Just squinted.

 

Jake sighed. “You’re stealing dope, right?”

 

“sh*t, I hope.”

 

“Or you get your hands on dope. Whatever. And you said this was a Russian thing, maybe? That there were Russians involved, some f*ckin’ post-Soviet retard connection like we’re all playing Jack Howitzer.”

 

“Ramon said what he said and I did what I did for him. And I knew the Russian dude had a gun and dope, is what I know.”

 

Shane said “That intel ain’t wrong.”

 

“It ain’t,” Jake repeated.

 

“We just don’t give a f*ck about it. If we get them in, we get them in, but we’re bagging wops.”

 

Latrell said “Why?”

 

“Italians make better headlines.”

 

“The heroin coming into here,” Jake said, “is probably European sh*t. And that’s Middle Eastern. Europeans get all their smack from Afghanistan, whatever, it goes up the block. If these Italians are involved, they probably got some guys in Italy or Albania. And the Russians, they’re crafty. They got intermediaries, networking, maybe got pipelines into South America. Bing bang wahoo. Who gives a f*ck.”

 

Shane said “Was that Russians or Italians?”

 

“Doesn’t matter.”

 

Latrell said, again, “What?”

 

Shane massaged brow. “What they do, is they move the sh*t out of Afghanistan or wherever, use some more connects to put it on boats. The Italians here know Italians in Calabria. Which is in the South. They cross the Atlantic, take it to the Caribbean, and then the boats go up the eastern seaboard.”

 

“The Russians,” Jake said. “I mean, they got plausible deniabilities. All those trade offs give them leverage. Italians, Colombians, whoevericans. Whoever gets caught with the shipment ain't them and if it is them they ain’t responsible. They keep moving between a bunch of import companies, some with legit backers so we can't really access the books, and when we get around to it they've moved on. Based here or in Vice-Langhorne. There's Black Sea Shipping, Torpedo Imports, Laganas Produce, I.I.O.A., Legal Marine Shipping, goddamn Slavic Sockf*ckers Incorporated. They all keep switching. So we can't pin them the f*ck down. No ringleaders, no names, no arrests.”

 

Latrell squinted. “So this is international.”

 

“This is multi-agency. LCPD organized crime are on this with DOA, FIB, Globopol, and the US Attorney. We make this work for the federals and we make it work for them. Everyone except global authorities gets credit, maybe not even DOA. But maybe not. If it weren’t for DOA we wouldn’t have you.”

 

“Because of Mexicans? They in on this?”

 

“I don’t know. Probably.”

 

“Who ain’t?”

 

Shane smirked, “Us.”

 

“OCB got the memo from NOOSE a few years back to look into Eurasian crime,” Jake went. “That Bobby Jefferson thing. We got Pezeshkifar and Plushenko from the Dukes units on that. MacBrayne in Broker. But that’s a horsesh*t thing to get because the only Russians you get are small timers. So where’s the f*cking money?”

 

Shane said “We got some names from them. But nobody like Roy Zeets, man. No Jon Gravellis. Nothing we gotta care about.”

 

“Only Russian we care about’s got some f*cked up name.”

 

“Revaz Devdariani.”

 

“Yeah. His name keeps coming up on tapes, he knows people, and he's got his hands on most of the importers. Has a Venturas address. He’s got tattoos we saw in some Security Enforcement photos. You wanna delve any deeper than that and the names are all ghosts or they’re old f*cks or they’re nobodies.”

 

“That guy Kuzma Petrovich a lot of the Eurasian squad thought was a big deal, but that was the 90’s. Roitman Brothers. Some guy, uh… Pavel something. You want those fa**ot f*cking names ask Alex.”

 

Latrell blinked.

 

They blinked back.

 

“Alex?”

 

Jake said “Pezeshkifar.”

 

“Pezeshkifar.”

 

“You wanna know why you get to know this?”

 

Latrell blinked.

 

“You don’t ever say this is Russian dope on the tapes. Okay? You know it’s Russian dope, but it ain’t Russian dope. It’s Italian dope. And every time they ask, it’s Roy Zito and Harvey Noto’s smack you’re gunning for. Not Ryan-whoever’s.”

 

Nodded, “Okay. Okay, okay.”

 

“You said that word around them?” Shane asked. “The R-word?” Russian, he meant.

 

“Maybe, man. I don’t know.”

 

“Stupid. Don’t say it again. That’s it.”

 

Jake parroted, “That’s it.”

 

Latrell, “That’s it.”

 

“Don’t f*cking repeat me. And next time you- uh… onetwothree--” was whispering numbers out loud, “that kid we busted you with.”

 

Beat.

 

“DB?” Latrell asked.

 

“Yeah. DB. You get him on this too.”

 

“I don’t know if I can do that.”

 

“You’re doing that. Cast that net, cocksucker.”

 

“What--”

 

Shane snapped “Did we f*cking ask?”

 

“Okay. Okay. I’ll get him in, I’ll get him on this. He’s my boy, anyway, so he ain’t hard to convince and he ain’t that--”

 

“I don’t care. You just get another one of the coonies out there. Make this work.”

 

Jake laughed, “Coonies, ha.”

 

Latrell feigned a laugh too.

 

Laughter stopped.

 

Shane just said “Get it done.”

 

And, sh*t.

 

It was good as done.

 

The Glossary

Liberty City Map

Edited February 20, 2021 by slimeball supreme